by CM Raymond
If all of that wasn’t strange enough, the creature had a dozen or so spines running down the narrow ridge of its back. Their points were silhouetted in the light of the full-moon.
She stepped forward to get a closer look. When she did, the lizard leapt from its station on the sill directly in her direction. Hannah shrieked and swatted the thing away from her body. William wrestled around in his bed obviously disturbed by the outburst but remained asleep.
The lizard landed harmlessly on her pillow. It stared up at her without blinking, and she wondered if it was planning its next attack.
With its tongue shooting out and back in, it walked off her pillow and started walking in circles on her bed, wagging its long tail before finally curling up into a ball on her quilt—just like her old cat.
She lowered the knife and relaxed at the sight.
Seriously? How much worse could this day get?
“You’re cute. But you got to go,” she said, wondering how she would get the thing off her bed and out of the house. She approached it tentatively, having no idea what it was and if it were dangerous. She waved her hands at it. “Shoo! Get.”
It trained its eyes on her, blinked, and laid its head on the bed—keeping its reptilian eyes fastened on its host. Hannah drew close, and as she did, she felt the hum of energy run through her body—just as she had in the market square. Reaching out for it, the lizard tongue lashed out and licked her hand once and then again.
The first lick, Hannah had yanked her hand back... but, it didn’t hurt. She moved her hand forward again. Hannah laughed as the next lick tickled her wrist. It felt good, both to be tickled by the little creature, but also to laugh.
It had been far too long.
She smiled and whispered after a moment, “OK, friend. You can stay. But just for tonight.”
Hannah closed the shutters and crawled back into her bed, shaping her body around the lump of a creature that had become her second roommate in the tiny space she and William shared. As she drifted off to sleep, Hannah felt the lizard lay its tiny head across her thigh.
CHAPTER THREE
Sunshine cut through the slats in the shutters drawing Hannah out of her deep slumber. Years ago, beautiful tapestry blinds kept the rays at bay. The window dressings were their only precious heirloom, a treasure passed down through generations.
Soon after the passing of her mother, they disappeared. Hannah never asked, but she assumed they were sold by her father or given to some Queen Bitch Boulevard whore for the sake of a few thrusts and grunts. The tapestries weren’t the greatest loss, but their absence proved that nothing was sacred. And it showed what kind of an animal her father was.
The lizard curled between her legs and peaked an eye when she rolled over, then immediately went back to sleep.
“Lazy ass,” she chuckled. It didn’t seem to mind the insult.
She half assumed the thing would be gone when she woke up, just another wisp of a dream destroyed by the morning light. But whatever it was—and wherever it came from—the thing was flesh and blood, and it seemed to have made itself at home here.
“Well, if you’re going to stay, I might as well give you a name.” She tilted her head to the side and thought for a second. “How about Sal”
As she said the name, the lizard curled itself tighter into a ball. With a little imagination, she pictured the thing smiling. It seemed that Sal would work just fine.
Getting out of bed was a chore. Her muscles and joints protested while her face throbbed. The Hunters did more of a number on her than she had thought when she drifted off to sleep—but not as much as they could have.
Hatred boiled in her blood, and she promised that they would get theirs someday.
She’d take extra time on Scarface.
Thinking of the Hunters reminded her of the demon from the alley. If she hadn’t already been terrified, seeing it would have scared the hell out of her. The more she thought about it, the less frightening its appearance seemed.
She had heard about magic users that had the ability to alter their appearance. In the light of a new day, with some time and sleep between her and the attack, she was convinced that the demon face was only some sort of scare tactic.
If so, it certainly worked. The last thing she saw before taking off down the alley was the demon with staff raised high and hands pointed toward the Hunters in rebuke.
Perhaps they had already gotten what they deserved? She smiled at the thought, before losing the smile a moment later.
The joy of that thought didn’t last, as she swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. The Hunters’ tag was still there. It would not only be a reminder of the Hunters’ cruelty but worse, they would tell all of Arcadia that she was an Unlawful—or at least she stood accused as one.
But being accused and being guilty were basically one in the same. At least, that’s how the other Hunters would see it.
Hannah dressed and pulled on a wool hat to cover the mark. She made her way to the kitchen and already the wool itched at her scalp. She would have to find a way to remove the tag.
William was already gone, which was good. Two years ago, they still worked the streets together, but since she had grown older, panhandling wasn’t quite the return on investment that it once was.
