5

The Claws of the Hawk

A voice rings out, and the words are so ridiculous that even in the depths of my fear, I almost laugh.

“Six grown men against a child seems incredibly cowardly to me.” The voice is amused, young. Its owner clearly has no idea that he is addressing some of the most dangerous men in the whole city.

“If we could return home without getting into any trouble for once, I would be most grateful,” says another, wearier voice.

“They’ve got a child there, St. Juste. Take a look.”

“Dear heavens, you’re right.” Which is followed by a barked order. “Unhand that child immediately or you will have cause to regret it!”

The voice—St. Juste’s, it seems—is well modulated, educated; the voice of someone who is used to being listened to.

The Fleshers, however, listen to no one but the Tiger, so they ignore St. Juste and lunge at me. Two of them grab me from behind, and I’m thrown to the ground. They begin to kick me, and I scratch and yowl, striking out with a dagger that’s been tucked into my boot.

Then someone fires a gun and the Fleshers freeze: men unaccustomed to being crossed rarely carry weapons.

“I will shoot you if you do not unhand that poor child. And what’s more, Grantaire will shoot you as well, and he is far less likely to kill you.”

“I object to that!” says the other man now. “I can shoot perfectly well in my cups, I can! Watch …”

Another shot rings out, and one of the Fleshers yelps and raises a hand to his ear.

“See, I meant to clip that one.”

The Fleshers look at one another. As a Guild, they are not known for their brains. The Tiger adopts only the most violent children, the ones who will obey without question; figuring out a complex problem like this is beyond them.

He takes a second shot, and another Flesher swears and grabs his leg, nearly crumpling to the ground. I can hear the Fleshers scuttling heavily away, but surely only to get weapons and return. I take a second to appreciate the fact that I am still alive.

“I say, Grantaire, that was good! Did you mean to get him right above the knee?”

Someone turns me over, and I am greeted by the sight of two faces staring down at me. One has a mess of black hair, a green waistcoat, and a roguish smile.

“Oh, good, it’s alive!” he says.

The other face scowls at me as if disappointed that I have survived. Even from this perspective I can make out the grim features of a young god, his face carved of marble and determination and framed with a halo of ice-blond hair tied at the nape of his neck. He is beautiful and terrible at the same time in his tailcoat of deep red, with a cravat artfully undone at his throat. In his hand is a fine pistol of gold filigree, which he tucks into his waistband so he can scoop me up and put me on my feet.