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20 | Night Visits

Hannah couldn't remember climbing out of the canal. One moment she was staring at the corpse, screaming, and the next she was on her hands and knees, dirt beneath her palms, gagging. Bay sat rocking back and forth beside her. She could hear him muttering into his knees, repeating his brother's name over and over again.

It couldn't be him. It can't be him.

Earlier Joey had mentioned Bayden's absence. What had he said? Something about a friend in Northside? Telling bad jokes and keeping his mother up worrying. But Bayden was not in the Northies, and he would never would tell a joke again.

It couldn't be him. It can't be.

And yet, besides for the slash across the neck made more gruesome by decay and vermin, besides for the blue skin, besides for the bloated-ness and besides for the setting, it was Bayden. An older, shorter version of Joey-just as sweet and kind.

It couldn't be him. It can't be.

A wave of nausea overpowered her body. She shook and curled into a ball, feeling hot and cold all at once. Rain pelted them, soaking her through, mixing with her tears. Numbness would come soon, it always did. She remembered the day her mother had died, she may have been only four, but the feeling of loss followed her every day-an ominous shadow echoing her loss of light.

A hand grabbed her elbow and tugged her to her feet. She crumpled, collapsing in the grip. The man jerked her back up and clasped her shoulder, squeezing so hard Hannah saw stars.

"Thought you could get away, did you? You little sewer rats." The Peacekeeper sneered. His breath smelt of pickled fish and ale-stale and putrid. Hannah pulled a face, trying to back away. "Come along then. You two got some explaining to do."

There was little point fighting. Hannah had little strength left, what she did have she used to remain upright and conscious. She wondered if Joey could stand and imagined not. If it had been Koltin down there-

The grip on her disappeared in the time it took to inhale. Hannah's full weight bore down on her unprepared legs and she collapsed into a ball, clutching at her stomach. She heard movement. Grunts of effort, the impacts of a fight. Who fought who? Who was winning? She wanted to crane her neck to look, but the thought sent her into a fit of coughs. Her eyelashes felt like spikes against the softness of her eyelids as she squeezed them shut. Why did everything hurt?

"Hey kid?" a sonorous voice said at her ear. "Kid?" A warm palm rested against her back. It did not move, neither did Hannah. She remained frozen, too afraid to look at the owner of the gentle gesture.

Finally, she looked up. There was no face. It was all covered by a hood and sash, dark and clear. A thief. A dangerous one by the looks of his bloodied clothing and gloves. Hannah narrowed her eyes. Who was he? His voice sounded so familiar. To her surprise, the thief pulled his hood and sash down, revealing a familiar face. Dark features, short dark hair, and large eyes.

"Stone?" she breathed.

The big thief nodded, assessing her from the tip of her head to her toes. He had not removed his large calloused hand from her back. Hannah did not want him to either. It was a pillar to her madness.

"What got into ye? Screaming like that attracts all sorts, ye know?"

She forced herself to swallow and nod. Joey hadn't screamed. Only she had been unable to contain the fear and shock. The scream had been primal, raw and shattering. Joey had jumped, trying to shut her up at first. His arms had circled her shoulders as he tried to sooth her to his chest, but she had kept screaming, staring at Bayden. Staring at what used to be a life and was now just an abandoned carcass, a vessel.

"Joey?" she turned to where her friend had previously sat. He was still there, shaking, rocking back and forth. If he had watched Stone arrive, he gave the event no attention. Stone followed her gaze. His hand lifted from her back as he stood. He edged towards the canal and leaned over. He stood there a moment, not moving, a large muscular statue dressed in black. A death dealer? A thief? He was surely deadly.

Hannah turned from Stone and saw the Peacekeeper that had found them lying a few feet away. Was he dead? No. His chest still rose and fell subtlely.

Stone returned, a granite expression turned down his lips. He pulled Joey to his feet before doing the same to Hannah. "I'm going to get the two of ye home."

Hannah sniffed, wiped the back of her sleeve under her nose, and forced herself to stand straight. "Not yet. I...we..."

