Setzer had left nearly an hour ago, and Mark couldn't bring himself to step away from where he sat at his window. The burns across his body were a constant reminder of his failure. Bandages knew his name, but he was positive he never gave her it. Which begged the question, how did she know who he was? His mind circled around question after question and the only person who could have answered them? Gone. Dead as their fearless leader. The way he smiled as he pointed at the Mites still unnerved Mark. What was going through his head? Why did this random ass ashweeper have a contract out to kill him?

  Where could he find the bitch that nearly killed Mark? She might have some answers for him, and if she tried to finish the job? At least Mark knew that Setzer would skin her alive. He involuntarily shuddered at the image, remembering a man that once crossed Setzer was literally skinned alive. Setzer was a monster, a shark who enjoyed the pain he caused, he knew it to be fact. After all, whenever he bound Mark with a contract, he never inflicted pain, yet the same couldn’t be said of the others Mark had seen.

  A small yellow bird landed on his windowsill. Its bright plumage puffed up as it cocked its head to get a better look at Mark. Clearly not liking what it saw, it chirped and hopped to the other side of the sill. It could fit comfortably in his palm, how small it was. Yet its size seemed barely able to contain its pride. It pecked at the glass and then flew off.

  Mark couldn’t stay cooped up in his room forever though. Even if his bed was looking quite enticing. No, he had to go drop off the collected ash to Mr. Branson. Otherwise they’d find him and, well, no one wanted that. With a grunt and a hiss, he grabbed the pack he had been given, Setzer having retrieved it somehow along with Bandages’ pack. He left hers at the foot of his bed, they didn’t need to know he recovered it and frankly, he deserved the ash more than they did.

  So off he went on his little merry way to deliver the dead remains of the nightmares that plague every man and child’s dreams in Belvidere. He was almost proud of himself at how well he was handling everything! He was stronger than he thought, but every moment when he let down his guard, he would see Bandages’ swallowed by the darkness, the way it overtook her.

  No, he couldn’t focus on that right now. He hefted the awkward pack to adjust the weight. The crowds were unusually thin today, which was more than just a little unnerving. Sycamore Boulevard was usually bustling with day workers, children playing and pranking, and the sounds and smells of everyday life. So packed is the street usually that you couldn’t walk in a straight line without ramming into someone and causing a fight.

  To have so much breathing room between the sparse stalls and the buildings with chipped dry paint was very strange. He quickened his pace, wondering what was going on lately. Setzer didn’t say anything about the council making any sort of announcement, which they rarely do. So what was-

  Ah, so that’s it. He thought, seeing a wreath hung up on a door of a nearby house. It was made of evergreen leaves and plants, intertwined with local flowers of the colors of all the elemental spirits with an ornament of two blades crossed on the very top. Today was Mako’s Lament, only people with business to do or places they had to be would be out and about today. Most businesses were closed for the holiday.

  There was one that wasn’t though, and it was exactly where Mark was headed towards. The Bearer’s Toil was open year round from sun up to sun down, and Mark desperately hoped that the person working today was Mr. Branson again. The small human man had been the only person to treat him with any sort of decency and would sometimes even cut him a few extra coins here and there. Mark suspected he did that when he was looking particularly destitute, or at least more so than usual, but he wasn’t sure his pride could survive the blow to find out.

  Pride, after all, was one of the only things he really had left to clutch. It didn’t feed him much, and got him into a shipload more trouble than it got him out of, but it was still his. There were more people out and about ambling and making small conversation over tea outside establishments meant to cater to those whose noses were stuck far too high up their own-

  “Thought you died,” the same dog beastkin guard said, leaning against The Bearer’s Toil building. Despite his gruff tone and his crossed arms, he appeared all the world to be completely at ease.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Mark snapped.

  The beastkin chuckled at that, waving a hand to follow him into the alley behind and through the worker’s entrance as always.

  “Don’t know why you bother coming here, being one of yous and all,” he said, his fluffy black ears twitching from something he must have heard.

  “I need money, does it matter?”

  “Aye, that be the truth of it. ‘S what we all need, but I seen you do your magic, you could do better than an Ash Bearer,” the man said, swiftly turning to face Mark next to the door.

  Inwardly, Mark gave a humorless bark of laughter. What magic did this man see him do? His little parlor tricks? His experiments with the Mite ash? Sure, the mite ash experiments created what he liked to call fake magic, but that was all it was, wasn’t it? Fake. No, if he were to be hired for his race’s famed magical powers, he’d go through so much ash that he’d practically have to exterminate every Mite in the Wailing Wood. Which would be a blessing to some, but then Belvidere would have to figure out a new source of income to ship to the Beale Kingdom and beyond.

