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6. Madvilliany

  Chapter 6

  Madvilliany

  Davenport was no port, instead a single long, dour street known for stolen cars and domestic abuse. Terraced houses, built some 60 years ago during a failed attempt at reforming the Slouch, lined either side of the street, separated from the road by pavement and foot-deep guttering that kept the rain from flooding.

  As Dusk walked down the street, he counted his steps through the dark, in between the small sanctuaries of light provided by the neon signs affixed to the fronts of houses. There silhouettes argued in the distance. Dusk could hear a man and a woman arguing. She was slapping at him, craning her hand back and hitting his shoulder while he barked back about some other man. As they caried their argument further down the road, Dusk saw her clasp the wrist of a young child and drag them along. Should he intervene? Orphanages in the Slouch didn’t really improve a child’s chances. There was always the Big Top…

  Dusk grinded his teeth and crossed the road, he was getting near to the address that Edgar had given him. Between two sets of terraced houses lay a thin alleyway that led towards a choked canal. Dusk could smell drenched trash wafting from the canal and through the alley.

  Walling the path was an old, red-brick house with a tiled roof. Two cars sat outside on the pavement, without a driveway to excuse themselves to. The lights were on, and Dusk could hear the odd bump of music blasting though speakers. Standing outside, he counted the shadows dancing in the windows, their arms raised in the image of a pit of snakes. Seven, at least. They’d have knives and small firearms, no doubt. He couldn’t take that many at once by himself.

  What were the chances that they’d quietly accept his questioning? As soon as the thought entered Dusk’s head, he dismissed it. The kinder Cranes in these parts might do him the courtesy of threatening him before they tried to kill him.

  Sighing in the rain, Dusk walked towards the alleyway. On the other side of the house was a ‘garden’ walled by a chain link fence. Whatever turf laid down here had been bogged and rotten under the rain, then replaced with gravel. Still, as Dusk looked through the window and into the darkened kitchen, he failed to find any signs of life. They were congregated in one room. Good.

  Taking two quick steps towards the garden, Dusk kicked off of the ground and hauled himself over the fence, landing as silently as possible on the stones and creeping towards the back door. Trying the handle, Dusk tutted in annoyance to find it locked. He could smash the glass and unlock it, but that would give up his element of surprise. Taking a step back from the door, he looked to the upstairs windows. One of them had been slid open, letting the night air filter out the smell of drugs. The rest of the wall was bare, save for guttering pipes that climbed the far corner.

  Dusk drew a pair of thick, gardeners gloves from his pockets and slipped them on as he approached the pipe. Giving it a cautious tug at first and finding it study enough to withstand the force, he slowly started to lean his weight on it. The pipe didn’t move. Perfect. Wrapping both hands around it and planting his feet against the wall, Dusk slowly started to climb the pipe. At the halfway point, when his head was just coming to the height of the open window across the wall from him, he heard a person’s voice coming from inside the room he sought to enter. The light flicked on, their shoulders and the back of their head poked out as they leaned against the inside of the room.

  “Can’t let them start thinking they run things, you know?” The man’s voice sounded like he’d been swallowing glass for years, cut up and sharp. Dusk kept climbing, hustling to haul himself onto the roof of the building. The sound of rain had softened, often waxing and waning over the course of the night. Dusk dropped eves as he navigated across the roof, crouching above the open window.

  “They come in here with money and new shit, acting like they can fling pennies at us and get us to do their grunt work. Fuck that. We take what we want.” A bit of bile rose up as the man cursed his unidentified benefactors. He paused to cough, turning his head out of the window to spit the offending muck out into the garden. From above, Dusk could see balding spots and burn marks between fading remnants of blond hair. Just at his temple, the man had a tattoo of a moth.

  Dusk’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the image of the insect. A chill raced up his spine. The image of a dead woman, laying in the mud with moths clinging to her face flashed into his mind. Dusk wanted to scream. Closing his eyes slowly, he took a deep breath to calm himself. From the other side of the house, he heard a car pull up to park. Dusk crept up the roof to take a head count of the new vehicles passengers.

  As soon as he did, a lump caught in his throat and a fire roared to life in his stomach.

  Parking neatly along the pavement just behind the house was a long, black car with the silver adornment of a mastiff on its hood. No sooner than the car coming to a stop, the door clicked open and out stepped a man in a long, black coat; a plague doctor’s mask obscuring his face. A tile snapped beneath Dusk’s grip. Every silent step that the man took drew him closer to the house, closer to Dusk, who could hear his heart beating with quickening fervour.