"He was my brother," Joey said softly. "Bayden...Bayden was my brother."

Stone cringed at those words and looked over his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. Was that regret in his voice? Sadness? Was it is his own? Why was he sad? "If ye don't want me to take ye back to yer kin, where do ye wanna go? It's late and I aint leaving ye out here."

Where could they go? Back to the abandoned warehouse? Home? Sera would be angry. Sure, at first concerned, but once her worry had subsided and Hannah calmed, Sera'd be angry and start asking questions. Too many questions. Questions that were answered with well-intended answers but would fall upon unsympathetic ears. Sera would never understand.

Koltin may. Her brother wasn't the type to reject a person's beliefs and motives just because he did not share them. He'd listen to her. Maybe even understand where she was coming from. There had been countless times where Hannah had felt the urge to share what she was doing. A part of her felt he would respond with pride. She was helping the city and her family. The means may negate the reasons, but they were good reasons.

"Porter's," she heard her voice say. The old priest would be asleep, or so she hoped. Sometimes she imagined the priest sitting at his desk all through the night. Studying by candlelight, studying by starlight, but always studying.

"The church," Stone said, his voice sounding distant and distracted. He looked like he had been busy this night. His face was tight and closed, no humour softened its edges like last time. He had still been frighteningly intimidating the last time Hannah had seen him, but this time was different. She looked to his hands, expecting to see blood. Gloved up to the second knuckle, they were otherwise clean, of blood that is.

What had his business been? Had he been involved in the church's massacre? Whose man was he? "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Are you following me?"

Stone started at the question, but his brow lowered and expression closed as quickly as it had opened. "I got better things to do, lass, than follow a rascal like ye. It be luck that had me stumbling on yer path. Now, can ye walk on yer own? Do I got to pick the both of ye up?"

Hannah shook her head. "I think I can walk, but...but what about..." she looked to the canal and closed her eyes. Bayden.

"I'll get him," Stone said. "After I know the two of ye are off the street."

"What am I going to tell my mother?" Joey's voice came disjointed. He stood staring at his fingers. "What am I going to do? Who did this?"

Stone grunted. "That be a whole lot o' questions, lad. I got no answers for ye. Follow me."

They did. Through dark streets and pelting rain, under stairwells and washing lines. Rats scuttled away from their feet and alley cats hissed as they passed. The air grew colder, sharper. It hurt Hannah's skin, it hurt her muscles. Everything ached and everything shuddered. Perhaps she should go home? Sera's anger was not worth dying over, but it wasn't Sera's anger that Hannah was trying to avoid. It was her disappointment. Sera would never understand the life of a thief.

How far had they walked? It felt like hours. Stone halted them at every corner. She sometimes heard the reasons why-Peacekeepers, barfights, thieves-but other times they seemed to wait for nothing. Three figures, one enormous, one small and thin, and the other a bag of quaking bones, standing miserably in the dead of night.

Hannah did not know when she fell, one moment she was walking and the next she felt hard cold under her fingers. She battled to her feet, lost, and collapsed. She tried holding on, fighting off the darkness, but it chased her, burned, chilled and finally, consumed her.

Logan closed the book before him, leaned back against the couch, and sighed. He sat on the rug before the fire, Barrett at his side, cradling an old ledger by a deceased palace scribe. Cadavan Hobbleby. A name for bards or reluctant, unexpected heroes. A name that apparently had quite a lot to say about cob trade, and a name that had recorded quite a sum of diaries.

Logan uncrossed his legs then re-crossed them, this time a different ankle above the other. Barrett felt the movement and sighed, lifted his head, and rested again on Logan's lap. Habitually, Logan placed his hand on the dog's temple and began stroking.

Hobbleby had interesting opinions. He proposed that cob was older than everyone assumed and had been circulating the city for years before it became a problem. He suggested it was perhaps first seen as a herb before its other properties became more popular. He claimed to have never tasted it but seen it in its true form. A spiked weed. A drawing had accompanied the entry as well as a very astute description. A few entries later, however, Hobbleby became less certain that his discovery held any merit. Logan looked to the mountain of Hobbleby diaries and records sitting on his desk and sighed. One of those was sure to hold some clue, and less likely, answers.

