Read Online Hunting Will by Alex Albrinck - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Albrinck
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nodded. “Sure. Come on, Joe. I’ll show you where Clint keeps his horses.” The two wandered off into the night.
Little did Eva know that her life would soon end.
Athos walked back toward the house. “Porthos, if you haven’t already, do your jab job and let’s leave. The Assassin has already engaged his target. We need to depart.” Athos entered the house and spotted Porthos, still chatting away with the lovely redhead he’d approached earlier. The Hunter made eye contact with his leader and nodded. “That nod better mean ‘I’m heading over to do my job right now,’ and not ‘I’m having a wonderful time with this human woman.’”
Porthos looked at his wrist, uttered some explanation, and made his way in Athos’ direction, which would take him past Clint. The young woman looked aghast at his departure, and Porthos turned to offer some parting word. As Porthos turned back toward the rear of the house and toward his target, Clint turned in his direction — and froze.
It only then occurred to Athos that Porthos, having been involved in Oath affirmations for the past several years, had likely been seen by Clint, and a simple feathered hat was nowhere near sufficient to mask the Hunter’s identity.
Clint frowned, as if determining his best approach to handling the sudden and unexpected appearance of a Hunter. He’d know exactly why Porthos was there, of course. It was simply a matter of deciding how to manipulate the situation to his advantage. Athos supposed he would make his excuses, retire upstairs to an unoccupied room, and teleport from there to the outside to attempt his escape. He suspected he should warn the others of that.
“D’Artagnan!” Clint shouted, drawing the attention of everyone in the room as he strode toward Porthos. “I knew that you’d come as D’Artagnan. He always was your favorite Musketeer, wasn’t he?”
Porthos face reddened, not from any embarrassment at being identified, but because he’d been labeled as the wrong Musketeer. Athos appreciated the brilliance of the move by Clint. He’d essentially given a name — the wrong name, to be sure, but a name nonetheless — to a man they could associate later with any disappearances or deaths that might occur concurrent with this party. The name was wrong, but the name D’Artagnan was associated with the story of the Musketeers. The Leader would hear about any news of a stranger bearing the costume and name of a Musketeer being associated with crimes in an obscure town in the United States. Porthos might face punishment for breaking an obscure Aliomenti rule or law; Aramis looked as if he had already drawn conclusions on that point. More pertinent to the immediate situation, however, Clint had gotten Porthos angry.
Porthos recovered quickly, however. “D’Artagnan? Never heard of him. I am a pirate, here to make you walk the plank, matey! Arrrgh!” For show, Porthos drew his sword and swished it in the air a few times, drawing some oohs and ahhs from the crowd, most notably the female humans.
Clint laughed. “I’ve never seen a pirate with a feather in his hat quite like that.” His gaze fell upon Athos. “Your friend here has a parrot and a patch. Much more pirate-like I would think.”
“Now, Clint,” Aramis spoke up. “There aren’t really rules about what pirates must wear, or carry as accessories. Surely you don’t think this man should be punished for wearing a costume not conforming to your rules about pirates, do you?”
Clint fixed Aramis with a stare. “Do you ?”
The crowd began to stir, uncomfortable with the tone in each spoken word. They were all sensing that there was some type of history between the three men and their host, a history that had left them with a chilly relationship. The music stopped, and an unearthly quiet filled the space.
Porthos approached Clint, moving with extreme precision, his eyes never leaving the Aliomenti deserter. As he reached the man, they stared each
Little did Eva know that her life would soon end.
Athos walked back toward the house. “Porthos, if you haven’t already, do your jab job and let’s leave. The Assassin has already engaged his target. We need to depart.” Athos entered the house and spotted Porthos, still chatting away with the lovely redhead he’d approached earlier. The Hunter made eye contact with his leader and nodded. “That nod better mean ‘I’m heading over to do my job right now,’ and not ‘I’m having a wonderful time with this human woman.’”
Porthos looked at his wrist, uttered some explanation, and made his way in Athos’ direction, which would take him past Clint. The young woman looked aghast at his departure, and Porthos turned to offer some parting word. As Porthos turned back toward the rear of the house and toward his target, Clint turned in his direction — and froze.
It only then occurred to Athos that Porthos, having been involved in Oath affirmations for the past several years, had likely been seen by Clint, and a simple feathered hat was nowhere near sufficient to mask the Hunter’s identity.
Clint frowned, as if determining his best approach to handling the sudden and unexpected appearance of a Hunter. He’d know exactly why Porthos was there, of course. It was simply a matter of deciding how to manipulate the situation to his advantage. Athos supposed he would make his excuses, retire upstairs to an unoccupied room, and teleport from there to the outside to attempt his escape. He suspected he should warn the others of that.
“D’Artagnan!” Clint shouted, drawing the attention of everyone in the room as he strode toward Porthos. “I knew that you’d come as D’Artagnan. He always was your favorite Musketeer, wasn’t he?”
Porthos face reddened, not from any embarrassment at being identified, but because he’d been labeled as the wrong Musketeer. Athos appreciated the brilliance of the move by Clint. He’d essentially given a name — the wrong name, to be sure, but a name nonetheless — to a man they could associate later with any disappearances or deaths that might occur concurrent with this party. The name was wrong, but the name D’Artagnan was associated with the story of the Musketeers. The Leader would hear about any news of a stranger bearing the costume and name of a Musketeer being associated with crimes in an obscure town in the United States. Porthos might face punishment for breaking an obscure Aliomenti rule or law; Aramis looked as if he had already drawn conclusions on that point. More pertinent to the immediate situation, however, Clint had gotten Porthos angry.
Porthos recovered quickly, however. “D’Artagnan? Never heard of him. I am a pirate, here to make you walk the plank, matey! Arrrgh!” For show, Porthos drew his sword and swished it in the air a few times, drawing some oohs and ahhs from the crowd, most notably the female humans.
Clint laughed. “I’ve never seen a pirate with a feather in his hat quite like that.” His gaze fell upon Athos. “Your friend here has a parrot and a patch. Much more pirate-like I would think.”
“Now, Clint,” Aramis spoke up. “There aren’t really rules about what pirates must wear, or carry as accessories. Surely you don’t think this man should be punished for wearing a costume not conforming to your rules about pirates, do you?”
Clint fixed Aramis with a stare. “Do you ?”
The crowd began to stir, uncomfortable with the tone in each spoken word. They were all sensing that there was some type of history between the three men and their host, a history that had left them with a chilly relationship. The music stopped, and an unearthly quiet filled the space.
Porthos approached Clint, moving with extreme precision, his eyes never leaving the Aliomenti deserter. As he reached the man, they stared each
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