Chapter 4

Comprehensive Surveillance Protocols and Vigilant Oversight

Silver Edict #12

“…Ministry of Surveillance may monitor public areas to ensure the security, safety, and freedoms of Silver Citizens, thus deterring wrongdoing and upholding order.”

ARCHER

Hours after sending the Scouts on their way, the terror-stricken face of the blonde bartender remains fresh in my mind. As Godric and I walk downtown, my fingers twitch at my sides, desperate to pluck my phone out and check to see if there’s any word from Zeke.

About the dead girl we found in the alley.

And the woman who can see the Reaper.

My phone volume is on high though, and it hasn’t made a peep, so I know he hasn’t relayed word yet.

We move farther away from the bustling city center, toward the slums on the outskirts. The congested skyscrapers slowly give way to stout buildings and massive rundown warehouses that sprawl across entire city blocks. Soon, the hum of the cars and bars and chatter fades away.

I adjust the oversized bag on my shoulder, clutching it tight. The aroma of steamed vegetables and chicken wafts into my nose, and my stomach grumbles. I’ll eat later—after we’ve dropped off food for the street dwellers. Despite the prevailing beliefs about them, not everyone who lives on the streets is an addict or criminal. Most are victims of the system—kids who left broken homes and became adults without education and opportunities. For a few years now, it’s been on my mind to build some kind of facility for those living on the streets, a shelter of sorts.

I’ve thought about renovating my mother’s old building—it’s a high-rise downtown with good bones and plenty of space—but many of the street dwellers live on the outskirts of the city and are reluctant to make their way downtown permanently.

“Pixel found a location for sale—two streets away from here,” Godric says.

“Price?”

He rattles off a number. It’s not too bad.

“Have her place a bid,” I say. “Price is doable. We need to snag it before Arlo Osiander does.”

That rich bastard has been snatching up property all around the city, and I don’t like it one bit. I especially don’t like that we can’t find any background on him.

“I hate that guy,” Godric mutters, echoing my sentiments. “You think you can convince them to trust you and move in? Not everyone wants to change, brother.”

Holding up the bag of food to make a point that I’m trying to get them to trust me, I shrug. My goal is to get the people on the streets—especially the youth—into a safe, secure place, help them clean up their lives since the city refuses to acknowledge them.

“You can lead a horse to water and all that,” he says.

Jaw tight, I face forward and continue trudging toward Ruin’s Edge—as it’s disparagingly named.

Tufts of dead grass battle their way through cracks in the pavement. Broken glass and bottles litter the area, and a few tents sit in a row off to the side. Here, many of the forgotten are left to rot.

“Remy?” I call out when we’re closer.

A few people peek out, but none are the man I’m looking for.

A girl with messy black hair and nervous eyes strides up to me. I recognize her once she’s closer, and I smile softly at her.

“We brought dinner, Siobhan,” Godric says.

“Seen Remy around?” I ask her as I slip the bag off my shoulder and place it on the ground.

As I pull out the biodegradable containers one by one, people start filtering out of the tents to get their food.

“Nah—he went back to the city.”

I grind my teeth. Stubborn ox. He refuses to stay with me, despite me having plenty of space, yet he’ll frequent the alleys.

I’ll have to look for him later.

Siobhan takes a small box of food and opens it, digging in with her hands.

“Have you considered my offer?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says through a mouthful of chicken. “We’re staying.”

I share a solemn look with Godric. “It’s only a matter of time before the Scouts come to relocate you.”

“We’ll deal.”

“I’m setting up a new shelter, regardless,” I say, mimicking her stubborn tone.

She merely shrugs, continuing to tear into her food. The dozen or so other people who came to get their own meals have already wandered back into their shelters, not interested in interacting.

Godric steps away to make his rounds, checking on those who might need medical assistance and making a list for our doctor on retainer. We’ll send him out if we need to.

“I’m staying clean,” she says. “We appreciate everything you do for us, Phantom—or at least, most of us do—but we can’t owe you anything else.”

“You owe me nothing, Siobhan.” For a moment, I consider using glamour to convince her to take me up on my offer, but then I shove that idea aside. That’s not what I use my ability for. “Think about it.”

“Always do.”

“What if I get a new building nearby—instead of in the inner city?”

She pauses her chewing, tilting her head as if considering my words. “Might be able to convince them. Depending.”

“Try,” I say.