Someone knocked, soft and hesitant. After years of interruptions, Logan recognized a deliberate knock from an uncertain one.

"Come in," he called, pushed himself to his feet, and pivoted to face the guest. He almost dropped the book on Barrett's head at the sight of Gemima in her gown. "Milady?" he cleared his throat. "The hour is rather unseemly."

"Apologies, Your Highness, but I couldn't sleep and-" she blinked, tightened her closed robe, and flushed. The color of her blush matched the fur that lined her collar. "I should go."

"No, I didn't mean," Logan cleared his throat again. "I...you...I was not expecting visitors. Would you like to sit?" He indicated to the untouched cushions.

Gemima regarded the couch and must have noticed. "I did not mean to disturb. Were you reading?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I had stopped. I was..." Logan took a steadying breath. "Forgive me. I feel I am making no sense."

A haunted smile crossed Gemima's features. "If you would prefer your own company I would understand. I thought perhaps...well it doesn't matter."

"No, please. Come in. I feel I have been terribly rude. Were you unable to sleep?"

Gemima nodded and looked from Logan to the seat. "I suppose this is rather unseemly. A woman showing up at a prince's private study in the middle of the night."

Logan laughed. The sound was hollow to his ears. He wished he could sound more sincere. "I swear to tell no one if you do."

Gemima's grin was hesitant but dazzling. It bloomed like a flower reaching for the sun. Logan felt heat in his cheeks, and not the warmth from the fire, but a heat of recognition, of response.

"What were you reading?" she stepped into the room. Logan moved to sit in an armchair as she settled on the couch. The cushions dipped in welcome, surrounding her with their softness and scent. She petted Barrett, the old hound stretching and moaning at the short exchange. Her eyes roamed the room, moving from the fire, to the bookshelves, to the tardy furniture and finally, the crowded desk. "Cadavan Hobbleby? Is he an author of some sort?"

"A scribe, actually," Logan turned over the book he held and handed it to her. She took it and flipped it open to the first page.

"A well-known one?"

"Not particularly," Logan shrugged.

"What is it about him that has caught your attention?"

Logan sensed her studying him. He felt too awkward to look at her. Why had he invited her in? Visitors were not prone to stumble by his sanctuary. "I'd say his humour, but I'm afraid he has none. He is a rather curt fellow. Or was. He is some decades deceased."

Gemima nodded, reading the first page before handing the book back to Logan. She settled further into the couch and gazed into the fire. The flames danced in her bright eyes, sparkled there like sun rays. Her skin seemed to glow as if lit from within. She was achingly beautiful. A temptress to some men, a prize to others, but to Logan, a mystery and a source of confusion.

"Was there a reason you could not sleep?" The question was blunt and rude, and Logan wished he had thought of another. What nightmares afflicted her? Were her rooms not comfortable? Was she hungry?

"Reason?" she repeated softly. "Yes," she met his gaze, "my mind kept conjuring thoughts of blood and death...and blame."

"Because of tonight's events?"

She nodded. "The man who gave me that coin...he did not seem like a killer." Her eyes widened, surprised. "I never meant to say that aloud."

Logan smiled and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I am familiar with the feeling." Barrett sighed loudly and lifted his head to look at Logan. Logan imagined accusation in his deep brown eyes. "Perhaps the man that gave you that coin was not the man who killed tonight."

"That is the very thought that I cannot escape. It makes me wonder about how much is a false accusation. What if the Thief King is a killer, not a thief?"

"What do you imagine him to be?"

She pursed her lips, a small frown drew her brows together. "I am not sure. Perhaps a vigilante?"

"A misunderstood hero?"

"Or a misguided one."

