Read Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) for Free Online Page B

then slid his will into the spaces between the threads. With a simple gesture, he drew the evening apart and stepped into the Hidden Kingdom, then out into the somnolent warmth of the residence’s kitchen.
    The maid had her back to him, busy at the table with a bowl of some fruit and custard concoction that she was serving into fine cut-glass dishes. A twist of air around her neck jerked her upright. The serving spoon clattered onto the table, splashing gobs of scarlet fruit across the maid’s white apron. She clutched at her throat, found nothing there and began to struggle against the compression of her windpipe. Clawing at her neck, raising welts on her own skin. Savin tightened the garrotte. The maid kicked out, once, twice, and hit the table hard enough to set the dishes rattling against each other. Time to finish it; he couldn’t afford any more noise. Another twist and the maid’s dance ended with the brittle snap of the horseshoe bone in her throat.
    Quietly, he lowered her to the floor and waited a moment to see if anyone had heard anything. No voices, no footsteps approaching. Good.
    On the table were desserts for four, and a fifth bowl containing stewed apple. He scooped a fingerful of the dessert from the serving bowl and tasted it: raspberries, and a dash of brandy in the sauce. Delicious. He picked up one of the dishes and a spoon and let himself out into the passage. The gentle chink of cutlery and a murmur of conversation, punctuated by the treble interjections of the child who was clearly too young to be eating brandy-laced trifle, led him to the room at the front of the house where the master and mistress were indeed taking their supper.
    All conversation ceased when he opened the door. The woman, mousy-haired and prettyish, paused in wiping the mouth of the smallest child whilst the two older ones stared. At the head of the table, a stocky man in a brocade waistcoat was slicing meat from a fragrant pork roast. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and the knife stilled in his hand.
    ‘What the—’
    ‘Good evening,’ Savin said, cutting him off with a bright smile.
    The man blinked, momentarily thrown by a display of good manners, then his affront came storming back. The carving fork clattered onto the platter, but he kept a firm grip on the knife.
    ‘Explain yourself, sir, or I’ll call for the watch.’ He had the rolling brogue of the marches and his voice was pitched low and steady, no doubt to avoid alarming his family. Splendid , Savin thought. Now he knew exactly where to apply pressure.
    ‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ he went on conversationally. He hooked a chair out from beneath the table with his mind and sat down, spooning up some trifle. ‘I have some questions about a visitor you received a few days ago. I’d like to know why he was here.’
    The little demonstration of his gift did not even make the man blink, confirming the fellow was well acquainted with the Song.
    ‘My visitors are none of your business! You can’t—’
    Savin sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, bowl of trifle cradled in his lap. ‘Actually,’ he said, taking another spoonful, ‘I think you’ll find I can.’
    The man’s mouth worked as he gathered himself. He exchanged a look with his wife. ‘I think you’d best take the children upstairs, dear.’
    ‘Mmph.’ Swallowing, Savin gestured with his spoon. ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt your meal. This shouldn’t take very long.’
    He looked around the room, feigning interest. As he’d suspected, the furniture was rather too large and dark for the proportions of the space, and the table overdressed with flowers, candelabra and too much gilt-edged plate. ‘What a charming room.’
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman lay down her napkin and slowly lift the youngest child into her arms. She shifted in her seat and gave herself away with a panicked glance at the door. A single thought slammed the door shut hard