Chapter 3

”From my experience with chromatics, grey is the absence of color. Perhaps that is why I had not seen a soul-shade in grey. Until yesterday. I witnessed a hit-and-run, and as I held the man’s hand while he bled out, his soul-shade faded from a sky-blue to grey, leached of all color…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

“Yuh tryna strip da wood, Tasia,” a gruff voice says from further down the bar.

I ignore Fredrik, the barfly that’s impossible to swat away, and continue to scrub the bartop with feigned attention to detail. I wish time would hurry so I can finish and go home.

Maybe once I’m there—with Reed, in bed—my mind will stop replaying tonight’s unsettling events.

Every time I blink, I see that teen’s face in my mind—her pale skin, her bloodshot eyes. It isn’t unusual for people to turn up dead on the streets, but I’ve never been the one to find a body before.

More than anything else, though, it was her grey soul-shade that rattled me.

I hate the color grey. Not because it’s a bland, low-saturation tone that offers absolutely no aesthetic appeal, but because of what it represents, the memories it dredges up.

Grey was the color of my parent”s soul-shades in their last moments, thirteen years ago.

Silver Scouts.

Silver guns.

Silver City.

Silver is just as bad as grey.

The only difference is that one reflects light while the other absorbs it—but they’re both the same color, reflectivity aside.

Maybe that’s why I hate this forsaken city so much. Silver City is as terrible as the color it’s named after. It’s a low-saturation, shamble of a city.

I shudder, vigorously scrubbing the worn wood, the rough texture scraping against my fingertips. The pendant lights overhead provide only dim light, and they cast shadows, making it difficult to spot the stubborn beer stains. The thick air is stale with alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke. Even with the lively chatter and pulsating music, my thoughts continue to echo in my mind.

Only one more hour until last call.

I can do this.

Holding my breath for as long as possible, I try not to inhale the musky, bitter stench coming from the bucket of dirty water beside me while I attempt to clean. It’s impossible not to think about how many bacteria are on this grimy rag. It’s the last one I have, though. All the rest are dirty, sitting in a burlap sack, waiting for Jeremiah, my boss, to take them to the laundromat.

“Jus tryna have a friendly talk, Tasia,” Fredrik mutters when I don’t respond. He hiccups, shaking his empty glass at me. “Fine. Another Sharp Wing at least.”

A brown haze hovers around his body like always. It’s a bland shade, one that’s easy to ignore, unlike some of the brighter colors around the room. I keep my gaze lowered, afraid the wavering colors will nauseate me.

Huffing, I toss the rag back into the bucket. Why do I even bother trying to clean this damned place? It’s not like health inspectors come to this side of the city, and folk like Fredrik certainly don’t come here for the atmosphere.

We might serve local craft beer, but hell, it’s our low prices that lure these deadbeats in, not the quality of the beer itself. I’ve told Jeremiah before that if he raises his prices, he might draw a better clientele. He scoffed at me, claiming that if he did that, he’d have no patrons at all.

I don’t love The Rising Star, but it’s a comfortable job. I’ve been here six years now, and sure, the pay is shit, but it’s better than the alternative. I’ve searched for other jobs in the past, and the only options were to sell my skin to the rich from Sweetcreek or clean up after them. Neither sounded particularly enjoyable. At least here I can serve those I understand—those like me.

Muttering under my breath, I grab a frosted mug from the concealed cooler below the counter, position it under the tap, and fill it with brown-red liquid.

“Come on, any day now.” Fredrik belches, and I turn, catching him as he uses the hem of his soiled shirt to swipe away the slobber from his chin.

My nose wrinkles.

Even six beers can’t distract him from my purposefully slow pace.

The air in the bar is hot and sticky, made worse by the poor air conditioning and crowded space.

An outdated rock song plays on the jukebox, one that I’ve been sick of hearing since my first week here. At least the other patrons seem satisfied with their drinks and conversation. They pay me no mind.

