Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Read Free Page B

gruesome—a grotesque baring of stained, chipped teeth. “Seems like you’re going in the wrong direction.” He jerked his head over his left shoulder. “Harry’s is that way.” He made a tsk ing noise with his tongue. “I’m sorry to tell ye, Red, but it looks like your luck has just run out.”
    He withdrew a knife from his coat. Not a smooth steel blade, but a blade with a jagged edge. A gutting knife. A knife designed to rip and tear.
    Jonathon fought to free his arms, but the two men held him fast.
    “And I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news,” the man said. His knife upraised, he stepped closer. “That pretty face of yours ain’t going to be so pretty anymore.”

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Two
     
     
    Brianna Donnelly shivered beneath her heavy woolen cloak. It wasn’t the cool night air that made her body tremble, but the realization that her goal was quickly slipping away. After months of shipboard travel, making the seemingly endless trek from Canton to England, she’d finally reached Liverpool. She still hadn’t fully accustomed herself to the feel of solid ground beneath her, rather than the rolling pitch of the deck. She felt off-balance as she moved, her gait uneven.
    Nonetheless, she’d arrived. All that remained now was making her way to London.
    Less than a week away by coach. If Brianna were a crow, she could fly there. But she wasn’t a crow. Nor did she have enough funds to hire a coach. Still. She was so close . Her impatience was a living thing, coursing through her veins and commandeering nearly every thought. How extraordinary that the rest of her group couldn’t see the turmoil roiling within her.
    “Louder!” Father Tim’s thin arms arced skyward. “Let the Lord hear you!”
    Brianna grimaced as the missionary group responded with gusto. She joined in, tapping her foot, swinging her brass bell, adding her voice to the righteous clamor.  Although Father Tim claimed their music was pleasing to God’s ears, Brianna couldn’t help but doubt it. Even the Good Lord, for all his generous spirit, could distinguish between musical ability and screeching cacophony.
    But then, they weren’t meant a professional choir. Just Father Tim’s devout congregation, spending another night assembled in the cold, saving souls.
    “Raise your voices heavenward!” he urged. “Let the power of the spirit fill you!”
    Father Tim surveyed the ragged crowd with the bright fever of zealotry burning in his eyes. His church, he liked to say, was the city streets. Those he ministered to were the forgotten and the dispossessed, drunks, gamblers, whores, and sinners. His weapons in the battle for their souls, a worn leather bible, brass bells, and promises of eternal salvation.
    More often than not, however, the sinners did not want to be saved.
    Tonight, for example. Their efforts drew nothing but crude jeers from the gathered crowds. Sister Mary Louise stood beside Brianna. Unperturbed by the crowd’s reaction, she lifted her chin and carried on, singing with a voice that warbled with age. As though feeling Brianna’s gaze on her, she sent her a serene smile. Hers was a tranquility Brianna couldn’t imagine. How was it possible to be so at peace with the world? Even now, when Brianna should be focused on the words of the hymn, her thoughts spun back along the same agitated path.
    London. If Brianna could just get there. Once she arrived, she had employment, a place to live—everything she needed to make a fresh start. She let that thought play out in her mind, a welcome distraction from the cold night air and the rough shouts of the crowd. So lost was she in her starry vision of the future, she failed to see the tomatoes hurling her way until the pulpy missiles made impact with her chest.
    One, two, three— splat, splat, splat .
    Three tomatoes thrown in quick succession, exploding against her cloak with enough force to drive her feet out from under her and knock her flat on her rear. She toppled