Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1) by C.H. Williams

Author:C.H. Williams [Williams, C.H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C.H. Williams Literary
Published: 2019-09-22T05:00:00+00:00

FLETCHER

“Hold close. Don’t let go. Not now, not ever, do you understand?”

~Greysha Boewliç

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.

Elsie was staring at him from the opposite end of the sofa, and Fletcher loosed a breath, pressing his eyes closed as he took in her sounds.

The quiet rush of air in her lungs, meted out in slow, deliberate inhalations, an echo of forced calm.

The dull pitch of the slender gold chain against her neck, her mother’s locket buried beneath the knit gray sweater.

The whine of her fingers in her pitch-black hair, twirling the braid with idle frustration.

The swish of cotton-on-leather as she tucked a leg beneath her, pulling the other knee close to her chest—her favorite way to sit when there was pouting to be done.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a bit of clarity to the screaming world.

“You’re back,” Teddy edged, piercing blue eyes fixed on Sam and only Sam. His body was tense, locked between the impetus to rise and the obligation to stay beside his sister.

Sam’s necktie was hanging limply over his shoulder, the top buttons of his tunic already undone as he tossed the suitcoat on the dining table. “I’m back,” he muttered, turning for the kitchen. The acrid smell of tobacco followed him, soaked into his person, and Fletcher had listened to the crackling drag of cigarettes from the street for the better part of an hour.

After news of Clark’s release, though, it seemed there had been little else for Sam to do but try and steady his shaking hands with cigarette after cigarette on the street below.

Sam reappeared from the kitchen a moment later, a frosted bottle of reluctant topaz liquid tucked in the crook of his elbow, four crystalline cups in hand.

“Good idea,” Elsie said darkly as she stole a glare at Fletcher.

And to his surprise, she held his gaze, her green eyes storming.

Sluggish dollops of the chilled liquor were being doled out over the sound of quiet explanation, and he was lost, lost in a forest of green and emerald mines and rolling plains of spring and splatters of paint on a gallery canvas, where words were just sounds and it took every ounce of his being, every fiber of strength, just to stay there in the beyond of her stare.

Her lips were moving the shape of his name, the sound of her irritated voice rolling across the air in rhythmic hesitation.

“Sorry,” he managed at last, ripping his eyes from hers to find the world as he’d left it.

He’d have drowned in those eyes, though, if time were no matter.

Sam passed him a cool glass of whiskey, the condensation catching sweetly on Fletcher’s fingertips as he murmured quiet thanks.

Teddy watched tentatively, curled beneath the blanket. He’d been dozing, on and off, waiting for Sam—but not before a few choice words.

I love you both, he’d sighed, eyes distant. But this is such bullshit. Either get out of here and have it out with each other, once and for all, or just—just move on.

Elsie had straightened, glaring. But—

Take it somewhere else, or let it go.

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