Chương 81: Changed Fates

Somewhere in the outskirts of Nov Yanosk, a door opened. A tiny bell fastened above the door chimed. The shop occupied a converted first-floor apartment, its front room repurposed as a storefront. Clothes and textiles in all shapes and sizes were crammed into shelves, baskets, and hanging racks. A small dog peeked out from the side of the counter and gave an adolescent bark. The fur was white with patches of black. Its paws and ears, comically oversized, gave a hint that it was far from fully grown.

"Quiet, Frost!" a female voice called from the back of the store.

"Welcome to Westwall Tailor, how may I be of service?" Cynthia stormed into the shop with a wide smile and a yellow dress. A healthy hue to her cheeks and hair in a tight bun. Still, some golden strands had escaped, trailing in front of freckles and blue eyes that grew wide at the sight of him. She had been a prisoner just like him, stuck in a similar cage. He forced away the flashing memories and focused on the woman in front of him. She was unrecognizable, perhaps he was too.

He wore a white shirt beneath a black vest, his tail swaying behind him. His arms and hands, which had been black, were now hairy with ruffled fur and ended in razor-sharp claws that glinted like metal. His hair was almost nonexistent, barely a prickly texture on his head, and his eyebrows were missing. Together with his dark eyes, he looked quite unsettling, at least according to his own judgmenet.

"Wretchy!" she said under her breath, hurrying around the counter. It had been months since they last met. The time they spent together in captivity was reduced to a wound in his mind that no amount of flame could heal. Once before he had been here to purchase a coat, which now was hidden behind a stone far away in Sternthal. Stowed away with a book from his father. As he saw her hurrying towards him, an image forced its way to to consciousness despite his resistance. A tortured naked body in a cage.

Head held low over a chest where every rib protruded. He shook his head, focusing on the scent of of new textiles.

"Hey, Cynthia," he began.

"I'm glad you recognize me. It's good to... ah!" She threw her arms around him without warning. The pup called Frost barked excitedly and raced around their legs as she hugged him tight, rocking him back and forth with a wide smile.

"Careful with the claws," he whispered with limited air.

"They're sharp."

"You were in the newspaper!" she said.

"I was worried sick!"

"We were?" Wretch managed, wheezing slightly as she squeezed his ribcage. She pulled back and grabbed his shoulders, holding him at arm's length.

"You lost your hair, are you sick?" she asked with a furrowed brow. He shook his head quickly, a familiar knot tightening in his chest.

"Just an accident. It'll grow back. But I need a new coat and a hat if you have one." She looked him over, stopping momentarily at the new hairy arms and the fearsome claws. She clicked her tongue.

"Of course! Let me measure you up," she said, revealing a band with numbers from her apron over the yellow dress she was wearing.

"Shop going well?" Wretch asked as she enthusiastically swooped around him, holding the band along different parts of his body.

"Decently! Prices are wild with all the Gulschak panic. Textiles keep going up, but the military is stacking up uniforms. They contracted even this little place."

"Your proportions have changed? And new claws too."

"Just a few upgrades," he replied. She darted to the back room, shouting over her shoulder.

"Let me check the storage!" Wretch caught himself nodding in the empty room.

"Do you have that newspaper?" he called. A clatter came from the back.

"Ouch. It's on the counter!" He stepped closer. Two ledgers lay open, one filled with tight columns of numbers, the other with sketches of faceless figures in tailored coats and flowing dresses. Beside them lay the newspaper. His eyes skimmed the headlines. Beware the Gulschak, traitors all. 43 arrested in factory fire following unlawful strike. Sternthal temporarily abandoned after heroic standoff. The last was buried in small print at the bottom of the page.

It detailed that the fortress had fallen to wild monsters from the Scar Spines, but that thanks to the joint sacrifice of the brave and faultless military in combination with hunters from the Deadeye Hunters and the Richter Company, the evacuation was a complete success. Success? he thought hollowly. For a moment, he stood once more on the cracked stone of Sternthal's train station. His hands slick with blood. Dead soldiers lay at his feet.

One of them was called Melissa, and she stared at him with glassy eyes as blood bubbled from her mouth, denying her the last words she would ever speak. Hounds poured over makeshift barricades towards fleeing civilians climbing onto a train. His flesh writhed. He gripped the counter and drew in a sharp breath, forcing the memory back into its cage. These memories and growing pressure had almost been absent out there in the wild. As long as he treaded on the edge of death, fought and killed, they all stayed silent.

But now, with the safety behind the walls, they welcomed him back with open arms. I'll come back to that place someday. If not only to kill those things but to get my book back. From the side of the counter, the juvenile dog's head peeked out with a fearful look. Wretch crouched down and gestured to it to come closer with a claw. His new hairy hands were grotesque, thick-skinned, furred, and tipped with blades sharp enough to cut metal. Each arm was too long even for his improved stature.

