Chapter Text
“Thank you for getting here on time. Please state your name for the record.”
He’d barely settled into his chair before the question was asked. Bemused, his eye flicked up to the one speaking.
The examiners sat at a long desk at the front of the room, where his lonely chair was facing. Dull concrete walls were lit only by sunbeams from the barred windows rather than the redstone lights that had begun to wire the rest of the prison. This room, this formality preceding freedom, was apparently undeserving of electricity. It smelled of damp.
He shifted in his seat like he was being scrutinized, and adjusted his eyepatch. “Scott Smajor.”
From the start, Scott looked rather unusual by the expected standard for a prisoner, with his cyan hair and pointed elven ears. He could’ve passed as a touring socialite from a far-off nation, as many of the elves on the coast were. The patch over his left eye was the only thing that fit in.
“Thank you, Mr. Smajor. The purpose of this questionnaire is to determine if you are likely to break the law again upon your release. After your release, you’ll be under a steady surveillance by an officer of the Hermia sheriffalty who will check in with you multiple times a week and make a judgment of your character. Do you understand?”
Scott nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“One of the rules of parole is that you’re prohibited from associating with those who have a criminal record. As I understand, this is your first conviction, but you have been implicated in other crimes in the past… It doesn’t seem like a stretch to say you have certain criminal connections. If you’re released, would you be likely to fall back on those connections? Fall back on old habits?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I think I’ve pretty well burned all my bridges in that department.”
“Can you tell us what you do plan to do upon your release?”
Scott thought about the truth.
A smile tugged at his lips.
And he did exactly what he set out to do: he lied.
“Sir,” he began. “It was a grave mistake that ended me up in here. It has left me ashamed, left me abandoned by my friends and family. I only want to repair whatever is left. Settle down and live a normal life. Get a job, go back to church, find some kind of normalcy again. I’ve been thinking of nothing else for three years.”
The rest of the questions came easily, and he checked off step number one in his head.
Not long after, Scott was out of his prison scrubs and into a set of real clothes. His own clothes, in fact, the same ones he’d been wearing three years ago when he was locked up. Trousers, shirt, and waistcoat of purple and blue, patterned with little gold stars. They were only slightly ill-fitting, and infinitely better than what he’d had. He felt like himself again already.
Not long after, Scott was walking down the hall accompanied by guards, past cell blocks and visitation rooms, to the entrance of the prison. He didn’t even waste energy on blowing a kiss goodbye to his drab and claustrophobic cell, as he was certain he wouldn’t miss it.
Two guards on either side of the entrance opened the heavyset doors for him.
For the first time in three years, Scott breathed real fresh air.
The mid-morning sun shone bright in a cloudless sky, and the stench of the tide hung heavy in the chilled air of fading winter. The doors shut behind Scott with a clang. He squinted in the daylight and shaded his eye with his hand. Change of plans, the first thing he would do once he was free was get a new hat.
The prison was on a rocky island a few miles off the coast of the city-state of Hermia. The prisoners held on the island weren’t capital offenders by any means, but the isolation was an effective prevention for escape.
Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he walked away. No guards breathed down his neck. The ones posted at the barbed wire fence around the prison barely regarded him, they just opened the gate for him to pass through. A well-trodden path led down from the gate to the island shore, where the docks were.
They hardly ever kept boats docked at the island to prevent any escape attempts, so the only time boats appeared was to drop off new prisoners, or to pick up the newly freed. They were all small and rickety and several decades out of date.
A single small steamboat was docked at the pier, with several sailors and officers tending to it.
More importantly, one particular man stood on the edge of the boat. He wore the blue and brown uniform of a sheriffalty officer, Hermia’s chief law enforcement, with a star-shaped badge shining on his chest.
“Jimmy!” Scott called out and continued leisurely to the boat.
Jimmy watched Scott with a suspicious eye from the edge of the boat. He had grown out his beard since Scott saw him last, an attack on his perpetual baby face that had gotten him mistaken for a trainee more than once. His honey-blonde hair and brown eyes had always made him look soft, and it wasn't hard to tell that he resented it.
Scott greeted him with a smile. "Jimmy, I was starting to think you didn’t miss me after you stopped visiting, but you even offered to be my parole officer. You’re too sweet."
Jimmy huffed. His arms were crossed. “That’s Sheriff Solidarity to you, and I didn’t volunteer, they assigned me. They really shouldn’t have.”
“How’s the promotion been?”
“Fantastic, actually, and I’m not going to let you ruin it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Jimmy’s eyes, although disapproving, lingered on Scott’s face. “The eyepatch doesn’t look too bad.”
“I’m hoping it won’t be a permanent look,” Scott responded, a bit too snidely.
He stepped onto the boat and walked with Jimmy up the deck, which was rusty and pooling with dirty saltwater. Jimmy nodded at the other officers stationed on the ship and the dock, and signaled to the captain of the ship.
