A Secret Man of Blood

Chapter Five

Stoned with silent stares, Anya and Sig make their way through Cheapside's streets, a chorus of warning whistles accompanying their every move, slight signals from the lookouts hidden in or close to the tenements on either side indicating attention. "They're not great with outsiders, are they?" Anya whispers from the side of her mouth.

Sig subtly nods. "If you throw a stone in this community, you're likely to hit a drug dealer – and probably kill him. Different stones, different outcomes."

Anya chuckles, then looks around nervously. "As an investigator, I don't like being this obvious. I broke the number one rule—"

"Don't fall in love with a bear?"

Amused but frustrated at how casual he's being, Anya shakes her head. "Do you take anything seriously?"

"Synchronised swimming," Sig replies, his expression grave. "I'm very passionate about it."

"I don't know whether I hate you or—"

"Love me?" Sig suggests hopefully.

"—am looking forward to your death," Anya completes her sentence. "Are you wearing your lucky woollen socks?"

"At the risk of sounding too sexy: yes."

Anya laughs. She's building up a strange friendship with the perverted dwarf, so when he grabs her and hides behind a corner, peering out with a look of concern on his face, she's only mildly surprised. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"I just saw a guy I know. It's public knowledge that I've been fucking his wife for the last five years and he's never gotten used to the idea. Also, he holds a grudge against me for unknown reasons."

"How long has he held a grudge against you?"

"Approximately five years."

"I think I've figured out why he hates you," Anya says.

Sig holds up a hand to stop her. "Don't tell me! I want to figure it out on my own!" Peering out again, Sig gives a relieved sigh. "He's gone."

They continue walking, but a female figure leaps out of the shadows and puts a black sword to Anya's throat. Several archers appear and hold their bows on Sig, who tuts derisively. "Archery is just big darts!"

*

Arkady leads her prisoners to a boarded-up strip club in a rough part of town. On the door, a sign reads, "Sorry, we're closed," and she flips it around revealing a sign that reads, "Sorry, we're open."

The dwarf prisoner laughs and points at the joke sign, but his female human companion eyes Arkady and her fighters with an analytical stare as they enter the dark building, which is well-lit on the inside, but these lights are blocked by the boarded windows. They walk through a checkpoint manned by several warriors, and Arkady feels the respect and admiration of the men – but also their desire.

She is a Roenan, an Elder Race known for their ancient warrior culture and great physical beauty. A large group of fighters are congregated in the main room, and there's a natural confidence to Arkady as she walks over to Shryke, who's surrounded by a group of his men at a corner table. The prisoners are shepherded over to the gang leader.

Arkady looks at the man she's worked with for the past few months: Shryke is a little under six feet tall but powerfully built, with short black hair above eyes that are maddened hollows. Recently he looks like he's wearing the worn remnants of his life, but there's more life in Shryke than almost anyone Arkady has ever met, something underneath the surface waiting to explode, rage or tears never far from those deadly eyes. Wolves are asleep in his glances.