The Irresistible Urge to Fall for Your Enemy (Dearly Beloathed, #1)

by Brigitte Knightley

How shall I convince her to assist?” He turned to a looking glass, inspected the finest cheekbones in the Tīendoms, and said, “Seduction?” “I don’t think you’d manage it,” said Parson. “You offend me, madam.”

“My half grand-aunt’s daughter’s third cousin works in the Haelan kitchens.”

Mrs. Parson nodded. “A bit of skulduggery wouldn’t go amiss.” “One of my specialties, as it happens.”

Outside Fairhrim’s office door was a desk at which sat an owlish little man clattering upon a brass writing ball. He was in Osric’s way, but Osric did not kill him. He wished to make a decent first impression on Fairhrim, after all, and so he merely concussed the man and tucked him neatly under his own desk.

“Who are you and what do you want?” “We could’ve got to this point much sooner if you hadn’t mucked about with the onions,” said Osric. Also if he hadn’t mucked about with attempting to flirt with her, but he preferred not to take responsibility for things.

Osric sighed. “I’d rather not have to kidnap you. That would be a bother.” “Oh?” Fairhrim sat up, if it was possible, even straighter. “You’re going to kidnap me, are you?” “Yes. And not give you the money.”

“What if I can’t heal you?” asked Fairhrim. “I’ll die. And perhaps I’ll take you with me,” said Osric. “Wonderful.” “Am I persuading you?” “Persuasion would require an iota of something like charm.” This vexed Osric. “I’m not charming?”

“Twenty million. This is…this is a sizable portion of your fortune.” “We will, obviously, be stealing it back.” Mrs. Parson looked relieved. “Oh! Very good, sir.”

The card was perfumed, which offended Aurienne more than the assassination appointments: Swanstone was a scent-free establishment.

“The man has paid us twenty million thrymsas for the privilege of having you apply your unviable fantasy to his case. Give it to him. It’s his dying wish.”

You’ll see signs for a clinic for acute buttock folliculitis.” “A clinic for what?” “Spotty bums,” said the deofol. “Follow the signs. Aurienne will be there.”

“It hasn’t been discovered,” said Fairhrim. “You’re hooded up like death personified. And anyone who did see you will think you’re suffering from folliculitis.” Osric pointed at one of the overly detailed posters that had haunted his walk. “You had to choose arse acne?” “To guarantee us privacy,”

“Is there a single inch of you that isn’t covered in scar tissue?” she asked. Osric looked down at himself—at his chest, decorated by reminders of various blades; at his forearms, ridged by burns; at his shins, scattered with memories of a long-ago explosion. “There is,” said Osric. “A few inches, actually. Under the kilt.” Fairhrim, who had no sense of humour, said aridly, “Spare me further details.”

The Haelan maxim was Harm to none, but private fantasies couldn’t be policed, and Aurienne indulged in one involving the Fyren slipping and drowning, and thus putting an end to both of their miseries. He was regrettably sure-footed.

More whinging than Aurienne had expected from a Fyren. Weren’t they meant to be rugged killers? This specimen had the fortitude of wet quiche.

“I knew it,” said Mordaunt, followed by the lofty pronouncement: “I have an extraordinary sense of smell.” It seemed too facile to point out that, indeed, this seemed to be the only sense he had.

“You—you killed someone while they were eating yoghurt?” asked Aurienne. “Yes. It was good yoghurt, too.” “You ate the yoghurt?” “After he was dead, yes. He’d hardly touched it. What? What’s the matter? Have you mistaken me for someone respectable?”

“Gore, yes; viscera, yes. Gangrene gobjobs, however, are not part of my repertoire.”

“You’ve been here?” “A few times. Best brothel in Dyfed.” Aurienne stared at the door with concern. Under the erect unicorn curled the words Come one, come all.

“We’re here for the baths, not your breeding kink,” said Mordaunt. “That man was remarkably well-endowed,” said Aurienne.

He was a Fine Specimen in the way an abscess might be a Fine Specimen; the best, most shapely, most beautiful abscess in the world still brimmed with foulness and ought to be incised and drained.

“Dramatic boy. What’s a little patricide among friends?”

“You mustn’t say my name in such commanding tones,” said Sacramore. “You’ll give me the vapours.”

“His target for the assignment has now gone into hiding,” said Tristane. “I had to refund the client, which was mortifying, as you can imagine. We don’t do refunds. We’re the Fyren Order, not Murder Mart.”

“Tonight. It won’t involve using up your precious seith. Have you anything better to do?” “Thousands of better things.” Fairhrim read Mrs. Parson’s note with a raised eyebrow. “Nether Wallop?” “Ooh,” said Osric. “My favourite game: is it a place or is it a kink?”

Osric asked why she must be so obstreperous. Fairhrim asked when would he stop being a Menace to Society. Osric called her a Self-Righteous Plague. She called him a Foppish Crouton.

