Book 4 - Chapter 148 (Patreon)

In the light of a gas furnace, Vera raised the monocle by its long golden handle, peering over the others around the wooden table in Vasili’s inner chamber. Her gaze moved over the changed figures of Stenka, Casimir, and Laszlo. Their eyes, however, were glued to what lay on the table. The spoils of victory: gold bars, coins, and unique unblessed items. The hoard was carefully guarded by Buttons.

Swooping that up had been simple, as he had not suffered a loss in manpower compared to the decimation of the other crews. Now Wretch leaned back in his creaking chair, inspecting his claws. “You have to bind it to yourself. Peer within and the flame will give you all the details you need.”

Vera tilted her head, and a flash of weak fire lit her pupils. She trailed her gaze over Stenka and the other two thieves. “Interesting. I can see some features of your original bodies. I wonder what…” Her gaze moved to Wretch and froze there.

Wretch himself was staring at the ceiling. “Damn, he found my spy. That might complicate things, but at least he is down there.” He straightened and cracked his neck. “What do you see then, Vera? A young man, or something else?”

Vera lowered the monocle and blinked, her skin flushing pale.

“You can tell me, I won’t be angry,” Wretch said.

The girl found her voice. “Too many… Too many things. Humans and strange monsters all morphed into one. Mouths, wings, and eyes. All staring back at me.”

“Best not look then. The Widow also had a dress of some kind, but it was destroyed in the battle” Wretch continued.

At the other end of the table, Stenka made his move, slowly creeping a hand towards a coin barely out of reach. Buttons shot her wings wide, giving a threatening caw. The man jolted back.

“Let them, Buttons, we have no use of such things anymore,” Wretch said and leaned forward. He still carried the skin of Vasili, and the chair squeaked under his weight.

“What do you mean, lord?” Laszlo said, scratching at the bandage on his neck, a mark left by the Geld’s men. The three thieves, however, had proved their mettle in that fight, using the stolen bodies of Vasili’s closest men—well, maybe not Stenka. He had been knocked unconscious at the very start and still carried a bulge on the side of his temple.

“Now…” Wretch began, looking at his closest underlings, though his gaze was fixed on something distant. “There is only one Underlord left. The power balance that kept Vasili in check has been broken. I had thought the Father had left them alive for their use, but he really does love all his children.”

“So you’re staying?” Stenka said, eyes still on the treasure hoard and the winged beast guarding it.

Vera shook her head. “No, he’s leaving.”

Wretch nodded. “A gearhead will come around, just like last night. They’ll deliver an invitation this time. An invitation to meet with the Father, and I’ll accept.”

Casimir, who had the largest frame of the three, shifted his gaze in palpable unease. “You’re not going to fight him, are you? He’s a god. Without him and his engine, we’ll all die by the next blizzard.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not here for him.”

A knock on the door. “Master Vasili, a letter has arrived for you, fancy stuff with a red mark and everything!” came a voice through the thick door. An envelope slid under the gap.

Buttons cast Stenka a knowing glance and burst into the air, snatching the letter from the ground and swerving to land on Wretch's shoulder.

The other four exchanged glances as he ripped it open and pored through its contents.

“At first I feared you physically, but now I don’t know what is scarier, your planning or your brutality,” Stenka said, knitting his fingers together as if not to steal out of habit.

“In the morning, I’m expected at an elevator above the furnace. Good.” He rose and turned, speaking over his shoulder. “I’m not coming back, and you know what that means?”

“You’re going to murder us? Aren’t—” Stenka said without a moment of delay.

“Of course not!” Wretch said. “As I said, I’m not here for you. But this is the last chance you have to change. To carry the skin of another. Because when the rest of the gangs find out that I’m gone, you can imagine what will happen…”

The three thieves and Vera looked at each other.

“I’m quite thankful for this form,” Laszlo said, inspecting his hand.

Stenka licked his lips and gestured to the hoard. “More importantly, what about all this?”

Wretch shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care.”

