Chương 43: Threads of tragedy

The streets of the Lows pulsed with life. The bustle of daily life, a chorus of banging metal, moving feet, and intertwined voices. Among the hundreds of pedestrians walked a young man, dressed in a coat that almost touched the dirt he strode on. Two white gloves covered his hands. Hair cropped short on the sides, slicked back on top. A pair of round glasses covered his eyes with dark-red lenses and golden trims. He was shorter than most, but he handled himself with an air of confidence.

Wretch walked past the gate of the inner wall, flashing a hunter's badge to the stationed officers. They let him through without so much as a question. Beyond lay the slums, tightly packed jumbles of houses pressed around towering industries. The gray smog blurred the distant outer wall. The further he walked, the thinner the crowd became. By the time he stopped at an intersection, only a few scattered pedestrians remained. He pulled out a folded map from a breast pocket.

After studying it for a minute, he frowned, then followed the warm smell of yeast and flour into a crooked store with a rusted sign. Joshenko's Bakery. Inside, he bought a paper bag of freshly baked bread and a handful of sweet pastries. The clerk, an old woman with hands twisted by arthritis, packed his order with proficient speed.

"Is this Salvinjad Road?" Wretch asked, handing over a few mangled coins.

"It is," she said without looking up.

"Something you're looking for?"

"The Ivanov family. Do you know them?" The old lady didn't stop her craft, but cast a cloudy eye at his face, studying the scars down his neck and then trailing downward to the suit.

"Are they in trouble? Rough boys, but Saint knows they carry no evil." Wretch shook his head.

"They are not in trouble. I carry a message. From Jonah." This time her hand froze. She peered through him with the gaze only the aged and dying bore. The look of someone who carried a lifetime of memories at every waking moment.

"They used to beg me for crumbs as I closed. Even let them hide in the basement during curfew." Her eyes refocused on him.

"Jonah had such a pleasant smile. Why does a hunter come bearing his message?" Wretch did not look away, placing a hand on a counter so worn that shallow pits had formed in the wood.

"Because I knew him." She looked at him, brittle and frail.

"Knew…" she said distantly, the aged hands clutched tight.

"It's down the street, alleyway beside the church." Wretch picked up the baked goods and turned. A bell chiming as he opened the door.

"Thank you," he said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the road. Junk lined the street in these parts, and more than one house had a roof that had caved in, yet people still lived there. He found the church. A leaning structure with a polished relief of the saint over the door, a crooked clock tower jutting toward the sky. He gave it a glance and stepped into the alley. Trash and puddles of waste littered the narrow space, and he walked further into the maze of tightening walls. He stopped.

"I know you are there," Wretch said. A low chuckle answered from behind.

"Take off your coat and suit. You're donating them to us," said a rough voice, thick with the accent of the Lows. Wretch turned. A thin man stood behind him, around twenty years of age, with short blond hair and a rusty knife in hand. Two younger boys flanked him, barely teenagers. But Wretch heard their breaths, three others hiding further down the alley.

"Brother Ivanov, I presume?" Wretch said, taking off his sunglasses, revealing his black orbs for eyes. His smile was courteous until the sharp teeth caught the light. The older boy's brow furrowed.

"You think a runt like you can take us all?" Wretch removed the large white glove of his left hand, reaching into his breast pocket with a dark claw.

"It's not that I think that. I am certain of it. But I'm not here to slaughter a bunch of kindle." He paused.

"I have news about Jonah, and it's not good." Three other young boys stepped out of the shadows, dressed in rags.

"Jonah? You've met him?" one asked. Wretch glanced over the malnourished and adolescent group. For a heartbeat, Wretch saw cages, broken bodies held within. A twitch traveled down his face.

"Gulschaks saboteurs kidnapped us both. He didn't make it. Take this," Wretch said, tossing the paper bag of pastries to the eldest. The two kids in rags to either side of the oldest brother sniffed the air. Wretch recognized the look. The oldest hesitated, then lowered his knife.

"All right, but if you're lying, you'll regret it." He looked behind his shoulder.

"Let's move. We can't speak here." They walked through the maze of narrow alleyways and pipelines connecting the outer industries with the central Spires. The group surrounded him, casting curious glances when they thought he wasn't looking.

"So, are you like a gang or actual brothers?" Wretch asked casually. The oldest scoffed.

