chapter ten ; a failure of a descendant

Gary Barkovitch hit the wall, the shock reverberating through his knuckles. He sucked in a breath, kept his fist clenched tight despite the pain, and hit the wall with his other hand. This time he hit it harder, and a few of his knuckles split open, blood running down his fingers and dripping from his fingernails to the floor.

He clenched his teeth. He was so pissed. He was more pissed than he'd ever been in his life, mostly because he was pissed at himself. He hadn't really known what to do, and he hadn't given the beast a decent set of instructions. The one he had given had failed. The prostitute had been taken into the castle and was 'hidden.' That was what the beast had said. He was hidden. Hidden from the beast's eyes and hidden from Barkovitch.

There was something about this that screamed 'failure.' He hadn't known what he was doing, but he hadn't even tried to figure it out. He'd just assumed that the beast would do what was best, and he hadn't tried to figure anything out on his own or take anything into his own hands. He felt the urge to hit the wall again, but resisted. He would take care of his anger at himself productively. He would go and he would find out where Davidson was being held, and then he would break in himself and push him out a castle window or something.

But first he would gather information. He was good at that; his ability to stay hidden did help sometimes. He'd sent the beast out to chase after Baker, who had disappeared again. The reward hadn't been claimed yet and, as a bonus, the spearhead of the operation to get Baker back had gone missing, too. The beast was set to come back with Baker, and not until then, so Barkovitch decided to use the time as best as he could.

He headed out of the dusty, formerly abandoned place he now called his home, pressing one hand against his split knuckles. It would be nice if he had something to bandage them up with, or if he'd remembered to tear up one of those rags back in his home, but as it was he pressed one palm to the cuts and hoped that they would stop bleeding before too long.

He slipped through the crowd, keeping to the edges so that he was close enough to put his back to a wall if need be and freezing whenever anyone's gaze stayed on him for too long. It did take longer than he would have hoped, but eventually he was at the palace. It shouldn't be too hard to get in. There was a steady stream of workers going in and out; cooks and cleaners and guards, and while most of them were wearing uniforms or cleaner clothes than he was, blending in could be one of Gary Barkovitch's specialties.

Then again, whenever he was found out, it rarely ended well. But if he did this right, if he kept his eyes open and mind sharp, he wouldn't be caught.

This in mind, he slipped into the crowd and let himself be pushed and pulled along by the crowd. The servants' entrance wasn't as grand as the rest of the palace, though it was a lot cleaner than his home. He would have felt self-conscious of the dirt practically coating his body if he wasn't focused on keeping himself the same as everyone around him. He tried to pretend that he wasn't a head shorter than everyone and that he didn't have dirt and dust covering his body, and that was what they would see.

He ducked into an empty, dusty, disused hallway as soon as he had the chance. He pressed his back against the wall, took in as deep of a breath as he dared, and glanced around. Nobody was here. From the dim lighting and undisturbed dust, Barkovitch had the feeling that people rarely came here. That was good. That was good, especially if he wanted to stand here with his back against the wall and listen to passing conversation.

He'd been standing and listening to absolutely nothing important for about fifteen minutes when a hand slapped down on his shoulder. He jumped, attempted to jerk away, and eventually looked straight up into the face of his captor.

It was a guard; young, probably around Barkovitch's own age, with an irritating half-grin and a scar stretching from temple to chin. His fingers were clenched over Barkovitch's shoulder, digging in so deep that he couldn't get away even if he wanted to.

"Well," the guard said. "I do believe we have a problem here."

"Let go," Barkovitch muttered, jerking his arm away. A million thoughts raced through his head – how had this guard been able to see him? He'd been completely still, usually small movements gave him away, but he was almost a hundred percent sure that he hadn't moved an inch.

As if reading his mind, the guard snickered. "Wipe your feet before coming into a castle," he said. He scanned Barkovitch and Barkovitch shifted, leaning as far away from the guard as he could manage. "How did someone as crusted with dirt as you are even get in? You find a secret way in or something?"

Barkovitch kept his mouth shut. The guard rolled his eyes and readjusted his grip so that he was holding Barkovitch's arm, and started to pull him away. Barkovitch dug his heels into the ground and pulled backward. The guard sighed and blew hair out of his eyes.

"Look, I don't know how you got in here, but you obviously don't belong here, so I have to take you out."

"I need to do something, asshole," Barkovitch snapped. The guard shook his head slowly.

"Rude," he said.

Barkovitch rolled his eyes and took a step backward, twisting his arm in a weak attempt to get himself free. The guard kept a tight grip. "Just wondering," he said. "Why did you want to come in here, anyway? What's your agenda?"

"Let me do it and I'll tell you," Barkovitch said. The guard grinned widely.

"If it's funny enough I might just help you."

"I want to kill a prostitute."

"Okay, we are going to kill a prostitute," the guard said, grin widening. "What's the plan?"

So we're back.