Throughout the day's tedious and trying hours, my eyes were drawn again and again to Itheria's coast and the haughty tower sitting upon the ridge. The creature in me that lacked any semblance of patience resented the need to dance around my target instead of attacking it directly, and I mustered an impossible reserve of self-restraint to tame my actions. I wanted to tear apart my query with my own hands, but what I lacked in ability I had retained in strategy.

I would be patient. I would wait.

Itheria's underbelly was considerably trimmer than Verweald's, though it held scars and secrets just as Amoroth's city did. The huntress and I trekked through the cold, wet byways and alleys that traced Itheria's borders and found nothing of our target. The black mage we sought was a known Reave peddler, though the possession charge had been so slight the syndicates weren't particularly keen to flush him out. Doing so required resources, and Everett Robinson wasn't worth those resources.

The throb of rock music broke the new evening's complacency as it radiated through the asphalt underfoot. I folded my arms against my chest as I read the name of the sleazy downtown bar as it was written in violet neon. Like many of Itheria's establishments, it was exclusive to Terrestria's other community, the structure dripping with reflective wards that made it difficult to look directly at the building. All I discerned was a general sense of the layout, the composition of its materials, and of course the sign.

The huntress stood at my side, shivering and blowing cold air from her mouth, bundled in a coat with a knitted cap on her head. "It's cold!" she blurted through chattering teeth as her hands rubbed her covered arms. "Ain't you freezing?" 

"No." I checked the street again for pedestrians, then eased open the building's front door. The smell of cigarettes and stale booze wafted out on the heated air, and I wrinkled my nose against the obnoxious odor as I entered the bar and Connie followed after. The squeal of an electric guitar crackled through the aged speakers hanging over the crowded bar. A few eyes tracked our entrance, but given how large the crowd was, no one took any real notice of our presence. Under the music rose the sound of sizzling, greasy food, and plates of broiled burgers were coming through the room on overburdened platters. 

"Are these people mages?" Connie asked as I walked us past the counter to a vacant booth on the far side of the bar. The interior was poorly lit by a mixture of fluorescent beer signs and fizzling holiday lights, the ceiling panels stained by cigar smoke and pockmarked with toothpicks. 

I lifted a brow. "You can't tell?"

"No?"

It should have been obvious, even for a human who couldn't detect the faint, acerbic taste of metal that clung to the air about the magically inclined men. They favored their standard issue coats with the satin lining done in the color of their syndicates. In a place such as this that was hidden to ignorant normies, the mages were more brazen with their outlandish mannerisms and quirky gestures. They freely traded sparks and rolled parchments along with drinks and bar food. 

The huntress and I sank into opposite seats in a rear booth, the vinyl creaking under my weight as I leaned into the generous shadows. From my pocket I retrieved the folded contract on our mark and examined the black and white photo again, taking in the accrued details about his routine and known haunts. The man dealt Reaver, an addictive and deadly drug known among the other communities of Terrestria and the Vale, which meant he didn't stay in a singular locale for any extended amount of time. We'd trailed the outlaw for much of the day and had, at last, caught up. 

Everett Robinson sat at one of the stools, eating an early dinner while he nursed a beer. He wore the same style of coat as the other mages', but his was older, shabbier, and the mustard colored lining was torn. His uncombed hair was thinning and heavily laced with gray, and his weak jaw was covered with the beginnings of a scraggly beard—but he was easily recognizable.

I folded the warrant in half and tucked it into my fist. "He's sitting at the third stool."

The huntress glanced toward the counter, though she kept her attention casual, fingering the frayed tuft of her cap. "You're right."

"Naturally." A bored waiter meandered by and asked what we wanted to order, and I asked for a beer and a burger, as did Connie. When he left, I leaned on the table as I lowered my voice. "I'll approach him and request information, and he will most likely run. You will want to be in position in the back of the bar, because he's going to flee through the rear door."

The huntress turned her head and eyed the door in question. "Sounds good."

We waited in silence as our food was delivered and Connie picked over her meal. I went to drink my beer—then remembered the alcohol could affect me as a human, so I only tipped and turned the bottle in my hand. Robinson ate and I watched the man until the younger mage at the stool next to him paid his bill and left. I kicked the huntress's leg and shrugged a shoulder toward the innocuous rear door. Patting her mouth with a paper napkin, Connie got to her feet, then hurried from the bar without a backward glance.

I waited until the door was sealed before I left my booth and approached my target. The mage didn't noticed when I leaned onto the vacated crooked stool and laced my fingers together atop the bar's polished rail. He only looked in my direction when I cleared my throat and leaned into his personal space.

"I am...seeking information," I said in a quiet voice, inspecting my scraped knuckles with an indifferent eye as the mage shifted. The tremor in his arms told me he wasn't an augur—a dexterous mage—nor a wizard who worked with constructs. He was too shaky. If I had to guess, I would say the man was a sage, and that his craft lent itself to the spoken arts. "I am hoping you will be able to provide that information." 

