Chapter 2

Non-Interference and Prompt Reporting of Criminal Activity

Silver Edict #4

“Citizens must promptly report any suspicious activities or criminal behavior to the Silver Scouts, by the direct order of the High Chancellor. By our collective vigilance, we fortify the resilience and security of the Silver citizens.”

ARCHER

After getting rid of the nosey couple, I stare in the direction the blonde woman ran, wondering how she saw the Reaper.

Based on her Rising Star T-shirt, the bottle opener in her back pocket, and her comment about getting to work, I assume she”s a bartender.

Finding her later shouldn”t be difficult.

Death’s sweet scent fills my nose.

It’s cloying, nauseating.

It”s not the usual stench that decaying bodies acquire after an extended period on the street. This scent is exclusively reserved for my nostrils. It’s a natural ability of mine, some may say.

It’s how I found the poor teenager here.

“What the hell?” Godric rounds the corner into the alley, his imposing frame dominating the space.

He carefully kneels beside the body, running a hand over his hair and shaking his head. “Not again, man. This ain’t the shit I signed up for.”

“It’s exactly what we signed up for,” I growl.

“This is the third one this week.”

“We need to get ahead of it.”

“Hard when we don’t know what the fuck’s going on around here.”

I grunt. “Called Zeke?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Scouts, too,” I say. “Glamoured the people who called it in.”

“Too fucking young,” Godric says, bowing his head and scrubbing at his face with a meaty paw.

“Any apparent trauma?” I ask, then turn away to poke through a couple of empty boxes nearby, looking for evidence. Unlike Godric, I’m not good at swallowing down my emotions.

Each lifeless body discovered in the streets signifies another person we let down. A testament to our negligence. Recently, the streets have transformed into a cemetery of untapped potential and muted voices.

Each of them is another Sofia—a death that arrived too soon and too cruelly.

”I don”t see any.” Godric sighs while I rummage through a bag of trash, causing flies to scatter chaotically. “Arch…”

My jaw clenches at the pity in his tone.

“Don’t say it,” I warn.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, man, but it’s possible that the dust is—”

“Zeke hasn’t found a single trace of it in their systems.”

“But if—”

“Have you seen it around? Have any of the other Nightcrawlers?”

“No,” he admits.

“Speculation should not be mistaken for fact. It gets us nowhere.”

“Hey!” a stern voice shouts as the clamor of boots approaches. “Under direct order of the High Chancellor, Scouts forty-six and eighty-four command you to your feet. Hands up.”

“Fucking clowns,” Godric mutters.

I grimace. This is a recurring pattern with the Scouts. Once they spot the Nightcrawler tattoos, they”ll accuse us of having committed every crime within a forty-mile radius and then call for our immediate execution. Meanwhile, without any consideration for the truth, they”ll dispose of the poor girl”s body in the city incinerator.

A true shame.

And a gross misinterpretation of events.

Gritting my teeth, I give Godric a subtle nod. We raise our hands, slowly rising before the Scouts. I’m careful not to move too quickly, as I don”t want to reveal the gun strapped to my side. That’s a sure way to meet death. It”s well-concealed by my leather jacket and should remain that way unless someone looks closely.

We’re mostly obscured in the shadows of the alley, but that changes when one of the Scouts activates the light in his headgear.

Silently cursing, I squint against the bright beam.

“Is that necessary?” I ask, buying time for my eyes to adjust.

The Silver Scouts wear identical protective uniforms made of pliable leather and silvery nylon. The insignia of a handprint with a swirl on the palm takes up most of their chests, marking them as government officials. Onyx helmets cover their heads but not their faces.

“Shut your gap, scum,” one of them says.

Both Scouts slide their guns free of their side holsters and aim at Godric and me.

I just need a minute, not a bullet to my chest, so I heed the Scout”s words and blink a few times to adjust my vision. In a matter of seconds, I’ll be able to tap into my enhanced vision and see clearly, regardless of the blinding light.

The image of the mysterious bartender flickers in my mind. She expressed a desire to stay away from the Scouts. That was odd, considering most city-dwellers are loyalists. They refuse to let go of the dream of protection.

The farce of freedom.

Her lack of disillusionment is intriguing.

“—both are under arrest.”

The Scout”s movement catches my attention as he approaches me.

“Gentlemen,” I start, keeping my tone casual enough so as not to provoke them into pulling the trigger but firm enough to keep their eyes on me.

Now that my eyes have adapted to the excessively bright light, I shift my gaze between the two of them.

“Keep your damn gap sh—”

“Quiet,” I say with an eerie command. “Both of you.”

The first Scout obeys me and shuts his mouth. The ease of it would make me laugh if the situation wasn”t so dire.

“Don’t bother looking around,” I order. “There’s nothing to see here. In fact, the call you received led you north, to Sweetcreek. To the ashberry fields.”

Lowering his weapon, the second Scout mutters, “Ashberry fields.” His eyes glaze over.

