CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
VESPER
On the chipped wooden counter, Vesper slapped down yet another slab of slate to add to the—according to his quick count— six others. Damn, he’d already laid down a third of what was in his coin pouch and the man still wouldn’t open his bloody mouth.
He tilted his head back to stare at the shittily patched roof. What did they use, spit and a prayer? It seemed like everything in this town was disintegrating, not just the people.
Vesper’s heavy sigh clouded his mask. Gods, what he wouldn’t give for a stiff drink and to rip this thing off his face.
To breathe some clean air after what felt like an eternity.
He missed Ellynne’s fresh seabreezes, the chilly nights by the water, the life and green and the rain. He missed the rain most of all.
Morana was dry and cracked and so godsdamned depressing, there were a handful of times he debated hurling himself off the cliffside just to avoid this blasted bloodlace for even a second.
“Look, sir,” Vesper said, his voice low.
He snuck a glance over his shoulder to glimpse Nef leaned beside the exit, a door with chipped brown paint and a handle that barely turned.
She fiddled with the plain black mask over the lower half of her face as another cough wrenched from her.
For the twelfth time today, Vesper resisted the urge to ask her how she was feeling.
Instead, he turned back to the fat fuck with that stupid bowl-like haircut.
“I know you know something. I’ve talked to over a hundred people over the last several days and every single one of them has pointed me in your greasy-ass direction.
Now, I suspect that’s for a very good reason. Or am I wrong?”
The man narrowed his eyes before he slid a hand through his hair, almost out of spite. He was only proving Vesper’s point. If he lit a match, he knew the prick’s whole head would burst into flames. In fact, he would probably take this whole bloody shack to the ground with him.
“I already told you, I don’t know the woman you’re looking for.
Though if you want to keep throwing slate at me—” The man’s wet cough rattled behind the thick cloth of his stained beige kerchief.
Vesper sprang back like the man swung a spiked mace rather than coughed up his own lungs, which evidently was the outcome of this plague.
The bloodlace settled in one's chest and ate away at their insides until they hurled them up.
All Vesper had to say to that was no fucking thank you.
Once the man regained his composure and blinked his bloodshot eyes about a dozen times, he looked Vesper up and down.
“Look, kid, I know you’re not from here.
I can tell from your fancy hair, tight pants, and that shiny blade on your back.
And as much as it would be stupidly easy to take advantage of you, I’m feeling generous today.
I’ll keep the slate and you heed my advice.
Stop looking for this Kyrith, turn around, and run your skinny, nosey butt home. ”
Vesper’s jaw clenched and he resisted the urge to fly across this counter and shake the answers out of him.
The man must have seen the look in his eye because he took a giant step back.
Or maybe it was the skeletal mask the innkeeper had fetched for Vesper.
At first he thought it was some sick joke, but upon the odd look the innkeeper gave him, he realized it was a mere coincidence.
Evidently not a commentary on Vesper’s ability to throw dead bodies around like puppets.
At least it wasn’t a crow beak. That was not the look he was going for.
“I’ll level with you—” Vesper threaded his fingers together and rested them on the counter beside the pile of slate.
His gaze slid to the man’s torn charcoal-grey shirt to search for a family crest or name tag.
This hole-in-the-wall shop was called Sephen and Son’s, so maybe that was a family name.
Either way, whatever concoctions they sold to “slow the bloodlace” was a scam.
The first evidence being the webbing in the shopkeeper's own eyes. “Sephen. Can I call you that?”
The man frowned. “Sephen is my father.”
Vesper cocked a brow. Gods, his father must be a walking corpse. The shopkeeper appeared to be at least several hundred years old with his heavily greying hair and deep lines grooved into his forehead. “Alright, then do I call you Son or what?”
“I would prefer you just leave.”
Vesper sighed a hot breath. “I need to know where this Ky—”
The doorbell jingled behind Vesper and he took a hasty step away from the counter as a cloaked woman approached.
Her garment matched her vestige in a stunning turquoise like that of the Sacred Lands.
A vestige unlike anything he’d seen before.
And even from beneath her hood, wild wavy locks of hair the colour of rich burgundy wine slipped free.
“Picking up,” she said, her voice a song. She flashed a piece of paper with a red stamp the shape of two criss-crossed cylinders. The same on the shop’s exterior sign. “Already paid.”
