Wretch was a strange name.

  You never knew if someone was calling you, or cursing you.

  “My watch!” a shout came from behind. “That wretched child! By the Saint, a thief.”

  Wretch froze. In a moment, every eye in the market would be on him, officers would come running and the lady would scream with a pitch that scratched against his eardrums.

  It was about time to head down anyway, he thought, sliding his hand out of the woman's purse. She turned, swaying her bulbous dress, an expression of shock hidden under layers of white powder.

  He offered an awkward smile, then burst into a sprint.

  Thumping boots and a shrill yelp came from behind him as he weaved through the crowd, slipping between canes, sacks and startled curses. Dashing through a market that smelled of fresh bread, perfume and horse-dung.

  He cut to the right, sliding into an alleyway of twisting pipes and valves.

  With every step of his mismatching boots, his oversized coat rattled.

  Damn jewelry is heavy, he thought, glancing behind him.

  Two burly men rushed into the alleyway after him, their blue and gold uniforms, tight around their waists. Thankfully the officers up here were always well fed, but if they caught him, he’d be lucky to just be chucked down the Spires.

  He vaulted a stack of crates, one hand to his chest to steady the stolen goods. In front, the narrow alley ended in a bustling street of pedestrians and horsedrawn carriages.

  If you were half as desperate as me, you might have had a chance.

  A shadow stepped from the street ahead, blocking his exit, a woman in uniform.

  “Lay down the contraband!” she shouted. “You’re surrounded.”

  It was true, but it wasn’t the first time Wretch had been cornered. He upped the pace, drawing a pearl necklace from his coat.

  The officer’s brow knitted and her sabre screeched from its scabbard, whistling through the air towards his jugular.

  He dropped low, sliding between her legs. The blade cut nothing, and she stumbled, staring down in surprise.

  White pearls scattered across the street, the three officers didn't notice, squeezing out of the alley with bated breath. They yelped as their feet shot out from under them.

  Wretch didn’t wait for them to get up, rushing towards a line of waiting passengers. An elevator of the Spires rose ahead, a massive cage of warped metal and glass, steam engines pulling chains as thick as a man.

  This one had just departed, leaving a chain rattling downwards just beyond a thin safety railing.

  Good timing.

  He dashed past a sign he couldn’t read, past the startled queue and jumped, one foot on the railing and then flight. The ticket clerk froze mid-stamp, staring with wide eyes and open mouth as Wretch soared out over the abyss.

  He slammed against the chain, clambering onto an iron link with a cramp-like grip. The sudden jerk ripped against his shoulders, threatening to dislocate his joints. Above, the shocked queue and the staggering officers vanished from sight, leaving only him and the chain rattling downwards faster than he’d like.

  Wind rushed past his face and his stomach rose to his throat, still he held on, heartbeats thumping in his ears.

  How is that for an escape, he thought, tasting iron in his mouth.

  Below him yawned a thousand feet chasm to the ground level, the Lows they called it. One slip and they’d have to scrape up his remains.

  Pushing an arm through a metal link, he found a more comfortable grip, as comfortable as you could be dangling an inch from death. With nothing left to do but cling on to dear life, he took in the view.

  The city of Nov Yanosk rushed past, a city as much built towards the clouds as along the ground. The Spires pierced the sky like black needles, fully in view as he descended a similar one. Each a massive structure rising over the city, their every floor, a cluttered mess of machinery and neighbourhoods. Walkways and tubing stretched between them, stitching the towers together like strands in a spider’s web.

  The Spires were where power lived, the only place in the city where people had things worth stealing. His father was up here somewhere, he was sure of it.

  Beneath them spread the Lows like a sea of rust, smokestacks, industries and a thousand chimneys vomiting soot. In the red light of the setting suns, humanity's foremost stronghold looked almost beautiful, the starvation and desperation of the Lows hidden by the permanent smog of pollution. On the horizon, the Outer Wall rose like a frozen wave of white stone, shielding Nov Yanosk from the things that lurked beyond.