I don’t like to drink—a harsh irony for a full-time bartender. My ability becomes harder to ignore when I”m intoxicated. Even so, I’ve sampled our Sharp Wing. It’s a high-malt amber with a delicious caramel aftertaste that even I can appreciate. But people like Fredrik will never value it for what it is. The people who visit this place want to drink as much as possible for as little money as possible, hoping to escape their miserable lives for a few hours.

Suppressing a bitter laugh, I lock eyes with Fredrik. Although he mumbles something rude at me, he gives me a grin. I slide his mug across the counter toward him, intentionally letting it slosh around. A good amount splashes onto the counter, and he swears at me.

“I ought to not tip ya for that.”

“Shame,” I say with a sigh.

He sits at my bar five nights a week, orders seven Sharp Wings a night, totaling fourteen silver even, and tips a single silver every time. But that’s not even why I dislike him so much. It’s his predatory, thin-lipped smile. The way his beady little eyes roam my body with open interest.

I turn my back to the patrons, and my eyes snag on a sketch tacked to the bulletin board behind the bar.

My breath catches.

I’ve seen it every day for the last six months but never paid it any attention until now.

With a shaking hand, I reach for the flyer and pluck it from the bulletin board.

The noise from the bar fades to silence as I stare at the sketch.

It’s a man not much older than me, with a sharp jaw, prominent nose, and tattoos on his neck. He wears a hoodie that covers his hair. The drawing is in black and white, and it’s more of an exaggerated caricature than an accurate depiction, but I recognize those eyes.

They’re colorless in the drawing, but in real life, they’re an ethereal golden hue—almost cat-like.

Underneath the drawing, in scrawling handwriting, it says:

Wanted for murder

By order of the High Chancellor

The Phantom

Reward: 5,000 Silvers

The notorious Phantom of Silver City.

Leader of the Nightcrawlers. I knew he was in the gang when I saw the tattoo on his hand, but I hadn’t expected to run into the Phantom himself.

It’s the name given to him by the media, for how elusive he is.

As I stand there, mulling over his name, my chest constricts.

Shit.

We’ve all heard of him and his horrible lack of morals. He and the other Nightcrawlers manufacture and distribute drugs on the street, incite violence, and purposely flout the city’s edicts. They constantly challenge the Silver Scouts, step all over the cityfolk, and steal with reckless abandon.

Fear courses through my veins, quickly followed by rage. He killed that girl. Whether or not it was intentional, if she died from an overdose, he and his stupid fucking Nightcrawlers are responsible.

“Feckin fae sympathizer!” someone booms from across the room, snagging my attention. There’s a collective gasp, a loud crash, and then a few drunk patrons cheer as a scuffle breaks out.

Closing my eyes for a second, I take a breath to compose myself.

“Not again,” I mutter.

Instead of tacking the sketch back on the bulletin board, I hesitate, thinking of the golden aura around the Phantom’s muscular frame.

Even in the shadows, dressed like night himself and standing ten feet away from a corpse, his soul-shade glimmered like the brightest gold. Something about that image gives me pause, and I decide to go with my gut and trust him. Crumpling up the flyer, I turn around and toss it in the trash beneath the bar.

“Screw you! You don’t know what you’re talkin about!” someone else yells back over the music.

“Love those dirty feckers, do ya? I betchur wife does too. Betcha she’s out there right now in the Wilds, suckin em reaaaaaal good.”

“You sonofa—”

Bam.

One guy ruthlessly whacks another with a chair. A crowd rushes over to get a closer look, obstructing my view of the two fighting men.

Everyone’s soul-shades blend and writhe, like a confused rainbow. I strain my eyes to stay focused on the fight, the vibrant colors making me more anxious than usual.

I need to defuse the situation before it becomes violent and someone calls the Scouts.

I suppress a shudder.

I”ve had my fill of close encounters with them tonight.

“Ya gonna deal with that, Tasia?” Fredrik, who is still at the bar nursing his beer, snorts and points with his thumb.

Of course the jerk finds this funny.

“Shut up, Fredrik. I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight.”

Reaching beneath the bar, I grab one of the bats propped up against the mug cooler. Not the one with nails poking out, no, just the regular one for now.

“There goes your tip, ya mouthy little—”

“Ask me if I care.”

