It was time.
“I hope this is illusion. I don’t want you to be back,” the man mumbled.
The wolflike one laughed. “Why not?”
The man sighed and closed his eyes. “Because that means I’ll have to kill you.”
The fawn-like girl reached down and held her hand over her gently sloped abdomen. “Not yet, you won’t. Besides, you have to help me fake my death. Haven’t you heard, Phil? My brother is hunting down any Bard with even a hint of blood disorder. He’d murder mine and Wolf’s son just because he’s mine.”
“Dagrid,” the wolflike one said with a snarl. “We could kill him. Tonight.” He looked meaningfully at the man’s father lying dead on the stone, killed so easily the wind hadn’t even heard it happen.
The fawn-like girl smiled and peered distantly into the dark, as if she were searching the shallow depths of a puddle reflecting the weak light of the moon, hidden behind swiftly moving clouds. “No. I think . . . I think my brother’s children are . . . I think . . . oh! His daughter is like me, and . . . oh. Oh! That’s . . .” She laughed, and the sound echoed through the stone place. The acrid fear scent shied away from her bright laughter.
“What?” the wolflike one asked, reaching for her hand.
“Nothing. It was only . . . it was only . . .”
A car horn ricocheted over the wind and jolted it awake. The sound shook and rattled the wind, blaring impatiently in one long, angry yowl. The wind shrieked and snorted, shaking itself off.
What? Where? Who?
It clutched the trickster’s shoulder, balancing as he moved swiftly through the early-morning crowd. The wind yawned, shaking free of the old stone scents and secrets and coming back to the now. The man was dead—so was the wolflike one and the fawn-like girl—while the wind was here, riding the shoulder of the one the fawn-like girl had been laughing about.
It was rare for the wind to fall so deeply into a memory dream, so it was very pleased it had managed to remain curled on the trickster’s shoulder the entire time. It smiled smugly at the pale dawn brushing silvery-gold light over the brick and stone streets. Smugness was not attractive in the boy, but the wind could be smug when it was deserved. That was the point of being the wind.
It stretched and looked around.
Oh, now this was interesting. Where was the trickster going? This was not a part of the city the trickster usually played in, so the wind was surprised the trickster was gliding through the silvery-dawn hustle as if he’d woken every morning of his life in one of the claustrophobic brick tenements lining the narrow, curving streets.
He wore illusion. Not much—only enough to replace his tuxedo with dirty jeans and a beige canvas jacket. There was a ball cap over his glossy black hair, and sunglasses too. The wind could still smell the blood that had dripped from his nose, but it seemed the trickster had washed it free. Now, there was only a slight swelling to his nose and a greenish-purple bruise under his left eye. It reminded the wind of an overripe plum beginning to rot.
No one glanced twice at trickster. They barely glanced once. He wasn’t the trickster here; instead, he was a skinny youth with slumped shoulders and quick steps, perhaps headed to work unloading trucks.
The wind chuffed, laughing at the way the trickster could appear to be anyone he wanted, even when he looked like himself.
Oh, the wind liked this.
The trickster wove through the crowd, his deceptively casual gaze scanning the street with hawklike intensity. The sun’s fingers combed over the old brick buildings but was barred from entering the alleys. Those stayed in nighttime shadow. There was a pleasant chill, which the wind shivered and rolled in, bathing in vapor rising off ice-packed fish, squid, and slippery sea creatures. It was a long time since the wind had explored this early-morning hustle.
Large white delivery trucks lined the brick street, exhaust fumes piping into the air. They rumbled and coughed as men rolled boxes full of fruits and vegetables to the sidewalk. Men shouted, yelling sharp words. A dragon fruit rolled across the pavement. A careless man stepped on a lychee nut, and it squished and squirted. The wind sniffed, playing with the trickster’s shirtsleeve as it was bombarded with the smell of grated ginger, fresh bok choy, lychee, diesel, fresh fish, and wet cardboard. Even the concrete had an interesting smell, like minerals soaked in rainwater and sprinkled with boiled sugar.
The wind was jostled off the trickster’s shoulder when a man knocked into him. It was a hard shove. The man was a head taller than the trickster and three times as wide.
The trickster tripped on the concrete curb. If he hadn’t been a Bard and as agile as a cat, he would’ve fallen. But he righted himself, barely missing knocking into the large man again.
“Watch yourself!” the man shouted.
The wind shrieked as the rude man hacked, coughing up a large ball of snot to spit on the flattened cardboard at the trickster’s feet.
Then the rude man stomped away, entire groups of people parting in his wake.
The trickster stared after him with a peculiar expression, his mouth twisted, his lips twitching, and his nose scrunched.
The wind sniffed the spit soaking into the cardboard. Sea salt. Oranges. Mint.
Nothing interesting.
The trickster set off again, and the wind followed. It didn’t take it long to realize the trickster was following the rude man. They weaved through busy thoroughfares packed with metal carts and tables full of fruits, vegetables, and dried sea things. Then the trickster hopped off a curb, jogged across a street, weaving past cars, and followed the rude man down an alley.