  “I’m not as good as you think,” Mark said, not meeting the man’s eyes, he heard the beastkin huff at his comment.

  “We all got our reasons I guess, you going in or not? Not paid to chat with the help,” he growled.

  Mark nodded and the man opened the door for him, once again stepping inside and locking the door behind him. One short hallway later and a sharp left turn and he stood in the cramped room waiting for whoever was working today to enter the built in cubicle. He tapped his foot as he waited, counting in the cracks in the wall. Some of them had been filled in but it looked like it was a losing battle for whoever was maintaining it.

  “Sorry for the wait, Mark,” Mr. Branson’s voice came from just out of sight.

  Mark stepped up to the cubicle as the short, thin, man sat down with an aggravated sigh. His auburn hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under his slate gray eyes. He pushed up his glasses as he looked Mark over for a brief second, a weary smile plastered hastily on his face.

  “I heard from the other survivor,” he said the word like it was a bitter fruit he bit into, “Was the bandaged wrapped person able to make it out too?”

  “She didn’t make it, what did you hear?” Mark asked.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “That by some coincidence, the ashweeper addict had got himself cut which drew a hoard of Mites to your location. She didn’t stick around to see if you were going to make it.” Mr. Branson, once again adjusting his thick rimmed glasses.

  “More like she cut him, she’s some sort of assassin, probably from Central from what she was wearing,” Mark told him.

  Mr. Branson’s eyes went wide at this. He looked to the side, to somewhere that Mark couldn’t see. A frown drew the man’s lips down. Mark noticed that Mr. Branson was tapping his fingers on the small desk, a nervous tick?

  “Everything ok?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, yes, let’s get the transaction over with,” Mr. Branson said curtly, wincing as he said it, “Sorry, lot on my mind right now.”

  Mark handed the pack over to him and Mr. Branson hefted a scale out from under the thick dark wooden desk. He grunted as he slammed the ancient iron thing down. He took the first sack and placed it onto the bowl, placing an identical empty sack on the other side, fidgeting with a dial and lever on the bottom. After a few minutes he seemed satisfied and took Mark’s sack off the scale, replacing it with another empty one.

  The whole process took nearly thirty minutes, truth be told, and Mark always found this to be the most boring part of this. Yet the money was much better than delving into the caverns under Belvidere for dewmoss. Mr. Branson was writing down computations, amounts, and what Mark assumed to be conversion rates of some sort. Yet every stroke of his pen, the man’s eyes kept darting to the side, something was definitely making him nervous.

  “Are you sure everything is ok?”

  “Hm? Oh yes, sorry, kinda screwed up on the job and well,” he gave him a small apologetic smile, “Don’t need to bore you with my life story, here you go.”

  He reached out and shook Mark’s hand with both of his own, Mark could feel two coins and something else pressed into his palm. There was an intense look on his face as he gave Mark his pay, and he didn’t need any greater hint to not look at what was passed to him until he was well away from The Bearer’s Toil. Mark thanked him and immediately pocketed what he was given.

  The guard waited for him at the door out as always, a bored, yet irritable look on his face just as always. Mark nodded to him and the guard unlocked the door, waved for Mark to exit and then walked out right behind him. Mark stood in the alley for a moment, trying to decide what to do. He could go right back home, but Entity was he fucking hungry.

  None of the establishments in Aurum Way would serve him, he didn’t fit their demanding dress code. He tapped his fingers on his lips in thought, where could he grab a bite? It was Mako’s Lament, but some places would still be open. He knew Scraggly’s would be open, and it had been a day since he darkened Scranton’s doorstep so the man would probably not throw him out on sight. Probably.

  So that’s exactly where he went, going away from Aurum Way and stepping into Siren Ave, a seedy neighborhood, but a nice seedy one. Like, you’d definitely get robbed, but at least you’d get to keep the clothes on your back and live to make another coin. Mark strode through the damp and cramped streets like he belonged. He kept his eyes forward, and swerved to avoid getting close to anyone, keeping a wide berth was important. Dipping in between two shops, a butcher and leather worker, he finally came to Scraggly’s.

  It was a two story wooden building, a big sign post with fresh paint hung above the double doors. It would have looked impressive if it wasn’t clearly not centered with the door, it was just slightly to the left. It depicted a large long haired dog with scruffy and twisted locks, two pitchers in its paws with a big goofy long tongue hanging out. The name was painted in blocky letters below.

