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Hunter Stokes was nothing if not dogged in his pursuit of his quarry. He hadn’t let French spies or lost souls slip past him yet, and he would be damned if he let this assignment be his first failure.
The late summer dusk fell into the forest with harsh shadows and an ominous quiet. In the stillness, a sense of purpose settled in his gut and he knew he was on the right path. He had been tracking Marguerite, wanted for murder, for too many weeks.
Hunter had to admit that although he had tracked many criminals before, and although he had located women before, he had never hunted anyone quite as elusive as Marguerite. She was educated, she survived the horrors of the French Revolution, and she spent decades learning to manipulate those around her. It made her not only a formidable opponent, but it was difficult to guess her next move when her decisions were sporadic. Every time he predicted where she would go next, his guess was off.
He assumed she would leave London by ship, but she hadn’t. She had gone north.
He assumed she would seek help from her sister, but she hadn’t. She had zig-zagged her way through the countryside with no clear reason for choosing one small town over another.
He knew there was a method to her madness, but how everything connected eluded him.
Until now. He was so close to finding her that he hadn’t even eaten his last loaf of bread in his food basket.
Hunter’s mare, smart and trustworthy, had set a good pace for the day but she was also nearing her limit.
Up ahead, the golden evening of a summer’s day glowed at the edge of the forest.
As he cleared the forest and approached the small stone inn, he noted the lack of activity. No one attended the small stable even though there was another horse here. It could be the innkeeper’s horse or it could be another traveler’s.
Hunter rifled through the things in the stable but everything looked ordinary. There wasn’t a sign that a murderer hid inside.
He patted his horse before leaving her. “Never any time to stop and smell the flowers.”
With the dusk slowly falling away to a grim night, Hunter entered the inn. The dim light inside matched the dusky outside. The light of a few tallow candles showed him the interior. The stone walls ran down the front but the back was divided by plaster walls and a small hall that led back to the inn’s private rooms. He would say the inn only had two or three rooms and it was unlikely all of them were booked.
The front section held a public area with tables and benches. Two men sat together, their hands clasped around their pints, eyeing him. He nodded at them and they nodded back and returned to their business.
Only one other patron sat in the corner of the room. He was tall with hunched shoulders and short black hair. The man gripped his tankard and ignored Hunter completely.
The side of the man’s face was slightly discolored and scarred. It looked like a burn from a long time ago had healed to its best, leaving a visual reminder of the pain this man must have once felt.
The innkeeper came up from the back hall, smiling. He was of medium height, balding, wore worn clothes, and Hunter could take him out in no more than five seconds, ten if he valued the innkeeper’s life.
Which he did.
“Good evenin’! You are coming to my humble inn rather late.”
The rural folks were always the most skeptical. They wanted to be friendly but not with a man who looked like Hunter. They looked at his black, tailored clothing, his tall build and unfashionably styled black hair, and they made an assumption. Hunter pulled down his hood, showing the crimson velvet lining inside.
He couldn’t blame them for being skeptical when their assumptions weren’t far off from the truth. Hunter chased trouble.
He said, “I apologize. I have been searching for someone and am asking all around for her whereabouts.”
The innkeeper narrowed his gaze. “And who would be asking?”
Hunter pulled a card from his jacket pocket. “I work on behalf of the Earl of Winland. Hunter Stokes.”
The innkeeper squinted at the card and then handed it back, a smudge on the corner of the card. “Mr. Stokes, you say? Well, who are you looking for?”
Hunter tucked the card away. “A woman. Medium height, she would come up to my shoulders. Petite frame. Very fair skin. Blond hair but it might be pulled back or covered. Blue eyes. She is past four decades but may appear youthful for her age.”
The innkeeper, who had not introduced himself, folded his arms and said, “Nobody like that here. Is that all?”
Hunter shifted forward. In the dark of the inn, the man might not notice the slight movement, but he would feel Hunter invade his space. “No. I would like to know if any of your rooms are occupied.”
“Aye.”
“Who occupies them?”
“Nobody who is a buxom blond like you are looking for.”
“The woman I am looking for is petite.”
The man stared like he had never heard the word petite before in his life.
Hunter shifted a little closer.
The two men with their pints shifted in their chairs, the wood creaking and scraping on the floor. They were likely locals who would assist the innkeeper without question.
“Aye. You did say that. For the sake of the Earl of Winland, who I heard is a valiant, upstanding fellow, I will tell you that my one occupant is an elderly female what arrived today. She is exhausted from her travels and needs a rest.”
Hunter remained perfectly still. If he moved any closer, the man would put up his guard and the locals would react. “And, for the sake of the earl, would you show me to her room so I may check on her?”
