Page 28 of Outlaw Witch

“What about Zeph?”

Better to know now if I’m going to bump into that asshole.

Roscoe chuckles, leaning against the elevator wall with a casual ease that I seriously envy right now. “He grew up in the Luminary District. Not that you’d believe it now. When he was ten, his mom found a new step-daddy for him that didn’t like him too much and since his uncle already lived over here, he persuaded him to come too. The three of us wound up spending a lot of time together after that. Fabian’s the oldest of us three, and he’s always been our de facto leader. It isn’t hard to see why, since my brain can’t stick to any one thing for too long and Zeph’s too damn temperamental.”

It occurs to me that Roscoe’s got something of a big mouth. I’m not sure he should be spelling out their full history to a stranger like me. Or maybe I’m just used to people keeping most of the details of themselves private.

I snort. “You don’t say.” When Roscoe raises an eyebrow in question, I add, “I’m pretty sure there’s a wild man right behind the stone-cold asshole façade. Not sure I’d ever want to see it up close, though.”

... not again, anyway.

No siree. It’s not like I’ve woken up from dreams where I’m reliving being acquainted with the wild man inside of him.

He cocks his head to one side and then breaks into a slow grin. “That’s pretty accurate, sweetheart. He hides it, y’know? So most people only ever see the super-controlled front.”

“I think it comes with the territory of being a storm mage, though, right? You gotta have some pretty big feelings to be able to control something that powerful.”

Roscoe looks thoughtful for a moment as the elevator doors slide open. “I guess you’re right about that, too. Damn, Silver, I wonder what that means about us? An illusion mage and a... what, blood magic witch? You must be pretty unique.”

He doesn’t know the half of it...

But we’re stumbling into dangerous territory and if I know what’s good for me, I should pivot right now.

We step out of the elevator and I realize I’ve been blindly following behind him with no idea of where we’re headed. “You are actually taking me to get my money, right?”

He tsks, leading the way down one hallway and then another that looks identical. It’s quieter up here. There are no more people going about their shady business. Instead, there’s no one around.

“Now, now, Silver. Don’t you trust me?” When he sees the expression on my face, he chuckles. “Yeah, you might be right about that. Never trust a guy that can disguise himself with your own face.”

“You can do that?” I trip along beside him, trying to map the route we’ve taken. I really, really do not want to get lost inside this building.

“I’ll show you sometime, sweetheart.” He pulls to a stop outside a large oak door with an ancient iron handle. “Right now, though, we need to break into Mr. Nightshade’s office to get you your money.”

“Wait, what?” I squawk.

He smirks again and produces a lockpicking set out of his hoodie pocket.

“Shouldn’t you have a key?” I ask, peering up and down the corridor and scoping around the ceilings for cameras.

“Nah, I’d just lose it. Plus, it’s not like he’s going to catch us, since it’s too damn early. You want your money, right? I figured that it seemed pretty important to you.”

“Pretty sure eating and having a safe roof over your head is important to you too,” I snip back.

He frowns. “Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean anything by it.”

He then focuses his attention on the lock, fiddling with the picks for about thirty seconds before there’s a little ‘click’ and he grins at me triumphantly.

“You never know with these old doors. Sometimes they can be a real bastard.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply. “I suck at lock-picking even the easiest doors. You would have come in handy the other day when I was on a job and my exit was locked.”

He grins again and I start to think that this is his default expression. “Thank you, sweetheart. You can tell the others that. No one else gets how useful it can be. I love all the human tricks and illusions. All that sleight-of-hand shit is pretty fucking cool.”

Pushing open the door, he scopes it out before gesturing for me to come inside.

Vincent Nightshade’s office is plush and pretty damn fancy. There’s a huge mahogany desk and a wingback, green leather chair. He has one of those super fancy computers that I’ve only ever seen on TV or in movies, and his desk is littered with a mixture of old coffee cups and framed photographs.

Roscoe heads confidently over to a tapestry covering one wall and pushes it aside, revealing a safe. He then winks at me as he proceeds to break into this too.

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