  Mark strode inside, taking out one of the coins. Gold. Was this why Mr. Branson was so nervous? He should have only gotten a couple silver coins a handful of copper. Enough to get by for a week, two if you were extremely frugal. A sudden anxiety pierced through the hunger that still grumbled in his empty stomach.

  “Ain’t no one here to trick drinks off, if y’no coin to pay, then get the hell out.”

  The one and only owner of the bar, Scranton, sat on a stool. His bartender busied herself organizing the bottles and stepping back into the kitchen. Scranton was an old human man, a large scar ran down from the middle of his forehead, through his right eye with a small hook at his chin. His thick curly hair was braided in an intricate pattern and fell in thick braids down his back. His lips were currently pursed in irritation at seeing Mark. His bare dark fists clenched.

  “Not happy to see your favorite customer, Scranton?” Mark asked with a sweet smile.

  The man’s honey brown eye narrowed with suspicion. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders and waved Mark closer. His fists weren’t clenched anymore but it seems that he was willing to hear Mark out. For now, at least.

  “As it happens, I do have coin, and I’m starving,” Mark placed the gold coin in Scranton’s palm.

  The man looked down and his eye went wide, a rare smile broke across his aged face.

  “Well, why’nt you say so sooner! Beatrice, get that roast out here pronto, and a cup of that wine me wife brought in last week,” he looked back at Mark after barking his orders, “What, you want an invitation, go sit your ownself down.”

  Not needing to be told twice, he looked around for a good table. Many of the tables and chairs didn’t match, but they were kept in pretty good condition. Scranton may not be the most welcoming, but he definitely took care of his things. The floor was swept and a couple of other humans were going around wiping down the tables. A couple of canine beastkin were sitting at a table not too far from the bar.

  Mark decided he’d take his food upstairs instead. He started heading towards the dark wooden staircase when he felt his jacket grabbed from behind, arresting his movement. Curious, he looked over to see Scranton glaring at him.

  “Sit your ass on the first floor, we ain’t taking your food upstairs. Here’s your change, minus the tip,” he passed a few silver coins back to Mark.

  “The hells? A gold’s a hundred silver! What kind of tip is that?”

  “I seem to remember some miserable little Faeritma barging in here begging for some food and giving that cub some on tab.”

  “I, thank you,” Mark grumbled, he couldn’t argue against the truth.

  Part of why Scranton got sick of seeing Mark was because he was the only one willing to feed him when he was starving. Scranton wasn’t a charitable person, he’d make Mark work hard for it and would still charge him for the food. Sometimes, Mark managed to make a dent into the debt with his tricks and cons with the other patrons but Scranton was less than pleased with that gambit and threw him out on his ass more than a handful of times, refusing to help for weeks after.

  “Did I clear the debt then?” Mark asked.

  “Yup, and paid for the next few meals besides, now get your magical little ass to your table before I sit you there myself.”

  He turned away from Mark, making it obvious that he’d been dismissed. Shrugging and at least thankful that he didn’t have to worry about Scranton throwing him out for a while, he found a remote table. After a few minutes, Beatrice came out from the kitchen with a plate and tankard. She plopped both of them expertly down in front of him, the wine sloshing at the sides but not going over the brim.

  “Enjoy,” she winked at him and leaned down, her bosom brushing against his shoulder as she whispered, “Scranton was practically apoplectic, but you put him in a great mood, so I put a few extra morsels as thanks.”

  She lightly rapped Mark on the shoulder and sauntered back to the bar. Mark’s stomach growled loudly as he smelled the succulent meat. It was covered in a thick savory sauce with a slight spice, there were even some mushrooms and mashed potatoes. He eagerly took his fork and began scarfing everything down. It was delicious, the meat was tender and juicy but not even a few seconds into stuffing his face, the food caught in his throat. He quickly grabbed the tankard and washed the food down with a delicate dry wine. It had an unusual taste, it was deep and rich but he was no expert.

  After he had cleaned his plate, and drank half his wine, he finally decided to see what else was in his pocket. There was another gold coin and a small folded piece of paper. What was Mr. Branson on about? He gave Mark two entire gold coins? There had to have been some mistake, but something was definitely off with him today. Mark took the note and unfolded it, spreading it before him.

  Mark,

  You probably noticed by now I may have ‘slightly’ overpaid you. It’s a downpayment, I have intel on that Centralian assassin, and I want the bitch dead. Come see me tonight at Augury’s by the Cloudgate.