The signs of unrest between the gangs became more pronounced as Patrik led Jesrade towards the district built on a perfectly flat area. Before the world ended, another city had stood where Haven was now, and the oral histories said the flat area had been a sports field where the past people raced their flying vehicles.

  Now the place sprouted houses and a paint factory that occasionally belched acrid smoke that hung between the buildings. The only positive quality in the neighbourhood was an unobstructed view of Haven’s largest airport: most airships flew over the paint factory.

  Patrik noticed the gang symbols that hadn’t been there earlier. He could see the brewing criminal war as fear and greed in the people’s eyes, the way they estimated their environment, looking for threats and opportunities. He saw it in closed curtains and the parents guiding their offspring by hand, ready to shield them. People glanced at Patrik and Jesrade, but let them pass unhindered.

  “Who is the informant?” Jesrade asked. She kept her spine straight, radiating purpose. Jesrade was not a trained killer like her brothers, but she knew how to handle herself.

  “An apothecary with ties to the Isles. She says he wants to forget her past and move to Sandau to start a new life.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “My people have been busy finding out details about this apothecary since she contacted us two weeks ago.” The information and people moved quickly, if needed. “Her story seems too good to be true.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Eriana Twoboater. I consider her a traitor until proven otherwise.”

  “No need to be so cynical. Most people are not born rotten; they bloom when you nurture them.”

  “Some bloom like the toxic algae, poisoning us all,” Patrik said solemnly, and stopped by the address his agents had given him.

  It was a tiled house, dusty orange in color like many buildings in this district, with roof and windowpanes discolored from the paint factory exhaust gases. Only the rich boasted stone and wood constructs, and almost all the outer city was built on tiles, cement, and rare remains of the pre-war ruins.

  A communal kitchen occupied the building’s street level, providing organized cooking service for the local households. The apothecary was on the upper floor, with access through rickety stairs along the outer wall.

  “This is not good,” Patrik murmured, noticing the broken window and lack of people around the communal kitchen. He kicked the remains of broken glassware away as he ventured towards the stairs.

  “Gang territory dispute?” Jesrade asked, avoiding the wreckage. Her shoes were suited for the tiled streets in the better part of the city, not the dirt roads and broken ground.

  “We’ll see. Stay close.” Patrik instinctively touched the hilt of his long knife, hidden in the holster below his jacket, and knocked on the apothecary door. It swung open under his touch, the latch broken.

  Inside was a small shop, with a lone stone desk in the middle and drawers lining the walls. Light flowed in from the narrow windows, but the gas lamp lay broken on the floor. The drawers were emptied onto the floor, spilling boxes of dried ingredients, as if the place had been hastily raided.

  Jesrade stepped in, her shoes soundless on the tiled floor. She didn’t seem to notice the mess, but her eyes were fixed on the door behind the counter. A ghostly blue light guarded it, circling the doorframe like the closed doorway was a portal to forbidden realms, like one of the Old ones could step out any moment.

  “That’s seaglow. Is your informant devout to Old Kirian?” Jesrade whispered, flashing a knowing smile. The blue glow was a cosmetic effect, produced by special algae living in bent glass tubes embedded in the wall.

  “Curious, my informants failed to mention that decoration. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Kirlianites are only glorified doctors.” Patrik walked to the glowing door, scanning it with his dragon sight and finding nothing worrisome in the wall or the plant living in the tubes. It was only a fancy aquarium, but enough to keep the superstitious visitors away.

  “They are one of the items I plan to discuss with the Shibasan doctorate,” Jesrade said, backing away from the door to give Patrik space.

  Patrik knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply, stepping inside and finding his chest pressed against a shotgun’s double barrel. An unknown man grinned at him.

  Jesrade inhaled sharply, throwing herself flat against the wall. Patrik wanted to scream at her that the thin walls were not bulletproof. Instead, his honed reactions took over, and he pushed the barrel sideways just as the man pulled the trigger, and a shot peppered the floor, breaking tiles into ceramic dust.

