When moonlight shines off a bald man’s head, the task of stalking him becomes that much more simple. Deskin had trailed his target for five city blocks and had spent at least two hours waiting outside a gambling den. He knew the man, Ruben Rost, had won something by the way his bronze belt, worth at least 8 silvers, hung down on the right side and how he repeatedly tapped his thick fingers at his pocket every few minutes, making sure the money was still there. Ruben was so preoccupied with his winning that he had never considered he might be followed.

  Even if he had, Deskin thought, he wouldn’t see me.

  A hooded black cloak hid his frame in the darkness of the moonlit night, and careful steps betrayed only the slightest sound. More than once, he had been forced back into the shadows by passing guards, but they never noticed him either. It was enough of an irritant to put him on edge. If they saw him, if Ruben ever noticed he was being stalked, then maybe Deskin wouldn’t have to do this. Maybe tonight could go differently. But hope was useless; better coin in hand than a thin promise in the wind.

  Ruben bounded up the stairs and into his shop, coins clinking noisily from his pocket. Deskin crossed the cobbled street and leaned into an alley. “Now we wait.” For a moment, he considered throwing back his hood and breathing in the cool night air. But the temptation was quickly quashed. He had come too far to ruin it all in one impulsive act. One that would cost him his cover. His kind, Hellkin, were not common on this side of the continent, and he’d torn down enough wanted posters of his likeness to know better. Though they always got his mouth wrong. Sometimes they made him a fool with thick lips as if puckering up to the viewer. Other times, he was a demon, with fangs as sharp as any beast. Though who could blame them?

  Dragging muck across his crimson skin, Deskin worked to conceal what little he could. He let his long dark hair fall loose, covering his horns. Dark as onyx, they curved back from his brow, one to the tip of his scalp, the other little more than a stump. Should anyone spot him this night, they might think him little more than a beggar.

  “Or perhaps a devil in the night,” Deskin chuckled.

  Some claimed his kind had been pulled straight from the hells, their skin marred red and eyes burning like embers. Deskin had always wondered if it was true. And if so, had he been grabbed by his horns too roughly, and was that why one had broken off?

  “Focus,” he whispered, trepidation building in his gut. It was a sore time to let his mind wander. The store Ruben had entered was bordered on the well-off side of town. Close enough to the rich to warrant spending the cost on keeping the candles lit late at night. But too close to the slums to not have thick deadbolts secured to each door. The only way in was through the front, as would any customer.

  Deskin had suggested sneaking in after hours or setting a distraction, but he was shot down. “And now I’m the one stuck waiting around.” He scratched at the rope around his neck, a nervous tick he’d never gotten used to.

  “Focus,” he whispered. “One step at a time.”

  Through the store window, he could see Ruben barking at the store clerk. Though Deskin could hear very little, it seemed as though he was threatening to kick the clerk out. The younger man tried to protest, but Ruben dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  “Show time.” Deskin moved in as the clerk stormed out the door, muttering curses under his breath. “Pardon me, sir?” Deskin asked sweetly, his voice thick with a farmer’s accent.

  The clerk glanced at Deskin, his face flush and red with anger. “Sorry, kid, closed for the night.”

  “Please, sir, I just need one thing!” Deskin pleaded, “I’ll be real quick! I promise!”

  “Boss is all sorts of mad. Wouldn’t want to have to deal with him anyhow.” The clerk shook his head and pulled the key from his pocket. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m good for the money! I got it right here with me!” Deskin insisted, patting his pocket.

  The clerk sighed, “Fine. Go ahead, just tell him what you want. He should be in the back.” The clerk walked away grumbling, “Not making any money? Well, you can stay up late and deal...”

  Deskin stepped into the shop, latching the lock into place behind him. He scanned the room slowly. One window, a front door, and... He leaned forward. A back door for suppliers. Just as I thought.