Though he could see the mainland from where he stood, Scott struggled to judge how far it was, only partially because he was down one eye. The city skyline of Hermia drew a jagged silhouette over blue sky and smokestacks. Everything about it clambered for attention; buildings crowded the edge of every canal and harbor, pushing and shoving one another, poking their heads over the top to get the first look at the incoming ships.
Beneath Scott’s feet, the boat began to shift.
“You only want to settle down and live a normal life?” Jimmy then said, narrowing his eyes. “Seriously?”
Scott shrugged. “I rehearsed that speech for three years, don’t tell me it didn’t sound convincing.”
He frowned. "You and I both know you’re a con artist—"
"Excuse you, I help those in need."
"A thief—”
"I collect the rare and unusual."
"A liar—"
"I tell the truth quite often, actually."
He didn’t look convinced. “I’m not messing around, Scott. You might’ve fooled them, but you can’t fool me. I need you to be on your best behavior, ‘cause it’s not just your head on the chopping block if you step out of line, and I’ve been having a really good year in the sheriffalty.”
"Don’t worry about it.” Scott gave a meaningful look up and down at Jimmy. "I can’t resist a man in uniform, I'll always be on my best behavior for you."
Jimmy's face flushed pink, though he continued on with a scowl. "Don't play mind games with me. You better not be scheming anything.”
“Why would I be scheming?”
“Because you always are.”
“If I were scheming, Sheriff, wouldn’t I have escaped years ago?” Scott pointed out. “I served my full sentence like a good citizen.”
“It’s a step in some right direction,” Jimmy grumbled, and they continued up the deck.
Once Scott reached the bow of the boat, he leaned on the rail, gazing at the horizon. Jimmy stood behind him in an impatient manner. He fussed with his uniform, rubbing some invisible blemish off his badge.
In the coded dialect of gang members and criminals in the Hermia underground, there was a term that referred to an officer of the law with whom one was familiar and somewhat amicable. Perhaps because of a shared past, or because of the officer’s willingness to turn a blind eye to crime, or in Scott and Jimmy’s case, repeated encounters of arrest. The term was, funnily, an “in-law.” Jimmy was unfamiliar with such dialects and would likely despise the term, but it was what described their relationship best.
Already, Scott could feel Jimmy’s eyes on the back of his head. A steady surveillance that the hearing had promised. That wouldn’t last long.
“Listen to me, alright?” Jimmy was saying, pulling Scott back into their conversation.
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to promise me that you’ll stay out of trouble. I really don’t care what you do after the parole is over, but right now, I just want to keep my job. I’d prefer if I never had to arrest you again, but I’ll take what I can get. The courts aren’t gonna be kinder on a second conviction. For once, just follow the law, stay out of trouble, and act like what you said in the hearing was all true. Promise me you’ll do that? Please?”
But Scott’s focus wasn’t on what Jimmy was saying. Instead, it was on Jimmy’s gloved hand. He was holding a red silk pouch, where it had been tucked under his arm. It was out of place from the rest of his sheriff’s getup.
“What’s that?” Scott glanced at it pointedly.
Jimmy’s fist tightened around the pouch. “You can’t have it ‘til you promise.”
So it was for him. Scott almost laughed. As if he couldn’t just steal it anyway. “Fine, I promise. Happy?”
Although Jimmy rolled his eyes, he also seemed to relax, if only slightly. “I am.”
He dropped the little red pouch into Scott’s waiting hand. Scott tested the weight, and a smile spread across his face.
“You really are too sweet, Jimmy,” Scott said.
“Just don’t forget what I said,” he muttered.
With that, Jimmy turned to leave, heavy leather boots slapping against the shipdeck. Probably retreating inside so he wouldn’t get sprayed by the tide. Scott didn’t watch him go.
Once it was clear no one was breathing down his neck and the boat peeled away from the pier, Scott loosened the pouch Jimmy gave him. He emptied the contents, feeling a cool weight fall into his hand.
He grinned.
Just as he thought, it was a spherical yellow jewel, sparkling like a star in his palm.
He might’ve gotten back his clothes from when he was locked up, but they wouldn’t dare give him back this. All magic items were considered contraband. But it seemed Jimmy had done him a favor and picked it up out of storage.
Scott tore off his eyepatch and unceremoniously tossed it aside.
Instantly, he felt the strange sensation of cold air against his empty eye socket. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to it, despite the years of the eye being gone.
He tipped his head back and held his eyelid open with one hand.
With the other hand, he pressed the jewel orb into the socket.
Scott blinked a few times, letting his vision focus, and he already felt the difference as his sight widened. A curious humming echoed from somewhere deep in his skull, and the endless coast of the city before him was even brighter than usual.