The man dropped from his seat with an ungainly hop and began searching through his pockets for change despite the unfinished state of his meal and his lack of a check. "I don't have information. I don't know you."

"Ah, but I know you." I twisted my wrist and flicked the folded warrant from my closed hand. I held it between two fingers, allowing the ugly bar light to glow on his printed photograph. "Everett Robinson. Your contemptible tricks haven't gone unnoticed by the ferrymen. They issued this request for your apprehension."

Robinson stilled as his sunken eyes flicked from his own picture to my face. His lips moved in preparation of a spell, and I tutted under my breath.

"You're not a mage," he observed.

"No, I am not, but I am someone fully capable of either fulfilling or ignoring this request, depending on your answer, Everett."

I didn't have to wait long for the man's response. As I had suspected, he summoned an ember of magic and threw it at me before flinging himself toward the back door. Robinson was too weak as a mage to create anything more than a hazy burst of dust and I blew it away, brushing grit from my eyelashes as I listened to the man's sneakers squeak on the cheap flooring. The bartender shouted after him, griping about the unpaid tab.

Following at a more sedate pace, I wiped what remained of Robinson's spell from my skin and laid a large bill next to his half drunk beer. "For the trouble." 

I walked from the building and only increased my pace when I heard a bang of metal on metal and the gruff shout of a woman hitting the pavement. Exiting through a chilled kitchen entry, I came out onto a greasy alley lined with employee trucks and hulking dumpsters. Connie was slumped against the latter, shaking her head as if to dispel blurry stars, and the black mage was making his escape toward the alley's end. 

"After him!" I shouted, grinding my teeth to hide my aggravation. Connie staggered upright and took off, her stride quick for a mortal but slower than Robinson's. Most mages in the syndicates were feeble, weak-armed fools who concentrated on improving their magical craft instead of their bodies, but Robinson—as an outlaw with little innate talent to call his own—hadn't ignored his physical attributes. He ran with great speed and had managed to fling Connie aside with little effort.

Unfortunately for my evening's prey, I was fast, too.

I was nearly level with Connie when we turned into a new byway, feet pounding the wet concrete in the black mage's wake. He shouted something unintelligible—and a sudden pillar of flame exploded from the ground at his heels, arching toward the sky like a molten tree grasping at the heavens. The heat lashed out with palpable force and a grotesque, tortured face appeared in the swelling blaze, its fiery fangs as curved and deadly as unsheathed scimitars.

The outlaw was too weak to summon such a creature in corporeal form. It was an illusion.

Connie slowed, her unease and fear plain in her risen shoulders and tense fists.

"It's not real! Run through it!" I ordered—but the huntress didn't move. In fact, her legs shuddered and she began to retreat.

Worthless coward.

I raced past the huntress, bracing my arms across my face when the fire swung nearer. Though I could feel the heat press against my skin and pry at my clothes, no answering sting came from the flame's bite. Fire consisted of heat and light, an exothermic reaction created by combustion, which meant it was a simple image to mirror in an illusionary spell. Beyond the heat and the creation of light however, the spell held no substance. I leapt through it and felt nothing.

The black mage was on the other side of the faux-inferno, and he couldn't have looked more surprised to see me barreling through his spell. He tried to run, then his heel caught on the curb and he fell forward under my thrown fist, yelling in alarm when I grabbed one of his arms and twisted it without restraint.

"I don't know anything, you psycho!" Robinson shouted as I wrenched his arm straight and used a foot to push on his shoulder. "Get off of me!"

"You'd better remember something then," I warned as I pushed more effort onto the man's arm and a sharp keening sound escaped his mouth. The fire at my back sputtered and dissolved, tearing at the edges until it dispersed completely, and Connie approached with her face tinged with embarrassment. She held a switchblade in her hand.

"I have no qualms breaking your arm, mage," I growled, squeezing his wrist until the bones complained. My short nails cut into his sweaty skin. "Or taking your life. You see, I care little for the rules toted by the Blue Fire Syndicate or the bounties enforced by the ferrymen. I only want information, and if you refuse me, I will kill you—and I will do so with ease, little outlaw."

The mage began to chant a garbled spell, his watery magic writhing, and I placed my foot on his jaw, ceasing the man's words. "By all means—!" I laughed. "Continue! You don't need a jaw to give information. Writing it down will suffice."

"I don't know anything," he reiterated, though his tone had shifted from belligerent to pacifying. "I don't know! I'm not into—into anything illegal! Not anymore. Not anything your warrant says, I swear!"