  Shelves of bottles and herbs lined the walls; a single jar worth more than a maid would make in a month. As if to add insult to injury, a table sat in the middle, advertising the newest pharmacology, a sketched likeness of Ruben’s chubby face plastered across each bottle. “Vain and expensive,” Deskin muttered. A clatter sounded behind a tall counter, and Deskin moved to draw shut the shades.

  “Gregor, is that you? I told you already-” Ruben’s snarling face rose from behind the counter. The anger shifted to confusion, then returned to anger. “What are you doing here, boy? Stores closed!”

  Deskin let his shoulders fall pitifully, “Door was open, sir.”

  “It’s not supposed to be. My idiot assistant should have locked the door on his way out. Now off with you!” He rounded the counter near the back of the shop and marched towards Deskin, his hands waving as one would rid of an insolent child.

  “Are you Mr. Ruben Rost? The famous Mr. Ruben Rost?” Deskin asked, nodding to the center table.

  Ruben stopped his march a few steps from Deskin. “Yes.” His scowl turned to a sly smile. “You’ve heard of my works?”

  Deskin stepped forward. “I have! My auntie says she had never looked better after buying your creams.”

  Ruben’s chest swelled with pride, “I am always happy to hear from a satisfied customer. How can I help you? Does your auntie need a refill?”

  Well,” Deskin stepped forward again, closer to Ruben. “Ever since auntie got your potions, my ma has been raving bout wanting some. Pestering my pa something awful. He says he’s gotta do something to get her off his back.”

  Deskin could see the pride glaze over Ruben’s eyes. “But my pa said only the real stuff from the real Ruben Rost would do the trick.”

  “Ha!” Ruben chuckled. “I am glad to say you found me!”

  The smile dropped from Deskin in a flash. “As am I.”

  Without a word, Deskin’s legs lashed out, toppling Ruben to the floor, bottles crashing around him. Deskin ripped the bronze belt from his waist and tied his arms tight.

  “What are you doing? How dare you!”

  Deskin grabbed his feet, tying them together as well and leaving the target hogtied on the floor.

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  “Stop right this instant!” Ruben barked. “Do you know who I am? Untie me right now!”

  “Ruben Rost, right?” Deskin grabbed a bottle with his likeness on the lid. “They sure did a number on that double chin of yours. You look ten years younger. Though I can attest to the free will of the inaccurate artist.”

  “You bastard child!” Ruben roared. “I don’t know what sort of game this is, but you let me go right this instant!”

  “Not a game,” Deskin muttered, walking to the back door. “Not one where either of us wins.”

  The door swung open, revealing a tall, spider of a man, in the darkness. His eyes glowed in the shadows, a dirty gray like last week’s wash. He was pale as a sheet and hairless, more akin to a ghoul than a man. “Eayrne,” Deskin muttered.

  “It’s about time, he snarled. “I was worried you had wet yourself and left us the work.”

  A short figure followed, covered from head to toe in swirling tattoos. He clapped his hands gleefully. “Work, murk, the devil is on the lurk!” The man giggled, his round frame bouncing from foot to foot.

  “Beirt.”

  The twins, as Deskin called them, strode into the shop as he locked the door behind them. “You weren’t seen, were you?”

  “We aren’t fools, boy,” Eayrne snarled. His pale sight fell on Ruben. “We know how to catch our prey.”

  Ruben wiggled against the binding. “Thieves! Bastards! Let me go right this instant! I’ll have the guard string you up by sunrise!”

  Eayrne chuckled darkly, his bony fingers tugging at Ruben’s face. “Sunrise? But I hate to wait.” Eayrne snapped his fingers. “Beirt, my tools. Boy, clear the table!”

  Deskin moved begrudgingly. “Just one guy with him. A clerk. Already sent home. As long as we are quick, we shouldn’t have too much trouble.” He waved his hand across the display, sending bottles and potions crashing to the floor.

  “My wares!” Ruben sputtered in shock. “You-you can’t do this! Who do you people think you are?”