The rocking waves felt like a red carpet rolled out just for him.
— ☼ —
Twelve resounding tolls rang out from a clock tower over Hermia. Most people wouldn’t hear the midnight bells over the city’s nighttime noise. Music was seeping through the walls of bars, filled with conversation, laughter, and dancing. People from all walks of life were descending upon every gambling parlor, cabaret, and speakeasy in the city, toasting drinks brewed with blaze powder in collective disregard of Hermia’s prohibition laws. Even the sheriffalty officers patrolling the streets whistled and laughed to one another, unaware—or perhaps indifferent—to the city’s illicit nightlife.
But Cleo was having an unusually quiet night.
The academic district was always quiet. Its residents were mostly professors and scholars. Half of the students at the university would be fast asleep, and the other half had slipped away to the inner city for a drink and dance at the closest bar.
The air was cold and still. Winter was sluggishly turning to spring, not that the change of seasons was very noticeable in Hermia. It was too southern and too coastal to receive any significant snow– just cold, sleety rain that fogged up the windows and slicked the streets.
Cleo’s chin was propped up in her hand over the table, and she watched out of the oversized windows of the breakfast house.
She hadn’t turned on the lights inside to avoid suspicion. Moonlight painted the warm colors of the breakfast house a silvery blue, over each table and chair and booth. Assuming this all went smoothly, whoever opened the cafe—the Birch Cottage, by name—the next morning would never know anyone had been there.
“I still don’t think meeting him’s a good idea,” said Bdubs from somewhere behind her.
He was pacing the floor, more apprehensive than usual. Probably because he was still awake at midnight. Interrupting his sleep schedule was the simplest way to dampen his mood. His green coat was discarded over the back of another chair as he wandered the empty space.
“I don’t care how many times you say it, we’re not going back,” Cleo replied. “He agreed to meet tonight, we’re not leaving ‘til he shows.”
“It’s the busiest night of the week and we’ve got better things to be doing.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, her voice slightly more reassuring. She fiddled with the lapel of her midnight blue suit coat, running a nail along each pinstripe. “This will be good for us, and good for the Crastle. It’s better than avoiding it.”
Bdubs huffed, unconvinced. “Depends on if we do this my way or your way.”
His way meant flattery and appeasement; nicknamed “molasses” in the underground dialect for its use as a cheap sweetener. Cleo’s way meant plain intimidation.
They returned to silence, with only the ticking of Bdubs’ pocketwatch as noise between them.
A few minutes before the half-hour, when Cleo might’ve begun to give up, she saw him.
Through the cafe window and across the street, he rounded the corner with a second figure in tow. He was neatly dressed in black and red; nice enough clothes to be walking around the academic district looking like he belonged, but not as formal as an aristocrat’s tailcoat and bowtie. He probably came straight from Dogwarts, the bar he owned. His hat was pulled low over his face, his canine ears bowed under the brim.
Cleo was quick to point him out. “Ren’s here.”
“Who’s his second?”
She strained to see, and caught a glimpse of the man on Ren’s other side. Unlike his boss he was distinctly human, blonde, stocky, and too-casual in his gait. “Martyn.”
Bdubs visibly wilted. He’d been hoping for Etho. Cleo had hoped so too, but not for the same reasons. Etho wasn’t a good man to bring along for a negotiation. He was one of Ren’s spies, a sharpshooter who also dabbled in redstone and demolition. He was dangerous in all aspects except, perhaps, his words. That was what Martyn was for, who was too bold and naturally skeptical of everything. Cleo would’ve had a better chance of things going her way if he hadn’t been the first pick.
As for her own history with Martyn… well, some things were better not reminiscing on.
Ren and Martyn crossed the street to the cafe, and Bdubs rushed to get the door for them.
“Oh, thank you!” Ren said as the door swung open at his approach, removing his hat. He had an excitable, prim sort of manner to him, like he was always doing an impression of an upper class socialite. “Cleo! What a pleasure to see you, you look lovely.”
Cleo stood upon his entry– a sign of respect, or something close to it. “I do, thank you. It’s good to see that you made it.”
They made idle conversation of the weather. This was always the strangest part of negotiations, the bizarre politeness. Cleo and Ren were leaders of their respective, opposing gangs: the Crastle and the Red Shields. Certainly, they looked the part of being intimidating, with their dark suits and preceding reputations. But an unknowing person could’ve easily mistaken their civility as friendliness. It was not.
Martyn followed closely behind his boss. He tossed his coat and cap on a table, then worked on rolling up his sleeves proudly past the tattoo on his right arm: a shield with a wolf’s head and crown on it. It was the symbol of alignment to the Red Shields, like the Crastle’s chess rook tattoo that Cleo and Bdubs both bore. Martyn’s absent coat also revealed the handle of a pistol sticking out of a holster at his hip.