“An Observer?” repeated Widdershins. “With half the usual amount of eyes? Like Woden, did you give your right eye so your left could See?”

He stripped off his shirt and stepped into the moonlit creek, his colander still on his head. “He hasn’t got any nipples,” noticed Osric. To Widdershins, he called, “Why haven’t you got any nipples?” “You can’t just ask people why they haven’t got nipples,” said Fairhrim. “Lost them in the fire,” said Widdershins.

Osric lost his patience. “If this dotard gives us one more bloody etymology—” “Dotard,” said Widdershins. “From Middle Dutch doten, to be foolish. Ard indicates a particular quality, usually pejorative. And so we also have drunkard and coward and dullard and laggard.” Widdershins’ dreamy gaze refocused. He looked Osric dead in the eye. “And, of course, bastard, but you’re well acquainted with that one, boy, being such a stellar example yourself.”

Osric turned to Fairhrim and said, informatively: “I’m a cock hair away from murdering this man.” “I’m not familiar with that unit of measurement,” said Widdershins. He, too, turned to Fairhrim. “How imminent is my demise? What’s the length of a standard cock hair?”

“D’you think a ‘cure for all evil’ includes seith rot?” asked Osric. Fairhrim looked up from where she knelt. “If this treatment was a cure for evil, it would be fatal to you.” “Oi.”

There was such witchery in a pair of bright eyes. Pity they had to be hers.

The deofol was now attempting puppy-dog eyes, but, given that it was a creature of soul-corroding darkness, the endeavour was more perturbing than anything else.

At length, Mordaunt’s gloved fingertips appeared in a crack between the doors, then his hands, then his face. “Don’t get many visitors, do you?” asked Aurienne. (She did not assist with his struggle.) Mordaunt looked cross. “You took so long to come, the hinges bloody rusted.” “I was unavoidably delayed. You’re lucky I came at all.”

paintings of dizzying sun-filled landscapes. “What are those?” asked Aurienne. “Landscapes.” “As seen in a malarial dream?” “It’s called Impressionism.”

“One of those damned critique crickets.” “It followed you from the Downs?” “Must’ve hitched a ride. It now lives here. I can’t find it to kill it.” “Face like a bollock,” said the cricket. “Fuck off,” said Mordaunt. “Suck a fart out of my arse,” instructed the cricket. “When I find you,” said Mordaunt, addressing the room at large, “I am going to make you suffer.”

Leofric looked sly. “ ’Bout to slap your own balls, I bet.” “No,” said Mordaunt. “ ’Bout to play with them, then. Let me tell you a thing about that.” Leofric pointed a finger in Mordaunt’s face, as though he were about to impart some profound advice. Then he said, “Don’t get your fingers caught in your pubes.” Mordaunt sounded offended. “How long do you think my pubes are?” “Dunno. Bet you plait them.”

“I’m not asking you again. Leave.” Leofric grew truculent. “Or what?” “I’ll garrote you with my pube plait.”

“Who is he?” “Leofric. He’s only got one brain cell, and he uses it to not shit on his own head.”

“Stop interrupting me during jobs,” said Osric as Fairhrim’s albino genet took shape. “I can’t seem to choose a time when you aren’t killing someone,” said the hellrat. It twitched its whiskers at the corpse in the bed. “Is he dead enough yet? Are you sure? Perhaps more stabbing?” “This is hardly an excess,” said Osric. “This is industry standard.”

The intensity in his gaze shocked her even as she found her answer. He looked at her as one who wished to worship, and one who wished to defile.

They sat for a long time, leaning against each other, existing in two states at once. Hate could feel strangely like something else.

“They stole the food from someone else. Does that make it better?” “It compounds the problem.”

“I’d kill for just a cup of tea,” said Aurienne. She searched the cupboards. Mordaunt said that he would kill for a cup of tea, too, only literally, unlike her, the coward.

“But we really must punish them for that tea,” said Mordaunt. “I’ll just kill them a little.”

Osric swept a hand through his hair. She ignored him. He flexed his abs. No reaction. He bit his lip. Disregarded. He made a deep guttural sound when she wiped cold hlutoform against him. She told him to act like a grown man. She was the Worst.

“Why are your shoulders scratched up like this?” asked Fairhrim. “I’m having an affair,” said Osric, sexily. “With a rodent?” asked Fairhrim. Osric, who was not actually a rat fucker, was compelled to clarify: “It was your bloody deofol who scratched me up.” “Oh,” said Fairhrim. She, notably, made no apology.

and further informed him that her breasts were insured, and also that they had names (from left to right, Thoughts and Prayers).

As if Osric would dream of touching the most irritating, meddlesome little Haelan who had ever walked the earth. Other than to murder her, obviously. Also: Fairhrim had no business having Thighs of Interest.

“Why so many vulvas?” asked Fairhrim, with fresh annoyance. “You’d think there’d be more anuses, given the place’s name.” “I can’t believe I paid three hundred thrymsas to hear you complain about a lack of anuses.”