Free Balanced on the Blade's Edge (Dragon Blood, Book 1) by Lindsay Buroker Page B

his C.O. and jogged across the
snow after him.
    Fortunately, Ridge’s memory proved accurate.
He pushed open the front door and gave the traditional, “Male on
the floor,” warning call, though the private’s furrowed brow made
him think nobody here bothered. Maybe female prisoners were
supposed to be used to random men walking into their sleeping and
bathing building. From what he had skimmed of the operations
manual, courtesies to inmates weren’t important enough to be
mentioned.
    “Third door, sir,” the private said.
    Ridge could have guessed that by the knot of
women standing outside, staring in, gesturing and speaking. Most
had removed their heavy outer clothing and appeared to be off-shift
for the night. Sardelle wasn’t among them.
    “Sergeant Benok gave orders that the body not
be disturbed,” the private said.
    “Good,” Ridge said, though he wasn’t any sort
of forensics expert. He certainly wasn’t a witchcraft expert.
    “Move aside,” the private barked to the
women, despite the fact that they had already been doing so.
    Ridge gave them a more cordial, “Thank you,
ladies,” though all he wanted to do was charge into the room to
check…
    It wasn’t Sardelle. He told himself that his
relief was uncalled for—someone was still dead, choked to death by
a rope made from torn and braided linens, dangling from a water
pipe crossing the ceiling. The woman’s head drooped forward, her
snarled brown hair falling into her lean face. It didn’t quite hide
the swollen lip and lump on the side of her cheek. She wore the
heavy wool dress common to the female prisoners, and it covered
most of her skin, but tattoos of knots and anchors crossed her
knuckles, and more sailing-related artwork disappeared under her
sleeves. The tip of one of her pinky fingers had been cut off at
some point in her life, leaving a shiny pink stump. Her feet almost
touched the floor, and Ridge guessed her six feet tall.
This
woman he would have believed was a pirate
before ending up here.
    “Her name?” he asked of the observers.
    “Six-ten.”
    “Her
name
?” Ridge
repeated.
    “Oh. Uhm.” The women glanced at each
other.
    “Big Bretta,” someone said from the back of
the crowd.
    “Thank you. Private, what led you, or your
sergeant, to believe this hanging was a result of witchcraft?”
    “The sergeant found some things in her bunk…
a collection of people’s hair and some crude dolls carved from
scraps of wood. It looked like she got caught trying to put hexes
on someone.”
    “She was on the shift with us in the kitchens
this morning,” someone said in the crowd. “Then she didn’t show up
this afternoon.”
    “I’m the one who found her,” another woman
said. “Came in to collect the towels for washing and… ’bout
screamed my head off. Then the soldiers came and took over.”
    “First one tried to say it was suicide,” came
an indignant addition. “Big Bretta wasn’t that type. She used to
defend us from the bas— those that thought they could walk in here
and have their way.”
    “People don’t usually punch themselves in the
face before committing suicide,” Ridge said. “Assuming nothing’s
been moved, there’s no stool or ladder or anything she could have
used to climb up there and drop either. Private, where’s the
sergeant who sent you to find me? And who usually handles murder
investigations?” Usually on an installation this small, Ridge
wouldn’t expect there to be much crime—certainly not many
murders—but given the background of his workforce, he supposed it
was inevitable.
    “It was chow time so the sergeant went to
dinner, sir. He said I could go too after I found you.” The private
shrugged. “Nobody investigates murders of prisoners. Bodies just
get put in the crematorium, same as those who die in mine
accidents.”
    “How… efficient.”
    “Yes, sir. We would have done that with this
one, but the sergeant said I should ask you on account of her maybe
being a witch