  Still, when something did crawl over that white granite, or surfaced from the forgotten sewers below, the horrors always ended up in the Lows. Then you’d best hope a hunter was close.

  Wretch closed his eyes and breathed deep, filtering out the metallic roar of the chains.

  All right Akim, you bloody bastard. You’d better keep your part of the deal.

  A dangerous climb and an hour later, he passed through the Inner Wall, the border between the Spires and the Lows. Leaving was easy, coat pulled up high and eyes on the ground. Why wouldn't it? None in their right mind would leave willingly.

  Getting back in, though; that required papers, stamps and coin. He had none of those.

  But Akim did, forged or otherwise. Crammed into a barrel at the back of a rum-cart had proved a comfortable and reliable way to enter, as long as you didn’t mind the fumes.

  The officer at the gate didn’t even look up, just waved him through while the desperate queued for hundreds of paces in the opposite direction. He breathed out.

  He pulled his coat tight and walked as fast as he could. The streets of the Lows were already turning dark, gas-lamps flickered to life, though more than half were broken, the rest poured light through soot-stained glass, trying to pierce the veil of smog. Pedestrians hurried by piles of trash stacked against the walls, discarded gears and waste that smelled of rot and rust. One by one, the shops closed with falling shutters.

  No one stayed out past sundown, not in the Lows.

  Up ahead, an old man clung to a lamppost, stained beard, brown bottle in hand and a hat with a busted seam. He spun around the pole like a carnival jester and lifted his head towards the hazy outline of the Spires above.

  “Saint almighty, come and hold me tightly,” he sang.

  “My rod like a Spire, your figure so sightly…”

  He stumbled as if the cobblestone itself were trying to trip him.

  “With a bosom so deep, I'll fall off my feet.”

  “I’m waiting for you at the end of the street.”

  “Grant me a blessing that turns rock into rum,”

  “And the walls will be rubble before morning comes.”

  The drunk toasted the towers with a swaying salute and gulped from his bottle.

  A blessing to turn rocks into rum. I’d settle for even that, Wretch thought, slipping past the drunk and disappearing down an alley. He zigzagged between broken barrels and ducked under jutting pipes, stopping in front of a heavy door between two cracked windows and knocked.

  His heartbeat quickened, tonight was the night he learned how to become a Blessed.

  A slit drew open and two squinting eyes scanned the alleyway.

  “Down here,” Wretch said. "It's me.”

  A chuckle sounded from the other side.

  “Akim, your thief is back.”

  With a groan the door swung open, releasing a gust of alcoholic vapor and tobacco smoke so strong the pollution of the Lows seemed like a summer breeze.

  With a cough and teary eyes he walked down the steps, only glancing towards the thug by the door.

  This was his home, and he hated it.

  The cellar below was half bar, half workshop. Tables with uneven legs, a stained stone floor that stuck to your soles, and a counter crammed with bottles. All of it encircled by bunkbeds and gurgling copper vats.

  There were only two exits, the main entrance to the alley, and a metal door down into the forgotten sewers, though you had to be desperate taking the second path.

  Through the haze of tobacco, a handful of men played cards on a leaning table. At the far end sat Akim, the living proof that a Blessed could be free of every virtue. Tattoos twisted up his neck, his naked scalp polished to a shine and a smoldering cigarette between yellowed teeth. He grinned at Wretch as he stepped down the blocky stairs.

  “How was the climb, little man?” Akim said. “There’s a nice chime to your step.”

  Wretch shot him a glance. “There’s a drunk outside.”

  Akim waved it away, not looking away from his cards. “Yeah, yeah, at worst he’ll give us a warning should the officers come sniffing.”

  His pupils burst to a fiery orange as he laid down his hand.

  “Full house, nines full of Kings”

  One of the thugs leaned over, taking a swig from his bottle.

