Chapter 28
Kit
“You what?” I stare dumbly after the woman as she darts down the alleyway away from me.
“Come on,” she repeats in a frustrated hiss. “You need to get off the streets.”
And since I don’t have many options right now. I follow her.
We head deeper into the alley, away from the main street and the incriminating evidence of the now beast-less wagon. I’m fully aware that I may be heading to my doom, even as I’m jogging to keep up with the woman’s longer stride.
It may not have been a wise idea to draw her attention to the wall plastered with pictures of my face and the reward they are offering for handing any of us in ’injured or intact’.
Three words that send a chill skittering down my spine.
What I’m hoping for is that she’s too wary of the authorities to shop me in.
Possibly I’m making a terrible decision, but I’m only just winning the fight with my fuzzy head and I’m practically naked in a city where I barely know a soul.
And if there’s one thing I know about this city, it’s that people care about how you look.
There’s money, prestige and power here, and a guy strutting around in his underwear and not a lot else will definitely be noticed.
The woman seems to know her way around the city’s alleyways, judging by her ease in navigating the labyrinth of side streets and backstreets.
Somehow, she picks us a route that means we pass only a handful of other people, all of them clearly too caught up in their own business to care about the two of us.
As we get further from the city centre, the backstreets seem to multiply, crossing over each other and growing narrower and narrower until the woman has trouble passing through without tackling them sideways on.
The air’s changing too, growing darker and thicker, with a multitude of scents that I’m trying not to inhale too deeply.
We turn a tight corner, winding up on an even tighter back alley that seems awfully... wet. The worn stone underfoot is covered in a dark brownish liquid that’s running in a trickling river on either side.
I don’t stop walking and instead choose to pick my way over the dry spots. “Is that blood?”
She snorts. “Dye.”
At least, I’m hoping that’s what she said.
“Manufacturing district,” she adds, waving a hand around at the stained walls and the grey dust in the air. “You don’t want to stick around for too long, or it’ll turn your lungs furry. Not far now, though. Good thing, too, since my arse sweat is dripping all over your cloak.”
I blink at her. It’s the most words she’s said to me so far, and I don’t know which part to tackle first. “Does the air not turn your lungs furry too?”
She gives me a look like she thinks I’m an idiot. “Doesn’t seem to affect us lot like it does the humans. And, no offence, but you smell pretty human to me.”
I tip my head one way and then the other. “Human-ish.”
“Probably got human-ish lungs, then. You’d last a few months, maybe, and then you’d start coughing up black stuff and then, a while later, the black stuff would be all your lungs are made of.”
“Ah.”
“It’s one reason they like our lot to take over working and living around here. None of the humans would choose to stick around, so you know if you see one, they must be pretty desperate.” She gives me a pointed look, and I snort.
“Hopefully, I won’t be hanging around long enough to send my lungs furry,” I reply.
She gives me a curt nod, turning another corner until we reach a street that’s much wider than all the others.
There are people everywhere, crowds of them making enough noise to make my sore head pound even worse.
Despite the trickles of red dye in the gutters on either side of the street, there are stalls of food and wares sellers set up just shy of the red liquid.
And, regardless of the layer of dust in the air, colourful washing hangs from windows above, and there are wires criss-crossing over themselves above our heads.
It’s busy, bustling in a different way to the main street.
The stalls act as a bottleneck, with people pausing to buy parcels that are wrapped in brown paper, blocking the way for the dozens of people streaming past. I gravitate to the nearest one, the scent of fried potatoes making my mouth water as I remember just how hungry and parched I am.
My companion nudges me as I drift closer to the front of the stall. “We’re here,” she says, gesturing to a chipped wooden doorway just behind her. “None of them up top folk will bother you down here. But I’ve got someone who’d like to meet you, if you’re willing?”
That same sense of unease hits at the reminder I’m probably walking right into a trap.
An answering wave of concern hits me in the chest, and I smother an inopportune smile from sensing Reva’s worry from afar.