Logan snorted. "It is hard to imagine but not impossible." There was something hopeful in the way Gemima looked at him. As if her conjectures might prove true if he would just believe in them. "It would make a pretty tale: The mystery that haunts the city's streets with violence and fear holds the moral standards of a man straight out of a work of fiction. Life is far less simple than good and evil, right and wrong, light and dark. It has shades and depth that not even the greatest author could capture."

"Then you will agree that a murder in a rabbit's eyes is survival in that of a fox?"

Such compassionate words from a woman who had likely not suffered a day in her life. "So what afflicts you then? The fact that an innocent man may be accused of murder? Or that his reasons may be valid?"

"Maybe a bit of both? Who are we to look down upon the people of this city and judge their reasons?"

Logan titled his head at that. Such a strange woman she was.

"I have offended you. I never meant to. I merely-"

"You have not offended me, just surprised me."

She dropped her gaze and pulled at her robe.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of. Please, I meant no offense." This was turning into a comedy performance. They apologized more than they spoke, and when one of them did speak, it drew yet more apologies. What would Bastian say? Smooth, confident, charming Bastian.

"What keeps you up, My Lord?" Gemima asked before Logan could conjure Bastian's allure. Gemima's expression was earnest, however. She truly wished to know.

"Hobbleby," he said plainly.

"Has he caught you in a web of rapture and intrigue, My Lord?"

Logan laughed, shook his head, and kept his gaze on Barrett. "Hardly. From his writing, I have concluded that Mister Hobbleby was a bland and disliked old man. His fallacies are the only thing that hold merit after his death. Everything else is contrite and irrelevant. Palace politics and drama. In the first book alone he has described disagreements that he claimed not to be of his making."

"You think otherwise?"

Logan rubbed his palm on the back of his neck again, the built up tension particularly painful this night. "I think men who think themselves above base necessities liars."

"So if not for his wit and charm, what has caught your attention in Mister Hobbleby's accounts?"

Logan regarded Gemima before paging through the journal to find the drawing. He then handed the book over and studied her reaction.

"This is that herb you were speaking of? Cob? Was that what you called it?"

Logan nodded. He stood and paced to his desk. "I have a feeling that somewhere in these books is the true origin of the drug. There has to be. No other palace scholar has mentioned it besides for Mister Hobbleby, and I cannot imagine after forty years as a scribe and scholar he died with no results."

"Why is it important to know its origin?"

Logan rested a hand on the top of the pile. So many words. So many tales. How was he to get through it all without wasting away in his study? He had thought it possible to skim through the journals at first but realized he would miss out on details that could prove useful. "I never thought it important until tonight." He leaned his back against the desk. "When I mentioned it to you earlier, it had never been on the forefront of my mind. When the...news arrived, I came back to the notion that we were all missing something. I cannot put my finger on what, but my instinct is pushing me towards here. This. These." He gestured to the books. "I may be mad to think so, but I cannot imagine thinking elsewhise."

Gemima stood and joined him. Her shoulder brushed his for a second before she placed a respectable distance between them. As if it would make a difference. They were alone together, that was all the gossip mills needed to spread word of taint and scandal. He rounded the desk, the wood a physical barrier, an obstacle.

"Do you think you might need help?" Gemima asked, her graceful fingers running down the spines of each book. Again Logan thought to ask if she played any instrument. "Would you want help?"

Logan snapped his eyes from her fingers. "Help?"

"Reading," she smiled. "You have quite the sum to get through, My Lord. I am a quick reader, and that is not to say I miss out on information. I absorb stories like a desert in a rainstorm."

Logan stared at her. Help? Why would she want to embark on such a task? Such a boring task? He may be wrong. All these books may hold nothing but the rants and qualms of an old man. "I cannot ask such a task of you."

"But you are not asking. I am offering. I am asking. May I help?" Her soft eyelashes fluttered closed, fanning across her cheekbones. "It may distract me from other...thoughts."

"It may lead us towards such thoughts too."

She inhaled and then looked at him, eyes bright and astute. She knew that already, and something about her gaze told Logan she was hoping for such a scenario. "It is a risk I am willing to take."


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