“No.” The man stepped back. “I will not help you bother an old woman. If you want to knock on her door and try her yourself, that is up to you.”
Hunter stepped back and nodded, releasing the innkeeper from any further questions. “I will do so. Thank you.”
The two men with their pints watched him walk down the hall.
He could take out one of them in ten seconds if needed. Three of them changed the odds to more trouble than it might be worth. Hunter would probably leave unscathed, but with another weight on his overburdened sense of guilt.
He knocked on the door, the sound catching in the solid wood. The inn might be old but it was sturdy. When no one answered, he knocked again with more strength behind his hand.
He called out, “Hello. I am working on behalf of the Earl of Winland and have some questions I would like to ask the occupants of this inn.”
He would believe the woman was a little old lady once he saw her. Until then, he assumed the worst. It would be better to be prepared than worry he was wrong. Maybe his instincts had been off. Maybe Marguerite had gone on to another cottage or traveled farther than he calculated.
It wouldn’t be the first time he had been wrong.
No one answered at the door. He knocked one more time, even harder. “I come only with questions. I promise.”
A hoarse voice answered through the door. “Come in, dear. It is not locked.”
He pulled the lever and entered three paces into the room. Any further and he would be on the bed in the tiny room. A woman, her hair in a large night cap and her back turned a little to Hunter, reached for the nightstand. A moment later, there was a flicker of light in the room and a tallow candle lit the woman’s face.
She had dark smudges under her eyes. Hunter couldn’t tell if they were blue. The covers were pulled up to her chest but she looked buxom from the bulge of the fabric.
Hunter disliked the innkeeper a notch more than he had before. He had said there weren’t any buxom women here.
“Pardon, ma’am. If I describe someone to you, can you tell me if you have seen her on your travels?”
Her hoarse voice sounded like it came from a permanent catch in her throat. “I can try, dear, but I do not see as well as I used to.”
If he could just tell her eye and hair color, he would know if he should be more suspicious. But he had met Marguerite before, so if this was a disguise, the woman knew how to pull the wool over a man’s eyes.
Although, that was something Marguerite was adept at. After all, she had fooled the Earl of Winland for years.
He shifted a step closer to the bed, stopping near the woman’s feet. “I am looking for a woman.”
The woman laughed, then coughed. “Aren’t all you young men looking for that?”
He smiled a little at her humor. He wanted her to be real. As much as he wanted his search to be over, he wanted the woman in this bed to truly be a little old lady who was tired from her travels.
He wanted the world to be what it said it was.
But the world was full of lies.
He shifted up again while the woman was distracted with another cough. Now he was up by her knee. If he got a little closer, he would be able to discern her eye color, even in the candle light.
“She is medium height and would come up to about my shoulders.”
The woman stared at his shoulders. “Well, that could be me, dear. You are not,” she fluttered her lashes over her sunken eyes, “looking for me, are you?”
He went on, “Petite frame. Very fair skin.” Even though she was watching, he shifted forward and was now standing in line with her thigh. “Blond hair and blue eyes.”
The woman shrunk into her pillow. “You have a particular taste, young man. My hair lost its color years ago.”
He smiled again and shifted so he was now in line with her hip, next to the bed. “Perhaps I like a woman with experience.”
She gave an ugly guffaw and then coughed again. “Your shameless flirting will be the death of me. I have not seen a woman like you have described.”
“For shame.” He leaned forward, just a little, and caught her blue eyes. “What a startlingly clear gaze you have.”
Her voice lowered a little and lost a bit of its rasp. “I can see you better when you are closer, handsome stranger.”
There was an edge to that flirtatious line. Hunter always listened to his instincts and they were telling him that he was right. He had her.
The little coil of delight that came when he was so close to victory twined in his stomach. This would all be over soon.
He said, “And what smooth skin for someone so,” he paused until the right word dropped from his lips, “tired.”
This was her. His instincts roared at him and he lunged forward. She shifted but he was faster and caught her in the blanket, pinning her body down onto the bed.
A blade sliced up through the bedding, narrowly missing his side. She had been hiding a dagger in the bed with her. He shifted away from the weapon and pinned her chest down with one arm so he could reach for the dagger with his free hand. Yanking it from her grasp, he tossed it away and heard it clatter somewhere on the floor.
Then his clothing shifted and his body was yanked off the bed. Someone else was here, helping Marguerite get away.
Hunter twisted and bent down to throw his attacker off balance. The man behind him grunted and staggered, but never let go of Hunter’s shirt.
