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“Well, in that case...let’s shop, my darling girl. I can feel that somewhere there’s a bolt of pale sea-green silk calling my name.”
“And I can hear pearls whispering softly,” laughed Maelin. “Let’s go and put them out of their misery and onto our bodies.”
Chapter Four
Cyrus emerged cautiously from the cupboard which had lowered him down to a quiet street corner in Gloamtide. He’d have known where he was even if he’d walked out with his eyes closed.
The smell was unique, a combination of fouled streets, human sweat, inferior pipe tobacco, a touch of vehicular fumes...and alcohol. Always alcohol.
A reddish hue touched the buildings, many deserted and boarded up, others with lights flickering inside, barely visible through the gloom.
He’d often wondered if hell was like this; perhaps he was being overly dramatic, but it couldn’t be far off. The streets were damp, since apparently the nightly rain-wash had already taken care of the worst of the filth. Now the puddles reflected the dusky red of the night-moons, some inventor’s way of making sure that whoever lived here could tell night from day. The day-suns barely made a difference, their weak glow completely failing to illuminate anything more than their nighttime contemporaries.
The residents didn’t really care either way. The struggle to survive here in the Gloamtide left little time to reflect upon the time of day.
He stood silent, senses attuned to his surroundings. Then he caught a faint sound and turned. “Bram. Good to see you.”
An enormous figure appeared at his side, not unlike an apparition materialising through the gloom.
“Got ears like a whipbat, you have, Mr Cy.”
“Down here? It’s a necessity. What’s happening?”
“Come with me,” replied Bram. “See for yourself.”
Cyrus followed his friend, always astonished that a man the size of a forge door, and just as tough, could move so silently through the damp and filthy streets.
A walk of less than five minutes brought them to an intersection. There were lights, but most were shattered, one flickered rapidly, and the only remaining one shone down on something Cyrus knew he wasn’t going to like.
“A woman found ‘er,” said Bram bluntly. “Screamed like a demon, then ran off.” He shrugged. “People don’t like ter get involved.”
“I know,” sighed Cyrus. “Especially not with a mess like this.”
He stared at the body on the ground in front of him. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but he viewed it with as much dispassion as he could dredge up from his gut. Someone, or something, had done this, and he knew it would be up to him to set any kind of an investigation in motion.
It was what he did. It was also who he was.
“A fae then,” he bent down and touched what used to be a delicate wing. The gruesome remains would have sickened him a long time ago. In the ways that mattered, they still did. But he’d overcome his physical response, replacing that with steely control.
“Reckon so,” grunted Bram. “Got a house brand. On the ankle.”
Cyrus let his gaze roam over the ruin of bone and blood splattered wide around the body. He found the ankle and moved to take a closer look.
“Looks like the Silver Moth’s mark to me,” he murmured. “Their velvetkeeper isn’t going to be happy about this.”
He glanced up at Bram. “You know anyone from that house? Hear anything about bad business there?”
Bram’s immense head swayed from side to side. “Nuthin’.”
Cyrus knelt down carefully beside the body and reached for a tiny star. He knew the Silver Moth amusements always wore those little silver stars to distinguish them from waitresses and visitors. A fae with a star could be yours for the night. The name “amusement” said it all.
Rising to his feet, he took out a handkerchief, wrapped his find carefully, and stuck in his pocket. Then he reviewed the site. “Looks like she was beaten,” he glanced at an arm, clearly broken.
“Raped too, I’ll wager,” grumbled Bram. “Legs are all wrong.”
“Can’t argue,” agreed Cyrus. “But what the coggles ripped her apart like this? It’s got to take some strength...”
Bram moved back a little. “Got word of some new stuff.”