  “Oi Akim, I can see your bloody eyes, save the flame you swindler.”

  Akim chuckled and the fire in his eyes vanished. One of his cards rippled, the ink slithering over the rough paper, morphing from a king into a four.

  “Three of a kind,” he said, sweeping the coins his way. “Saint’s honest truth.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The table groaned.

  Akim, the boss of this little crew wasn’t honest nor truthful, but he was Blessed by the Flame. One in ten thousand to be given reality bending power.

  “Now, kid,” Akim said, spinning a set of keys around a finger. “What’s brother Akim got coming tonight then?”

  Wretch dropped a bundle of clocks, wallets and jewelry onto the table, metal clinking against the wood.

  A whistle came from the group.

  “It's the tenth haul,” Wretch said with a glaring look. “We had a deal.”

  Akim watched the spoils with a grin more fitting for a stray dog stalking a dying vagrant. “You’ve outdone yourself, kid.”

  “Akim…” Wretch said. “How do you get Blessed by the Flame?”

  “You know your mother sold ya to me for five pounds,” The man said, sifting through the shining baubles. “So that kind of makes me your pa, doesn’t it?”

  Wretch gritted his teeth. He remembered his mother, her screams, her fingers around his neck, the moment he learned what his name truly meant.

  “That debt was repaid years ago, you know that. Speak, and I’ll be on my way.”

  The table was watching them now, men with cheeks flushed red from the newly distilled liquor. Akim ripped his gaze from the shining heap, finally focusing on him. The man took a long drag of his cigarette and blew it straight into Wretch’s eyes.

  “The Blessing of the Flame isn’t just any old prize.” Akim countered, dragging a hand over his barren scalp. “It's a ladder, I’m sure even the Saint is up there somewhere. That kind of secret’s worth a hefty price…”

  Akim leaned back in his chair, feet on the table. His eyes lit and suddenly a small dagger was in his hand, appearing from thin air, always at an angle where you couldn’t truly see where it came from.

  “You even get a new name. You’d need that, little man. Akim of Hurtful Dreams Is mine, if I imagine killing ya, you’ll feel it”

  Wretch changed his strategy, standing there with crossed arms without answering. After all these years, he knew this sack of lies was allergic to silence.

  For the first time Akim’s grin melted. Replaced by a frown that suited him much better. He reached behind Wretch’s head with fiery eyes and with a flick of his wrist a tome appeared in his hand as if it had been hidden behind his ear. Worn yellow pages and dark, tightly bound leather.

  "Ta-daa!"

  Wretch’s eyes went wide, his heart skipped a beat.

  “Where did you find that, you bastard?”

  Akim gave a look that begged for his facial structure to be rearranged.

  “Spare me the story. I get it. Your mother was a harlot who sold you for a handful of coins and your pa was a big strong hunter that left you only with a dusty tome full of beasts.”

  Wretch lunged.

  Akim’s eyes flared to light as he used his Blessed power, the tome vanished with a twist of his wrist and he caught him by the collar.

  “One more job, kid.” He hissed with stinking breath. “A big one, then I’ll tell ya how I became Blessed and you can search for whatever ghosts you’d like.”

  A distant chime interrupted their scuffle. Another joined, then a dozen. The clocks of the Lows all sang in unison.

  “Curfew.” Someone whispered.

  Akim pushed Wretch away, he stumbled, but found his balance, glaring up with murder in his eyes.

  “Sounds like something made it past the Outer Wall,” Akim said with a sneer. “Let’s hope some whore-loving hunters are close, ey kid?”

  Wretch skulked to his corner. A bundle of cloth on the floor serving as his bed, a tin canister of ham and stale bread waiting for him. In the wall, a brick was ripped from the mortar, his hiding spot. Akim must have searched long to find the book, his only treasure along with a memory of a man with burning eyes under a wide hat.

  His father.

  He knew Akim couldn’t make things truly disappear. He shifted them around, always within sight. He could find the book, but would they let him?