In Arcadia, begging was children’s work. And despite her thin frame, she was definitely a child no longer. She wondered about William’s sickness and prayed that the seizures wouldn’t return while he was out working on his own.
She didn’t believe in the gods. If they ever existed, the Patriarch and the Matriarch had abandoned this world long ago.
But when it came to her brother? She was even willing to give faith a try.
****
The woman’s voice called out in the little rundown apartment. “Parker. Parker! Wake up already. Your shift is starting soon.”
“Coming, Mother.” Parker stumbled out of bed as he rolled his eyes. His mother was sweet and conveniently naive. Many mothers along Queen’s Boulevard became this way. He wasn’t sure if she had actually believed that her boy, a kid from the slums, could land a job at the factory, or if she had just fooled herself into accepting the life she wanted for him.
Either way, Parker was glad she rested well and could brag to her friends over a game of Wicken—a popular card game within the city. He slid into his clothes and tightened the laces of his boots.
One snapped from too many days of rot.
“Shit,” he hissed, tying another knot in the already tangled laces. He could scrape by working the streets of Arcadia. While he couldn’t get a more respectable job like his mother thought, conning shoppers provided a steady enough income.
And since the trading traffic had increased in the summer, bringing more and more outsiders through the city gates, there was plenty of work to be done. But the money was still precious, and some would have to be holed away for the down season.
Grabbing his bag of tools, he left his little room and headed for the kitchen.
“Here you are, lovely,” his mother said, sliding a plate of eggs with a single strip of bacon across the table to the spot where his dad had always sat.
It took months before she accepted he wasn’t coming home. The first day that Parker ate in his father’s chair was the moment he knew for certain he had become the man of the house, and that was the day he stole his first loaf of bread.
Parker didn’t necessarily like the life of a thief and conman, but it paid the bills and kept his mother from doing other questionable jobs. Too many women in the quarter did things no human should face—and his mother wouldn’t be one of them.
“Thanks, Mother. What’s the plan today?” He asked it every day, and every day he got the same answer in return.
“Oh, I need to do some tidying up around the house and see if MacIntyre has work for me. If not, I’ll swing by the park and sit with the girls.” She smiled broadly at her son. “It’s a good thing I have a working man in the house.”
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br /> MacIntyre ran The Arcadian, the city’s local paper. For the longest time, it was esteemed as a reputable news source but had become, over the past few years, a mix of political propaganda for the Governor and the Chancellor. The remaining back pages were reserved for gossip and advertising. Since its transformation, there had been little work for people like his mother.
People said that the business had been infused with special magitech, magic-powered machines that nearly wrote, edited, and printed the paper all by itself. Parker knew that was horseshit, but couldn’t deny the fact that his mother’s unemployment had something to do with the legal use of magic.
The magic was controlled by those in power and worked to make them more powerful. Since as long as he could remember, the Capitol had boasted more and more progress, while life in Queen Bitch Boulevard got worse and worse.
“Sounds like a good plan,” Parker said, shoveling loads of eggs into his mouth. “I better get going, the foreman won’t be happy if I’m late.” He ate his last bite, kissed his mother on the cheek, and headed for the market square.
The morning fog was thick, and the cobblestones were slick with dew. Few people were out that early in the quarter—not many had any reason to be. He exchanged “good mornings” with those he knew better and nodded at some familiar faces.
Arcadia had grown exponentially over the past few years. People were flooding into the city from the corners of Irth, looking for a fresh life and a new hope.
Outside the walls, a certain narrative about his home was spun for foreigners. People were told that Arcadia, as the heart of Irth, had good houses on every corner and that jobs were abundant for anyone willing to work.
Parker had no idea how this lie was spun or why. But he did know that when people came to the city they would eventually end up realizing the ugly truth of the place. Many of them landed on Queen’s Boulevard and doing the same work he did—hustling on the streets for whatever sustenance they could find.
This was why he was out earlier and earlier.
It was also why the con had to change. Every few weeks he would devise a new plan. His work was always evolving. It had to be. And that morning, he was about to kick a new plan into play.
“Morning, Mac,” Parker said as he pushed through the growing crowd on the South end of the Market Square.
A burly man with a face only a mother could stand, sat on an empty mead barrel chewing on the stump of a cigar that looked older than Parker himself.
“Hey, kid. What’s happening?” the man asked as he sorted through a handful of coins, glancing up occasionally to watch the crowd gather for the first fight of the day.