Now I’m seething. My vision clouds, and my clenched fists tremble. The thick tension in the room suffocates me.

Normally, I can deal with Fredrik. And I”m used to breaking up fights, but everything that happened tonight has left me disoriented.

In the midst of the swirling blues, pinks, purples, and other colors, one smoky aura catches my attention.

No.

Squinting, I notice a man in the fight whose soul-shade is grey.

He didn’t come in here like that; I would’ve noticed.

“Oh, wait till I tell Jeremiah about this one, ya—”

I block out Fredrik and all other surrounding noise, completely absorbed in watching the two men fighting on the other side of the crowd.

“Move!” I shout as I tuck the bat under my arm.

I place my hands on the bar. With some effort, I swing my feet off the sticky, grimy floor and leap over the counter, clearing it smoothly. I never thought I would be in such good shape from bartending. It”s not a matter of choice, for sure.

The regulars, who are still lucid and not yet fully intoxicated, give me a wide berth as I push my way toward the jukebox. They’re as used to this as I am.

Sweat forms on my palms, and my knees start to wobble.

As I get closer, I realize that both of the patrons involved in the disagreement have grey soul-shades. A moment ago, only one guy did.

What the hell?

I hadn’t seen a grey soul-shade in thirteen years. And now, three in one night?

The main aggressor, a beefy, red-faced man, grabs the other by the neck. “I oughta kill you for that, you son of a—”

Crack.

I bring the bat down on a high-top table beside them. It startles the larger man, and he releases the other, stumbling backward as he squints at me with confusion.

“Get the hell out of here.” I shake the bat at them. “Both of you. Now! Or the next hit will land on your balls.”

It’s a bluff. I’ve never actually hit a patron with a bat before. But then again, I’ve never needed to. Threats normally do the trick.

A bead of sweat slides down my cheek as my eyes roam the muted cloud of grey surrounding the two drunkards.

My hands shake so hard I almost drop the bat, but I maintain a neutral expression on my face.

“I said get the fuck out!”

Instantly they stop and straighten. They both spit curses at me, then scurry through the small crowd and out the open front door.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. My lungs ache, on the verge of bursting. Normally, it only takes a few steady breaths to regain my composure, but I can’t calm myself tonight.

Why did those men have grey soul-shades?

They’re still alive.

The same song plays on repeat from the jukebox. The lead singer goes on and on about drinking beer and partying all night long. I’ve heard the lyrics enough times that I could recite them in my sleep.

I snap.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

I bring the bat down on the jukebox until my arms are weak and tingly from the impact. I’m out of breath and sweating. And the worst part of all?

The damn thing keeps on playing.

The people nearby chuckle behind their drinks, apparently highly amused. I glare back at all of them. “Play a different fucking song, for the love of Gods!”

By the time I hop the counter, return to my position behind the bar, and replace the bat to its resting position, Fredrik is standing, ready to leave. He shakes his head at me before chugging the rest of his beer. He counts out fourteen silvers, leaving nothing extra for a tip this time, and drops the stack on the counter with a clank.

“Jeremiah’s gonna hear bout thissss,” he slurs before he leaves.

As if I care.

My mind can’t let go of the two men and their grey soul-shades.

Anxiously, I tap my fingers on the counter.

Before I can overthink it, I snag my phone from my back pocket and shoot Mellie a text, asking her to come down and watch the bar while I take a quick break. She can be here promptly; she shares a kid—but no love—with Jeremiah, and he houses them both above the bar in a small apartment. As bad as I feel about burdening her, this is important.

Without waiting for her to reply, I grab the bat—the one with nails this time—and bolt from The Rising Star.

“Move!” I shout as I jostle my way through the crowd on the street, glancing around desperately for the men who just left.

According to my dad’s research, grey soul-shades represent the lack of a soul. His journal is the only insight I have into my magic. It showed up about two years after his death and it explained much about my ability.

Most of his entries are from After Reclamation 370.

The year they killed him.

So, grey soul-shades? They’re only seen in death.

But the two men from the bar? They were filled with vibrant, angry life—very much alive.