3 #2
The Trench is so-called because it sits at a lower altitude than Valestadt proper, but I hate the name for the way it sounds coming from the mouths of people like Gabriel.
Always clipped, edged in disdain. If someone in the Trench were to stab you, they’d look you in the eye and aim their knife directly at your stomach.
Anywhere else, they’d wait until your back was turned. And that, to me, is truly unsavory.
Despite Gabriel’s orders, I’ve been here a handful of times before.
I know where the hubs of activity are. Seeking out places where people congregate goes against all of my most basic instincts, but I’ve been a liar long enough to know how to manipulate a conversation.
I’ll find the truth about these maybe-Apostles, have an illegal drink or two, then get the hell out.
Looming silhouettes cut jagged lines through the moonlight as I slink between the rows of buildings.
At the end of the block is a former temple, its stained-glass windows now serrated, gaping eyesores.
The door hangs haphazardly from its hinges, and at the top of the steps lies a huddled human shape.
I drag my gaze away, boots crunching on the broken glass beneath me.
I can’t make out the faces of those I encounter—most move quickly, obscured by the shadows of nearby buildings, shoulders hunched—but the difference in their attire is stark.
Gone are the smart suits and silk dresses commonly seen in Valestadt proper; here, dark neutrals and threadbare fabrics reign.
When I reach the place known colloquially as the Gambling District, the roads become more crowded.
I pass several people slouched on the ground, expressions vacant and jaws slack.
One such woman lifts her head as I go by.
I expect her to ask for money, but she only stares at me, her gaze wide and bloodshot and arresting.
Purple smudges bloom at her thin neck and crowd her jawline, as though her diseased blood leads a slow but relentless effort to overtake her face.
No doubt a former hired sinner, cast aside once the madness took hold.
I repress a shudder. All at once I feel uneasy in my own skin, as if there’s something poisonous inside of me, clawing along my veins. I’m brutally aware that I’m looking at my future self.
Assuming I make it that far.
I follow two other women down a side street, keeping my distance.
They stop outside a nondescript, dingy place with a peeling sign that says Tuonela’s.
Despite its outward appearance, it’s clearly popular, which means whatever crime syndicate supplies the alcohol must be good at it.
A bouncer in a worn overcoat is minding the door, but he moves aside when the taller woman whispers something in his ear.
I trace the handle of my gun, considering the bouncer. He’s near my age, probably early twenties at most, and holds an illegal cigarette between his teeth. I sidle up to him and paste on my best smile. “Do I have to get by you if I want in?”
His face is set in an uncompromising scowl. “Do you know tonight’s password?”
Fuck. I don’t recall needing a password at any of the other establishments.
I widen my eyes, feigning embarrassment.
“I mean, I did. I can’t seem to remember it now.
I was counting on my friends to do that.
” My laugh is high-pitched as I gesture at the door through which the two women just disappeared. “They were supposed to wait for me.”
The bouncer’s eyes are half lidded in bored irritation. He crosses his arms, and I can see faint striations where the Bloodrot encircles his wrists. “No password, no entry.”
“Come on,” I say teasingly. “I’m sure you can make an exception.”
“The owner doesn’t make exceptions, and neither do I.”
“What the owner doesn’t know won’t hurt them, will it?”
“You—” The bouncer’s scowl vanishes as something over my shoulder catches his attention. “Get out of here, lady. Rules are rules.”
Of course the first man I encounter has to go and ruin everything. I drop the act. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard way. You have exactly ten seconds to—”
This time it isn’t the bouncer who cuts me off. A cool hand fastens around my bicep, tight and insistent. I spin with my gun raised before I even know what’s happening.
The man who grabbed me relinquishes his hold, though he doesn’t appear remotely concerned about the firearm pointed in his face.
I scan him the way I would any potential threat, gaze roving from his shiny black shoes to the pale-blond hair that can’t possibly be his natural color.
Nothing about him is familiar, but he grins as if we’re already acquainted, baring too-sharp, too-white teeth.
“It’s just me, little sinner. I know how terrible your memory is.” That disarming smile is turned on the bouncer. “Rhamnousia.”
The bouncer steps aside, and I don’t miss the apprehension on his face.
The arrival of the second man has unnerved him.
I can see why: Although his build is slight, his face gaunt and angular in the way of most hired sinners, there’s an air of strangeness about him.
He looks…unnatural. Like he woke up this morning and donned the guise of a young man in his mid-twenties but didn’t quite bother to conceal the seams.
Dark designs encircle his neck, and at first I’d mistaken the ink for a high-collared shirt.
That’s interesting. Tattoos aren’t common in Sundbourg, even among sinners.
They’re a clear sign that someone has spurned the teachings of the holy book, which deems any form of body modification to be self-mutilation.
In most cases, however, tattoos are a futile attempt to camouflage effects of the Bloodrot.
“Come along,” the man directs, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes hold mine, amusement in their pale-blue depths. “I think we can put the gun away. You’re safe.”
There’s almost certainly zero truth to that, but I do as he suggests, the gears of my mind working.
He’s no doubt a patron looking to get lucky by helping me gain entrance.
I’ll play a similar role—that of a girl keen to engage in conversation with a man who obviously comes here often.
I wonder if he’s involved with a crime syndicate; it would explain both the expensive shoes and the air of insouciance.
I smile widely at him. The muscles required to do so feel underused. “Lead the way.”