  Dusk shifted a little further along the roof, moving to its edge to watch the plague doctor as he climbed the patio stairs towards the door. As he did, a crying hum started to drone from around him. He was activating a Resonance.

  Wincing in pain, Dusk shot his hand to the old wound above his hip. It was foggy, but he could remember things. He remembered Franz’s stone angel lifting him off the ground. He remembered hearing a muffled, condescending voice. He remembered the mask… This man was there. He was there that night. He was there. Dusk did nothing while he processed the resurgence of memories. Franz’s body had no cuts deep enough to kill him, he hadn’t been touched by a bullet. They found him dead in the rain without cause. The autopsy had settled on poison as the only plausible explanation… The sound of the resonant hum, the flood of retuning memories, Dusk started to question the doctors’ wisdom.

  As the moaning chant settled, Dusk studied the man for any sign of change. He found nothing. The plague doctor knocked at the door, standing patiently before it. Bottles crashed inside the house before the door slung open and a gun cocked.

  “Who the-“ The gun fell to the ground, clattering off of the patio and into the rain-soaked gravel at the front of the house.

  “Thank you.” The man nodded politely before stepping into the house. From above on the roof, Dusk could see a tattooed, boil covered arm bent uncomfortably over the door frame, catching the first droplets of water. He raced to the back of the roof, thudding over the tiles as he darted to the guttering pipe. Whatever information Edgar’s man had could wait.

  Getting to the edge of the roof, Dusk slid over and clasped his hands around the pipe. Though it had been able to hold his weight when he was slowly climbing up it, the sudden impact of his slide popped off two brackets holding it in place. From inside, Dusk could hear guns and bodies quietly clattering to the floor.

  The moth-marked man who had earlier sat in the window frame was still stood there, facing deeper into the room. As Dusk made his descent, he watched the man carefully. From inside, the voice of the plague doctor called out. “I doubt it’s escaped you notice that each of your associates who drew their weapons are now dead on the ground. You are not dead, and you will not be, so long as you stay sat where you are and keep you weapon housed comfortably in its case.”

  The man made no movements, none that Dusk could see as he descended down the pipe. The second his feet touched the gravel, he shot to the wall beneath the window, pressing his back to it to continue listening.

  “I remember you.” The Crane’s voice muttered from the window, barely cresting over the rain. “You were at the Hole, you gave us powder for bodies.”

  “That’s right.” The doctor’s voice was encouraging, as though he was coaching a student through a hard problem. “And you relayed that information to Edgar, who arranged for those specific bodies to be brought to me in return for my Indraknot. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  Dusk saw the man leaning a little further out of the window. Indraknot. The detective bit his tongue and clenched his fist. It had been two years since they had found Indraknot in Ancerbridge, on the night that Franz and Luka died. Back then, Dusk had predicted that the small quantity would be too little to convict the Vellichi, but this doctor had been working with them. Did he just openly confess to trading it?

  “Good, I was worried for a moment that you had been part of the collateral!” The doctor chuckled, though it was stifled from behind his mask. “Regardless, thank you for passing my message onto your employer.”

  “What the fuck do you want?” The Crane flicked his head over his shoulder, briefly studying the drop from the window to the garden. Dusk pressed tight against the darkened wall, watching his eyes sweep over.

  “Please, we should be cordial with one another, our respective groups stand to gain a great deal from our agreement tonight.” Respective groups? Cranes and the Vellichi had never made allies of one another before. They were worlds apart. The Vellichi ran quiet, organised and agreeable crime within the heights of Ancerbridge’s society, the Cranes kept mostly to the Slouch and racketeered smaller businesses… They hated each other. What changed? Why now?

  “What the fuck do you want?” The tattooed Crane repeated his question, earning a sigh from the doctor.

  “I would like for you to show me your Resonance. Edgar tells me that you’ve started developing one. Let me see it, please.” Dusk cursed under his breath. Edgar, that little toad. Did he know this was going to happen when he gave Dusk the address? Backing away slightly from the wall, Dusk unholstered his gun, an old and worn six-shooter, and took aim at the back of the Crane’s head.

  The man spluttered in confusion for a moment. “Resonance? I don’t have a – I mean, the fuck’s even a Resonance?”

  “It doesn’t do either of us any good for you to be coy right now, friend.” The doctor’s voice took on a more serious edge. “You will do this for me, one way or another.”

  A long pause proceeded the shaky response “I-... I haven’t figured out how to stop it from hurting me yet.” The man’s begging response fell on deaf ears.