Though her jaw set in unease, Cleo couldn't be too insulted that they came armed. The gun hidden under her own coat marked her a hypocrite.
Martyn noticed Cleo’s gaze on him, and his eyes narrowed with barely noticeable amusement. She sent back a withering glare.
“This place is charming,” Martyn said, assessing the breakfast house. “You come here often?”
“No,” Cleo replied flatly. She’d picked the Birch Cottage specifically because it was neutral, with no connection to the Crastle or the Red Shields. Impulse had been the one to recommend it.
Martyn frowned, not frightened, just disgruntled by her coldness.
His audacity might’ve impressed her if it wasn’t so irritating. Cleo knew she scared people. The undead were rare all across the realm, and Hermia was no exception. The stitched up scars running down her face, the contrast of her fiery orange hair against the ghastly green-grey of her skin, with the bonus of her naturally imposing height and build was enough to frighten most people out of her way. That was another reason she wished Ren had brought Etho– he always seemed a bit terrified of her.
Unfortunately, fear didn’t change the fact that Ren was still the kingpin of the underground, and he still had a monopoly on lapis lazuli.
“Well,” said Ren, clasping his hands together. “You said you wanted to talk business?”
“I did,” Cleo agreed. The two of them settled into opposing chairs around one of the breakfast tables. Their seconds lurked behind them– Bdubs sitting at a table to Cleo’s back, and Martyn leaning against a wall at Ren’s right. “Brewing has been going good, but I’m more in the market for some enchantment.”
One of Ren’s canine ears perked up with interest.
Martyn cleared his throat. “The auctions, boss.”
Ren looked confused for a moment, then jolted, as if he was realizing this for the very first time. “Yes! Of course! Yes, Cleo, you’re always welcome to attend one of our auctions.”
She would’ve rather died a second time than attend one of Ren’s auctions of enchanted gear. The thought of desperately bidding to get her hands on some sliver of magic made her cringe. She’d never stop resenting how Ren had somehow managed his monopoly, even with the stricter bans on enchanting.
She used to have a lapis supplier before he got himself thrown in jail. Now she had to do this.
“I actually had something else in mind,” she said. “I want to make a deal for a share of your lapis supply. Not the enchantments.”
“The supply?” Ren echoed, pinning his ears back. “No offense, but why would I do that?”
A fair question. Cleo and Bdubs exchanged a glance, before she tried to present the deal.
The Crastle had no stake in Hermia’s trade of lapis, but they did have plenty of blaze powder. Brewing had become the gang’s specialty. Some potions or ingredients were diluted and added as a component to alcoholic drinks, which were sold on the menu at the Crastle speakeasy. Others bought potions in their concentrated form, whether for their addictive effects or for some other agenda. Slowness made great sleeping draughts, night vision was a better stimulant than caffeine, regeneration eased pain.
So, Cleo offered a siphon of blaze powder, access to brewers who knew what they were doing, and access to potions of the more unsavory variety. Poison, harming, weakness– the kind that were much harder to come by. Bdubs encouraged each option presented, Martyn ruthlessly haggled, and Ren hummed and frowned at random intervals to indicate his dissatisfaction.
Martyn leaned down to whisper something into Ren’s ear, who nodded. His face betrayed no emotion. Cleo and Bdubs exchanged another sidelong glance, this time more concerned.
“Very well, Cleo,” Ren said, clearing his throat. “Allow me to present my own deal. You shall have the lapis you ask for, in exchange for half of the Crastle.”
“Half of… the building?”
“Half of the profits.”
Cleo almost laughed from the absurdity. “You expect us to give up our livelihood?”
He arched his brow. “Just as you seem to think we’ll give up ours!”
“Ren," she began, smiling in a way that felt far more like a snarl. The faux politeness of rival gangs was fading fast. "I'm not entirely sure if you realize this, but you do not own the trade of lapis. I've been really nice to you these past few years, stayed out of your way as much as I could, but I can make that change. You might think you're in some kind of impenetrable fortress, but…" Her voice lowered to a hiss. "There's always cracks in the walls. And I know where to find them."
Ren held his chin up high, but couldn't hide the brief flicker of fear in his eyes. Even the Red King of the underground could have his arm twisted a bit too hard.
Despite Cleo’s reliance on her own intimidation, she didn’t think of herself as a fighter in the physical sense. She didn’t need violence to win a negotiation, she just needed the other person to think she’d use it. Normally that worked, but a rare few people outside of her gang could call her bluff.
Behind Ren, Martyn pushed briskly off the wall. "Whoa, whoa, is that a threat?”
Already, his hand was drifting to the pistol at his hip. Cleo fought the reflex to reach for her own. Gods, she wished Ren had brought Etho.