"Both, I guess. Saint knows mother only had one way to feed the mouths, if you catch my drift." They arrived in a dead end under a pipe so wide it blotted out the suns. Scraps of canvas formed makeshift tents around an empty barrel where a few embers still burned.

"I figured little Jonah was dead months ago. Tell us what happened," the oldest said while turning toward Wretch with a frown. The other four brothers had taken up positions all around him. So Wretch told them, focusing on the words rather than their meaning and pressing the tip of his claws into each palm. That he was a hunter, the storm and the Gulschaks. Jonah's sacrifice and the professor. How they had killed each other. When he finished, he waited, half expecting them to lunge, ready to sprint if they did.

He made a prayer to the Saint that he'd be quick enough, because if they grabbed him, they'd die. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Instead, the oldest cleared his throat, and his eyes bulged with a hint of red. He looked as if he was holding in something painful or needed a restroom urgently. Wretch tilted his head. Then, in perfect synchronization, the five brothers burst into a symphony of tears and quivering throats.

Wretch blinked, stunned by the emotional outburst. The oldest brother staggered forward and enveloped him in a tight hug.

"Thank you. Thank you for giving him that respect," he said, snot and tears smearing across Wretch's suit. Wretch awkwardly patted the man's back.

"What's your name?"

"Bohdan. That's Oleks, Volo, Victor, and Pavlov," the man said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"I am Wretch, but you can call me Wretchy. Do you all live here?" Wretch asked. Bohdan nodded.

"We do. It's not perfect, but it works. We scavenge. I am searching for a factory job, but it's tough when you can't read." Wretch reached into his coat and pressed a pouch into the man's hand, clinking coins beneath the leather.

"Thirty pounds. Enough for rent, food, and reading lessons. Don't waste it." Bohdan stared at the pouch, gripping it as if it might grow wings and fly away.

"Thirty…" he whispered.

"Here is an envelope. It contains my address, 13th Sternen Road, Saint's Summit. Write to me if you need more."

"We won't forget this," said a sniveling youth whose name Wretch had already forgotten. They all looked like Jonah, thin features and sun-bleached hair. The image of the broken boy in the cage flashed before his eyes for a split second. He shook his head, that kept happening. Wretch gave a deep exhale. He couldn't do anything more for Jonah. But he could find the professor and slaughter any Gulschaks that stood in his way. And he was planning on doing just that.

"Don't go spending it on anything stupid, or I will find you. You hear me?" Wretch said. They escorted him back to the main street, and they all waved goodbye, jumping with excitement. Wretch couldn't hold back a chuckle, giving them a courteous nod before gesturing to a passing carriage. He had already visited Cynthia and Victoria. They both had their limbs healed by a Blessed healer, all arranged by the city, along with a generous sum of coin in exchange for keeping quiet about the ordeal.

Victoria had been distant. She didn't want to see him. He could tell when she had opened the door. Perhaps he reminded her of that nightmare. He hoped that in time, she would forget it all, even him. Cynthia was adjusting better, investing her coin in a tailor's store. She'd put on weight, coloring her cheeks in a healthy hue. That had warmed him more than he expected. What is trauma to those with nothing to lose? A carriage rattled to a stop over the cobblestone. He climbed in, his first time riding alone.

It offered him no excitement.

"Volograd Industries, foreman's house," he told the driver as they sped away through the slums. An hour later, he was wrestling out of a tearful hug in an extravagant hall. What's the deal with all the tears ruining my suit today?

"Thank you so much for finding my little Ezra," Bianca, the foreman's wife, said, clutching him against her chest.

"You are a true hunter."

"Merely did my duty, ma'am. How is he doing?" Wretch asked, straightening his suit. Edgar, the foreman, and his wife both gave a solemn look.

"He isn't back to himself yet," Edgar said.

"We have arranged a therapist from the Spires, but he still doesn't talk."

"I am sorry," Wretch said.

"May I see him?" They led him up the stairs. Into a familiar bedroom. His first mission as a hunter, it had all begun here. At that time, he'd wondered what kind of person lived in a place like this, now it felt as distant as another life. On the bed sat the tiny figure, hunched and staring out a window. His hair was combed, clothes pressed and perfumed. The boy was still thin, with bulging eyes and sunken cheeks.

