Kenton
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
World Castle Publishing, LLC
Pensacola, Florida
Copyright © Kathi S. Barton 2016
Paperback ISBN: 9781629894386
First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, March 7, 2016
http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in articles and reviews.
Cover: Karen Fuller
Editor: Eric Johnston
Editor: Maxine Bringenberg
Table of Contents
“I need you to tell me what this is worth.” Emma looked up at the man that held
out a little box to her. If it was in her power, Emma would gladly have punched him in
the nose. But she also knew that he’d hit her back, and it would be ten times more
painful than anything she could do to him. “Now, Emma. And he said for you not to
dally. He needs it now.”
“So, you do it. I’m in the middle of something else you told me to do.” She knew as
well as he did that Bart could tell the worth of an item almost as well as she could. Not
quite as good as she could; practice had made her better and faster at it. But they’d both
been trained to know how to do it. “I’m in the middle of—”
She should have known better. Whenever she pointed something obvious out to her
brother, he would resort to violence if he didn’t care for her answer. Which was usually
all the time. Emma wondered if she’d ever learn and doubted it. Now she found herself
on the floor with her mouth bloodied and her head hurting. Not the first time for that
either.
He put the box on the desk, then pulled out his gun and laid it on her desk with it
as if that was all he needed to make her comply. The punch to her face had done that
pretty good, she thought. Emma wished she could pick the gun up and blow his
fucking head off. Instead, she lifted her hurting body up and got back to her desk.
Emma didn’t even bother wiping the blood off. He’d just hit her again to show he
could.
Picking up the small box, she opened it. Inside was a small blue bag, tied at the top
with an equally blue string. There were no markings on the bag or the box, but she
knew quality when she felt it. And this bag wasn’t it. She started to ask Bart what kind
of joke this was when she realized that he’d not answer her. He’d more than likely do
what she’d wanted to do to him and shoot her. She’d be dead and he’d be standing over
her demanding that she get up and do what he’d told her to do. There was no love lost
between the two of them, and hadn’t been for a very long time.
Dumping the contents out into her hand, she was first surprised at the weight of the
ring, then at how big it was. But the ring itself was what had her holding her breath. It
was simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The work on it—and there was a
great deal of it—had been done with a steady hand and an even better eye, for the art
looked to her like the person who had made this loved the person who was to receive it.
For a second she wondered if she would ever have someone love her that much. She
looked up at Bart when he snorted at her. He looked pissed.
“It’s just a band. Nothing but a damned gold band that is worth less than my
fucking shoes. I wonder if it’s even gold plated. Fuckers.” She looked at the ring, then
back at him as he continued. “Fucking bastard said it was worth millions. It’s not even
worth the box it came in. Why the hell do I even bother with robbing people if they’re
going to lie to me about what I’m taking? Huh? And then to have fought so hard to
keep it? As if it was worth his own life? Dumbass probably believed that it was worth
the money I was told it was.”
“Are you kidding me? This isn’t just a band, dumbass. This is a work of art.” She
started to show him, but Bart picked up his gun and slid it back into his holster before
slamming his hands down on the table, his face level with her. She leapt back from him.
Which, she supposed, was what he had wanted her to do anyway. Then he laughed at
her. “Don’t hurt me, Bart. Please? I’ll tell Daddy.”
“Like he gives a shit about you. I mean, look where he has you working. In the
basement of a piece of shit building that has nothing to go for it but a toilet that is ten
feet away.” He snorted again. “Go to him, Emma, see if I’m not right. And when he tells
you to go away, I’m going to come back down here and blow your fucking brains out
for bothering him. We have more important things to do than to listen to you whine
about how badly you’re being treated.”
After he left her, she put the ring back in the little bag and started working on the
chains that had been tangled up when Bart had simply tossed them into a bank bag.
He’d told her when she asked him that it wasn’t his job to make sure that things were
neat and tidy, that she would be out of a fucking job if he did. She estimated that she
had about ten hours in untangling the chains so far and she wasn’t any closer to getting
them straight than she had been before. Emma was pretty sure that he’d done it on
purpose. It was something he loved doing, making her job more difficult.
Her father and brother had dumped her down here six years ago, pulling her from
college and telling her that she had to earn her keep. Of course Emma hadn’t seen her
father in all this time. Words, harsh and mean, had come from him via her brother. She
was going to have to find another job soon. This one just wasn’t making it for her any
longer. Of course, she blamed that on Bart too. He took money from her cash envelope
every week, and he was taking more and more all the time. He called it a living tax. If
he didn’t get it, she didn’t live. And she believed him too.
The ring called to her. She knew that was silly. Rings or other things didn’t talk, but
she could almost hear it telling her that it didn’t belong to her and that she needed to
return it to the owner. She would love to do that, but she wasn’t going to. Not that she’d
have the chance to get out of this place with the thing. Being patted down and wanded
every time she left would have made it impossible, but she knew that if found out,
she’d be dead. Emma looked over at the desk next to hers.
Sebastian Logan had been her friend and co-worker, and the nicest man she’d ever
known. Polite, hardworking, and a man who had loved his family more than he did his
own life. And it was what had gotten him killed.
A diamond ring had been brought in a month ago. Bart, of course, had deemed it
unworthy and had told her and Sebastian they could have it. She’d thought it was
pretty but thought that Sebastian could sell it for a few dollars, and knew that it would
help out in their situation. His only child was sick and that money would have gone a
long way in helping him. So he’d taken the ring home to sell.
He’d come in the next day, saying that he’d gotten enough to buy a prescription
that was much needed, and they had both sat down to work. An hour later, Bart and his
friend, Mark Whitaker, had come in to question Sebastian about it. Apparently a fence
that they knew had mentioned that Sebastian had brought it in.
“You said I could have it. You told us it was worthless and that we could have it.
Tell him, Emma. Tell him he said that.” Bart, of course, denied that, and even told
Emma that their father wanted to make an example of Sebastian. Bart had pulled his
gun free and had killed her friend right there in front of her, despite her begging him to
let it go.
Blood had sprayed over her face and clothing. Bart had set Mark in front of her for
the rest of the day while Sebastian was lying in his own blood, and told her that if she
wiped her face he would put the blood back. But this time it would be her own.
All Emma wanted to do was get out of there and be her own person. Live her life as
she wanted on her own terms. As soon as she could save enough money to get away,
anyway. Looking at the ring again, she wondered what would happen if she were to get
it to its owner. What sort of reward would there be? Because at the rate she was saving
money, she’d be too old to run when she did manage to get enough to go on.
At ten after twelve, she pulled out her lunch. It was only a jelly sandwich; the
peanut butter had run out a few days ago. Emma wanted to cry about what her life had
become, and knew that it was as set in stone as the sword was that she’d read about so
long ago.
“Put that shit away. I want you to look this over.” She only glanced at the