Vesper blinked at her, but cast his gaze to the ground. The scent of blackberries wafted off her and he resisted the urge to inhale. It reminded him of summer nights in his room at Castle Dusk. Often the smell would drift in through his window from the bushes on the ground below.
The shopkeeper reached behind him for a jar of some milky substance and set it in her hands. “Have a nice day, miss.”
The woman spun on her heel. Distracted, Vesper turned to watch her go. Because somehow, she seemed familiar.
Before the woman exited, she gave Nef a brief nod.
Vesper took his place at the counter again.
“I’m not leaving until I get my bloody answers,” he growled as he thumped his fist on the counter.
The pile of slate scattered like a handful of pebbles.
“I’ve been told you’re the one who makes things happen.
Am I wrong? Because all of those people—” He pointed blindly out the shaded window at the solemn town outside.
“They all say you keep records of every single person who buys from you. Names.”
Behind him, Vesper heard Nef slip out the door as the bell jingled and closed again with a dull click.
The shopkeeper shrank further back as his hand slid to his belt. “I already told you, I don’t know a Kyrith. Besides, this woman is likely already dead—”
“She can’t be,” Vesper snapped, his temper a hot, wild thing.
Zyphira had told him specifically to find her and surely she wouldn’t send him on a quest for a deceased woman.
“You’re my last contact. You’re the dead end.
If you don’t have answers, I’m fucked. So I need you to point me in a direction. Give me a name. Give me something.”
The shopkeeper’s brows creased in a look of pity that only sparked fury within him. “Alright, there’s one piece of information I can give you. But I know little of it and really, they’re just rumours. Legend, really.”
“Go on,” Vesper said. His heart sped to a gallop.
All he could think as he met this man’s lifeless black eyes streaked in red, was how badly he needed answers.
How time was running out. How the Council’s date loomed closer.
How his home would be ripped out of his hands.
How he would let Briar, Cal, Marlys, and now Emmery down, if he didn’t find Kyrith. And fast.
“Out with it,” Vesper prompted.
“There are these, I guess they’re creatures. They’re called Gravers.” The man glanced behind Vesper before his gaze slid back. Bored.
“What the fuck are Gravers? And why haven’t I heard of them?”
“They’re not exactly friendly. Or easy to find. But they’re wise. They can answer questions most can’t. That’s all I know, kid.”
Vesper scrubbed a hand down his face both in relief and irritation. It was something. “Where are they located?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Come on. Does anyone else know about them? I could ask—”
“Somebody told me many years ago, but I don’t recall their name.”
“Maybe another piece will refresh your memory.” Vesper reached into his coin pouch and retrieved another two slate. He tossed them onto the counter next to the others. There was no other leverage he could offer.
The shopkeeper eyed the black diamonds before his expression shifted to one of irritation and he scooped it off the counter into his pocket. “No name. But thanks for the slate, kid. Now get out. I’m done.”
Vesper’s jaw clenched. He didn’t need the slate but he couldn't leave like this. “Are there novels about Gravers? If there’s a library or bookshop or—”
“No more.” The shopkeeper nodded at the door. “Out.”
Desperation rose in Vesper’s throat. “You don’t understand—”
“You don’t fucking listen do you?” The man rolled his eyes. “I’ve given you information. I can’t make myself more clear. Now leave my shop before I force you out.”
“Don’t be like this. From one lost man to another. Come on.” It was pathetic, but he had no other choice. “I can’t go home like this.”
He couldn’t return to Ellynne without answers. Without any word on the prophecy or Izzy. Without helping Emmery. Fuck, he had to make this work. Frustration, not only for the situation but toward himself, simmered in his gut.
The door jingled and the man’s gaze slid to Nef as she reentered the shop and coughed a guttural rattling sound. “On second thought, maybe some name will pop back into my head if I take your girl into the back and have her suck my—”
Then, like a heavy boot stomped on a mound of twigs, Vesper snapped.
He lunged across the counter, grasped the man’s filthy shirt and hauled him forward. At the same time, Vesper snatched a blade from his belt and held it under the man’s chin. Jabbed the tip into flesh until a bead of blood trickled down.
“You don’t even get to look at her,” Vesper growled. “Got it?”