  “Little demon?” Eayrne pouted. “You haven't introduced us! I had higher hopes for you!”

  Deskin rolled his eyes. “Was a little busy finding him, tailing him back, and sneaking in myself, while you two waited outside.”

  “Don’t be sharp,” Earyne tutted. “We all have our part to play. Now, show him your collar!”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Deskin hissed. “I did my part. I’ll leave you to do yours.”

  “No, no, little demon. The boss gave all of us this job. That means you stay for the fun part too. Or do I need to tell him you didn’t play nice?” Earyne cackled. “Now, introduce us!”

  Deskin glared at him, pulling down his collar to expose a red rope noose around his neck.

  Beirt giggled, “Our turn, all burn, the Deadmen are auburn!”

  Ruben’s eyes went wide. “Deadmen?”

  Earyne leaned in close to Ruben, smiling sickly. “Deadmen.”

  “No, no, I never had any dealings with your people!” Ruben sputtered. “I didn’t do anything to your boss!”

  “Ah, but you see,” Earyne whispered. “Mr. Trinket and the Hangman go way back. So, when you owe money to one...”

  “I’ll pay the money!” Ruben blurted. “I’ll pay it, I promise-”

  “Shh.” Eayrne put a thin finger to Ruben’s lips. “It’s too late for that.”

  Beirt gripped Ruben by the hair, throwing him onto the table. Before he could cry out, Beirt tied Ruben down, cinching his body tight, the ropes crushing his flesh.

  “Please!” Ruben begged. “I’ll get you the money! I just need a little more time!”

  Deskin looked away, steeling himself against the churn in his gut.

  “Time, rhyme, bit like a lime!” Beirt giggled and opened a bag of blades. “You got yours and I’ll get mine!”

  Eayrne clicked his tongue disapprovingly, “No more time, dear one. You see, when the Hangman sends out his Deadmen, there is no escape.”

  “I don’t want to die!” Ruben cried, “Please, I’ll do anything! Take my money!”

  “Shh.” Eayrne kissed Ruben’s brow. “It is already over. You only need to answer our questions. Your shipment to a travelling troupe. Performers. When do they arrive?”

  “Performers? I don’t-” Ruben hissed in pain as a line of blood seeped from his thigh, running down his leg, dripping onto the table.

  “Oh my! Oh sigh! A new friend, a new lie!” Beirt giggled, drawing more knives from the bag.

  “I don’t know! I have a variety of customers-” Deskin flinched as Ruben screamed, and another red line cut across his shoulder.

  “Think, dear one,” Eayrne whispered. “The travelling troupe placed an order here. Requesting powders. Supplies for the festival from some dwarven mines. Where will they be staying? When will they arrive?”

  “I don’t handle the orders! My assistant-” Blood spurted from the palm of Ruben’s hand, running down his fingers.

  Deskin bit his cheek at the sight, hardening his heart. This was nothing new; it shouldn’t bother him.

  Eayrne drew a fresh knife and drove its point gently into Ruben’s cheek. “It was quite an order. One you would have signed off on,” Eayrne growled. “One you would have used the advance payment on to gamble away.” Eayrne jostled Ruben’s pocket to the jingle of coins.

  “I... I don’t know. Honest! I just thought there was some money to be made! I’ll pay it all back!” Ruben cried as Eayrne’s blade drove deeper into his cheek.

  “Another lie, dear one?” Eayrne hissed. Ruben thrashed as the blade carved away at his cheek.

  “Please stop! I don’t know anything!”

  “Wrong again!” Eayrne dug the knife deeper into Ruben’s face.

  Hells man, just tell us something, Deskin thought. He won’t stop until you do.

  “A debt is owed,” Earyne hissed. “A debt must be paid.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll do anything!” Snot bubbled in Ruben’s nose, and tears spilled down his ruined cheek.

  “It’s far too late for anything, dear one,” Earyne whispered. “Tell us what we want to know, and we can all leave here as friends.”

