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“We have spares,” Bren said with the wave of a hand. “I can collect a set for you after we’re done with the paperwork. Onto the reason for admittance first.”
“I’m just traveling,” Grey said, rubbing his hands together under the table.
“So you’re passing through?”
“Um, I might need to stay for a couple nights, but I don’t know yet.”
Bren scowled. “You don’t know?”
He squirmed in his seat. “Well, um, I’m in the middle of a Calling?—”
His eyes lit up with a sudden understanding. “Ah. Understood.” He quickly jotted something else down before smoothly drawing what had to be his signature at the bottom of the page. “All right, assuming you’re telling the truth, I’ll be giving you a temporary pass and gloves. Should you be caught without either of these…” He motioned for Grey to finish for him.
“Cells?” Grey said quietly.
“Cells. Same goes for if we discover you’re lying about any of the information you’ve given me, including the reason for being here. We don’t take kindly to hemomancers that take advantage of the system to continue serial killing.”
Grey’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I wouldn’t?—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” He snapped the paper in the air. “I’ll be right back with your things, and then you’ll be released into the city.” His chair scraped against the cement floor, followed by the rush of a small breeze with the door swinging open and closed again.
Grey fidgeted with the loose threads of his bag while he waited. The Calling didn’t nag him in any way he’d expected, despite still being unsure of where he was meant to be going, let alone what he should be doing. He straightened again when the door popped open and Bren waved him through.
He scrambled out of his seat and slammed his hip into the corner of the table on his way out. Wincing, he hobbled through the caged hallway to an open window with a small shelf bearing a thick-banded, neon-green, nylon bracelet and a pair of gloves with that same violent green color stitched into the backs in the pattern of hemomancer marks.
Bren handed them over, careful not to make any skin-to-skin contact, which made Grey’s heart drop. He should’ve expected it, but the action stung worse than he cared to admit, especially after dwelling solely among other hemomancers that trusted each other. Those who pulled blood from other mancers were an anomaly—something Uncle Atticus depicted in tales as unhinged monsters, corrupted by the fair folk.
But Grey tugged on the bracelet and the gloves, trying to ignore the sting of rejection that came with them. Bren turned his key in the gate’s lock and pushed it open.
“You’re free to go. Behave, and you’ll be fine.”
Grey ducked through the doorway with the clang of the gate sounding behind him. He stared up at the half-exposed stairways climbing upward in the shells of once-magnificent buildings towering over the walkways below. Awe overtook him as he slowly spun around to soak it all in: the people kicking their legs off the balconies missing railings, nature breaking through patches of broken cement and hunks of metal to cling to walls and spread roots underfoot, and the individuals enjoying the last gasp of the evening sunlight while they snapped on electric lamps and lit candles in storefront windows and bars.
He stared forward, folding his gloved, marked hands under his crossed arms like he was fighting off a non-existent chill on his way to find a hot meal and a bed. The clusters of mancers dipping in and out of crowded venues made his stomach clench—no way to tell who was what with the blur of sleeves, bandanas, and jewelry obscuring their marks as they passed.
The double doors to a pub with a hand-carved sign greeted him, drawing him in like a moth to a flame, despite having to side-step the patrons walking out with thermoses in hand. Quiet jokes about heading off to work drifted between them as Grey slipped past and inhaled the homey scent of roasting potatoes. He walked past the booths, gripping his bag strap on his way to the bar to claim a seat.
Grey hoisted himself onto a wood-topped stool and gently dropped his bag at his feet with a brief glance around at the other customers chatting amongst themselves, not paying him any attention until a bartender stopped in front of him. His head swiveled around to a kind-eyed woman with tight curls. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”
He wrung his hands under the bar counter. “Could I get a glass of water?”
“Sure thing,” she said, tapping the countertop before she spun around and plucked up a glass. A moment later it scraped against the wood countertop in front of him. “Can I get you something to eat too?”
“Yeah, actually… What’s today’s special?”
“Grilled chicken with a side of roasted, cheesy potatoes. Does that work?”
He nodded, and she beamed before trotting off to the kitchen. Grey reached for the glass, knocking some of it back until he caught a man glowering in his direction from the corner of his good eye. He quickly set the glass back down and hid his gloved hands under the counter again. Unfortunately, the whispers had already started with the guy leaning over to talk to the other person he was with, who then, in turn, glanced over his shoulder at Grey. They got up from their bar seats and moved down to the other end, earning confused looks from the other patrons.
The scrape of a chair at one of the tables a little further down made Grey squeeze his hands together in shame. Every stray eye moved from him, back to their dining companion and then occasionally slipped back, forcing his heart to pound in time with the demanding clap of soles against the plank flooring. When it stopped, a hand shot out and gripped the countertop next to him, followed by a body slinking into the stool in front of it. But Grey could only focus on the neon-green stitching of the glove until the fellow hemomancer leaned forward to disrupt his line of sight.
A wicked, feral grin and sharp, dark eyes barely visible behind a shaggy mop of dark hair just about stopped his heart. “Hey there, kid? I’m guessing you’re new to town. Name’s Hyde.” He held out his hand to hover in the small gap between them.
Grey fidgeted with his gloves, glancing around the pub with that trickle of fear of other peoples’ reactions to his magic.
“Hey—”
His head whipped around to the scowling bartender. She set the plate down with a little more force than Grey expected, making him jump. But her irritation wasn’t aimed at Grey—it was at Hyde.