“You were never here. Never saw us,” I say.

The Scouts return their weapons to their holsters, swiftly turning and running away from the alley.

Godric confidently approaches me once we”re alone again.

“The ashberry fields?” he asks, humor lacing his tone. He rubs his jaw, and my eyes roam the skull tattoo on the back of his hand—the one that matches my own, branding us as Nightcrawlers for life.

I shrug. “Anywhere but here.”

The ashberry fields mark the city’s northernmost boundary. The Wilds lay just beyond, separated from Silver City by an iron wall meant to repel fae.

Sending the Scouts there will buy us time, keep them from asking too many questions around here. Coming to the wrong conclusions is a dangerous habit they possess.

Unlike the Scouts, the blonde bartender did not adhere to my commands, which only adds to my intrigue. She can see the Reaper, and she’s unaffected by glamour.

I picture her in my mind: dark eyeliner, septum nose piercing, and a pile of white-blonde hair on her head.

“If it isn’t the elusive Phantom!” a much-too-jovial voice calls out.

Turning around, I spot Zeke entering the alley. He stops beside the body, his overgrown green mohawk flopping to the side, a few strands falling into his left eye. He blows them away, his bracelets jingling as he bends down and reaches for the girl’s wrist to check for a nonexistent pulse. His neon-green nails and warm skin tone contrast with the girl’s pale flesh.

“Hello, Zeke,” I say.

Godric grunts. “She’s gone.”

“Aye, Ricky,” Zeke says as he stands and wipes his hands on his skinny jeans. “Nice to see you as always, you cheery bastard.”

“Fuck yourself with that nickname,” Godric mutters. Scowling, he crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest. “Stop wasting time and get your crew. You wouldn’t be here if she had a pulse.”

“Or would she still have a pulse if you weren’t here?” Zeke raises a brow, then whistles, summoning two guys with a gurney a second later.

“Imply shit like that again, and I’ll rip your nuts off, you son of a—”

“Quiet,” I say. There’s no glamour infused in my command. Not that it would affect Godric anyway, but both men shut their mouths. The lower-level Nightcrawlers ignore us and swiftly remove the girl”s body from the alley. “We’ve been having some serious issues lately.”

“Don’t we always?” Zeke asks, pulling a joint out and lighting it up. He takes a puff and holds it out to Godric. “Want?”

Godric smacks Zeke”s hand away, causing the joint to fall to the ground. “I’m working, asshole.”

“And?” Zeke remains unfazed as he picks up his joint, making sure it”s still lit, and takes another drag without bothering to remove the dirt. He casually leans on the brick wall.

Used to their antics, I cut to business. “Rush the results. Slash the wait time in half, and I’ll double the pay.”

Zeke salutes, his joint hanging crookedly from his lips. “Got it, boss.”

As I straighten my jacket, I spot a long strand of white-blonde hair sticking to the leather. A spark of intrigue flickers inside me.

I pluck the hair off and stride over to Zeke, holding it out. “Bag it. Run it. Deliver the results. Quietly.”

He takes another drag from his joint, coughing into his fist before pulling a small, empty bag out of his back pocket. He opens it, and I slide the strand of hair inside.

He raises a brow but says nothing. For all his faults, Zeke’s one of us. A Nightcrawler. As a medical examiner, he’s severely underutilized by the city. They pay him to clean up bodies and send them through the incinerator. Gods know there’s never a shortage of work for him, but we pay him a healthy salary for his loyalty. His grasp of anatomy, access to pathology center resources, and authorization to utilize the incinerator are invaluable.

Plus, he enjoys the opportunity to showcase his education and expertise.

Zeke flicks the roach onto the ground, and I sigh, rubbing the scruff on my chin.

“Pick that shit up, you green-haired twat!” Godric calls from behind me.

“As if it makes a difference,” Zeke mumbles. But he obliges, picking up his litter. “Look at this shithole.” He waves a hand toward a mountain of trash piled high against the brick wall beside us. He kicks it, and a rat scampers out, drunkenly searching for new cover.

“Be part of the solution, not the problem,” I tell him.

He rolls his eyes, muttering something about no one giving a shit as he strides out of the alley, likely headed to wherever he parked his city van on the street.

Godric scoffs in disbelief. “Piece of work, that guy.”

“He’s good at his job. Reliable.”

“Still.”

“He’s as good as it gets,” I say.

“Long as he has our back, guess that’s what matters.”

“By the way, what did you give him back there?” he asks.

“A hair sample.”

“Whose?”

“Add it to the ever-growing list of mysteries around here,” I say as we stride toward the street—back toward the city’s beating heart. “Also…the Reaper’s back in the city.”

“Shit.” He goes still, stopping in his tracks. “You sure?”

I nod, cracking my knuckles. Godric groans and swipes a hand over his face.

“Saw him myself.”

Worse, so did she.

Whoever she is.