  “I-I can’t!” Ruben sobbed. “I don’t do the accounts! I just gamble it all away! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  Deskin’s fist tightened. This is a waste of time. He doesn’t know anything.

  “Not good enough,” Earyne drove the point into Ruben’s cheek, carving at bone as the man screeched.

  “Stop!” Deskin snapped. “Someone is going to hear! You want us getting caught?”

  Beirt whirled, growling like a rabid dog. But Eayrne silenced him with a single raised finger. “What did you say?” His voice was emotionless, a dead gaze falling on Deskin like winter’s cold.

  Deskin fought back the urge to look away, staring back at those pale white eyes. “Maybe we got the wrong guy. Or need to look somewhere else.” He tried to sound nonchalant even as every bone in his body screamed at him to run.

  Eayrne stepped forward, his thin form casting long shadows. “Wrong.” He let the word hang and rot in the air. "Beirt, the boy has yet to understand something.”

  Beirt giggled, and Eayrne curled his finger, beckoning Deskin closer. “Let me teach you, boy.”

  Deskin gritted his teeth, weighing his options.

  Come, little demon,” Eayrne cooed. “I won’t ask again.”

  Hesitantly, Deskin capitulated and stepped closer.

  Eayrne smiled devilishly. “One thing you must understand is that everyone has a weak spot. A place where if the smallest touch or pressure is applied, they will break.” Eayrne leaned in close to Deskin. “Tell me, what is our dear one’s breaking point?”

  Ruben struggled against the binding, blood, snot, and tears mixing on the floor.

  “He can’t tell us what he doesn’t know-”

  Earyne gripped Deskin’s arm, pinching it tight. “Think again, little demon.”

  Deskin’s jaw ticked. “Fine.” He scanned the room, tracking and calculating every piece of information he could in a moment’s glance. “There is no point in torturing him. It’s not his body. He’d chew off his arm if it kept him rich. He’s got no friends. He’d abandon or betray anyone to make a profit. He already gave up his assistant.” Deskin paused. His bronze belt, his customers, the potions with his likeness. “It’s his name. His status.”

  “Good,” Eayrne hissed as Ruben whimpered. “And how do we provide pressure?”

  Deskin wanted to look away, to not have to see this happen. But Eayrne gripped his arm tighter.

  “His reputation. His credibility,” Deskin sighed. “We destroy his name and make sure no one ever buys something from him again.”

  Ruben’s eyes went wide. “No! No! Please, this is all I have!” He tugged against the restraints, screaming as they tore into his flesh. “Look behind the desk! My accounts are all there!”

  “Good,” Eayrne whispered. “Very good.” Suddenly, Deskin’s scalp was ripped back, driving blinding pain down his spine. “Never question my order again. Do you understand, boy?”

  Deskin gritted his teeth, trying to fight the burning behind his eyes.

  “I said,” Eayrne spat. “Do you understand me, little demon?”

  Deskin dragged his gaze over. Every twitch sent shards of pain through his skull. “Yes,” Deskin hissed.

  Eayrne smiled like a predator set to feed. “Good boy. Now, go check the ledgers, find the location.” Eayrne threw him to the ground.

  Deskin tasted blood and leapt to his feet, but Beirt was already there, shoving him back. Deskin bared his teeth, but Beirt was a wall of muscle; there was no use in trying to fight. “What?” Deskin spat. “No rhymes?”

  Beirt said nothing, his inked skin swirling as he flexed.

  Deskin turned away and retreated behind the counter. “Damn pricks.”

  Ruben, sensing a reprieve, sputtered, “The ledger! Take it! It will have whatever you need! Can you please just let me go?”

  Eayrne chuckled darkly, “I said nothing about letting you go.”

  “But-”

  “I said I’d release you. And from your debts I shall.” Eayrne pulled out a long and twisted knife. “After all, an example must be made!”

  As Deskin carried the ledger out the door and into the cool night, Ruben’s screams sent shivers down his spine.