  “My friend now is not the time to let the fear of pain cloud your judgement. I implore you, demonstrate your ability for me.”

  Aiming down the sight of his gun, Dusk saw the man violently shake his head. For a fraction of a moment, he saw the mark of the moth. He didn’t notice his jaw clenching.

  Another disappointed sigh flowed out from the doctor. “That’s okay, don’t worry. Allow me to assist you.” The humming that had first arrived with the masked man’s resonance had been a low and crawling cry. From deep within the room, Dusk heard new sounds emerge. They were not mournful or sad, they were chattering, quick and predatory, like dogs calling in the savannah.

  Dusk saw the shadows in the room grow thick and heavy. At once, they rushed over the low lighting in the ceiling and drenched the window in darkness. There was nothing but blackness before him for a time, then a new hum started to emerge.

  The man in the window was clawing at his face, a prolonged but muffled scream pushing through. The shadows clotted around his face, melding into a type of strange scab that covered all of his features. Dusk listened to the sounds of his resonance building. An undercurrent of gentle laughter, cut over by rhythmic roars and yells. Sparks caught around the man’s hands, then came the fire. A carpet of flames crawled down the man’s hands and forearms. His muffled shouts of panic gave way to suffocated roars of pain. Through the rain, the fire and the agony, Dusk lost the thread of the doctor’s voice, though he could hear his applause. As the flames consumed the man it became obvious what was happening. This wasn't a demonstration.

  This was torture.

  Taking a deep breath, Dusk steadied his aim and pulled the trigger on his pistol. The sinful cacophony of resonant hums and painful cries was cut short by the crack of his revolver. The bullet had hit the man in the base of the skull, destroying most his head instantly. Dusk saw the body slump forward and roll into the room. Lining up his shot again, Dusk waited to see if the doctor would look out of the window.

  “That must be Detective McLorne! Or do you prefer Dusk, in the field?” The masked man didn’t sound frustrated or upset.

  “You are under arrest for the unlawful use of a Resonance, breaking and entering and murder. Come out with your hands up, attempts to utilise you Resonance will be met with lethal force!” Dusk called back over the rain.

  “I’ve heard you say that once before. Do you remember the warehouse? You were quite wounded by the time I got out of the car, but it’s been lovely to hear about your recovery!”

  “GET OUT HERE” Dusk roared back over the rain.

  “Not tonight, unfortunately.” Dusk heard the man shift within the room, and the door close. He ran to the back door, slamming his shoulder into it. The frame buckled, though it did not break. Stepping back, he shot the glass. Shards rained into the room as he fished around for the inside lock. Deeper in the corridor, he could see the plague doctor walking towards the door. Giving up on the lock, Dusk levelled his aim and loosed another bullet towards the man. The bullet tore through his shoulder, spraying blood across the wall and sending him into a forward stagger out of the house. Dusk lost sight of him for a moment, and returned to the task of unlocking the door.

  As soon as he heard the lock click open, he leaned onto the handle and ran into the room, twisting his body around a table to get into the corridor and running through the house. He couldn’t see the plague doctor as he barrelled towards the door, but just before he burst through into the patio, he saw two moths twirling around one another, drawn to the pale light that hung above the front door.

  Skidding to a halt, at the sight of the insects, the doorframe splintered and the crack of a pistol screamed through the night. Snapping back to focus, Dusk heard the same crying hum of the plague doctor’s resonance. Vaulting back and pressing himself behind a corner before the staircase, he took stock of the circumstances.

  The doctor was wounded, he’d need to retreat unless there was another person in his company who could heal him. If there was, Dusk didn’t fancy taking the fight to them on the porch, whatever the man’s resonance was, it was deadly and unpredictable.

  That said, he had put down Edgar’s informant, his only significant lead on these missing bodies before the doctor entered the picture. He could try and track them through the people in the Hole, but if the doctor had gone to the effort of killing all of the loose ends in Davenport, Dusk doubted that he’d see any greater success visiting the most well-fortified Crane den in the entire Slouch… Capturing this doctor was his only route to information.