His collar tightened around his neck as the man yanked harder. Hunter saw Marguerite roll her from the bed and hasten to the corner of the room.
She could have a gun, which meant Hunter had seconds to subdue the person holding him. He reached back and yanked on the man’s ear. The skin felt rough and scarred. The man’s grip slackened just enough for Hunter to topple them over.
They both sprawled to the floor, but Hunter had the advantage. He maneuvered to get on top and pulled his arm back to strike the scarred man’s nose.
Marguerite shrieked, “Johnny!”
Her scream echoed strangely in his ear.
In his peripheral, he saw Marguerite at his side. Rolling away, he watched as she kicked at the air where he had just been.
Hunter, counting on his quick reflexes, lunged forward to reclaim his advantage over the burned man. The man’s knee knocked into Hunter’s stomach.
His opponent was fast.
Hunter’s instinct was to swerve and avoid the next blow that would come for his face. He did but it was a second too late. The scarred man had been aiming for his nose and instead knocked Hunter right in the forehead.
The man yelled as Hunter fell back on the bed, stunned. He blinked, hating his moment of weakness.
Get up, you fool.
This was unlike him. He had impeccable reflexes and instincts honed and perfected by years of practice and skill.
Not just anyone could take him out like that. Someone had to be better than good to surprise him. Who was Johnny?
He placed a hand on the floor to steady the spinning his disoriented head felt. The carved handle of the knife clattered under his hand and he picked it up and shoved it in his belt.
He saw them run out the door and, even though it hurt, he stood, wobbly and moving forward past the dark patches in his vision. He’d been through worse, but usually he had also injured his opponent.
He hadn’t even landed one hit on Johnny. With a sense of determination and a small amount of respect for the man, Hunter gave chase.
He couldn’t come this close and fail.
At the end of the hall, blocking his way, were the two locals and the innkeeper.
The innkeeper held up a large knife. “What’s this, then? Chasing an old lady?”
Hunter could escape. It would take a well-placed elbow thrust, a good punch, a couple of blows, and that would be enough to get him free.
He wasted a moment on an explanation. If they let him by, he wouldn’t have to hurt anybody. “She’s a criminal, wanted for murder.”
The innkeeper pointed the sharp end of the knife forward. “You said the woman you wanted was pa-teet.”
Bloody hell, the man said the word like it was an item in a French bakery. Hunter stomped forward on the first buffoon’s foot, jabbed with his elbow, threw a punch at a jaw, and by the time all three buffoons realized Hunter had gotten the better of them, he was already ten paces away and almost out the door.
The innkeeper called out, “Come back and I will gut you like a pig at harvest time!”
Hunter ran from the nice, rural folk.
Outside, it was too quiet.
He listened while he found the horses.
Nothing.
No sounds, no movement, and no horses.
Had they tried to take his mare? She wouldn’t have responded well to them. The other horse was gone.
They couldn’t go far with only one horse. He could still catch them.
Checking his gun, he played the words from the earl in his head again, wondering how ruthless he truly wanted to be.
Dead or alive. The decision was Hunter’s.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the still night and his instincts. He heard a small scuffle and followed it to find his mare. She waited near the forest path.
He checked the ground and looked for signs of travelers. They would try to lose him in the dark of the forest but now he had their direction.
That wasn’t all he had. He took out the dagger and looked at it for the first time. The blade was well taken care of and artistic vines wrapped around the carved handle. Rubbing his thumb over the rounded end, he felt a small catch. The end popped open to reveal a small, empty container.
Marguerite was known to use poison and this dagger must have been specially made for her. She likely had other small compartments built into everyday objects and that was how she had poisoned her last target.
Marguerite would never stop until someone stopped her.
He would be the one to do it.
But he also had a new piece to the puzzle and he wasn’t sure where the piece fit.
Who was Johnny?
Message from the author:
Thank you for reading this short Little Red Riding Hood inspired story that reveals a little bit more about Hunter and Marguerite. At the end of the first Historical Ever After novel, Sophia White and Her Seven Promises, it is mentioned that Hunter has been chasing Marguerite and almost caught her. This is that story. It was important that Marguerite remain on the run because her story isn’t done yet. Marguerite is the evil stepmother, the evil queen, or the wicked witch in each book in the Historical Ever After series. She has more lives, yet, to touch, testing the love of those around her. She has a history that will be revealed a bit more in the next Historical Ever After book, a Rapunzel retelling titled Thy Golden Stair.
Still wondering who Johnny is? If you put the names Johnny and Marguerite together, maybe alter them to fit a different language, they are the name of a popular children’s short story that gives a clue.
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