The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff by Lane Heymont Read Free Book Online

torches. In the glowing firelight and wind tugging at their robes, for a moment, they seemed like ghosts wandering the street.  
    â€œI swear I’ve seen his face. Trust me—you’re lucky. I just had a glance of it, too,” said one of the Klansman.
    â€œI thought only Narce got that close to him,” the other one said. “What did it look like?”
    Jeb listened.
    â€œHe was ugly. And I mean real ugly, covered in bruises, bumps, and all. Looked like some kind of circus freak. I ain’t believe Forrest let a freak like him in the Empire.”  
    â€œYou go tell Verdiss the fiend that.” The other chuckled. Then they turned and disappeared down Smith road.
    Jeb needed to find Crispus. He hoped he’d stayed at Lafayette’s, instead of running off and getting himself killed. Jeb pulled his cotton coat tighter to fight off the wind’s icy claws.
    When he reached Lafayette’s, he found the door locked. His quiet knocks went unanswered. Goddamn . Jeb hurried to the one other place Crispus could’ve gone. Finally, the wind carried the plumes of smoke and stink of burnt flesh away from Allenville. “I hope it stay this way.”  

 
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    Chapter Nine
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    â€œLook at the boy twitch!” Narce laughed, pointing to a man’s convulsing body. The noose had broke his neck, but left him alive. Even better . Four nooses hung from the market’s towering tree in preparation. Narce could get another three hangings in before his duties pull him away. Gasps croaked from the dying man’s throat, his skin reddened by the nearby fires devouring a heap of bodies.  
    Narce turned, his white robe fluttering in the wind. It never felt quite right over his hulking frame. Standing six-feet tall and muscled, the cloth felt like it’d burst any moment. Not to mention, the hood never fit his egg-shaped head right. If he’d been promoted, didn’t he at least deserve some proper clothes? What was I thinking? Narce scratched his thick muttonchops, and watched his men work. Lower-ranking Klansmen organized the dead in loads along the market’s edge. They tore down booths suspected of being owned by black businessmen. Shitty wood, Narce decided, but it’d burn all the same. Besides, he’d had a laugh watching them boys burn by their own wood.  
    Narce breathed out, satisfied, letting his promotion build up in his chest. Now he had real power over the other Klansmen—they’d run like a houseboy the moment he called. Nighthawk—the name had a certain sound to it. Maybe, because hawks were hunters and he’d hunted runaways during the war? But what the title gave him was leadership of the Klan’s militia. Now, he was second-in-command to the Grand Dragon himself. Narce listened to the thrill of his men playing music of carnage.  
    â€œGet dis one here, he still breathin’!” a Goblin shouted.
    â€œThat’s it! Burn his ass. He still got a row in ‘em!” Another Klansman lit a body on fire.
    â€œBet this boy’s a jailbird!” A boy dressed in the robe of a Ghoul, stabbed a flame-engulfed body with his pitchfork. Narce scoffed. Little shit’s talkin’ like him a real Goblin. After all, Ghouls were stable boys of the Empire—most were a Goblin’s son. Narce didn’t remember where the boy came from— probably the gutter.  
    â€œLooky at all this money this girl’s got.” A fat Klansman busied himself with rifling through a woman’s dress. He snatched bills and coins from her with stubby hands.
    Narce sighed. Jackass. He whistled and Darkness came running. “Good boy.” He bent down and rubbed the pit bull’s sable fur. Darkness brushed his head against Narce’s leg. “Wait till ya get a taste of that voodoo witch.” He eyed the body swinging from a tree branch. Its neck stretched out like dough. The host of bonfires Narce