The Whorehouse Devil

Cullen Blackwood arrived at the town of Hell's Widow in Waejontor on Sowayn Night. Hell's Widow was the largest Waejontori town in the isolated southeastern corner of the realm, wedged against two lycan territories: Clan Red Wolf to the east and Clan MacLachlan to the south. The courier perched on a tall bay mare like pit dog in dusty brown leathers and a nondescript chambray shirt, his stirrups drawn up almost to the saddle skirts to allow for his short legs. The leather patch over his dead left eye and a day's growth of stubble on his weathered face lent him an unsavoriness matched only by his dour expression. he reined Glorygirl to a walk entering the yard of the Three Candles Inn.

Although he was only half a day's ride from home, Cullen disliked traveling after dark when the shadows made ambushes more likely. Couriers like himself were considered fair game, especially whenever one side or another got a hair up their ass regarding the lycan clan he worked for. Added to that was the inauspiciousness of traveling a lonely stretch of road on Sowayn night.

Cullen patted Glorygirl's neck. Seventeen hands at the shoulder, lean and leggy with a deep chest, Glorygirl could outrun nearly anything on four legs: she was Cullen's prize possession; a gift from his employer, the lycan chieftain Claw Redhand whose herd of fine racers was the envy of all the clans.

"Yo, hostler! Get yourself out here!"

Cullen adjusted the strap of his nondescript black satchel – common to many trades – that crossed his compact, muscular chest, swung his leg over the saddle, and dropped to the ground.

The hostler, Jordi, emerged from the barn and hurried toward him, grinning at the manner in which the short wolf had disengaged from his large mount.

A harsh glance from Cullen's cobalt eye banished the smile from Jordi's face. Although Jordi had several inches in height and forty pounds over the mon, something in Cullen's face and manner discouraged trifling with him. Easy-going Jordi MacFie had been working for Amos Raggat for all of six months when he had his first encounter with Cullen and dreaded to see him coming. It did not matter what he said, it always seemed to be the wrong thing to say to Cullen.

"Brush her down good," Cullen barked at Jordi. "Give her some oats and mind my words. I'll check later. If you ain't done it right, I'll have the skin off your back."

Jordi swallowed, making his Adam's apple bob like a cork in a stream. "Yessir."

"Don't just stand there, you bloody idjit. Take the damned reins."

Jordi took the reins with a wince. "Yessir."

"Don't know where Amos finds all you stupid sons'a three fingered gutterwhores. Don't know why he hires you."

Jordi reached out to pat Glorygirl as he led her off.

"Watch her legs, fuckwit. She kicks."

"Yessir." Jordi could not get out of the yard fast enough.

"And tell Amos I'm here and to have me a room ready."

"Yessir." Jordi ducked into the barns.

Cullen stalked off muttering under his breath about the quality of the help Amos hired at his inn. However, by the time he reached Main Street, Cullen was sauntering along as if he owned the town. He made his way to Corbie Way with visions of naked whores dancing through his mind's eye and the intention of spending the winnings from his last race on sinking his cock into some of the prettiest flesh holes at the Crimson Lady. Over the years, there was only one female there he had not sampled: the Madam. Silkie Faggini could not be had for love nor money these days and that just pricked his fancy. She was reputed to have been the best lay in ten counties before she bought the Crimson Lady and stopped opening her legs to customers. Culllen sometimes wondered what a class act like Silkie was doing in a remote, backwater stop like Hell's Widow.

The Crimson Lady had thirty harlots in residence at all times, more or less since there was always some turnover, and new girls frequently showed up. A mon had to go as far north as Skeleton Creek or west as far as Dragonton and Torment Lake to find a larger whorehouse. Although most people avoided discussing it, the Crimson Lady was the largest employer in Hell's Widow with a restaurant and a well-stocked bar on the premises. The elegant old mansion on Corbie Way, with its fluted columns and wide portico, had been abandoned until Silkie bought it five years ago and Cullen had promptly become their first regular customer.

Cullen walked into the yard and stopped in his tracks, all his musings banished by the look of the place. The brothel stood silent and dark and empty. When he had been through here three weeks ago on his way to Silverpaw, the place had been full of life. The door hung ajar.

Wind-blown leaves filled the horse trough beside the hitching post in the yard with a soggy morass of bright autumn colors. Cullen guessed that it must not have been cleaned out in at least a week. The wind began to rise as he crossed to the porch. His sharp lycan eyes could see almost as well in the dark as in the daylight.

The furniture on the porch wore a coat of fallen leaves that were beginning to stir in the wind. Leaves crunched under his feet as he mounted the steps and crossed to the door. The wind picked the leaves up and swirled them around him as he put his hand on the knob and pushed it open the rest of the way.

Silkie had always seemed too tough to just give up on a whim; therefore something must have happened. Had she tried to do this closer to clan lands, Cullen would not have been surprised. The lycan clans disapproved of 'sluts' and brothels were illegal on their lands since prostitutes were viewed as troublemakers who caused fights among the young wolves; however, that did not slow them down about slipping across the border into Waejontor for a good time.

Cullen stepped through the door, his sharp ears straining for sounds of life. Shutters rattled in the wind, telling him that some of the windows had been left open. A twitch of instinct sent him shifting into his hybrid form, giving him a slight edge over most humans in case something lurking there might decide to try and give him a pounding. He had taken a few poundings over the years – like the one that cost him his eye – but usually he gave better than he got.

His hackles rose as he climbed the steps and crossed the porch.

Cullen's old Da' used to say "If you can't beat them, at least write your name on their forehead."

If whatever had driven the whores out still lingered, Cullen intended to do just that. His instincts rang alarm bells in his head and reason suggested he have a look at Silkie's office first for clues to what had happened here.

Cullen made out the images on the erotic tapestries and paintings dominating the walls of the foyer. A huge desk of polished dark wood stood guard at the far end with a stack of books that rose like multicolored soldiers in a long, low wooden box. Usually there was a snotty clerk sitting there – a mon who relished making smart remarks about Cullen's height – or lack thereof.

The benches along the walls, the chairs, and tables for customers to wait at and have a drink were all in place. The tidiness bothered him worse than signs of violence would have. He walked to the desk, took a package of lucifers from his pocket, and struck a light. The lamp on the table still had oil in it, so Cullen removed the chimney and lit it. He saw the open appointment book, and turned it around to read it. Three-quarters of the lycan population remained illiterate, but his Da' had believed in cubs learning their letters; therefore Cullen could read and write, which came in handy as a courier. At least he did not hand off messages addressed to the wrong person.

GODWAR CENTRAL

The Whorehouse Devil