  Dusk ran up the stairs, stepping high over collapsed corpses. The burned carcass of Edgar’s man lay face down on the floor. Further towards the front of the house was the window that Dusk had first counted the number of occupants from when he stood outside. Running to the window, Dusk crouched low and peaked just over the windowsill.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The masked doctor was stood, retreating across the porch towards the car he had arrived in, every now and then turning to look at the door. As soon as he started moving back towards the car, Dusk stood tall, aimed his revolver and pulled the trigger. The sound of shattering glass filled his ears, the bullet whizzed past the doctor’s head and clanged into the side of the car, leaving a small hole below its passenger door. Steadying the iron sight, Dusk shot again, cutting the man’s thigh, then again, the third shot hit his hip. The man dropped to the ground, crying in agony. The driver’s door flung open, an occupant stepped out.

  Dusk never forgot a face. A fresh wave of anger washed over him as he saw the same driver that had accompanied Chelone and this doctor that night. As the diver stooped out of the vehicle, Dusk saw him dredge a drum-barrelled submachine gun with him and spray from hip height towards the window which the detective had shot from. Dusk threw himself to the floor, but the thin wall might as well have been paper. Daggers of ice seemingly coated his right side as the world turned to splinters and sawdust around him. A pause in the fire accompanied Dusk reaching the corner of the room, his good hand tentatively reaching across his torso. Three distinct regions of his shoulder and upper arm began to burn. He'd been hit, though a quick pat down suggested they were glancing blows.

  Sitting up against the wall of the dingy room, bullets screamed back through the wall with no warning. Pressing himself as flat as he could against the floor Dusk waited. Five... Six.... Seven.... The man would surely be running out of ammunition soon. Pushing off of the ground, adrenaline dulling the growing pain in his arm, he tried to steady his hand. Sure enough, before ten second had passed, the firing stopped. Dusk waited, not wanting to be caught by a third volley, but it didn't come. He cautiously peaked out from around the wall, the broken panelling letting him see outside without reaching the window.

  The doctor was gone, though the shadow behind in the passenger’s door told Dusk where he had vanished to. The driver was turning too, opening the door. Dusk woozily levelled his gun towards the vehicle and squeezed the trigger… It went wide. He cursed and took aim again as the cars door slammed shut. He squeezed again.

  Nothing happened.

  Empty chamber.

  The car’s engine roared to life, quickly reversing and slamming a nearby bin wide before accelerating down Davenport road. Dusk threw his revolver against the wall, a guttural yell clawing its way out of his throat. He sank to his knees, fists clenched, then punched the ground. Slamming his fist into the side of his head, he stopped for a moment and took a deep, shaky breath. He was wounded, kneeling on the ground in the middle of a Crane den after a shootout. He had to leave.

  Just as the persistent danger of his situation dawned him, Dusk heard wheezy, rusted cars screeching down the rain-slicked road. The doors clunked open before the vehicles even stopped, and a chorus of swearing and questioning filled the streets. Dusk looked out of the window once again. Twelve men, tattooed and jaundiced, bearing bats and guns, where making their way across the street towards the house. He had to leave now.

  Turning down the corridor, he considered the stairs. The rapidly approaching yells and the cocking of guns told him that he wouldn’t make it in time. Running into the back room, he stepped over the burned corpse, stopping for a second only to look at the tattoo of the moth that sat on the man’s head, coated in viscera thanks to his bullet. Dusk clenched his hand on the bullet hole in his shoulder, the fresh pain washing away those unwelcome memories.

  Pulling himself into the windowsill, he looked over the yard that he had crept through on his way into the house. There was a good 20 feet between him and the fence. Too far to clear in one jump. Turning and dropping, he caught the windowsill with the tips of his fingers and held on as tight as he could. The burning pain of the bullet wounds in his shoulder threatened to drag out a pained cry, which Dusk caged behind his grit teeth. Above him, he heard the Cranes barging into the upstairs rooms, calling to their companions and turning them over, questioning them on what had happened as they searched for wounds they’d never find. As they swept into the front room, Dusk let go of the windowsill and braced for impact.

  Crouching as he landed, a vain attempt to absorb the force, Dusk stumbled and caught himself on his wounded arm. The shock forced out a brief shout of pain. The upstairs went quiet, then Dusk heard a cacophony of stomps heading down the stairs. They knew he was here.

  Running to the fence, Dusk jumped as high as he could and grabbed its top, hauling himself over and falling onto his side in the alleyway. Quickly darting down the side of the house, he looked up only to see a pair of Cranes that had not gone into the house looking at him in confusion. The shouts from inside the house carried very little meaningful instruction, but the men put two-and-two together. One started running towards Dusk while the other sloppily pointed a pistol in his direction.

