Gabriel's City

by Laylah Hunter

  Colin feels numb and feverish at the same time. He finds himself nursing a vain hope that he’s dreaming as he follows the boy inside to retrieve the second body. This is the one with his throat slit, so there’s much more blood, and the man’s head lolls back too far when they pick him up to carry him out. It’s too vivid. This isn’t a dream.

  “All . . . all four of them are dead, aren’t they?” Colin asks as they drop the second body beside the first. “I mean, even the one I . . . the next one.” He hadn’t meant to kill anyone, never wanted to—he hadn’t realized how much harder the cudgel would strike than the light fencing rapiers he’s used before.

  The boy gives him a pitying look. “Don’t know your own strength, do you? You were very good, Drake.”

  Colin tries to restrain his dismay, because he can’t imagine it would go well for him if he insulted this boy. “Thank you,” he says as they head back inside.

  The boy holds the door for him, incongruously polite again. “You’re good luck, aren’t you?”

  “For you, maybe.” Colin can feel panicked laughter trapped in his chest, threatening to bubble up and spill from his mouth. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself down.

  “For me,” the boy agrees. “Very good luck.” They pick up the third body, and Colin tries to stop thinking about the fact that he killed this one. He remembers the wet crunching sound it made, the way he felt the shock all the way up his arm. Blood drips on the boy’s boots.

  “Why were they after you?” Colin asks to distract himself. Maybe this will feel less like a nightmare and more like an adventure if there’s some kind of grand story behind it all.

  The boy shrugs awkwardly as they carry the body out the door. “Their master hired me to retrieve something he’d lost. It . . .” He pauses as though he’s thinking about the answer. “It got broken in the scuffle.” He shakes his head. “The whole thing would have gone so much better if she hadn’t started screaming.”

  On the other hand, perhaps Colin would be better off not knowing. He could do without more adventures like this. He doesn’t ask any more questions as they dump the third body with the others and go back for the last. At least it’s almost over.

  The boy kneels beside the last body and reaches for the knife stuck between the dead man’s ribs. He tugs at it, rocking it back and forth to make it come free, and more blood wells up, thick and dark, around the blade. Colin has to turn away.

  “Notched it.” The boy sounds petulant. “Well. Maybe they’ll have enough coin to pay the blacksmith, mm?”

  Daring as it sounds in ballads about highwaymen, Colin finds he doesn’t have any desire to go loot bodies. Everyone says disrespect to the dead causes the green rot. Just this much—he picks up the last man’s feet—brings him closer to death than he’d have liked.

  “We’re going now,” the boy calls as he backs out the door, the last body swaying between them. “Sorry for the trouble.”

  There’s no answer from the innkeeper. Colin isn’t surprised.

  “Right,” Colin says when they get outside, “I— Thank you for saving me back there. I’m very grateful. So, ah. Have a good night, and Fates keep you.” He’ll have to find someplace else to go. There must still be other taverns with rooms free.

  The boy looks surprised. “You can’t go yet. Don’t you want to see what we got?”

  For an instant Colin pictures himself paying Barron off in coin looted from corpses, but the idea makes his stomach lurch. “You—you can have it,” he says as the boy kneels to paw through the dead men’s clothes. It’s too dark to see anything in detail, but he seems to be working mostly by feel, anyway. “I’m fine.”

  “Very noble of you.” The boy shakes his head. “But silly.” He stuffs something in his pocket and moves on to the next body. “I’m taking the first share, because three of them were mine. But you helped. Here.” He stands up, reaching out to offer something to Colin. “You can have this. It’d suit you. Then,” he adds, in a patient tone that suggests he’s trying to explain something important and Colin is slow to understand, “the dogs get the next pick, and in the morning the captain gets whatever’s left.”

  “The— You mean the captain of the guard?” Colin tries to imagine telling Captain Westfall, possibly over the fowl course, that in the natural order of things, he gets fourth pick of a murder’s spoils, after the killer, his accomplice, and the city’s stray dogs. The idea is so appalling that Colin would laugh if he dared.