“Fine.” She sighs, but she smiles at me, and her initial anxiety washes away for a moment. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“So I’m told.”

It’s a shame all the space in my ma’s old building is going to waste, but like Godric said, I can’t convince anyone to come with me.

When Godric finishes his rounds, we say our goodbyes and head back toward the inner city.

Two blocks away, a desperate, high-pitched scream rings out.

“Help!” the voice calls. “Please, someone, help me!”

“This fucking city,” Godric mutters.

We share a look, then break out into a sprint. As we run toward the cries, I pull my leather gloves out of my back pocket and slide them on.

Just in case.

I’m not a fan of getting my hands dirty, in the literal sense.

Farther down the street, the buildings give way to a mostly empty lot. A few makeshift shelters line the fence, and a couple of people mill about. The nearest streetlight buzzes loudly as its fluorescent hue flickers.

“Help!” the voice cries again, hoarser this time.

Godric smacks my shoulder. “There.”

My eyes adjust, and I catch sight of someone pinning a woman down on a piece of plywood. She struggles against the attacker. He crushes her thin body beneath his, his jeans pulled halfway down. None of the nearby people move to help her.

A roaring in my head silences everything else around me, and spots of red color my vision.

In four strides, I reach the man, gripping him by the shirt and ripping him off the woman with a growl.

“Hey—”

I slam the toe of my boot into his ribs, then quickly press the heel into his throat, precariously close to crushing his windpipe.

Before we can check on the woman, she’s up and bolting, sobbing as she flees.

“Let her go,” I tell Godric through clenched teeth, locking my eyes on the pale loser beneath my boot. As much as I want to ensure she’s okay, two notorious gangsters chasing after her in the night might only traumatize her further.

The assailant coughs and sputters beneath me, eyes wide with shock as he flails around, desperately trying to pry my boot off him. His manhood hangs out, making it clear what he was attempting to do a moment ago.

My body trembles with rage, and it takes every fiber of my control not to reach for my gun and end his despicable life.

This isn’t how it should be.

“Arch,” Godric whispers. “You can’t take him out like this. You can’t help Sofia if you’re locked up.”

It’s too late to help Sofia.

Just like it’s too late to help my ma.

I press my boot down a little harder, and the man’s face begins to turn purple, his movements slowing.

“Archer.” Godric’s strong hand lands on my shoulder, and it’s enough to ground me.

I can’t do it.

Lifting my boot from the man’s neck, I glower at him as he scrambles to sit up. Then I kick him, forcing him back down. His skull smashes into the uneven concrete, and he cries out in pain.

With a frustrated grunt, I step away from the man, letting Godric do his thing.

Squatting, Godric stares right into the man’s dirt-streaked face. He keeps eye contact without blinking.

“Climb the fire escape”—he jerks his head toward the building beside us and leans in closer—“then jump. Headfirst. Don’t scream.”

The man’s eyes glaze over, and he nods jerkily, but he presses himself up, yanks up his pants, and stumbles toward the building.

Without a word, Gdoric and I watch as the man mindlessly follows the orders.

Pulling a trash bin beneath the fire escape, he drags himself up the stairs and to the highest platform, at least ten stories up.

Without hesitation, the man dives off headfirst, cleaving the air with a bone-chilling silence. I turn away as his body lands, wincing at the sickening thud.

Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I choke it down.

No one moves for a moment. No one speaks.

A few tents rustle as people slowly crawl back into their shadows. Gagging and retching noises fill the air as someone yells out, “Gimme ya phone, Ferris, or call the damn Scouts yaself to clean this shit up!”

“We should go,” Godric says.

Nodding mutely, I stride away from the lot without a backward glance.

“You saved her.” He matches my pace. “She’s fine. She’s alive.”

“Fine?” A disbelieving laugh bursts from me. “She is not fine, Godric. No one in this wretched city is fine.”

“She’s a lot better than she would’ve been if you hadn’t gotten there.”

My chest rises and falls vigorously as I swipe a leather-clad hand over my jaw, shaking my head. “Not enough. It’s never enough.”

Today we were in the right place at the right time, but we can’t be everywhere all the time.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, man, but we need to look at the facts,” Godric says. “This ain’t normal. People are acting fucking crazy. Young people turning up dead. With no signs as to why—”

“I’m not assuming anything until Zeke gets back to us.”

“If it’s the dust again, man—”

“Then we clean it up again.”