He was a liar. I could smell the harsh, burnt chemical scent of Reave rising from his coat. Nothing illegal, right. "As I said, Everett, I do not care about the warrant. I do not care about whatever illegal activities you fill the drudgery of your life with. All I require is information, and should you prove to be forthcoming with that information, I will gladly set you free."

I took his lack of response as permission to continue.

"Give me the name and the location of a better black mage. Someone far above you in the hierarchy, boy."

"Why do you—?! Stop twisting! Stop! I'll tell you, I'll tell you!"

I eased the pressure of my grip on his arm, though not completely. "Then tell me, mage. Don't ask questions. This could be over so much faster if you answered me with answers instead of questions."

"Lucian!" he garbled as tears welled at the corners of his bulging eyes. He fought the wetness, but I imagined the pain in his shoulder and neck from being restrained was becoming unbearable. "H-his name is Lucian Harris! He's the best b-black mage I know, outside of the Facility."

"And where is he?"

"I-I don't know—!"

He swallowed a scream when I popped one of his fingers out of its socket and amusement curled about the ever-present ire roiling in my middle. I'd often told Sara I didn't delight in torture and I'd spoken the truth. What I was doing to the mage wasn't true torture. It was child's play, and his visceral reaction to such light pain was hilarious in its absurdity.

"Christ! H-he moves around! He's a criminal, why would he hand out his address?!"

I pushed on his shoulder until something cracked.

"Argh! Halefield! He stays somewhere in Halefield, but I don't know where! Let me go!"

Halefield. I recognized the name from a map of the region. It was located farther inland, away from Itheria Port but still within the county's boundaries.

Smirking, I released the mage and he struggled to his feet, clasping his wounded hand as he stumbled upright. Now that he wasn't lying face first in a puddle that smelled suspiciously of piss, the black mage had a furious glint in his eye and was plainly considering retaliation.

"We both know you haven't the gall to challenge me, little outlaw." I grinned, tongue lingering on the cusp of my canine teeth. I almost missed how they used to sharpen when I was hungry. "You won't win against me, nor my companion here." I nodded to Connie as she flipped her small blade in her hand.

Robinson faltered, undecided. Would he choose between his ego or perseverance?

"Want me to fix that?" I pointed at his disjointed finger and the man recoiled, knowing I could have done worse. I would do worse if given the right provocation. The devil in me, the man who'd been tortured and maimed and hunted, wanted the man to attack so I could respond in kind. Wallowing in such base violence was beneath me, but that didn't mean I wouldn't enjoy it.

Everett Robinson's gaze slid away like oil off water and he adjusted his collar with one hand. His first step was hesitant, but when he saw I didn't move to follow him, Robinson hurried on, his gait wobbling with the speed he pushed into his reluctant legs. I watched the man go and did nothing to stop him.

"You know, we won't be able to do that with this Lucian Harris guy," Connie said as she closed the switchblade and returned it to her back pocket. "If he's the real deal, he won't roll over like this guy. He'll fight back."

"I am well aware," I told her, disdain dripping from my every word. If Lucian Harris was the man I sought, he'd have no reason to fight me. I'd willingly trade anything to gain his help in freeing Cage. I'd kill Connie or Saule if that was what he wanted and not think twice about it. That was the kind of man I was.

"I'm sorry about...about that." The huntress tipped her head to indicate the spot where the fire had blazed, the spot where nothing—not even a scorch mark—remained. Her look of chagrin was accompanied by a deep flush of color. "I seized up. The fire was so real lookin' and I just...just got afraid, I guess."

"Don't worry about it," I replied as I wiped the mage's sweat from my fingertips. "It's human nature to be afraid."

For all her bluster and naivety, for all her gun-toting and fast talking, Connie Rumar was a human. She was weak-willed, soft, mortal—and infected with fear. It was their nature to fear dangerous and deadly things, to balk when true courage or bravery was needed to reinforce their arrogance. It was human nature to be afraid of death.

Returning to the street where the huntress had left her vehicle, I was overtaken with a bout of false laughter, because that wasn't the truth of all humans, only most of them, and the woman who'd come to dominate my thoughts—either waking or sleeping—wouldn't have been afraid. She wouldn't have feared the fire. She hadn't feared death.

Nothing of human nature applied to Sara Gaspard, and I knew that. Connie was a human; Sara was a hurricane, her nature unpredictable, the totality of her being as beautiful as it was understated, perilous, and unrelenting. I was a castaway who craved the wiles of the tempest and dared judge the unleashed essence of a storm against the thoughts and actions of a normal human woman. It was funny.

Connie apologized and I laughed because I'd been disappointed when she'd faltered, because the ignorant huntress hadn't jumped when Sara would have. Sara would have leapt through the inferno without pause, without fear, and I had subliminally compared Connie to that daunting woman. I laughed because the mediocrity of a normal mortal would never equal Sara Gaspard.

I laughed because, King below, how I missed her. I couldn't wait to see her again.