  “Nastiest dog in the city,” the boy says. “He runs all the others off.” There’s just enough light in the alley to make his grin look utterly ghoulish. “Now go on, take this. You’re going to need it.”

  That doesn’t sound good at all, but still Colin reaches out to accept whatever he’s . . . earned here. His share is heavy and cold, and it takes him a moment to figure out what it is: a single piece of metal, four rings forged together in a row and a bar laid over one side. Brass knuckles, he realizes, when he discovers how easily the rings fit his fingers. The damage it would do, to punch someone with these . . . He shudders. “I’m going to need this?”

  “Yes.” The boy finishes with the last body and dusts off his hands. “We’re going to see Morgan, and ask him why he thought this—” he kicks the dead man in the ribs “—was a good way to tell me he had a problem.”

  “What?” Colin steps back nervously. He’s already gotten in enough trouble tonight; he has no desire to go haring off after someone who hires thugs and murderers to take care of his business. “No. Not me. Maybe you’re going to see Morgan, but I don’t want anything to do with him.”

  The boy stares at him as if he’s touched. “One of his men tried to kill you. You can’t just let him get away with that.”

  “I—I trust you to take care of it,” Colin improvises. “In fact I’d like to hire you to take care of it for me. I’m sure you’re capable.”

  “You flatter me, but I don’t want your silver. You’re my luck tonight. You have to come with me.”

  It must be true, Colin thinks, that the Fates laugh hardest when men’s own vices trip them. How many times has he used that very excuse to drag Danny all over town? “My luck’s gone from bad to worse tonight. It won’t do you any good to have me along.”

  “I want you to come with me, Drake,” the boy says, and the petulance in his tone would be laughable if they weren’t having this argument over the bodies of men he’s killed. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  That last sounds like a threat, and while the boy glares like a child being refused extra dessert, he’s also running his fingers over the hilt of his knife. Colin takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily. “I’m not going to kill anyone.” He never wanted to in the first place and certainly not more than once. “And stop calling me Drake. I have a name.”

  The boy smiles, like they’re sharing a secret. “Of course you do. Even I have a name, and you’re a much finer creature than I am. This way.”

  They head further into the city instead of back toward the harbor, taking cramped little streets and turning at almost every corner until they come out on Market near the second bridge. The boy starts across the bridge without a second of hesitation, and Colin’s stomach lurches in a way that shouldn’t be so much like the thrill of rolling high-stakes dice. Right by the river, the south bank is still respectable enough, but beyond that, it grows wild quickly. In the maze of streets there, the houses are still scarred by the last big fire in the city, though that’s ten years past.

  “Don’t hang back,” the boy says in a low murmur that Colin would swear sounds excited. “Plenty of nasty things prowl around the city this late.”

  “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” No more than one in every four street lamps is lit, wherever they are now. This clearly used to be a nice part of town, years ago—the houses are big enough, some of them even fenced in front, but they aren’t all whole anymore.

  “Of course. All the hunters know each other’s names.”


  That’s not reassuring in the least, and Colin nearly says so. He can see his breath, thin plumes like smoke, when they pass under the lit lamps, or when the moon peers out from behind the clouds.

  “Not that Morgan’s a hunter himself,” the boy adds. “Not anymore. He’s found all the treasure he knows what to do with, like—mm, do you know the story of the king of the wolves?”

  “No,” Colin says slowly. “I don’t think I do.”

  “Deirdre told it to me when I was small,” the boy says, as though that explains everything. “The king of the wolves is huge and shaggy, tall as a house and nearly as broad. He takes human girls as brides, sends his pack out hunting for them at midwinter, and that’s why they don’t let northlands girls go anywhere alone in the coldest part of the year. Because the dire wolves will come and carry them off to the cavern where their king is waiting.” He brightens, entirely too enthusiastic about this whole business. “Anyway, he’s wronged us now, so we’re going to make him pay.”

  Colin thinks only exhaustion is saving him from real terror. His head aches and his limbs feel heavy, and they’re stopping now in front of one of the houses, one whose fence is in good condition and whose grounds look well kept.