At the same time, Bdubs got up hurriedly from his chair and put a hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “No! Not threatening!” he denied. “They just mean… they mean they’re concerned. And we can help—we’d love to help, actually—but we need something in it for us. To keep us all honest.”
Before he could go on, Martyn laughed, condescending in a way that would surely make Bdubs seethe over it later.
“Don’t listen to these guys, boss.” Martyn waved dismissively. “First they give you a shit deal, then they threaten you, then act like they’re the ones doing us a favor! We won’t get anything—”
Ren raised one hand, and Martyn fell obediently silent.
Ren turned his attention fully to Cleo. “We’ve come to a conclusion. We aren’t willing to give you what we have, and you don’t have anything we want. And frankly, you seem to be doing just fine without any of the enchanting action that we and the Shields have going on. I don't mind doing an old friend a favor, but in good conscience, I can’t agree to a deal that won’t benefit the Shields at all. I believe this negotiation is over, yes?”
Ren reached out to Cleo over the table.
Eyes were weighing down on her. Ren’s self-assured and pompous, Martyn’s warning her not to argue, and Bdubs’ pleading that told her to quit before they got into any more trouble. She didn’t even have the chance to fight back.
Begrudging as ever, Cleo shook Ren’s clawed hand. “I guess it is.”
— ☼ —
Two tolls rang out from the clock tower when Cleo and Bdubs arrived home.
Brick and pale grey walls of the apartment building rose between its neighbors, nestled closely wall-to-wall, save for a narrow alley on the building’s left. A decent amount of people were gathered around, passing by on the street or coming and going from the alleyway. Stone brick steps led up to a set of double doors in the center of the building, above which were three iron numbers denoting the address, and an ornate iron sign that read, “The Crastle.”
Unlike many of the gangs who ran illegal bars around the city, the Crastle was not just a facade to hide the speakeasy. A side door down the alley led downstairs into the bar, but the upstairs apartments served as housing for anyone in the gang who needed it. It was a much needed place to sleep that doubled as believable window-dressing.
Rather than the both of them going in the front door, Cleo told Bdubs to check on the speakeasy. It was still a busy night, and she had to make sure nothing had been broken or burned down. Bdubs wasn’t happy about it.
“Why can’t you do it? I’m tired,” he complained. There were enough people around that their conversation was lost in the chatter.
Cleo didn’t have a good reason, she just wanted him not to bother her for the rest of the night. “Because I said so.”
He gave her a look. “What’s with you? You’ve been sulking the whole walk home.”
Bitter laughter rose in the back of Cleo’s throat. “Oh, of course, I should be extra cheery now that I’m fairly certain we have zero hope of breaking into the enchanting market, and Ren gets to keep his monopoly.”
“You realize you could just go to one of his fancy-schmancy auctions, right?”
“I would rather stick my head in sewer water.”
He made a vague noise of indignation. “See? I just– I don’t get it. You say you want these things, but no, you actually don’t. You just want to knock Ren down a peg.” He paused in thought for a moment, knitting his brows. “Is this about your revenge on—”
“It’s not,” Cleo interrupted before he could even make the accusation. “It’s not about that. It’s about my own personal dignity.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna have much dignity left if you keep ignoring the problems right in front of your face.”
“Like what?”
“Everything else, Cleo,” he scoffed. “Maybe the fact that the law is cracking down on smuggling again, practically crusading bars, and it’s damn-near impossible to get reasonable shipments of blaze powder. You haven’t helped with that paperwork. Trying to undercut Ren’s lapis monopoly is the last thing we should be worrying about. What are you trying to prove?”
Cleo turned her gaze away. She rubbed a spot on her right forearm in a nervous tick, where her sleeve covered an unsightly scar patched with the same stitches holding together the flesh of her face. Normally, that spot on one’s arm was where a tattoo of alignment would be, but Cleo’s Crastle chess rook had to be positioned just below.
Bdubs sighed, any annoyance vanishing from his face. He inched closer to her as if carefully sidestepping her anger.
“I get that you’re frustrated, but you’re not thinking practically,” he started. “The Crastle needs you here right now. It’s not fair to put your wild ideas of revenge before—”
“Will you just go inside?” she snapped. “I don’t need you to lecture me.”
Some hurt, doe-eyed look flashed across his face before he replaced it with a scowl and threw up his arms in exasperation.
“Fine, goodness, I’m just trying to help,” he exclaimed. “I don’t get any appreciation around here.”
He turned and stormed off down the alley.
Cleo tried not to feel too guilty. He’d forgive her by morning, once he’d gotten some sleep and found someone else to kiss his wounds. For now Cleo just needed some peace and quiet.
Besides, he was right. What was she trying to prove?
She glowered at the ground. Nothing. Nothing at all.