The dog gave a whimper and walked forward with its tail wagging frantically, its ears tilted back. He gave a smile, revealing his new sharp teeth, which made the dog lie down low to the ground, wiggling on its back with the belly exposed.

"She feeds you," Wretch whispered.

"Gives you a home. So you will protect her."

"Even if it kills you." Steps grew closer, and he stood up, placing the newspaper back and leaving something to rest under it.

"This one should fit," Cynthia said, emerging with a black leather coat.

"Cured hide. I fixed the hem just the other day." He nodded. Trying it on, it was a good fit. While Cynthia talked without interruption, he was also handed a hat, choosing one that wasn't especially tall with a rounded top. Before he could leave, she hugged him again and kissed his cheek, making him blush.

"What would you usually charge for these?" he asked, rubbing the furred back of his hand across his cheek.

"None of your damn business, that's what," she said with a wide smile, scooping up the speckled dog. He sighed in mock resignation and adjusted the new hat. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"You have my address. Keep in touch if you need something. Anything at all."

"Will do, and get your friends to come by if they need a tailor. I will give them a discount," she said and gave an exaggerated wink. He waved as he stepped back onto the street, a bell chiming behind him. On the counter, tucked beneath a newspaper, lay a stack of pounds, enough to clothe an entire family for a year. The Lows were as thick with smog as he had remembered, the clouds from the industries leaving a metallic taste on his tongue.

Before him, carts and pedestrians rushed along the cobblestones in the shade of the spires above. Wretch whistled to a passing horse cart, and it made a timely stop.

"Brickbreaker Road 118," Wretch said as he walked up the steps of the tiny cabin. The driver nodded, and with a whip of his reins they took off. Wretch sat in his new coat, patting the outside and feeling out the pockets. A shiver passed through him, unsolicited but nonetheless there. He placed his face in cupped palms, the flowing fur caressing his skin. Rein it in. You are a hunter, a human. You can go without bloodshed if you must. He focused on the sensation of the thick skin against his forehead.

Then moved downwards, letting his concentration linger on his breath. After a moment, he breathed out and pulled a letter from his trousers. Opening it, he let his eyes flow along the text. It was written in frankly abysmal handwriting. But it was written. It had been waiting for them when they got back from Stonemourn. If his deciphering of the symbols that vaguely resembled letters was correct, it was from Jonah's brothers. They had found an apartment. Some of them even had work.

They weren't asking for money, just reaching out to thank him. Still, he would check on them. The wagon sped along the busy roads and avenues in the afternoon light, spraying through the web of spires and walkways above, fighting to pierce the smog. Wretch stepped off the carriage, passing a handful of coins to the driver, who quickly looked at the amount. He flashed Wretch a wide grin and tipped his hat.

"Thank you, and a pleasant evening to you, Mr. Blessed." Wretch only gave him a nod and walked up along the street. It wasn't a nice neighborhood, but it wasn't a tent in an alleyway either. Far in the distance rose the inner wall and the spires behind it. Factories and refineries jutted along the skyline of the slums like steaming cadavers. As he walked, his eyes traced the yellowed posters plastered at regular intervals along leaning brick walls. One design appeared again and again.

A stylized drawing of the city with the saint, a female hunter with a spear, and a hulking man in gold and blue staring down disfigured humans reaching for the city walls with armbands that spelled Gulschak. Below it in bold letters was a simple phrase. NOV YANOSK ENDURES. Let them come, he thought as he stepped up to a house labeled 118. He was surprised to find the windows intact, though the one on the second floor had a crack running through it.

The bricks that made up the two-story building were worn but mostly in place, and the house itself was one in a long row of similar buildings.

"Better than expected," he muttered.

"I'll give them that." He took the steps up to a door made of half-rotten wood and gave it two quick knocks. Movement came from the other side, and the echo of a lock being turned reverberated through the wood. He expected the door to open, but instead raised an eyebrow as a second lock clicked. The door rattled as a chain slid into place. A third lock clicked, followed by the faint jingle of keys.

The door swung open only a few inches, and a single eye peered through the gap, yet another chain blocked the door from opening wider.

"This property is legally rented!" a youngling snapped from the other side.

"What do you want?"

"It's me, Wretchy."

"No. No. We don't want to buy anything." Wretch shook his head.

"You sent a letter." The boy answered with the thick accent of the Lows.

"Now sod right off, or me and the boys'll teach you a lesson." Wretch scrutinized the sliver of the boyish face on the other side. It was clean and the hair combed. Still, the young man continued.

"Oh, and if you vandalize the place, you're as good as—""Look at me," Wretch replied flatly, cutting him off. The eyes from beyond the door blinked, trailing up from his boots and coat, the long, clawed arms, and stopping on the pitch-black eyes. The face beyond the door drained of color. The door slammed shut. A click from the lock, then hurried footsteps echoed inside, followed by a shout.

"EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! Wake up, Bohdan!"