Mac ran the Pit—a roped off little corner of the Market that was reserved for daily boxing and mixed-methods fights. It provided entertainment for the lower classes and a chance to cash in through the official bets that Mac facilitated.
He was a brilliant businessman. The odds were perfectly calculated and earnings acutely tracked. All bets were supposed to flow through him. He would collect a fee from each transaction, a portion of which would go to the fighters.
Both the victor and the man that left in a bloody pulp on the dusty ground would get their cut, which everyone knew was less than Mac’s. Side bets weren’t allowed, although everyone knew they happened.
“I want in today,” Parker said.
“On the first fight? You know I’ll take anyone’s money, kid, but no one’s stepped up to fight Hank. His reputation has preceded him. After what he did to Grant last week, I can’t find anyone to go toe-to-toe with him.”
Parker looked around before answering him, “Not for a bet, Mac. I want in the ring. I want to fight Hank.”
Mac stopped counting his coins and looked up confused for a moment then laughed. Parker was tall for his age, his frame was lean and muscular, but fully dressed he looked like a beanpole. “Be serious, kid. You can’t go in there. You look like you couldn’t give a stray dog a run for its money.”
If you only knew, Parker thought.
Undeterred, Parker continued his pitch, “That’s exactly why I’m the perfect man for the job. You’ll be able to set the odds at whatever you want, and you’ll still draw plenty of action.” He tried a different tact, “People would love to see Hank break me in half.”
Mac shook his head and put up a hand, shaking it. “No way. If word spreads that I’m putting kids in the ring, the Capitol’ll shut me down faster than you can say Queen Bitch.”
Parker thought about saying ‘Queen Bitch’ but decided snark wasn’t a good choice right now. “I turned eighteen last month, Mac. I’m legal now. There’s no legal problem for you.”
Mac chortled. “Just a number, kid. That argument won’t fly. Not with the Governor, nor with the people.” He pointed to himself. “I’m a businessman first and foremost, Parker. I can’t have my customers turning away because I let you get mauled. It’d be bad for business.”
Parker leaned forward on the table. “What’s bad for business, Mac, is not having fights for people to bet on.” He argued, “Come on. Give me a shot. If shit goes sideways, I’ll call it.”
Mac scratched his graying beard a few moments, considering before he nodded. “OK, kid. One shot. But don’t get your ass handed to you. You’re dear, old dad would never forgive me.”
The mention of his father only fueled Parker’s appetite for the ring. His old man had gone off to strike it rich on a new mining operation deep in the Heights.
It was a fool’s errand.
If his dad had told the truth about what he was doing, then odds were good he had been buried in a landslide or crushed to death by a mountain troll or whatever creatures lived beyond the walls of Arcadia.
But Parker suspected that his father was more coward than fool. He probably used the new mine as an excuse to get out of the city and away from his family. Either way, he was never coming back.
His mother, of course, believed that his father would return one day, with a cart full of diamonds and enough money to take them out of the slums. But deep down, Parker assumed that the guy found his only way out of Queen Bitch Boulevard—and the rest of them were left to fend for themselves.
“Thanks, Mac. I won’t let you down.”
****
Ezekiel sat at the city gate, resting his legs. Traffic was picking up and a long line had formed of people waiting to make their way into Arcadia. He watched in amazement as the travelers took turns through the large gate.
A pair of Capitol guards lounged on either side of the roadway. Their work of inspection was done with a certain level of casualness if done at all. Most of those entering were farmers who made up the region immediately outside the city. The land surrounding Arcadia was lush, and agriculture thrived for miles beyond the walls. It was part of what made Arcadia great, why it was founded here to begin with.
The city had access to enough fresh produce and meat to let its population grow, and due to the taxes levied by the Capitol, farmers had to sell within Arcadia’s markets if their land was within ten thousand paces of the gate.
After a mile of farmer carts rolled through, a half-dozen mystics with their gentle faces and perfect robes ambled into the city.
The guards stood back, giving them more room than was necessary. The mystery surrounding these monastic people preceded them, and most Arcadians offered a wide berth. Tales flowed like Mule Head Mead concerning the abilities and power of the mystics, though no one in town had ever seen their powers manifest.
Adrien had forbidden it within the city limits. Nevertheless, it seemed as if this small group of men and women still found it worthwhile to make the long trek down from their mountain temple. They brewed a potent drink up in the mountains and were happy to sell it in Arcadia.
