“Come on,” the scarred woman says, her eyes darting from the wall to my face and back again. “I know a place.”
Chapter 28
Kit
“You what?” I stare dumbly after the woman as she darts down the alleyway away from me.
“Come on,” she repeats in a frustrated hiss. “You need to get off the streets.”
And since I don’t have many options right now. I follow her.
We head deeper into the alley, away from the main street and the incriminating evidence of the now beast-less wagon. I’m fully aware that I may be heading to my doom, even as I’m jogging to keep up with the woman’s longer stride.
It may not have been a wise idea to draw her attention to the wall plastered with pictures of my face and the reward they are offering for handing any of us in ’injured or intact’. Three words that send a chill skittering down my spine. What I’m hoping for is that she’s too wary of the authorities to shop me in.
Possibly I’m making a terrible decision, but I’m only just winning the fight with my fuzzy head and I’m practically naked in a city where I barely know a soul. And if there’s one thing I know about this city, it’s that people care about how you look. There’s money, prestige and power here, and a guy strutting around in his underwear and not a lot else will definitely be noticed.
The woman seems to know her way around the city’s alleyways, judging by her ease in navigating the labyrinth ofside streets and backstreets. Somehow, she picks us a route that means we pass only a handful of other people, all of them clearly too caught up in their own business to care about the two of us. As we get further from the city centre, the backstreets seem to multiply, crossing over each other and growing narrower and narrower until the woman has trouble passing through without tackling them sideways on. The air’s changing too, growing darker and thicker, with a multitude of scents that I’m trying not to inhale too deeply.
We turn a tight corner, winding up on an even tighter back alley that seems awfully... wet. The worn stone underfoot is covered in a dark brownish liquid that’s running in a trickling river on either side.
I don’t stop walking and instead choose to pick my way over the dry spots. “Is that blood?”
She snorts. “Dye.”
At least, I’m hoping that’s what she said.
“Manufacturing district,” she adds, waving a hand around at the stained walls and the grey dust in the air. “You don’t want to stick around for too long, or it’ll turn your lungs furry. Not far now, though. Good thing, too, since my arse sweat is dripping all over your cloak.”
I blink at her. It’s the most words she’s said to me so far, and I don’t know which part to tackle first. “Does the air not turn your lungs furry too?”
She gives me a look like she thinks I’m an idiot. “Doesn’t seem to affect us lot like it does the humans. And, no offence, but you smell pretty human to me.”
I tip my head one way and then the other. “Human-ish.”
“Probably got human-ish lungs, then. You’d last a few months, maybe, and then you’d start coughing up black stuff and then, a while later, the black stuff would be all your lungs are made of.”
“Ah.”
“It’s one reason they like our lot to take over working and living around here. None of the humans would choose to stick around, so you know if you see one, they must be pretty desperate.” She gives me a pointed look, and I snort.
“Hopefully, I won’t be hanging around long enough to send my lungs furry,” I reply.
She gives me a curt nod, turning another corner until we reach a street that’s much wider than all the others. There are people everywhere, crowds of them making enough noise to make my sore head pound even worse. Despite the trickles of red dye in the gutters on either side of the street, there are stalls of food and wares sellers set up just shy of the red liquid. And, regardless of the layer of dust in the air, colourful washing hangs from windows above, and there are wires criss-crossing over themselves above our heads.
It’s busy, bustling in a different way to the main street. The stalls act as a bottleneck, with people pausing to buy parcels that are wrapped in brown paper, blocking the way for the dozens of people streaming past. I gravitate to the nearest one, the scent of fried potatoes making my mouth water as I remember just how hungry and parched I am.
My companion nudges me as I drift closer to the front of the stall. “We’re here,” she says, gesturing to a chipped wooden doorway just behind her. “None of them up top folk will bother you down here. But I’ve got someone who’d like to meet you, if you’re willing?”
That same sense of unease hits at the reminder I’m probably walking right into a trap. An answering wave of concern hits me in the chest, and I smother an inopportune smile from sensing Reva’s worry from afar. Tapping my chest, like I’m able to assuage her concern, I attempt to send back some easy-breezy thoughts, although I’m not sure how successful I am.
My stomach growls, and the woman’s eyebrows fly up as her lips quirk into an amused smirk. “There’s food inside, too.”
Sold.
In a toss-up between stepping into danger and getting fed, I’m clearly led by my stomach more than my brain since I’m retreating from the stall and heading for the door she’s gesturing at.
“Gower,” she grunts at me as she pushes open the door. At my confused expression, she shrugs. “That’s my name.”