  “Look,” he tries one more time, “I’m not going to be any help to you in there. I’m only going to slow you down.”

  The boy pats his arm reassuringly. “You won’t slow me down. I’ll do all the hard parts.”

  He turns and takes hold of the front gate, boosting himself up with a hiss of effort, his boots wedged in the narrow spaces between the iron bars. If Colin wanted to run, now would be the time, wouldn’t it? But he thinks of how fast the boy lunged after the thugs in that fight, thinks of how many knives the boy has, and doesn’t want to risk it.

  The gate is cold under his hands, and wet with dew. Colin climbs over it carefully, trying not to let his coat snag. He wonders if the reason the boy wears only a heavy vest, instead of a proper coat, is to avoid that problem.

  On the far side of the gate is a path up to the door, the slate flagstones cracked, weeds sprouting between them. The house is dark inside—it’s late for anyone to keep the lamps lit, by now—but it looks decent, for something this far south. The paint is fresh, not yet peeling in Casmile’s humid air, and the balcony supports are sturdy, unbowed.

  “Up here,” the boy says, standing on the porch railing and reaching up for the balcony over his head.

  This is ridiculous, Colin thinks. He takes his coat off and drapes it over the railing—the sleeves were pulling under his arms when he scaled the fence, and tearing out the seams wouldn’t do anything to make this excursion better. The night’s chill prickles down his back as he reaches up.

  And it may be ridiculous, but it’s also real. The muscles in his arms and chest ache with the effort of climbing over the second-story railing. His heart thuds hard in his chest. The boy is waiting for him, watching.

  “Why come this way?” Colin asks softly. “You can kill a man in a heartbeat, but you can’t break in the front door?”

  The boy grins. “We’re sure to run into the dogs if we go that way.” Colin can’t tell if he means real dogs or more hired thugs. Do criminal overlords hire house guards the way respectable families do? The boy turns away, knife in hand as he kneels to attend to the latch on the balcony doors.

  Colin licks his lips. “Are we— Are you going to kill him?”

  “No,” the boy says, and Colin relaxes, a breath too soon. “Not unless he’s difficult. I’d rather just hurt him. Then he can tell people it was me.” He gets the door unlatched before Colin can protest, and then he’s slipping into the dark inside.

  This is a terrible idea. If Colin had any sense, he’d run. He’d leave this mad boy killer here and flee, walk all the way home if he had to, and deal with his troubles like a civilized person tomorrow. He’d forget all about this night, what he’s seen, what he’s already done. And nothing like this would ever happen to him again.

  He follows the boy inside.

  The hallway’s even darker than the street, cramped and narrow. Colin can just make out the boy at the end of it, where dim light comes in the window to silhouette him. The doors along either side of the hall are open, like they’ve already been tried and abandoned, and now the boy is standing at the last one, head cocked as he waits for Colin.

  It’s too late to back down, isn’t it? Colin walks down the hallway as quietly as he can, and the boy eases the door open. There’s light inside, a faint red glow from the fireplace, where the coals have been carefully banked against the draft. Morgan seems to be still asleep in the big bed in the middle of the room, so Colin takes a moment to glance around. It looks more comfortable than he would have expected from the ringleader of a criminal gang—not as nice as his own room, of course, but nicer than most of the inns he’s seen. The furnishings are solid, and the curtains heavy enough to block the cold air from outside. Morgan himself is perhaps Colin’s father’s age, his temples gray and his cheeks just starting to soften to heavy jowls. The bed’s big enough for two easily, and there are a few pieces of women’s jewelry on the nightstand, but no sign that Morgan’s had company tonight.

  The boy shoves a chair under the doorknob, and the loud scrape wakes Morgan. He sits up abruptly, shoving back the blankets. “You,” he says. “You should be—”

  “Dead?” the boy interrupts in a chilly, too-bright tone. “Don’t be silly.” He has knives in his hands before Morgan can make it more than a step. “You’ve forgotten who she really favors, haven’t you? You can’t kill me.”