  Tilting his head to the sky in frustration, Dusk turned and ran towards the end of the road, towards the canal. The mens confusion aided him, as did the sheets of rain. A bullet went wide, the gunman shouting at his friend to get out the way. Two more bullets whizzed overhead, both narrowly missing Dusk as he ducked and flung himself towards the canal. A small gate stood between him and the dark water, as more men now arrived from the house to take aim at him. Throwing himself over the faded green paint, his blood mixed with the cold metal whilst bullets began to slam into concrete.

  Thanking their lack of marksmanship, he reached the waters edge and practically rolled in, having kept low. It was dark and cold, and impossible to tell the bullets apart from the increasingly heavy rainfall, but Dusk held his breath and started to swim, driving himself downstream. Above him, he could hear the rattle of the perimeter chain fence, yells and the occasional crack of a pistol shot. Another bullet hit his thigh, releasing the air from his lungs.

  As Dusk crested above the water, he struggled to orient himself. Swimming along with the flow had taken him towards a small bridge. Further up he could see the crowd of men studying the water where he had entered. Relaxing for a moment and letting the water carry him, he crossed beneath the bridge and closed his eyes.

  Davenport Bridge. Years ago, when he and Michelle were training under Ashara, he had made them do pull ups over the freezing water as a punishment for the collateral damage they would make on their missions. They had laughed the entire time, eagerly competing with one another to see who would last longer under the golden sun.

  When Dusk took Franz on as a pupil, the two would often stop at a café near here for coffee and a discussion of their cases.

  Dusk ran out of darkness to drift under as the rain battered his face again. He was alone in the river. Paddling towards the promenade, he slowly hauled himself out of the water and lay on his back, flicking silt off of the sleeves of his coat. Pulling himself to his feet, he checked his pockets. Badge, wallet, keys. He winced in pain as he pulled his shot-arm back to check the other side of his coat. He had forgotten his gun in the Crane house. All he could find was the tangerine Ms. Callas had given him. Somehow, between the fighting and falling and shooting and swimming, the skin of the little fruit had remained unbroken. Dusk scraped the silt off of it as he stumbled down along the river towards the stairs that led up to the street on the other side of the canal to Davenport Road, back in the direction that Dusk had come.

  A thin ring of darkness veiled Dusk’s periphery as he slowly walked through the Slouch, navigating his way towards his car. His malicious glare warded off the junkies and dealers that tried to solicit his business. The longer he walked, the more dizzy he became, the adrenaline was abandoning him. His shoulder burned, despite the cold winds and rains that whipped around him. There was a radio in his car… Someone would help him…

  As Dusk passed a street corner, he saw a familiar sight. The woman from earlier, who had argued with her companion and dragged her child off around the corner, lay with a needle in her arm resting against a binbag. Her eyes were lidded and glassy, only the occasional murmur and nod of her head confessing her survival. Deeper in the alleyway, Dusk saw the child, hugging their knees and staring at him. He was tired, cold, soaked and bleeding. He would probably terrify the child. He needed medical attention. Dusk repeated every reason not to divert from his course.

  He didn’t listen to any of them.

  Staggering into the alleyway, Dusk moved slowly and kept his distance from the child, holding a hand up in a sign of peace. Crouching down on the other side of the trash covered cranny, he looked at the little person’s eyes. They were still bright. The Slouch had only just started to crawl across their skin. Hanging his head low for a second, Dusk nodded to the child’s mother, whispering to them “She do this every night?”

  The child nodded. Dusk looked over at her, then rested his head against the brick wall behind him. Only when he felt the sting of course stone against his scalp did he realise that he had lost his hat at some point in the scuffle. Looking through his noise at the child, leaving his head tilted into the rain, he spoke again. “Do you want to stay with her?”

  Silently they shared the traitorous truth, shaking their head and clamping their teeth on a quivering lip to stop themselves from crying. Dusk nodded slowly, rising to his feet and stumbling towards them, offering them a hand off of the floor. “I know somewhere warm and dry for you. Good food, too.” The two walked slowly, hand in hand, down the street.

  They passed by the Lotus. Dusk glared up at the darkened office building, watching the neon lights dance and the music blare. He made a mental note to catch up with his ‘friend’ sooner, rather than later. Regardless, he took the child down to the alleyway that he had hidden his car in, stopping them half-way down as he went to check its insides and under its hood. Ensuring that the vehicle had not been tampered with in his absence, he nodded and beckoned the child, opening the back door to let them crawl in, then closed it behind them and moved to the drivers seat.