The interior of the Crastle was more than enough to accommodate the gang– warm, dry, and pleasant smelling. Most new buildings in Hermia had redstone electric wiring, but the Crastle was old, so Cleo was lucky Tango knew his way around redstone. He helped to fix up the place, giving it electric lighting and heating. The doors and windows were framed in dark wood, same as the floors. Rising up the stairwell, blue wallpaper was plastered over the walls, patterned in spiraling bronze.
Finally, she reached the top floor where her apartment was. She fished a key out of her coat pocket and unlocked the door. As it swung open, she noticed a loose pile of papers that had been slipped in through the mail slot, lying on the floor just inside. She picked them up.
Cleo bumped the door closed with her shoulder, muttering to herself and skimming the mail.
The front door opened into a short hallway, leading to the rest of the apartment. The familiar smell of flowers and candle smoke filled the place. Tall windows overlooked the street, sleek furniture was bound in jewel-toned upholstery, and turquoise wallpaper was patterned with wiry peacock feathers. Even a few paintings hung on the walls.
Cleo slid her pinstriped jacket off her shoulders and hung it on the coat hooks next to the door, where many of her jackets and hats were dangling. She barely looked where she was going as she walked into the parlor and collapsed into a turquoise armchair, kicking up her feet on the glass coffee table.
The mail was all bills and miscellaneous flyers, nothing of pressing importance. No letters, no coded communications. She sighed.
It was only when she set the mail down that she realized the lights were on.
The sconces and lamps around the room were all aglow, casting a warm tint over the cool jewel tones of the flat.
Her heart dropped in her chest.
All of a sudden, the world fell deathly quiet. She hadn’t turned on the lights. She didn’t remember doing it. Had she forgotten to turn them off when she left? No, she wouldn’t do that, she’d just reprimanded Tango the other day for driving up the electric bill by leaving his lights on and—
One of her windows had its curtains agape. She always drew shut the curtains at night, especially when she wasn’t home.
Had someone broken in?
Cleo scanned the apartment with wide eyes for any discrepancy.
If someone had broken in, it couldn’t have been sheriffalty officers– she would’ve known before walking through the door. They would’ve ransacked the whole place and the bar downstairs.
But it couldn’t have been another member of the gang either. The door had been locked, and the only person with a key besides her was Bdubs, who’d been with her the whole time.
Was someone trying to steal from her? What would they even steal? She thought of the locked safe of personal valuables under her bed, but nothing inside it was worth breaking in for. This couldn’t be an ordinary thief. None were stupid enough to break into a gang leader’s flat, and none were skilled enough to do it unnoticed. And certainly none were stupid enough to leave the lights on or hang around until she got back.
Then she heard it. Slow, almost lazy footsteps coming from her study across the room. The sliding door was half-closed. She couldn’t see inside from this angle.
Someone was definitely in her apartment.
She drew her pistol from her waistband and gripped it with a steady hand.
Maybe agreeing to meet with her had been a trick from Ren all along. He could’ve sent Etho or another one of his spies to break into her flat and snoop around while she was occupied. Why? She didn’t know. Maybe just to fuck with her head. As if Cleo hadn't already done enough to appease him, he had to drag her even lower. How dare he.
“Hey!” she shouted as she approached the door. “You have from the count of five to get out of here before I send you back to your boss with a bullet in your head.”
Something creaked from within, but no response.
“Five.”
She raised her gun.
“Four.”
Another step closer to the door.
“Three.”
Warm light came from inside the office. The shadow on the wall was moving.
“Two—”
In one swift motion, she threw open the door to the study and leveled her pistol straight at—
Straight at a man sitting in her desk chair. An elven man in her desk chair, one in his late twenties, with blue hair and bright clothes and a yellow jewel where his left eye should’ve been.
Scott blinked, only mildly startled by the gun in his face.
He beamed at Cleo. “Hi!”
“Scott!” Cleo cried, pistol dropping to her side. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing? How did you get in here?”
He snorted with laughter. “Through the window, obviously.”
Cleo dragged a hand down her face and set her gun on a nearby side table. “I could gather that, yeah. Gods, I could’ve shot you– What are you even doing here? In the middle of the night, too? You’re not supposed to be here!”
“I’m never supposed to be anywhere, yet somehow I always am. It’s one of my talents.” Scott leaned back in the chair and took a sip from a glass in his hand. He gestured to the room around him. “This is a nice place, by the way, I like it a lot. Do you own this whole building? Seems like the gang’s gotten a real upgrade since I saw it last. And I love your new hair, it’s very chic. The bob looks good on you.”
As he was talking, Cleo didn’t register a single word. She was still caught up in the fact that it was Scott. He was here. And now she had a million questions. How did he get here? Why was he here? Why in the name of the Gods was he acting so casual about this?
Instead, she asked, “Is that my good wine?”