“Really?” The four exclaimed in unison.

Wretch couldn’t help but chuckle. “I take it you are all content. Good. I wish you farewell, then. I don’t know what happens with our connection when I die. But know that if you hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, I might just shatter your heart.”

Vera stood up and rushed around the table to grab the cuff of his linen shirt. “Before you go, let me read your fate without that shield. I’ll learn from it, grow!”

Wretch looked at the tiny girl—so out of place in their midst, yet perfectly comfortable. “I dare only remove it for a moment.”

She nodded, and with a sigh, Wretch unclipped the locket from his wrist. After all he had put it through, even the Blessed item protecting him from divination had begun to carry marks, scratches, and bruises that, with time, would shatter it.

It will suffice. I won’t need you for long.

“Go on,” he said as the three thieves watched from the other side of the table.

Vera’s eyes lit with fire, and a knit appeared in her brow. She stared at him for only a moment. And then, a step back. Wretch clipped on the locket again.

“What did you see?” Casimir exclaimed.

“It was… It was dark as soot. I’ve never seen that before. Like you are heading for an execution.”

Wretch flashed them a smile. “Do with the treasure what you will. And thank you for being useful. Live long and uneventful lives free of the flame if you can, and never grow attached to anything or anyone, because losing it will hurt so much more than having it in the first place.”

The four faces stared as he lumbered deeper into his abode, then out of sight. He could still sense them. And it only took a few quick moments before they began dividing loot and making plans.

Certain death, huh? That doesn’t mean certain failure.

He climbed down the elevator shaft with Buttons in tow. The crow cawed solemnly, turning its head back towards the way they had come.

“Yes, they were fun. But there is still one person we have to say goodbye to.”

He disappeared down the dark tunnels. The empty shafts spiraling through the dark were etched with markings of his own design. An hour later, up in the Cold-Circle, a recognizable face walked into the light of frostbitten lampposts. Here, cold reigned. And the young man with his sharp features was poorly dressed for the occasion. A thin jacket and a black hat. Kiprian, the former convict given a second chance in the war, had returned. His story was not an uncommon one. To the outside, he was one of many who had fallen into old dealings with the gangs of the city. And now he returned empty-handed to his place of origin. Though that was not the full truth.

A bird swooped through the air above, circling down to a certain door.

He didn’t knock, for he knew the one inside couldn’t open it. A finger morphed into a claw, bypassing the lock with a soft click.

In through the airlock of Baba’s home. The first soul he had met in this city.

“Baba,” he called. But no answer came, only a questioning caw from his shoulder where Buttons perched. He walked in without taking off his shoes, stepping past machines and levers that now had a thin layer of dust.

A rattling breath from the tiny bedroom.

Wretch moved soundlessly into the tiny space. A nightstand filled to the brim with food and water, courtesy of the men he had sent to feed her. And there she was. Lying cradled in quilts and sheets. Her skin was yellow with the luster of wax. Eyes closed. She had been old when he first met her, marked by wrinkles and a weak mind. Now she looked to be falling apart at the seams.

After a few long moments, another breath, making her move in a way that somehow felt unnatural. It came to him then that he had seen hundreds of men perish. Some screaming in fountains of blood, others taken by cruel infections. But never had he seen someone pass from old age.

For a few minutes, he and Buttons just stood there, watching her breathe. His spy— a rat hiding under the bed—he sent away. Finally, the bird jumped down onto the bed, snatching a stale piece of bread from the stand and poking it towards her mouth.

“It’s no use. Her time has come, and not even I can stop it,” Wretch said, and removed his hat to hold it against his chest.

Her eyes opened, dim and teary. Her gaze traveled from the roof to the bird, and finally found him.

“You came back,” she said.

Wretch stood still. “Yes.”

For several moments, Baba just stared at him. Perhaps she saw something he didn't. “I thought you left. Why did you come back?”

“I’m not really sure. Perhaps I just wanted to ask you what happened in Nov Yanosk a thousand years ago?”

