Page 34 of Sharpen Your Claws

She cursed when a rat did exactly that.

“There’s a camp ahead of us. There are about a dozen people there. Two are talking about a work opportunity,” Evera continued.

She and William theorized work opportunities would get people to leave their shelter and follow a stranger. It would be an effective way to get someone alone and it wouldn’t be unusual to accept an odd job. Their guard wouldn’t be up because they couldn’t lose the opportunity.

“Your expression says you’d like to stop and chat.” Evera swerved a corner without a glance. The camp she spoke of crowded itself within an abandoned building left to rot. Worn blankets hung from broken windows, fruitlessly attempting to keep the chill at bay, and a dozen barrels sat between the tents, illuminating all in an orange glow.

“There may be someone who will speak to me,” Charmaine said, unsure of how to breach the topic of Evera’s presence. Fae rarely traversed the back streets of Alogan unless they wanted trouble, so people would be on guard if she waltzed up.

“Them.” Evera pointed at two men huddled around a barrel, warming their fingers over the fire. “Talk and I’ll make myself scarce.”

Evera wandered into the shadows of the warehouses, almost disappearing entirely. Charmaine rolled her shoulders, uncomfortable knowing Evera stalked nearby, but she could get more information without the fae at her back.

She approached the men, neither of whom she recognized from the clinic. Both were older, their backs hunched and hands calloused from many years of hard labor. The men were too engaged in conversation to notice her approach.

“The fellow promised three days’ worth of the matchbox warehouse’s wage in one,” the man with a mustache said. He rubbed his hands together faster. “I’d be a fool to pass it up.”

“But we don’t know this fellow. I haven’t heard of him till now,” said the other, his peppered beard long and coiled at the tip. “He may not pay up and you’ll lose a day, plus whatever the foreman takes for calling off.”

“It’s safer work, just moving furniture across town,” the mustache man countered. “And I know the shop, Manwell’s. It’s right off main street, seen it when I went into town.”

Manwell’s was a small furniture store that many local shops purchased from. The owner was an elderly gentleman, his face so wrinkled his eyes were always closed, but she hadn’t recalled noticing a sign requesting any help.

“Excuse me,” she called. “Could I ask a few questions about this job?”

The men fastened their attention on her. Their scowls deepened. They saw her as someone potentially stealing their rare opportunity. Jobs that paid well were scarce in the outer banks. The only things that surpassed the importance of a decent job were fresh food and clean water.

“I’m not interested in taking it,” she explained. “However, you might have heard about some disappearances of late here.”

“Supposedly,” said mustache before he spat on the ground. “I heard there will be more patrols comin’ through. Are you the one who suggested that? They will make thieving more difficult.”

“It is necessary, I assure you. A friend of mine and I are looking into these disappearances. He’s the doctor at the clinic nearby.” She may not have recognized the men, but they could have paid the clinic a visit, or at the very least, knew of it. “We thought a job offer might get people alone. Could you describe the man who made this offer?”

The men glanced at one another, their distaste for her lessening at the mention of the clinic. Then the bearded one slapped his friend on the arm. “I told ya it was no good,” he muttered.

“She’s being paranoid, and so are you,” his friend argued.

“Just tell her.”

Mustache scowled. “Fine. I met him last night. He said to meet him by the docks off Seventh Street at dawn the day after tomorrow, if I was interested. He said he was an apprentice at Manwell’s and needed help taking furniture to a client. It’s good pay.”

“What did he look like?” she asked.

Mustache hesitated to share that information. His friend gave him a cursory look, then mustache grumbled, “I didn’t get a good look. He wore a heavy jacket and kept his hood up.”

“What about his voice? Did he sound strange?”

“Strange? I, well, it was deep and sounded like he had been smoking all his life.”

She heard shadowed disciples speak once, when those monsters dragged them from camp, when they first saw Fearworn in person. Those disciples chased her and Arden, who did most of the work, otherwise she would have died out there. She never forgot that fear, their dead eyes, and their voices. They spoke little other than to threaten in gravelly tones that came straight from the forbidden depths of Elysium.

Last she checked, no one else worked at Manwell’s, but the story didn’t sound too far-fetched otherwise. People hired extra help all the time, although shops like Manwell’s could afford to hire a company, which they normally did. Many didn’t trust those in the outer banks to work well or be trustworthy. Meeting at dawn would be normal for a day’s work, too. The dock off Seventh Street wasn’t the busiest dock in town, but it wasn’t dead, either. However, the stranger sounded to be purposefully shielding their appearance. Shadowed disciples were easy to spot and with the description of his voice, that unsettled her.

“Well?” the bearded man hummed. “Do you think it’s trouble?”

“I think I will stop at Manwell’s to see if he has an apprentice,” she replied honestly. “I’ll return and let you know. Thank you for speaking with me.”

The men muttered their thanks. Charmaine set off toward Manwell’s. Evera hopped down from the rooftops. She hadn’t heard the fae and jumped a second time. Evera found that humorous, of course.

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