“I saw it in the cabinet and figured you wouldn’t mind.” He took another sip.
Cleo looked at the mahogany liquor cabinet against the office wall, its rows of colorful bottles and crystal glasses. None of it was cheap.
“And what if I did mind?”
He raised his brow at her. “You can’t blame me for wanting to enjoy some nice things, Cleo. I was just in prison.”
“Oh, were you? I thought you were just avoiding me.”
Scott snickered. He knew Cleo wasn’t really upset about the wine. Or at him in general. Maybe she owed that to him, since she felt a bit guilty over barely visiting him during his sentence. Not too guilty, though, since any criminal with common sense stayed as far away from prisons as possible, even as a visitor.
It was right then, now that the subject of prison had been brought up, that a realization struck Cleo.
“Hold on a minute,” she narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t escaped– your sentence is over.”
“It sure is, I got out this morning. Just don’t tell my parole officer I’m here.” He winked. “You didn’t forget, did you?”
“Me? Forget today was the end of your sentence? I would never,” Cleo lied. “I’m just… surprised you didn't call me first.”
Suddenly, Scott sprang up from the chair. For a second Cleo thought he was leaving, but he crossed the small room to open the liquor cabinet.
“I think you need this more than me,” he said, holding up a bottle from the shelf.
Before she knew it, Scott was pouring her a drink. It was the same expensive wine he’d been drinking, brewed with blaze powder and melon juice. It was a regeneration potion dilute, and after a few sips, Cleo already felt a little calmer. Normally, she wouldn’t trust anyone to pour her a drink, but with Scott she didn’t even question it.
She sat down in the desk chair. The study was a cluttered little room engulfed by Cleo's desk, the liquor cabinet, and a floor to ceiling bookcase. Dark shades of wood were offset against the forest-green wallpaper.
Cleo’s desk was still pretending to be organized. A lamp, typewriter, and telephone were pushed to the back. The rest was pens, papers, an ashtray, a coaster stack, and unwashed old cups.
Now that Scott was standing up, she finally had a good look at him. His clothes were colorful and very quintessentially Scott. Colorfully striped coat and waistcoat were paired with dark trousers, with distinctive colored patches stitched on. An equally patchworked fedora that could only belong to him sat on the desk, with a pluming feather stuck in the ribbon.
He was just how she remembered. It had been three years since she’d seen him like this, yet somehow, it was like no time had passed at all. It was disorienting.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded. Meeting his eyes, she couldn’t stave off a small smile. “I can’t believe you’re back. I missed you.”
His face softened. “I missed you too.”
There wasn’t any lie in that, Cleo had missed Scott. He was one of the only people she’d met in her line of work whom she’d grown to trust completely. Not that she didn’t trust the others in her gang, per se, but she trusted Scott more to be… competent. She respected him. He wasn’t ever truly part of the Crastle or any other gang in Hermia; he bore no tattoo of alignment on his arm. He wasn’t an underling, he was a business partner. An equal. A friend.
Then, Cleo frowned.
“You never answered my question, by the way,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Just visiting my friend, obviously. Why else?”
She didn’t believe that for a second. Why else would he show up in her apartment the day he was released? If she knew Scott—and she knew him well—then she knew he wouldn’t have spent three years in prison doing nothing. “You’re not… planning anything, right?”
Scott gave Cleo a look. A knowing look, like the two of them were in on a secret. “Maybe.”
Cleo sighed. “Don’t do this to me.”
“Do what?”
“Do this thing whenever you have some insane idea and you get all cagey about it, and it makes me curious. But because I’m curious it makes you think I want to do the job.”
“Don’t you want to do the job?”
Cleo took a swig from her glass and set it aside, making a harsh clank against the desk. “I don’t do jobs anymore, Scott. Not like that. I have a responsibility to this place and my gang now. I can’t just run off to try and scrape whatever outrageously dangerous, impossible heist you’ve dreamt up.”
“Impossible is a strong word,” Scott protested. “Sure, it’ll be tricky– we’ll need a really good team and lots of reconnaissance, but I know we can do it.”
Gods, Cleo hated the exciting sense of familiarity that found her. She hated the memories of days when she felt like she was doing something meaningful, something that left an impact on the world. She hated how much she missed it, because those days were far behind her. Scott didn’t understand.
A preemptive headache was coming on. Cleo pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Whatever mark you have in mind, I guarantee you that it’s not worth it.” She glared at Scott. He wasn’t going to give this up, but he might at least leave her out of it. “Well, maybe to you, but not to me. No offense.”
“But it’s not just any mark, Cleo.” And suddenly, Scott was leaning over the desk, face to face with her. “I got the tip while I was in prison, and I’ve spent the last year planning for it and it’s not like anything we’ve ever done before. It’s probably one of the rarest magic artifacts on the planet.”