Her gaze never left him. “Nov Yanosk, I remember it. I remember the spires, the two suns. They were so warm to the skin. My mother… her face is gone now.”

Wretch didn’t push her, nor did he need to, for she continued unperturbed. “I met the Father then. A war had swallowed the world in the old days, they said. A war between the lords of the flame. And now only two remained. The Saint didn’t want us, so her people began to hunt us down. She was waiting for something, so we ran...”

Wretch didn't nod or smile. “So you fled here. And the Father?”

Baba took a deep breath. “The cold took many, the Saint took more. Others were lost in the tunnels. He was wounded. I carried him deep, bolted him to a machine to keep him alive. Tubes through the back of his skull. Knitted him close with steel wire. He closed the gates, etched the names of the ones lost onto its surface.”

“I see…” Wretch said.

For a stretch of time, no more words were spoken. Finally, Buttons burrowed into the quilts. She closed her eyes, all the while he just stood there. Listening to the silence between her breaths grow.

Just when he thought her time had come, she looked at him again.

“Kiprian, is that really you?” she asked.

Now it was Wretch’s time to hesitate. “No, I killed him. I am something else.”

He’d imagined such a revelation would have been more than enough to push her over the edge, but in that respect he was wrong. For she gazed at him with a sudden clearness.

“I knew you weren’t him. I knew he wouldn’t return. My sons and their kin never do. But I was glad to not be alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Wretch answered.

A hand so thin it revealed every bone shuddered out of the quilts to let the fingertips trail over Buttons' feathers.

“You are here for revenge, aren’t you? You all are...”

A boiler clicked in the next room over.

“Yes. There is nothing I can do about it. I am who I am.”

Baba locked eyes with him. And this time he felt her presence. Free of muddled thoughts and hazy memories. “Walk away, child,” she said. The words spoken with the clarity of an open sky. “I’ve lost things for a dozen lifetimes. I’ve felt the anger, the hatred, and for a thousand years, I walked away. It’s still worth it, whoever you are—it’s still worth it. You breathe, month after month, year after year. Weave this into the story of you. Child, you can still walk away.”

Wretch stared at her. How many pleas had he denied to turn back from this search for violent retribution against his Captain’s killer and the world itself? Several, all from the few people he had ever cared for. He had never even considered it with a single, minuscule fiber of his being. Until now. Delivered by the words of a dying woman whose only family he had slain.

Baba closed her eyes as he stood there, pondering her words, and left it all behind. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Her words were a soothing balm to a fatal wound. This road he had walked down, he would reach its end.

Baba didn’t answer, nor did she take another breath. A glow from her chest struggled through the sheets, shining onto Kiprian’s features. Later that night, the youngling left with his black bird on his shoulder. In Baba’s home, the heater had been turned off, her body left where it lay with the glowing coal in her chest—undesecrated.

As the lamppost shone to signal morning in the cone-shaped city, Vasili exited a tunnel in the Fumes. The same black bird on his shoulder. He wore a wide coat that reached his ankles, even despite his now impressive length.

He looked out over the city, listening to the hum of the engine below. Buttons cawed, and he looked to the left and right. This particular alley was free of gearheads, at least for now.

“If I’m ready?” Wretch answered the bird. “I have only one last thing to do.”

Buttons turned her head toward him and fixed him with a black eye.

“To let you free. The Furnace is no place for a crow, and I don’t plan on returning. There are pigeons here in the Fumes. You’ll be fine. Thank you, Buttons, I couldn't have asked for a better spy.”

Buttons cawed in fury. But his control over his subjects had improved since the day he had first trapped the bird through a broken window. His will was steel, and he forced her to take flight even as she cawed in anger. He heard her calls echo over the rumble of the Furnace below.

How easy it was to grow attached. He flashed a quick look at the locket on his wrist and the picture inside, silencing the monster in the mirror as it threatened to speak, then walked to the waiting elevator to the Father's abode.

Another step.