We finally reach the top of the hill, and Torin starts moving stiffly. I eye him with concern, trying to work out if his back’s paining him again, or maybe the stiffness is a result of the stick that’s lodged firmly up his bum.
It turns out it’s neither.
We approach the centre of the town’s market square and its twee painted shopfronts and waterless fountain. That’s not what’s got Torin’s attention, though. He gives a jerky, broken marionette’s bow to the image of King Wildrake and the crown of gold coins plastered on the side of the library wall.
I quickly turn my head like I haven’t noticed his unwilling display of respect and start up whistling a jaunty tune. It makes even less sense to me why Kit chooses to live here if he’s surrounded by a bunch of throne-sniffing royalists. Maybe it’s a good thing we’re taking him away for a few days before the rot can sink into his brain.
We step off the main street and head for the shop around the corner, where Kit lives and works. His shop window displays the usual clutter of skulls, books and cutesy trinkets all shoved together. Somehow though, he always has customers, and often when we show up first thing, there’s a queue of people waiting for him to open. People must make a special journey here, considering the size of this town.
Not today, though.
The shop is entirely empty and there’s no one hanging around outside, either.
Huh.
We try the door, but it’s locked up tight.
“You think he didn’t bother to open the place since he knew we were coming to pick him up?”
Torin grunts. “Let’s head around to the back.”
We stride through the alleyway that leads to Kit’s apartment, and Torin pounds his meaty fist on the door. The drizzle takes this opportunity to redouble its efforts until we’re both blasted in the face with freezing rain as we wait for Kit to open the door.
Seconds tick by. Torin pounds harder on the door, letting out a frustrated huff before striding off back to the shop front where I can hear him hammering on the glass.
I hold off for a moment before following him back around to the front. If the racket Torin’s making doesn’t get Kit’s attention, then I’m fairly sure he’s not at home.
“Where in all the netherworld is he? Do you think he’s gone to the bakery?” I try not to soundtoohopeful, but from Torin’s huff, I’m pretty sure I’m unsuccessful.
An older woman passes by the shop, clutching a tiny dog in her arms, when Torin slams his hand against the glass, making it rattle. She lets out a disapproving humph, shaking her head while her little dog barks furiously at Torin.
I take the chance to dart forward and accost her. “Hey, excuse me. Do you know where the owner is?” I ask in my very stilted Yarrovian. I can say that much along with, ‘an ale please and another for my grumpy friend.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Saints above, your eyes are like starbursts.’Those three phrases have been enough to skate by whenever we’ve visited these parts in the past. But the woman starts chattering away and I have not the faintest clue what she could be saying. I manage to pick out ‘closed’ and that’s about it.
I wait her out until she finally seems to run out of air before asking, “So that’s a no, then?”
She shakes her head, which at least is fairly universal around here.
“Right, well. Thank you.” I blast her with my most charming grin and tip an imaginary hat.
Torin’s grinding his teeth so loudly I canhearit, but the woman doesn’t get the message that she’s exceeded her usefulness. She continues to chatter on as we peer through the glass, and Torin’s shoulders grow closer and closer to his ears with every word that comes out of her mouth.
He then lets out a rumbling growl, and the tiny dog yips in her arms, baring his teeth in a snarl at Torin, who rolls his eyes in response. Tor lets out another chest-deep growl, and the dog whimpers in response, cowering in her arms.
The woman falters in her rambling, peering up at him with a familiar gleam in her eye. Whatever words she comes out with next, they’re the usual mix of fear and lust that Torin seems to elicit.
Tor just straight up ignores her, and she finally seems to notice the dog in her arms is now shaking like a leaf.
“Thank you,” I say to her again, wishing I knew any other words. Or maybe that I had mind-control powers I could employ right about now.
She gives one last lingering look at Torin’s stiff back before bustling off, leaving behind the lingering scent of sickly sweet magnolias.
Tor and I share a look before heading back to the alleyway.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask him, eyeing the door. It’s solid wood and locked up tight. I don’t have a whole lot of magic, much to my family’s shame. But maybe I could summon enough to pick the lock, if—
BANG.
BANG.