  As Dusk sat in the car, he shakily turned the key in the ignition and started reversing out of the Slouch. His face was drenched in darkness, only occasionally washed in the neon that hung above him. Every now and then, Dusk flicked his gaze towards the mirror to watch the child, who sat stiff as a board on the back seat. They had more bags under their eyes than he did.

  Turning onto the main road, Dusk drove slowly and carefully, drifting to avoid the potholes in the road. After a few minutes, the child’s eyes started drooping and closing, nodding their head as slumber finally caught up to them. By the time Dusk was leaving the Slouch, driving down the road along the cargo-rails, the child had fallen asleep.

  Dusk dropped the volume on his radio and, when he came to a set of lights, flipped through a little book of personal frequencies. Tuning in, he plucked a handheld microphone from the dashboard and pushed down the power button. The radio crackled to life.

  “Charlotte. Are you awake?”

  The lights turned green, and Dusk started driving down the road. Silverwatch members were required to keep their radio on at all times so that they could be called on in times of need. It didn’t create an issue for many. The watch did daytime work for the most part. Among all of the groups members, Dusk thought that Charlotte must have been the one to lose the most hours of sleep. Groggily, her voice came down the radio.

  “I am. What?” There was a tension in her voice. Dusk heard the beginning of a yawn get cut off as she cut the radio short.

  “I’ve been shot, only two bad ones, once on the shoulder and one on the hip.” Dusk spoke matter-of-factly as he turned onto the next main road before his house. He instinctively reached to the volume dial and spun it to the minimum, keeping Charlotte’s response quiet.

  “WHAT – WHERE ARE YOU?” Any exhaustion was gone. Dusk listened to her rustle around in her flat.

  “Driving into the parking lot at my apartment.” He flicked the indicator and slowly turned towards the carpark. Nothing seemed to have changed since he left.

  “For fucks sake, I’m coming. Keep pressure on the wounds, try not to move.” He heard a door slam behind her as she spoke, and the echoes of footfalls descending down stairs.

  “I’ll be in my flat. I have a first aid kit there.” Dusk spoke quietly as he clicked the door open. “Charlotte?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.” Dusk clicked his radio off and gently craned his neck to lift the sleeping child out of his car, quietly closing the door with his foot. On the way to his flat, he stopped off outside of Ms Callas’ string bound door.

  “Ms. Callas? Please may I come in?” Leaning his elbow against the door handle, he pushed it open with his body and opened it. Ms Callas was sat just where Dusk had left her, a half-finished, woollen blanket draped across her knees. She slowly raised her head to him as he leaned on the doorframe.

  “Bad day?” She raised a wrinkled brow at him, chewing on dried pineapple that sat in a bowl by her chair.

  Dusk carried the little child in and sat down with their sleeping form nestled against him. They were covered in his blood. Dusk held his head low, his eyes hollow and tired.

  “Shit day.” Ms Callas confirmed to herself, leaning forward and stretching her arms out. “Give.” She commanded. Dusk relented. The child barely stirred as the two gently shifted them out of Dusk’s bloody arms and onto Ms Callas’ lap.

  “They were in an alleyway; their mother was passed out on something.” Dusk started to explain, but Ms Callas cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “They take the bed. Can stay for as long as they need.” She was smiling. Her cheeks pushed up high, nearly covering her eyes, and she gently folded the blanket around the child. Studying them for a moment, she looked back up at Dusk. “You got shot.”

  “I know.” He slowly pushed himself off of the chair, nearly slipping as he did. “Thank you, Ms Callas. I’ll come by tomorrow. Good night.”

  The woman didn’t respond to him as he left, closing the door behind him. He had a long climb up the stairs ahead of him. Every step sparked a fire in his shoulder, and the gradually increasing tunnel vision was starting to take its toll. It took every ounce of his will to clatter in through the front door of his flat.

  His record had finished, spinning silently on its turntable. The warm, orange light blanketed him, and Dusk staggered towards the counter to snatch a bottle of wine. Turning, he considered making the voyage to the sofa, but before he could decide, his legs gave out and he slumped against the isle in the centre of the kitchenette.

  Indraknot… The plague doctor… They were back. Dusk took a deep swig of the wine, reclining his head and staring out of the window. They were back. He had failed again… A soft ‘mmrow’ came from the other side of the isle, and Curmudgeon stepped across his lap, sitting alongside him and studying him with inquisitive eyes. Dusk stared back for a moment, foggily feeling unconsciousness take its hold. Somewhere in the distance, he dimly heard the sound of footfall across the corridor outside.

  Resting the bottle on the ground, Dusk let sleep take him.

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