  The unknown was raising his hand in defense, but his movements were sluggish, and Patrik stepped in, planting an elbow to the man’s nose, driving the bone inward in a calculated, cruel strike.

  The gunner was falling to the floor when Patrik noticed the three other people. He was in a moist room filled with tanks and pumps. Patrik’s attack had brought him well inside the room, and one man had slipped past him, sneaking around the other side of the tank in the middle. He rushed through the door towards Jesrade, and Patrik had no time to intercept as the other two attacked him.

  Patrik stepped over the dead man, yanking the shotgun free as he dodged a knife reaching for his ribs.

  The man wielding a knife was fast. He wore a black shirt and vest embroidered with multiple skulls in different colors. Gemstones glittered in his earlobes, sending wild reflections to the tanks. Patrik feinted, seemingly trying to turn the shotgun to fire it, but as the man stepped past the gun, Patrik drew his knife from under his jacket.

  Its blade bit the man on the leg. He grunted, taking a step back, his trouser leg turning red from the gushing blood.

  The other man cursed and dropped something into an open tank. It started immediately bubbling, filling the room with white, acrid steam. Patrik threw his knife at the man and followed the flight path with a series of thrusts with the shotgun as the whiteness blinded his eyes.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Patrik didn’t see, but he was not blind; he opened his sight as smoke billowed out. The moist dust dancing in the air was not enough to hide the man’s energies, and Patrik hit him again, seeing him go down.

  A third figure appeared in the doorway, coughing. Patrik recognized Jesrade, but his knees were buckling as he tried to retreat, and he ended up staggering like a drunkard. Patrik fell to his face as he crawled towards cleaner air, the strength draining from his limbs. Jesrade dragged him out, and he lay there, gulping for fresh air.

  “The hell was that?” Jesrade asked as the smoke slowly dissipated, leaking from the half-opened window and condensing as white mist on the tanks.

  “A chemical trick. Did you take the guy alive?” Patrik composed himself, but his brain was keen on betraying him, telling him suffocating in a forest fire would have felt like this. He almost heard wood crackling and felt the flames licking his back, his lungs filling with smoke. Patrik’s heart was racing, but nothing showed in his face as he regarded Jesrade.

  “Sorry, I thought you would save one. I put a spike in his brain.”

  Patrik got up to inspect the room. His throat was parched, and he tasted blood, but his feet were steady. The man Jesrade had killed looked like a hired thug; a bulky guy wearing black, with bad teeth and a bunch of protective amulets around his neck. The Olds hadn’t saved him, as they saved no one, and Patrik stepped over the corpse.

  “Are you okay?” Jesrade asked.

  “I’m fine,” Patrik lied as he picked his knife from where it had buried itself in a man’s shoulder. The guy had crawled forward after his attack, reaching the next door, but he had died there, puking all over the floor. He had clawed the door, but his strength had failed, and he hadn’t reached the latch.

  Jesrade looked away from the carnage, looking pale. “That was reactive salt from Shibasa. Were these guys looting the apothecary?” Jesrade pointed at a wet pouch floating in a tank. It carried the traditional markings they used in the island nation, a salt used in rituals to cleanse the rooms.

  Patrik rested his hand on the door, gathering himself. “Say, sister, what do these people have in common?”

  “I’m not your student, strategej. They all carry the…oh, they are equipped against the demons.” A nervous giggle escaped Jesrade’s lips. “They tried to scorch you with the salt.”

  All the dead carried amulets, tattoos, and other paraphernalia associated with protection against the ash demons, the creatures that were believed to convey all kinds of evil influences from the time when the world ended. Many southerners connected Ainadu to these imaginary devils.

  “Exactly. The salt reacted with whatever was in the tank. I fear this attack was not a coincidence. Let’s see if we can find Twoboater alive.”

  ***

  The apothecary had one more room behind the tank room and a door opening to the terrace, haphazardly built on the roof. Eriana Twoboater was lying on the floor, still breathing. She had a mass of dark, curly hair, a chemical-stained apron, and a skirt decorated with a colorful, geometric design.

