Chapter 4
“Power in the hands of the inept becomes corruption.”
- From the Treatises of Thomas H. Locksten - High Prophet
Wesatin silence for a few minutes, contemplating our poor life choices.
Affie jolted awake, then promptly rolled onto the floor with a thud.
“Ow.” A low whine came from under the couch.
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Oss’s eyes gleamed.
Poor Affie had enough troubles without us making him feel worse.
“Are you all right, Affie?” Oss asked, his voice shaky.
“I think so.” He didn’t budge from his spot face-down on the floor.
“Are you going to stay there?” I couldn’t help asking.
Affie rolled over onto his back, then delicately touched his nose. “Where am I?”
“I brought you to Oss’s home after you passed out. I couldn’t leave you on the streets.” There were too many people willing to take advantage of an unconscious young man. Especially one as pretty as Affie.
“Why did I pass out?” He struggled to sit up. His eyes were still unfocused, and his hair a mess. He gave the bewildered appearance of a disgruntled kitten.
“You had an episode. Do you remember any of it?” Sometimes Affie could recount his visions with perfect clarity. Other times, he spoke of foggy images and broken words. Fate had dealt Affie a terrible hand where all the cards were wild and the rules constantly shifted faster than the desert sands. As much as I didn’t want my magic exposed, Affie had no choice. Luck, good and bad, had everyone regarding him as a crazy homeless guy instead of a seer. It might keep him unemployed, but at least he wasn’t caged. If someone higher up in the food chain ever saw him give a prophecy, Affie would have more problems than just not getting enough to eat.
“I don’t remember much. Just images and feelings, nothing useful.”
“What do you remember?” Oss prodded.
Affie shuddered. “Pain, the feeling of being captured, and a dark-haired man with ill-intent.”
“Well, that leaves out Lear,” I teased. Affie’s visions came with a third sensory component where he could often feel the emotions of the people in his vision. Sometimes, he came out of them with more fear in his eyes than a person his age should experience.
“Marbrey!” Oss threw a scone at me.
I dodged. “Don’t let Brenson catch you doing that.”
“There are many things I shouldn’t let Brenson catch me doing.”
As we were about to get into another debate, the annoying butler appeared in the doorway. “You have another visitor.” He might as well have announced a bag of stinking garbage had been dumped on the front stoop, with the amount of sneering disdain on his face.
“Who is it?” Oss asked.
“I didn’t bother getting his name, sir. I only address humans.” After those snide words, he pivoted on the heels of his highly polished shoes and stalked off, his back straighter than any soldier’s. Did he practice that move in the mirror to make the rest of us feel inferior to his glossy perfection?
Oss growled. “One day, I’m going to kill that bastard. I don’t care if it will make Thorne sad or not.”
“Don’t forget to invite me. I wouldn’t want to miss it.” Brenson’s days were numbered and rapidly counting down. Thorne had best begin butler shopping soon.
“You’re not usually violent.” Oss smirked.
“I’d make an exception for him.” His snobbishness aside, there was something not right about Brenson. His behavior set my street senses tingling. Deceit wormed through him like wood rot. “How long has Brenson been Thorne’s butler?”
