7. Maris
MARIS
The café locks for the afternoon, and I am in the main room with Grath, staring at the pile of supplies I've assembled. Dark hoodies. Baseball caps. A pair of sunglasses with lenses so big they could double as dinner plates.
"This is what spies wear?" Grath picks up one of the hoodies, holding it between thumb and forefinger like it might bite.
"We're not spies. We're concerned citizens conducting surveillance."
"Spies."
"Fine. Amateur spies. The worst kind." I grab the other hoodie and pull it over my head, immediately regretting the choice. It smells like the back of my closet and moth balls. "We need to look inconspicuous."
Grath looks at me. Then at the hoodie in his hand. Then back at me.
"You want me to be inconspicuous."
"Yes."
Grath gestures at himself, at all of himself, from his considerable height down to his broad shoulders, the expanse of his chest, the sheer undeniable presence he takes up in my small café. One arm sweeps through the air as if to encompass the totality of the problem.
"Me."
I meet his eyes, trying to project confidence I absolutely do not feel. "That's the general idea."
He holds the hoodie up to his chest. It barely covers his torso, stopping somewhere around his ribs. The sleeves wouldn't make it past his elbows.
"This will not work."
I cross my arms, defensive even though I know he's right. "It's all I have that's even remotely your size."
"It's a child's shirt." He says it without heat, just stating fact, the way he might observe that the sky is blue or that the kitten has knocked over another mug.
"It's an adult large," I counter, knowing even as I say it how absurd it sounds.
"For humans." He pauses, still holding the hoodie at arm's length, examining it with the sort of resigned patience usually reserved for explaining basic concepts to very small children.
Then he looks at me, one eyebrow raised in that particular way that somehow makes me feel both foolish and fond at the same time. "Small humans."
I press my fingers to my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind my eyes. This is already going poorly and we haven't even left the building.
"Okay. New plan. You wear your regular clothes but try to look. Less noticeable."
"How."
"Slouch. Hunch your shoulders. Blend into the background."
Grath straightens to his full height, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Everything about his posture screams notice me.
"Like this?"
"The exact opposite of that."
He frowns, then curls forward, rounding his spine until he looks like a question mark made of muscle and tension. His knees bend, his arms dangle, and his head tilts at an unnatural angle.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "You look injured."
"I look small."
"You look like you need medical attention."
He straightens again with a huff. "I don't know how to be small."
"It's fine. We'll work around it." I grab the baseball cap and jam it onto his head. The brim sits at an odd angle, too high on his skull, the band straining against the circumference. "There. Better."
"I can't see."
"Tilt it back."
He does. The cap immediately pops off and falls to the floor.
The kitten, who has been watching from its perch on the pastry case, chirps with what I swear is amusement.
"Traitor," I mutter at it.
Grath picks up the cap, turning it over in his hands like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why do spies wear these?"
"To hide their faces," I explain, reaching for the cap again.
"From who?" He tilts his head, genuinely curious, like we're discussing the finer points of bread-making rather than basic surveillance techniques.
"From the people they're spying on." I try to settle the cap back onto his head at a different angle, but the proportions are simply wrong. His skull is too broad, the ridge of his brow too pronounced. The cap perches on top like a tiny roof on a cathedral.
"Won't they see us anyway?" He ducks his head to peer at me from under the crooked brim, which immediately sends it sliding sideways again.
I catch it before it falls, my fingers brushing against the rough texture of his hair. "Not if we're sneaky."
He looks at me. Really looks at me, his eyes dark and serious under the harsh overhead lights. "Maris. I am not sneaky."
"I know that." The admission comes out quieter, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator units behind the counter.
"I am loud and big and people notice me everywhere I go." He says it matter-of-factly, without heat or bitterness, just stating an observable truth like he might comment on the weather or the color of the sky.
"I know that too." My throat feels tight.
He shifts his weight, the baseball cap still dangling from one massive hand, fabric stretched and misshapen from our attempts to make it fit. His gaze doesn't waver from mine. "So why would you want me to come with you on this thing? Why not ask someone who can hide?"
