AllFreeNovel
Share Us
So, empty as he was, Sorin kept going.
He hobbled down pothole-pocked streets and past skeletons of long-abandoned factories, their windows boarded and heavily graffitied, until the first signs of civilization reappeared. Not far from the on-ramp to a crumbling overpass, quiet but for the rare passing motorist due to the advanced hour, he came across neglected brownstones. They weren’t in much better condition than the abandoned warehouses behind them—their windows either broken or boarded, and their walls caked with years of accumulated crud—but amongst them was one saving grace: a flickering neon sign that hummed and popped in a way that sounded to Sorin like a hymn.
Hideaway Motel, the sign said.
It advertised a vacancy.
In another ten minutes, it wouldn’t anymore.
* * *
The clerk behind the counter in the manager’s office was smoking a cigarette when Sorin hobbled through the door. He was an odd-looking man, long-haired but balding, with skinny limbs and a long, gaunt face. He was narrow in the chest, but thick around the middle, making his floral button-down shirt both too loose and too tight all at once. He had his feet kicked up on the desk and his phone clutched loosely in his hand, playing a questionable video at full volume.
He did not pause the video when the bell over the door jingled, signaling Sorin’s arrival. Rather, he peered at Sorin, grumbled something under his breath, and decreased the volume until it was barely audible.
“We don’t rent rooms to junkies,” he said, cigarette bobbing between his lips. He swung his legs off the desk and planted his elbows in their place, leaning forward to give Sorin a scathing look. “I don’t care what you do with your free time, but you’re not gonna do it here.”
“M’not—”
Sorin cut himself off before he could say any more. There was a strange disconnect between his mind and body that was making it hard to speak. It sounded like he was slurring, even though he was sober. “I’m… not…” he managed with some effort, but the words came out forced and disjointed. The clerk’s eyes burned through him, judging him, but he couldn’t give up, so he continued. “I need a room.”
Somewhere small and safe and dark where I don’t have to feel.
“Yeah?” the clerk said. “And I need payment up front.”
He tapped a plasticized printout taped to the desk—a printed copy of the corporate policy, maybe, or nightly room rates. The ink on the page blurred into a jumble when Sorin tried to read it, and no matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t get the words to take shape.
“Cash only.” The clerk sat back in his chair, his scrutinizing gaze ever on Sorin. “You got the money or not?”
Numbly, Sorin went to fish his wallet out of his back pocket only to discover something smooth and cool that shouldn’t have been there. Dragon scales. His stomach dropped. He must have pocketed them without thinking while on the run from Reynard, a morbid reminder of the lengths he’d gone to in order to send a message to the council.
To prove to them that the Vanguard was to be feared.
That dragons, once all-powerful, were no longer safe.
Sickened and ashamed, he grabbed his wallet and left the scales where they were. The cash he carried was for emergency purposes only—he was supposed to pay by card so Bertram could trace his spending and locate him should the worst come to pass—but those days were over now, weren’t they?
Bertram likely wanted nothing to do with him.
He had no way of knowing the eggnapping wasn’t Sorin’s fault. He must have thought him a monster. Heartless. Willing to do whatever it took to get his way, no matter the cost.
Did Bertram hate him now?
Sorin’s head gave a painful throb.
When he found out, it would change everything.
They really would be enemies now.
No more playing pretend.
The clerk cleared his throat loudly. “Are you going to pay or what?”
Sorin blinked down at the wad of bills in his hands, trying to distinguish them, but much like with the plasticized sign, he couldn’t make sense of what he saw. He remembered there being about two thousand dollars total—pocket change, as far as Bertram was concerned—but couldn’t remember in which denominations, or if he’d even had the forethought to order them neatly according to their value.
In the end, not sure what else to do, he peeled six bills from the stack and handed them to the clerk, who looked between Sorin and his wad of cash suspiciously before thumbing through what he’d been given. Count complete, he stuffed them into his pocket and tilted his chair back, reaching for one of the keys hanging from a series of hooks on the back wall.
He did not offer Sorin any change.