"Hello Ezra," Wretch said. No answer came.

"He doesn't talk and barely eats. He just sits there watching the window," Bianca said. Wretch walked up to the bed, blocking Ezra's view of the distant Spires. The boy stared right through him with unfocused eyes.

"We are home, Ezra, just like I promised. It's nice, isn't it? Seeing your family again?" Wretch said. Nothing. Wretch forced out a smile and tilted his head, holding down a shiver.

"You don't learn their importance before you lose them. That's something I've come to understand," Wretch said out loud while staring into the boy's dark eyes.

"Victoria is doing fine, by the way. She spends time with her sister. She seems a little down, but she'll get over it. Cynthia is doing great. She is talking about buying a dog," Wretch said. The boy didn't move.

"She opened the tailor store she talked about. She even sold me this coat, though I had to force her to take my coin." Ezra responded only with faint breaths, the only movement giving away that he was alive and not an intricate doll made of porcelain and hidden gears. Wretch's smile faded. He took off the sunglasses, then the gloves. He stepped closer, laying a dark claw on the boy's shoulder and leaning close, whispering into his ear through sharp teeth.

"Because of what they did to us, I killed them, Ezra. As many as I could find. I ripped out their throats and spilled their guts. You should have heard them. The Professor escaped, but I will find him. And then I'll kill him too." Wretch waited for an answer, but none came. He pulled away to stand in front of the foreman and his wife.

"I am sorry. I hope time will heal even these wounds," he said with a monotone voice, focusing on the sensation of the tight-fitted suit.

"If you ever need anything, don't hesitate," Bianca said, giving him another constricting hug. After shaking the foreman's hand, he walked away from the mansion. It was sundown, and the setting suns lit the spires above in vibrant orange and red. He didn't call for a carriage. Instead, he walked through the slums, clutching a gloved hand to his face. I need to hurt something. I need to hurt something right now. The suns dipped below the horizon and the people of the slums quickly disappeared behind their doors.

The wood marked by circles of ash. They prayed that no horror would come this night. Wretch prayed for the opposite. A woman in a blue overall hurried beneath the flickering lamp-posts of the Lows.

"Damn landlord. Throwing me out at this hour," she muttered. A noise came from behind and she froze. Through the swirling smog a figure walked in the low light. A tall man was walking through the night, hat pressed low. She turned and quickened her pace. At the next intersection she took a hard right, breath caught in her throat and her worn boots almost slipping on the damp cobblestone. She glanced over her shoulder. The man was at the intersection, looking over the road, his eyes finding hers and he followed.

"Saint, please save me." She whispered, and broke into a run. A short youngling in white gloves blocked her path. When had he got there? She bumped against him, despite his smaller stature he barely moved. A quivering gasp escaped her and the knees buckled. He caught her with strong hands and looked down with eyes as black as soot.

"Is he following you?" Wretch asked. The woman blinked, a pearl of cold sweat running down her forehead.

"I... I was thrown out, my pay comes tomorrow. I can pay then, I swear." Wretch pulled the girl to her feet, eyes never leaving the stranger advancing through the smog in the low light.

"Go to the inner gate, safest place in the slums. Straight down the road." She didn't hesitate, breaking into a run and disappearing into the haze. Moments later, the man stopped a few steps from Wretch. They wore similar suit, heavy coats buttoned over. The stranger was glaring at him, sharp features and a clean-shaven chin.

"I can hear metal tools chiming under your coat," Wretch said unbuttoning his coat and vest.

"What were you planning to do with that girl I wonder?" The man gave a dry chuckle, slipping a hand into his breast-pocket.

"I don't know what you are doing out here tonight, but your luck's run out. I'll settle for you." Wretch threw his coat and vest to the side under a flickering gas-lamp and pulled tainted air through his nose in a deep inhale. He said nothing. The man pulled out a knife with a smile.

"In your next life, be careful of streets like this, you might happen upon a monster in human skin and—" The stranger grew quiet, his eyes frozen on Wretch's hands, the skin was black and each finger tipped with a claw that caught the light. Wretch flashed a joyless grin filled with sharp teeth.

"You don't know how right you are." His eyes lit with fire and the man's smile faltered. Far down the street, the girl ran with beating heart, the Inner Gate approaching through the mist-like pollution. From behind, a scream echoed between the leaning houses of the Lows.