  “Bullshit.” Morgan looks about half-ready to fight the boy, knives or no, so Colin takes a step closer. The brass knuckles are heavy and cold against his hand. He might be in over his head, but he’s not about to fold now—they’ve made this gamble together. “Those superstitions might frighten children, but don’t try that line with me,” Morgan says. “Everyone dies.”

  The boy laughs. “Like your boys did earlier?” He brings up one of his knives to point at Morgan’s face. “Sit down. Let’s talk about that.”

  “You son of a whore. I have nothing to say to you.” But the boy doesn’t back down, and Morgan clearly knows he wouldn’t hesitate to use the knives. Morgan takes a step, and then another, and he winds up backed into the chair beside his desk.

  “Good,” the boy says. “Now tie him down, Drake.”

  This time Colin doesn’t mind the name so much—it’s better if someone like Morgan doesn’t know who he is, right? “Tie him down with what?”

  “Tch, you were clever enough in the fight,” the boy says without taking his eyes off Morgan. “Don’t tell me you only know one trick.”

  Colin bristles. He saved this boy’s life earlier tonight, and he’s let himself be dragged along for luck; already he’s done more than he needed to. He rummages in Morgan’s chest of drawers, finds a stash of bright silken cravats that look near as eye-catching as some of Sebastian’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the boy smiling as he uses them to bind Morgan’s arms to the chair.

  “You’ll regret this, the both of you,” Morgan growls. “I’ll make you curse the day the whores who whelped you ever spread—”

  Colin hits him in the mouth, and his head snaps back. An instant later Colin freezes, alarmed by his own thoughtless daring.

  “Now, Drake,” the boy says mildly. He sounds like a tutor scolding a child too restless for lessons. “You’re getting impatient. Talking first. Then we hurt him.”

  “He should leave my mother out of it,” Colin mutters. Morgan smirks, and Colin steps back before he’ll be tempted to throw another punch. This isn’t his fight.

  The boy perches on Morgan’s desk, his muddy boots crumpling the blank paper laid out there, and the smile slides off his face. “Why’d you send your dogs for me, Morgan?” It might be the first time Colin’s heard him sound completely serious. “Why would you do that? I got your job done for you.”

  “You didn’t.” T
here’s blood at the corner of Morgan’s mouth. “She’s dead because of you.”

  “She’s dead because of the man who slit her throat, and that wasn’t me. Or maybe she’s dead because her man decided to play tough and hire me to go looking for her, instead of taking the safe route and paying her ransom. Don’t see how that’s my fault.” The boy hops down off the desk, goes over to crouch by the fire and poke at the coals with his knife. The flames flicker back to life, giving enough light for Colin to see Morgan break out in a sweat.

  “You said you could do the job,” Morgan rasps. “And you let her die.”

  The boy looks up, though he doesn’t take the blade out of the fire. “What was it you said? Everyone dies. Some of them even do it without my help.” It’s like going to the penny theaters, Colin thinks. Except the knives are sharp and the blood is real. “You shouldn’t have asked me to do it if you wanted her back more than you wanted them dead.”

  “I wanted both.” Morgan’s voice is still steady—he bluffs well—but a trickle of sweat runs down his temple all the same.

  “Greedy.” The boy shakes his head. “And then you sent your dogs after me. I probably can’t go back to that tavern now, and I liked that one.”

  Morgan snorts. “Your tavern can rot, you mad bastard. You’ve cost me something much harder to replace than a pint of beer.”

  “Wormwood,” the boy corrects him. He turns his knife, examining the blackening blade. Colin imagines that hot steel touching flesh and feels queasy. At home they don’t even brand the slaves; his father has always said it’s unnecessary and barbaric.

  “The big problem here,” the boy goes on, the firelight playing across his face, “is that you still think you’re in control, don’t you? You’ve had too many lap dogs for too many years. The ones from earlier, that girl, the other girls you used to have. None of them so much as bare their teeth, do they? So you’ve gone soft.”