"That's good," Wretch murmured to himself.

"I'd forgotten his name." A staircase creaked under several pairs of thumping feet.

"Oleks, what is it?" a deeper, groggy voice called.

"Another salesman?"

"It's, it's the mister! The one Jonah sent with the eyes and the money," said the hurried voice he had spoken to before.

"Where is he?"

"He is still outside…"

"Oh, by the Saint!" the older sibling groaned.

"You better not have made him mad." Steps rushed down the staircase, and whispers were passed back and forth, easily audible to his ears.

"Line up, you harlot sons."

"Your best bloody behavior, all right."

"This really isn't necessary," Wretch said to absolutely no one. Finally, the handle turned, and the door fully opened, revealing the interior. Inside, the foyer was small but clean. Shoes lay scattered across the floorboards, only a few coats hung from hooks, and a stool beside the door was piled with a dozen different locks and keys, no doubt freshly removed. The wallpaper was frayed and peeling at the edges, but the floor had been swept. In a half circle beyond the foyer stood the brothers Ivanov.

All five, frozen in identical bows. The oldest, Bohdan, was dressed in pajama pants, his chest bare. The others wore a mismatch of clothes. Eyes fixed on the floor.

"Bohdan, there is no need for this," he said as he stepped over the shoes and closed the door behind him with a furred, clawed hand.

"I am just checking in." He saw the five of them do a synchronized sigh of relief. Bohdan stood up straight. His hair freshly cut, his chin shaved.

"I'd shake your hand, but these claws will leave a scar," Wretch continued.

"Thank you for coming, sir!" Bohdan said, repeating the stiff bow.

"Umm, would you like some tea?" one of the shorter, more adolescent brothers asked as he looked up and down at Wretch.

"Please," Wretch answered. Bohdan nodded, tension easing from his brow.

"Come in, come in." They shuffled aside as he followed them into the next room. The kitchen was small but functional, with a counter, a table, and mismatched chairs. On the table lay a pair of brand new books that seemed misplaced. Natural light came through a window that, like the door, was chained shut. One of the younger brothers filled a pot with water as Bohdan sat down on one of the chairs, the others standing behind him.

"This is a good place," Wretch said.

"It reminds me of the place I grew up in."

"When you finally get something," Bohdan said, forcing back a yawn, "you've got to protect it, right?"

"I couldn't agree more. How did you afford this?" Wretch asked, tapping his claws on the wooden table.

"It's thanks to Pavlov. He is the smart one," Bohdan said and nodded towards one of the brothers. This one was skinnier than the rest, though they all were to some extent. Pavlov cleared his throat.

"I learned to read. Taught the others, and then we bought a single set of presentable clothes for interviews."

"Bohdan wore them," he continued.

"Got hired at a factory. Victor too. They offered us to rent this place." Wretch raised an eyebrow.

"Well done. What do you do at the factory?" Two cups of steaming tea were pushed onto the table by the shortest of the bunch. Bohdan blew away steam and took a sip.

"Steam engines. Gives one pound, two cents a week. I have the night shifts. With all the sabotage, demand is high." Wretch nodded.

"What does the rent cost?"

"One pound," Pavlov said.

"Seems I didn't need to worry," Wretch said, sipping at the bitter concoction they called tea.

"I'm pleased."

"What happened to your hair?" the youngest asked, Oleks. Bohdan shot his brother a hard look. Wretch went still. A ripple passed beneath the skin of his neck, vanishing into his scalp.

"I was at Sternthal," he said evenly.

"It fell." He gave a sorry excuse for a smile and downed the cup of tea, giving a nod of approval to the pale Bohdan.

"Sorry," Oleks stammered. Wretch shook his head.

"It's all right," he said and stood up as he looked at the brothers. They all looked too much like Jonah. He forced himself to focus and breathed out.

"I am just getting used to the city again, that's all," he said as his tail snaked a pouch from a pocket and threw it to Bohdan. The man, barely a few years older than himself, caught it.

"I won't ever say no to coin. But why?"

"Because I want to," Wretch responded as he walked to the door.

"Thank you! Sir," Bohdan said, getting up from the table in such a hurry that the chair almost fell to the floor.

"Stay in touch," Wretch said and lifted his hat.

"And keep out of trouble." Bohdan made another swift bow, and the others followed suit to varying degrees of coordination.

"We're in your debt."

"I will check in from time to time," Wretch said. As he stepped outside, all five brothers pushed themselves out the door, Bohdan still bare-chested. They all waved wildly as Wretch whistled a carriage to a halt.

"Inner wall, gate four," he said. The driver glanced back at the hollering youths and wide grins as the carriage rolled away. Wretch watched them disappear through the window, a grim smile tugging at his lips.

"Resourceful," he whispered. Another memory of a broken boy in a cage with the same hopeful smile appeared in his mind.

"What do you think, Jonah? I bet you would say something stupid like…"

"It was worth it."