"Because I need you." The words come out sharper, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest tighten. "I can't do this alone. And you're. You're good at things I'm not. You're brave and protective and you don't second-guess yourself. So we'll figure out the sneaky part together. Okay?"
He goes still. The cap dangles from his fingers, forgotten.
Then he nods. Once. Firm and sure.
"Okay."
The stakeout plan is simple. Janelle's office sits above a small accountancy firm on the north edge of town, accessible by a fire escape that connects to the neighboring building's roof. We'll set up there, watch her comings and goings, and hopefully catch something incriminating.
In theory, it's foolproof. In practice, it's a masterclass in how badly two people can fail at something as simple as climbing a ladder.
"Stop stepping on my fingers," I hiss, trying to keep my voice low while simultaneously trying to keep all ten digits attached to my hands.
"Your fingers are in the way of my feet," Grath rumbles from directly above me, his massive boot descending toward my knuckles like some kind of medieval torture device.
"Because you're climbing too close to me." I flatten my hand against the rung, feeling the cold metal bite into my palm.
"There's only one ladder." He says this with the kind of patient logic that makes me want to kick him, except I'd probably lose my grip and plummet to my death, which would really ruin the whole reconnaissance mission.
"So wait until I'm higher up before you start climbing." My arms are already shaking from holding my weight. The rungs are slick with something I'm choosing not to identify.
Grath pauses, his boot hovering roughly an inch above my hand. I can see the worn tread, a nick in the leather near the toe. "How much higher?"
"More than one rung, Grath. Significantly more than one rung."
He shifts his weight, redistributing his considerable bulk, and the entire ladder creaks ominously. The sound echoes off the brick walls of the alley, a metal groan that seems to stretch on forever.
I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid. "Don't move."
"You just told me to move," he points out, perfectly reasonable and perfectly infuriating.
"I changed my mind. Stay completely still. Don't even breathe."
We hang there, suspended three stories above the ground, clinging to a rusted ladder that sways with every breath. My fingers ache. My shoulders burn. Below us, the alley is dark and empty, scattered with takeout containers and cigarette butts.
"This is a bad plan," Grath says from somewhere above me, his voice carrying that particular blend of resignation and disapproval I'm becoming intimately familiar with.
"We're committed now," I wheeze out, trying to redistribute my weight on the rung without losing my precarious handhold. My palms are slick with sweat, or maybe rust, or possibly both.
"I could jump down," he suggests, and I can hear him shifting his grip, the ladder trembling with the motion.
The mental image of him plummeting three stories to the pavement makes my stomach lurch. "You'd break your ankles. Possibly your legs. Maybe your spine, depending on how you landed."
"I'd heal." He says it matter-of-factly, like we're discussing the weather rather than compound fractures.
"Not before people asked questions." I tilt my head back, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression.
All I can see is the underside of his jaw, shadowed and stubborn.
"Questions like 'why was the orc from the café jumping off buildings in the middle of the night?
' Questions we really, really don't need right now. "
He grunts, then continues climbing. Slow and careful, each movement deliberate. The metal groans under his weight but holds.
When we finally reach the roof, I collapse onto the tar paper surface, gasping for air. My arms feel like overcooked noodles.
Grath steps over me and surveys the space with a critical eye. "This is where we hide?"
"This is where we observe."
"There's no cover."
He's right. The roof is flat and barren, dotted with vents and an ancient air conditioning unit that probably hasn't worked in a decade. Across the gap, maybe fifteen feet away, Janelle's office window glows with warm light.
I push myself to my feet, brushing tar flecks off my jeans. "We make our own cover."
From my backpack, I pull out a small tarp, some rope, and the bin of fish I'd grabbed from the café's cooler. The smell hits immediately, briny and sharp.
Grath's nose wrinkles, his expression twisting into something between confusion and offense. "Why fish?"
"In case we need a distraction." I put the bin down carefully, trying not to slosh the melted ice water over the edge.
"From who?" His brow furrows, deep creases forming across his forehead.
"I don't know. Security guards. Janelle. Whoever might show up and complicate things."
"You think fish will distract them?" The disbelief in his voice is palpable, each word drawn out like he's testing the validity of my plan by saying it slowly.