  Patrik knelt by the woman, shaking her gently and smelling her breath. Twoboater groaned and opened her eyes: the other coffee-dark iris was marred by an uneven mark splitting it. The eye seemed to be blind as she looked at the two Ainadu.

  “Who were those men?” Patrik asked softly, sitting on the floor like it was normal. He looked at the woman, knitting his brows in concern, his features softening as he helped the woman to sit up. Jesrada saw it was a facade, and the knife sat ready in her brother’s holster.

  “Who are you?” Twoboater’s voice was but a whisper.

  “I was supposed to meet you tomorrow, Eriana. Good thing I came early, isn’t it?” Patrik reached out and picked up the unresisting woman’s necklace, seeing a tiny mirror embedded in silver, a potent protection against the ash curses, some believed.

  “Good that you came, they would have robbed this place.”

  “I don’t think so, Twoboater, I don’t think so at all. Actually…” Patrik leaned closer, grabbed the woman’s clothes, and pushed his face against hers. “I think that you are lying. Let’s see…you are also scared, your hands tremble. You are right to be afraid, Twoboater, I don’t like liars.”

  “Were those men going to appear in tomorrow’s meeting?” Jesrade asked innocently. She was checking the room, opening drawers and containers.

  Twoboater glanced around, looking desperate, and Patrik continued: “They won't help you, for they are dead. Why were they going to kill or capture me?”

  “I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice,” the woman whispered. Her eyes stopped at Patrik, taking in the severity of his face and the drops of blood on his hands.

  “Did this one have something to do with your plan?” Jesrade asked. She walked closer, holding a sleek glass cylinder. It contained a small syringe equipped with a glass ampule filled with milky liquid.

  “I don’t know who they are really, but I’m in debt to them. They…they…” Twoboater sniffed and looked at Patrik, expecting a hit that never came.

  “They what? Choose your words carefully. You already failed to fake unconsciousness, and I might get tired of your lies.”

  “They told me to approach the Ainadu and say I had information. I was to inject you with that thing. They brought it to me today. And they were to join me, make sure it all went smoothly.”

  “And?” Patrik still controlled himself; he had played this game too many times to lose his calm.

  “They didn’t say. I didn’t dare to ask.”

  “It still has something alive in it,” Jesrade said. She had always been keen to spot energies that signified life.

  “Too bad the thugs are dead. Inject her, please.” Patrik held whimpering Twoboater as Jesrade shot him with a disapproving glance.

  “We must know the depth of this plan,” Patrik said, frowning at his sister.

  “This has nothing to do with it.” Jesrade set the syringe, still inside its protective cover, on the table.

  Patrik shot up, forcing the helpless apothecary to rise with him. He bit the cork away to take the syringe. Twoboater twitched, but Patrik controlled her effortlessly.

  Patrik pushed the needle into Twoboater’s neck and pressed the liquid into her flesh. The woman stood still, holding her breath, but relaxed slowly when nothing happened.

  Jesrade stared at Patrik, her body language reeking of disapproval. Patrik patted the apocather’s hand with fake empathy, but his second tap reached only air as Twoboater very slowly collapsed to the floor.

  “Help her,” Jesrade hissed, kneeling by the woman.

  Twoboater’s lips were blue, and she struggled to breathe: the shallow breaths whizzed weakly as the woman fought for air. Patrik saw that her throat was swelling shut.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Patrik said, telling the truth.

  Jesrade fumed, trying to save the woman, but it was in vain. Erina Twoboater died on the floor.

  “You knew that.“ Jesrade turned to face her brother, and the unmasked pain in her eyes startled him.

  “Twoboater was dead the moment she accepted that mission, and you know it. I would have killed her should she have tried to inject me tomorrow. The terrorists would have killed her should she have failed to follow their orders,” Patrik said, forcing himself to look into Jesrade’s eyes. This was politics, this was what he did, but the hurt that swam in the ocean of his sister’s eyes screamed that there should have been another way.