A short while later, the shrill tone of my phone rings out, and my entire body softens in relief.

“That’s him.” I yank off my gloves, then whip out my phone and answer, listening raptly to his update.

“Ran the hair,” Zeke says. He chuckles. “Found some photos. Your mystery woman is bad. Why didn’t you mention she was so h—”

“Zeke.”

“Sorry, sorry, boss.” The clicking of a keyboard filters through the phone. “Eh, anything useful? Not really. Basic shit. The hair belongs to one Fantasia Foster, born AR three sixty-two to Claude and Amelia Foster. Parents died when she was only eight. She was lost in the foster system after tha—”

“Claude Foster?” I repeat, processing this information.

“Uh—” Zeke pauses, andmore clacking noises fill the silence. “You got it. Doctor Claude Foster. Looks like he was the—”

“Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs,” I mutter.

“Oh?” The telltale flick of a lighter reaches my ears, and a few seconds later Zeke coughs. “You know the man? His file is sealed. Can’t access it on my—”

“Thanks.”

Squeezing the phone so hard my knuckles ache, I hang up while Zeke is still rambling. I clench my jaw, rubbing the scruff on my chin and contemplating what this means. The file might be sealed for him, but Pixel—our resident hacker—can surely break through.

“Godric,” I call, snagging his attention. “You’ll never guess who our new friend is.”

My phone buzzes with an incoming message.

I glance down at the screen.

Zeke.

I open the message. Godric and I peer down at an image of Fantasia laughing behind a bar. My phone buzzes again with another message, and a slew of heart-eyed smiley faces pour in from Zeke.

Beside me, Godric’s body shakes with quiet laughter. I scoff, turning the screen off and stowing my phone away.

When I meet his eyes, he’s smirking. “I see why you wanted to know who she was now,” he says.

“I wanted to know how the hell she can see the Reaper.”

“The real question is: she single?”

“She’s Claude Foster’s daughter.”

The smile slips from his face as he presses his lips together. “Son of a bitch.” He crosses his arms. “I knew it. The fucking dust is back.”

“Still don’t know that for sure.” Striding away from Godric, I continue toward the city center.

“You’re telling me Claude fucking Foster’s daughter just randomly showed up and she’s immune to glamour?” He snorts. “I might not have your ability, but this smells like bullshit.”

“Not agreeing with you”—I pick up my pace—“but it’d be wise to keep her close for a bit. See what she knows. Especially with Mesmeric Labs under new ownership.”

“Hey, boss,” Godric says, halting beside me.

I pause and frown at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Needed your attention.” He smirks, shrugging a broad shoulder, then points up. “UIS got your girl.”

I follow his line of sight to the closest Urban Information Screen.

The massive electronic screens are mounted on buildings every couple of blocks, continuously blasting critical news high above the city streets.

A picture of Fantasia floods the screen. I didn’t get a good enough look at her earlier to see the resemblance to the late faeologist—and the pale, bleached hair threw me off—but I see it clearly now. She has his complexion, the same almond-shaped pale blue eyes, and her dark brown brows—likely her natural hair color—match the shade of her father’s hair.

They have the same high cheekbones and plump lips.

Shock and sorrow lines her face as she stares down at the teenage girl we found earlier. Behind her, reaching out for her, is me.

My face isn’t visible from the angle the photo was taken, but the skull tattoo on the back of my hand is easily identifiable.

Wanted for murder, by order of the High Chancellor.

“What the hell—” I glance at Godric. “Tell Pixel to get this down.”

He shakes his phone at me. “She’s already on it.”

A moment later, the picture flickers out, replaced with an almost identical photo. Except, instead of Fantasia’s white-blonde bun and pale olive skin, it’s a girl with strawberry-blonde pigtails and tan skin. The Rising Startee has been replaced with one that says Maverick’s Ales. Instead of horror, the girl’s face is lined with rage.

My hand is nowhere to be seen—successfully edited out.

Photo alteration courtesy of Pixel, tech genius.

I exhale a heavy sigh of relief, confident that the photo in the city’s system has been replaced with this fraudulent one. Similar enough to not raise red flags, but different enough to throw people off Fantasia’s tail.

I’m all for justice—even vengeance, under the right circumstances—but it wasn’t her who murdered the girl. Other than being born to a jackass scientist, she’s innocent in all of this.

At least I think she is.

She might be.

Either way, I’ll find out myself.