Tapping my chest, like I’m able to assuage her concern, I attempt to send back some easy-breezy thoughts, although I’m not sure how successful I am.
My stomach growls, and the woman’s eyebrows fly up as her lips quirk into an amused smirk. “There’s food inside, too.”
Sold.
In a toss-up between stepping into danger and getting fed, I’m clearly led by my stomach more than my brain since I’m retreating from the stall and heading for the door she’s gesturing at.
“Gower,” she grunts at me as she pushes open the door. At my confused expression, she shrugs. “That’s my name.”
“I’m Kit.”
Inside reveals a tight space that’s overcrowded with wooden furniture that’s seen better days.
To my right is a wooden staircase that looks like it's held up with hope and a prayer. The walls are all slightly crooked, and the ceiling dips down dangerously low in places. It’s dim too, with a single slim window at the front of the house the only light source.
There’s also a litter of puppies gamboling around the main room while a woman with one leg done up in bandages is busily limping around the kitchen.
The door snicks shut, and the woman glances over at us while Gower shifts uncertainly from foot to foot.
The clatter of metal on metal has the puppies careening to a halt as the woman stares at the two of us like she’s seen a ghost.
“Gower?” She takes a step forward before Gower strides across the room toward her.
“Where have you been?” The other woman’s voice is a screech that cuts through the room. “Did you join a cult? Find yourself a new wife? Toss your hat in with a gang of mercenaries?”
Her voice gets somehow higher and louder with every word, and Gower twists around, giving me an awkward look over her shoulder before dragging the other woman over to the opposite side of the room.
There, they have a hissed conversation while I try to meld into the walls, attempting to become one with the furniture.
It’s hard to continue acting nonchalant when I can only hear every third word and each one brings with it a fresh wave of unease.
“Trapped... collar... pirate... hiding... coins.”
I’m tempted to step outside again and head back to that stall. Maybe then I can avoid being the odd third wheel in what’s clearly a very emotional reunion. Plus, those potatoes really did smell delicious.
But before I can step outside, all three puppies burst out of their skins, shifting into the bodies of three small children with a chorus of joyful squeals.
They continue crawling all over each other, narrowly avoiding the open grate and chimney.
One of them topples over onto the threadbare carpet and lands on their bum, blinking blankly for a moment before their eyes fill with tears.
The wailing that follows fills the room is like an icepick straight into my delicate brain.
I’m bending and scooping him up before I know what I’m doing and way before I realise how inappropriate it is.
The baby stops wailing immediately, staring at me with big amber eyes that are still glistening.
I shoot an apologetic look over at Gower and the other woman who limps over to me to snatch the baby from my arms.
“He’s a chunky little fella,” I comment, handing him and his little kicking legs over.
“And you’re a pirate, wanted by the authorities.”
“Ah, I am.” I rub the back of my neck. “Well, sort of. I’m not so much a pirate as I am pirate-adjacent.”
“You freed Gower,” she continues. “Even though you don’t know us.”
“I spotted the collar and had a funny feeling about it,” I reply before peering over her shoulder to Gower, who is now slowly lowering herself to the floor while the two other small children climb all over her.
“How many others are there like you?” I ask. “I’m assuming that you weren’t doing that job by choice.”
“Initially, I was,” Gower replies, hugging one of the children to her chest and taking a deep breath as though she’s inhaling their scent.
“But it’s easier for them to keep us that way.
We don’t need so many breaks or proper food.
Don’t even need to be allowed home since they treat us just like we’re animals. ”
Before I can react to that horrifying admission, the door flies open and a teenage boy appears, one whose face hasn’t quite caught up to the size of his body.
He fills the doorway with broad shoulders and long limbs, but there’s something very young about his face, like it hasn’t quite shed its puppy stage yet.
He pauses at the threshold to take in the scene and then promptly disappears, stomping up the rickety wooden staircase sitting to the right of the door.
“Don’t mind Amble, he’s a bit shy with new folk,” the other woman tells me. “Will you sit down? You look like you’re fit to drop.”