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Raking a brush violently through my hair, I yank on a pair of black sweatpants. No need to try and impress anyone at three in the morning. In all likelihood, I will only deal with people for a few minutes before I’m left all alone in a frozen office with a pounding headache. Prior experience has taught me that new arrivals at this hour won’t so much as glance at me once I give them clearance to dock.
It takes me exactly four minutes to be ready and out of the door of my studio apartment. It's a ten-minute walk from the docks—a frigidten minutes.The entire block around my seventeen-story apartment building smells of fish and the salty mist that has left white stains over all the stucco.
Frigid air slams into me the moment I step outside. It seeps inside my fingers, and they're numb in a few heartbeats. I brace myself, fold my arms, and start running. Maybe I look like an idiot, but I amcold. Soft white clouds fill the air with each exhale, and I curse myself for not grabbing a jacket to go over my sweater.
This kind of weather is still new to me. While it sucks, there is also something about the crispness of the frigid air that attracts me. The gods only know it isn’t the city itself. It isn’t beautiful. It isn’t warm. It isn’t even filled with friendly people.
Even so, the cold makes me feel like I am home. It embraces me, filling a hole I never knew existed.
My family doesn't understand. My mother and sister still live in the Summer Court, and they’ve made no secret about their displeasure at my decision to move. Before leaving, I got my degree from Summer Court University in economics, but it wasn't for me. I hated it.
I always knew my real adventure would be here in Port City. After a hundred years of endless sunshine and getting drunk off Flower Dew, my life had become boring. I figured it was time for me to be somewhere else.
I haven’t looked back since I moved.
When I reach the enchanted steel docks, the cold intensifies. I stop running. Bitter, icy air chokes me. It burns my lungs, as sharp as the ice floating in the water. A thick mist curls and twists through the air like a heavy shroud. Vision is nearly impossible, even for a Fae.
I slowly make my way up the walkway while panting, the path familiar even in the middle of the night. With each scrape of my boot, metal groans. My ears pinch at the sound, but I try not to wince when I think of clear, hard alcohol and how much I want to vomit.
Unlocking the door to the crappy office, I step inside. It's just as cold here, the walls barely more than scraps of wood. I hold out a hand and pull on my magic. Orange erupts from my palm, and a flame sparks to life. It crackles, the sound pleasing to my ears. Within a few minutes, the office is warm enough that my teeth stop clattering. Boss enchanted the entire place so no one can break in, but apparently, he draws the line at employee comfort.
When I was younger and stupider (six months ago), I asked him how to turn on the boiler system. In response, he laughed.“Being cold makes you lot work harder.”
Then, as if to make his point, he sent me to work in the cold, frigid air for the rest of the day.
If I'm being honest—and I have to be, thanks to my Fae genetics—he’s kind of a bastard.
Late-night receptions make me nervous because of a string of thefts along the coast from one particular asshole with a unique calling card: one drowned being and one with a slit-throat. He’s been officially titled The Pirate of Death. I imagine some witch came up with the name because it reeks of coarse language and cliche. If we get robbed, I hope I’m the one going to take a swim with stone shoes.
Through the tendrils of mist, I glimpse a steel-gray mid-size ship with barnacles all along the bottom. The vessel approaches the dock quickly, though there is no rumble from a motor.
The Pirate of Death’s boat is said to be at the height of modernity, though. Sleek. Fancy. Nothing like this piece of crap that looks like it will fall apart from a single gust of wind. The breath whooshes out of me, and my shoulders relax when I realize: it doesn’t belong to the thieves. Thank the gods.
Despite the less-than-beautiful quality of the boat, there is still something menacing about it. My fingers grip the sill of the thick, grime-coated window as I watch the boat slide into the dock. Two males walk down the plank, their swagger evident even from here.
Instinctively, I brace myself for an unpleasant conversation. I'm not a burly Fae and don't particularly enjoy confrontation.
Maybe I should've picked another career path. It's too late for that, though. The sailors are already halfway to the office. The moon shines on them as they approach, illuminating the swirling white tattoos that cover their faces, necks, and pointed ears. Their skin is as black as the night, and the markings are so bright they almost glow. White puffs of fur line their face, and light blue suede covers their torsos, legs, and feet.
If the markings on their faces aren't enough of a clue, the garments tell me all I need to know about them. They are from the Winter Court. Fae Folk from the North. At first, they stare at me with steel in their black eyes. Their forms are so powerful I have to remind myself not to cower.
Power runs through your veins, too, Nathaniel.
I might be a lowly shifter Fae, but I am strong enough to work at a dock, and I have a decent well of fire-based birthright power. I also go to a gym. Sometimes.
Consciously reminding myself that these Fae are powerful because of the brutal landscape in which their court resides, I stand straight and paste a charming smile on my face.
While I puff out my chest and prepare to address them in my best customer-service voice, the shaved side of my head burns. Yes, coldburns. In moments like this, I try to remember that Iactively chooseto live in the frozen wasteland that is Port City.
“You are the dock master?” one of the Fae says. His tone tells me precisely what he thinks about me, and I bristle instinctively.
“Yes, sirs. How can I help you today?”
The two sailors glance at each other and then back at the boat, but they don’t say anything.
Splendid.
After a moment, I ask, “Are you planning to register the shipment or pay for discretion?”
