I’m not sure exactly how long I was unconscious at the hospital, but it’s not like the healers and staff were tight-lipped about my existence. Now that I’ve abandoned the safety of the healers and nurses, have I made myself an easier target?
I slow my stride and carefully start studying the faces of those around me. My chest constricts with anxious anticipation, and my heart kicks up a beat.
Do I recognize any of them?
Could the stranger walking next to me be someone who dragged me out of one cell just to throw me in another? Could that shop patron be the guard who liked to dump my food just out of reach?
Subtly I search the faces of the unknown pedestrians around me, looking for anything that sparks recognition. Several males that wander by are wearing suits, but none of them have the expensive flare that fucker Wistan favored.
Stupidly, I wrote the bastard off as a threat the first time I met him because of his perfectly tailored suit. He oozed old money and prestige, and because of that, I assumed he wouldn’t be the type to get his pretty little manicured hands dirty.
Fuck, was I wrong.
I rub a hand over the scars on my arm, forgetting that the charm on my ankle has temporarily magicked them away. A tendril of fear tries to flicker up the back of my neck, but I shake it off while I look around for any sign of Wistan’s aristocratically angled face. I don’t spot even a hint of his flawlessly styled sorrel brown hair or the weaselly mustache I used to dream about ripping off his face.
He could torture me for days and still look as fresh and clean as he did when he first walked into my cell. In the hours between pain and oblivion, I often tried to puzzle out if he wore a spell to keep from getting dirty or if he was just so proficient at torment that he expertly knew how to avoid the messes he loved to make.
A cold understanding settles heavy in my gut. If Wistan knows I survived, he’s not the type to let me go. Being bested by the likes of me would be unacceptable to him. He would do absolutely anything to get me back in a cell and once again at his mercy.
I’ve been worrying about what would happen if the dragons got their hands on me, but Wistan could be hunting me right now too, and for a chilling, breathless moment, I don’t know which fate would be worse.
Chapter 4
THE HOT AFTERNOON FINALLY RELEASES its grip on the day, and the conceding sun finally dips behind the tall buildings. Hints of orange and pink begin to flirt with the bright blue of the sky, but I keep my head down and focus on putting as much distance as possible between me and downtown Lairwood.
I’ve made solid progress so far. I’ve done a good job of doubling back through the maze of streets, compounding my scent, and leaving what false trails I could. A good Thrasher will work through it, probably faster than I’d like, but it should buy me some time.
A group of ourocycles zoom down the flyway next to me. The magi-tech that powers the speed bikes snakes around the front and back of the engine, creating a glimmering figure eight that I find strangely hypnotizing.
I would do a lot of fucked-up things for something that nice back home.
Wind whips past me in the wake of the cycles, and the faint hum of magic that always accompanies them fades as they get further away. An airtram blows a warning horn as it picks up passengers before lifting off and puttering away.
Just like during my other forays into bigger towns and cities, I find myself quickly overwhelmed by the sounds, sights, and scents of this place. I never realize how quiet the deadlands are until I visit more populated places and am bombarded by everything that moves, makes noise, or smells.
Joining a group of people waiting patiently at a crosswalk, I keep my gaze focused on the sign that will light up when it’s my turn to walk. I try not to do anything that will paint me as out of place. I’m sure the hospital knows I’m missing by now. Someone would have found the orderly and the healer I tied up, and I keep expecting a stranger to notice me and then loudly declare that I’m the dragon everyone is looking for.
It doesn’t happen of course. People barely glance my way, too caught up in their own minds and issues. The few who do notice me don’t give me more than a cursory perusal. It should calm my nerves, and yet they’re still strung taut as a mech bow.
The crosswalk chimes and I follow the crowd across the street. I decide I’m far enough away from the center of Lairwood, and I’ve done enough to throw anyone off my trail. It’s time for the next phase of my plan.
A door swings open just ahead, and I observe a small cluster of people pouring out of what looks like a noisy bar. It must be happy hour, not that I’ve ever been to one. The group laughs and jokes and carries on as they file past me, and I make a split-second decision to grab the door to the bar as it starts to swing closed.
I stride in, deciding that this is as good a place as any to blend in for a bit while I work through my checklist to get the fuck out of this random city. With practiced efficiency, I quickly scan the interior as my eyes adjust to the dimmer atmosphere.
There’s an outdoor beer garden that’s full and a bunch of tables inside hosting a few large groups. I head to one of the long bars that run down each side of the establishment, pulling out a stool and plopping down onto it. There’s an older man seated on the far end, but he doesn’t even look my way. Neither does the bartender as he continues to mix a couple dozen drinks. A handful of his prepared concoctions suddenly lift from the bar top of their own accord before darting over to a high-top table out in the beer garden, not one drop spilled.
Shelves of liquor gleam like polished gems under the dusky mood lighting of this place, but I’m more interested in the bright neon board that’s flashing what forms of payment are accepted here. The universal sign of a numbered bracelet is first on the list, indicating that they take credit transfers, and a glowing red drop of blood declares that direct donation is an option too.
My eyes land on the ticker flashing today’s rate for the different species of magic. A drop of dragon’s blood could probably buy this whole block. Not to mention it will definitely flag The Horde and a blood broker somewhere, so I absolutely won’t be pricking my finger for some overpriced bottle of microbrew.
I run my hands down my bright blue borrowed scrubs. They’re a few sizes too small and a little too tight on me, but I doubt anyone is going to pay much attention to that in here. Folding my arms on the bar top, I lean forward and focus on a vid screen feed playing in the corner. It’s one of many on the far wall, each of them displaying all kinds of different programs. Stare at any one of the holovids long enough, and it’ll filter the sound directly to you.
I home in on the one with a man and a woman sitting behind a crescent-shaped desk, both dressed smartly and staring at the camera while they prattle on about whatever the powers that be consider newsworthy.
“Paragon City is busy with arrangements for the upcoming four hundred forty-third Liberation Day,” the blonde woman chirpily announces as the sound sifts to me. “With celebrations fast approaching, Arcane leaders of all kinds are getting ready to flock to the city for the festivities, and, of course, the annual Blood Rite. Let’s go to Florent for more details on what King Noctis and the dragon clans have in store for us this year.”
“That’s right, Dani, planning and preparations are well underway, but what everyone wants to know is how will the Crown top last year?”
