The night air bites, carrying the scent of salt, metal, and the sharp tang of death. The eastern docks are ablaze, the Zephronium stone crates burning in a violent frenzy that paints the sky in hellish hues.
The principle is simple: if I can't have it, no one will.
My men move like shadows through the chaos, swift and merciless, cutting down Hellions as easily as one trims weeds. The rival group's screams are lost beneath the crackle of flames and the clash of steel.
I watch from my perch atop a stack of crates, one boot casually resting on the edge, enjoying the show. It's like watching ants scurry when you pour boiling water down their nest. Only, this time, it's blood, that trickles, staining the cobblestones beneath the flickering gaslights.
I have no idea why they chose a new moon day for the exchange. I've been waiting for the moon to vanish for a month. Now my joints are too stiff to care.
I take a slow drag from a cigarillo, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls like a phantom around me. The exchange was supposed to be heavily guarded, but ever since the disappearance of that cowardly Cheshire cat, things have been easy and messed up.
The Hellions overestimated themselves.
Or perhaps they simply underestimate me. Either way, tonight is a reminder that nothing escapes my grasp, not shipments, not secrets.
A Hellion stumbles toward me, clutching his side where my lieutenant Zevrin has opened him up. He gasps something about mercy, blood bubbling at his lips.
I chuckle, flicking ash onto his face. "Not my area of expertise, I'm afraid,"
He doesn't get a chance to respond. Zevrin's blade finds his throat before he can spit out another useless plea.
Blood sprays, a crimson arc against the darkness, and the light in his eyes dims to nothing. Efficient, as always. I nod my approval. Efficiency is a virtue, though I prefer it in moderation.
But the Hellions are down to their last dozen now, their leader nowhere in sight. That should bother me, but it doesn't. I've learned patience over anything. Besides, there are not so many places a big rat can hide in the underbelly of this city. He'll crawl back to whatever hole he came from soon enough.
"Get the rest of the crates loaded," I command over my shoulder, the cold wind carrying my voice to my crew. "We're done here."
With that, I slip away leaving the cleanup to those who love such grim tasks.
There's something—or someone—stirring in the undercity, something that's managed to evade me. A spy. That fact alone is irritating. I hate not knowing. But the thrill of the hunt is what keeps the blood pumping, isn't it?
Tonight's been... fruitful. If setting fire to an entire shipment and listening to men scream as they burn counts as productive, then yes, I've accomplished something tonight. But the satisfaction fades quicker than it used to. After the chaos, I crave something quieter, something... different.
I could go home, sleep next to my cat or I could visit Bianca, who always has a way of making the hours slip by like sand through my fingers.
But none of that sounds appealing right now.
I stop in my tracks, that flicker of annoyance at the edges of my mind sharpening into something colder.
"A drink?" Zevrin asks.
Maybe. A distraction, preferably. The good kind, not the kind that ends with someone's entrails decorating the floor. At least, not immediately.
"Yeah," I murmur, turning away from the docks, the last screams dying in the wind. "Let's find a place where I can forget how fucking bored I am."
The last screams fade into the night as I leave the docks behind. Moments later, the Heavenspire swallows me whole.
The bar is alive tonight if you can call this swarming pit of sweat, stench, and despair "alive." It's more like a corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet, twitching with the last remnants of life.
I settle into my usual seat in the VIP corner, letting the shadows drape over me like a lover's embrace. Smoke coils from my cigarillo, curling upwards in lazy spirals, matching the calm rhythm of the music pounding through the walls.
The place is a riot of laughter, slurred curses, and clinking glasses. Exactly the kind of symphony I like—one where everyone's too distracted to notice the monsters lurking among them.
Zevrin orders my drink, his eyes scanning the crowd for threats that don't exist. Not yet, anyway. The Bartender scurries away after taking the order and passes it to the... to a little one out of place, like a soft note played in the wrong key.
She's small. Insignificant, really. Skinny to the point where it looks like a stiff breeze could blow her away. That ridiculous white shirt she wears is several sizes too large, sleeves rolled up clumsily to reveal slender, pale wrists that look like they'd snap if you gripped them too tightly.
But it's her hair that draws my attention first—Her hair—short, messy, the color of old honey catching the candlelight like molten gold. In this dim, smoky hellhole, it's almost offensive. A misplaced beacon that doesn't belong.
Proving my point, she doesn't listen to what the bartender says about me. She pretends to listen, pulls the pump handle, and lets the mug fill while her gaze and mind are piercing someone else.
I follow her gaze and find it locked onto Daniella Leonhart, the bitch of the dark queen. She moves through the crowd like a knife slicing through silk, her black leather coat clinging to curves as sharp as her smile.
I could almost see the demon of love pulling strings behind barmaid's cerulean glassy eyes when they follow that bitch of Leonhart walks cutting through the crowd as if she owns the damned hellhole. The barmaid looks at her under her gaze, leaning on the handle, and my drink overflows.
She doesn't miss Daniella's single movement until she vanishes into her private cabin with the businessman she is supposed to talk with. They will probably talk about the misery of Eastern docks today.
I wonder what will happen to me if someone looks at me with too damned blue flames in their eyes. WHY?
She comes to sense only when the ale is flowing down along the desk.
Madam Vespera, perched at the corner with her ridiculous feathered hat and that ever-present pipe taps on the barmaid's head as she wipes the desk, blushing, her cheeks going that shade of pink that whores here usually pay good coin to achieve with rouge.
Alright, where have I seen that thing before?
"... Who's she?" I ask noting that Madam Vespera's fingers curl into the fabric, stopping Mel in her tracks to me like a leash yanking back a hound.
Zevrin following my gaze, "... The blondie?" He asks. "Draven's niece, I hear. A scholar... here on for the summer vacation... I guess,"
"Vacation?" I snort. "She'll be lucky if she leaves this place with her virtue intact. If she even has one left."
Vespera doesn't look at me at all, cunning old hag. Thanks to her the barmaid is again at her lovesick glancing at the door of the private cabin, the useless bartender serving me my drink.
It's useless coming here. I want my cat.
The drunken whore Dylan takes the stage, her voice slurring as she hollers into the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen! In honor of Becca, who's now dancing with the stars, let's have some music, shall we?"
The crowd roars, half of them too drunk to even remember who Becca was. I lean back, ready to tune out whatever godawful noise Dylan's about to subject us to. She better be still when I throw something sharp at her.
And then, "Let's welcome... Mel!" Dylan screeches into the microphone, her drunken voice cracking like a whip. "To our cursed family, sing us a song!"
That is enough for her to snap back to reality, the barmaid—Mel, apparently—is trying to slip away into the crowd like a thief caught with his hands in someone else's pockets. But the drunken patrons are relentless, pushing her toward the stage.
She says no, waving her hands and somehow she ends up on the stage as Dylan pulls her up. She is annoyed but she tries to hide it with her thin smile. Even her dear guardian angel, Vespera claps cheering on her.
"Mel! Mel! Mel!"
She looks rather swallowing nails than singing. "Alright! Alright!" She nods trying to settle down the crowd but they go on and on.
"Alright! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
she snaps at the crowd, her voice cutting through the drunken din like a knife.
The crowd goes dead silent. Even the bartenders pause, mugs in mid-air. My cigarillo freezes halfway to my lips. My brows raise.
That voice—it's sharper than I expected like it's used to getting what it wants. A sliver of memory slices through me that I nearly choke.
I scoff.
They give her a guitar this time. A significant upgrade from the fire poker she nearly lobotomized me with before. Though, by the look in her eyes, I wouldn't put it past her to tune it into a weapon if the urge struck.
Can't blame a girl for having hobbies.