Page 144 of Fractured Fates
“Okay,” I say. “Where did you have in mind? I’m not sure I have the energy to get all dressed up.” I gesture to the outfit I’m wearing: my jeans and my old hoodie.
“Pool hall?”
“I’ve never played.”
“I’ll teach you.”
I study his face. I don’t know if he still has feelings for me. “That sounds fun but just so we’re on the same page here, this isn’t a–”
“Date? Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, dismissing my concerns with his hand. He peers at his wrist watch. “Campus bus leaves for the city in thirty minutes. Can you make that?”
“Easily,” I tell him, my shoulders already feeling lighter and my head clearer.
I can’t wait to get out of this place.
40
The man in black
I’m searchingfor information on a fugitive. A man who eluded the authorities when they came to arrest him for smuggling banned magical substances into the republic.
The occupants in this part of the city, down by the docks, are tight-lipped. They don’t want to tell me anything. They know the old adage: snitches get stitches. But there’s always someone who’s willing to talk. Someone who’s prepared to risk a beating for a purse of gold, or who’s nursing a grudge they can finally avenge.
It can take a while to seek that person out. Usually, they’ll make themselves known to me. All I have to do is make myself visible. Ask the usual questions, knowing the majority will feed me misinformation or stare at me blankly like I’m talking a different language to them.
So I stroll through the docks, my cloak drawn closed against the cold mist that rolls off the water, ducking inside the odd bar, ordering a beer and watching as people shift uneasily around me.
Most people can’t do this job, not because it’s physically demanding – months on the road, chasing down the worst in this world. Not because of the dangers involved. Not because several powerful people would like to see me dead. No, they couldn’t do it because of the way people react to my presence. The way they slide away from me. The way they shift uneasily on their feet. Most people can’t stand to feel like a pariah. They can’t stand to be hated. Most people want to be loved.
I adjust the hood of my cloak, that cold mist nipping at my nose, and head to the dock’s edge where a few remaining fishermen unload their boats among the monstrous tankers, stacked high with crates – some on their way across the ocean, some having been sent from there.
There are usually some women and young men hanging about this area, hoping to snag business from a sailor or two. They’re usually as tight-lipped as anyone else. But today’s fugitive has a reputation for using women as punch bags and they may be more than happy to see him off the streets.
I turn a corner, smelling the salt from the sea, listening as the tall metal ships groan in the water.
I walk along the waterfront, ignoring the way people side eye me, pretending not to see me, continuing with their every day. I swerve around a pile of barrels and stop.
A bike stands directly behind the barrels, hidden to anyone coming from the direction I just have.
A sleek, modern thing. Black and red. A sprinting wolf painted along its side.
I know who that bike belongs to.
Shit, probably everyone in this part of the city does.
The question is: why the hell is he here?
* * *
Fuck the fugitive.Fuck my assignment. Fuck the fact I’m going to be in the shit with my employer.
Fuck all that.
I spin on my toes and walk briskly in the opposite direction, wishing now I hadn’t made myself so damn obvious.
Not that it matters. Renzo won’t assume I’m searching for him. He’ll have heard I’m after some smaller fish.
I stride quickly through the alleyways of the docks, trying to stop myself from running. The man in black doesn’t run. Not unless he’s in pursuit. If I start sprinting now, I’ll have tongues wagging.