Cleo wasn’t one to take hyperbole at face value, certainly not from someone as sarcastic as Scott, and yet…
No, she shouldn’t be enthralled by this. That was idiotic.
“D’you want to know what the mark is?” Scott asked with a grin.
She desperately wanted to know what the mark was. “Absolutely not.”
“Ooh, I think I’m going to tell you.”
“Don’t tell me, I can’t do this, I don’t want to know—”
“It’s a wither skull.”
And as those words were spoken, the world—the apartment, the whole building, the city streets, all of Hermia, the entire ocean and coast and realm—stopped to listen. Cleo was glad that she’d set her wine glass down, because otherwise, she would’ve dropped it on the spot and let it shatter. She stared at him. Warm light from the lamp on the desk reflected like stars in Scott's mismatched eyes, the yellow gemstone practically glowing. It sent a shiver down Cleo’s spine. This was real, earnest excitement. This was a force to be reckoned with.
“Sorry, what?” she hissed.
“A wither skull,” Scott repeated. Cleo heard him fine the first time, but it was a statement so mad it was worth repeating. “You know; priceless, pure magic, inconceivably dangerous. The offer I got was for 1.5 million, but we can drive that up easily.”
1.5 million dollars. Cleo sank into her chair, exhaling through her teeth.
The wither skulls were ancient magical artifacts that Cleo knew very little about. In fact, she was pretty sure even the most learned of old elven mages knew very little about them. Supposedly, they came from another dimension that could only be accessed with magic, and there were only three skulls in existence. If those three were brought together, it held the power to create a Nether Star, the most powerful magical energy source that could ever be harnessed.
But even on its own, a single wither skull was indispensable, a priceless bargaining chip, and probably horrifically cursed. Not just anybody could have one lying around. Not just anybody could hire someone to steal one.
Either way, Scott was planning a suicide mission. The skulls were scattered across the realm, and even if someone knew where one was, it would be impossible to steal.
“And I suppose you know where to find a wither skull?” she questioned.
“You know I love you, but it’s a basic rule of the underground not to run your mouth about a job to someone who isn’t in on it.”
Cleo crossed her arms indignantly and scoffed. He wouldn’t tell her until she agreed to help. He was good.
So, she tried to shove away the rest of her questions. Like, where is the skull? And how do you know? And how long will it take? And how impossible will it be? And how are we supposed to not die? And who’s offering all that money? And do you realize how much you’re asking of me?
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked instead.
No irony or secrecy hid in Scott’s tone as he said, “Because I want you on the job. Will you do it or not?”
Before she could even stop herself, she murmured, “I really want to…” She cringed at the wistfulness in her voice and shook her head. “No. No, I can’t. The Crastle won’t last a week without me if something bad happens. You blew it once already, Scott, and I can’t afford to get locked up like you did.”
Silence hung in the air.
That was harsh, even for her. Cleo didn’t like fighting, but even she knew that you didn’t have to strike hard to make something hurt, you just had to aim for the right nerve.
Despite his frown and furrowed brow, Scott didn’t seem upset. Or even disappointed.
“I’m not forcing you to do the job.” Scott then said, pushing away from the desk. “If you want to stay here in your fancy tower, selling bathtub gin and running penny-poor cons for the rest of your life, then I won’t stop you.” He paused. “But I know you’re better than that. And you know it too. So if you change your mind… I’ll be waiting.”
He plucked his hat from the desk and put it on.
As his words sank in, something crept over Cleo’s skin. Like an embarrassed flush, but cold. It made her shoulders stiffen and her gaze fall, unable to look her friend in the eyes.
Ah, Cleo thought. Of course he can aim for the right nerve as well.
“I’ll see you,” Scott said too cheerfully, and didn’t specify when.
“…Where are you going?”
He slipped his hands into his pockets on his way out of the study. He huffed a laugh. “To bed, hopefully. I am still technically on parole, I could get in trouble for being here.”
He didn’t seem all that concerned about it.
Cleo picked up her half empty glass and tried not to let Scott’s words echo in her brain. Stay here in your fancy tower, selling bathtub gin and running penny-poor cons for the rest of your life… Damn him for giving a voice to the thoughts she tried to stuff down. It wasn’t fair. Not when everyone around her thought that was all she was cut out for. Not when she could picture in her mind exactly who she wanted to prove wrong.
I know you’re better than that. And you know it too. Scott spoke with such certainty. But Cleo didn’t know if she was better than that, she just wanted to believe she was.
Worse, she was scared there was only one way to prove she was.
“One last thing, by the way!” Scott exclaimed, coming back to poke his head into the study.
Cleo pressed her wine glass against her temple to ice her headache, groaning before she even knew what he would ask. “Yeah?” Gods, she sounded tired.
And Scott asked the question.
“Do you know where Pearl is working these days?”