  “Saint, Akim, you ain’t got a bone straight in your body.” One of the thugs said, glancing at Wretch in the corner as he shuffled the deck of cards “Another hand?”

  Above the shuffle of cards and the chuckle of men a hoarse song came from the alley.

  “But what can I try, no flame in my eye.”

  “I gnaw at my teeth and face the black sky.”

  “Come beast of old, come hear my last cry.”

  “A taste of this might, before I wither and die.”

  On the last note, he roared with a pitch high enough for his voice to crack.

  “Saint be praised,” A thug said with a laugh. “The boozer roars like a choir.”

  Akim lit another cigarette. “Give him a moment, he’ll—”

  The walls trembled.

  The gaslamps flickered and dust sailed down from the beams.

  Two floors above, something scraped across the roof, shingles rasping beneath heavy weight, but outside their windows were nothing but pitch black.

  Heads turned upwards.

  What in the Saint’s name, Wretch thought.

  The crew didn’t dare speak. There was something out there in the night, why else would the clocks chime for curfew.

  Silence.

  Then waddling footsteps.

  The crew all looked at each other, then reached for their weaponry, fingers wrapping around knuckle dusters and broken pipes. The leisurely air evaporated.

  A series of knocks rattled the door.

  “Hey Mister!" A slurring voice called from the other side. “Bottle’s empty, but I still got coin, let me have another.”

  A thug chuckled nervously. “Maybe it was just…”

  A noise from the roof.

  The ground quaked with enough force to rattle the bottles littering the room.

  From beyond the door came a voice.

  “Come on now, night’s young.”

  Akim gestured with a hand, eyes glued to the windows. “Dim the lights.”

  Wretch turned the valve with a squeak, descending the room into an orange haze.

  A scream sent a jolt down Wretch’s spine, a wail, sharp and raw cut through the air.

  Then the noise of tearing of cloth and flesh. A human gasp, then silence.

  The crew froze, like wide-eyed statues facing the windows. Through the cracked glass, a shape moved, a pale silhouette just beyond the lamplight. Flailing limbs connected to something obscured by the dark.

  Akim, now deathly pale, gestured for them to rise. The thugs moved with uncharacteristic care, silently rising from their seats with only the odd groan of wood, Wretch inching closer to the group.

  Another series of knocks, this time with enough force to rattle the doorframe.

  Akim pointed towards the back of the cellar, the way down into the sewers.

  A squeak from the door, the handle turned. The locking mechanism groaning against a weight.

  Whatever it was, it wanted in.

  A thug tripped, his boot caught on a table’s leg. They all froze.

  A bottle on the table wobbled out of reach.

  “Close your eyes.” Akim hissed.

  Wretch obeyed. Still, a crack rang through the air, in the silence it was as loud as a whistle.

  He opened his eyes again, broken glass littering the floor.

  “You bloody imbecile.” Akim whispered, brow twisted in fury, his finger clutched around the throat of a thug with wide open eyes and trembling lip. “It doesn’t work if you look.”

  “I’m sorry boss.” The underling mumbled. “There's nothing out there, just a screaming drunk."

  “Quiet.” Akim growled.

  Something slammed against the window.

  They all turned, everyone but Wretch, his hand sliding into Akim’s pocket.

  Something was plastered against the glass. A face smeared in blood, eyes wide and lifeless. The drunk.

  Its features spasmed and its glassy eyes scanned over the room, trailing over the rundown equipment and empty bottles. Until it came to them. The drunk's pupils shrank, almost disappeared, its face contorting in an expression of hunger and joy.

  It had found them.

  Akim rammed his knife into the man’s stomach and pushed him forward, uttering one word over the gasp.

  “Run.”

  The thug screamed. From the alley, a roaring cacophony answered. Something ripped the door off its hinges.

  Wretch turned and sprinted. The others followed, crashing behind the counter towards the metal door of the sewer.

  “Keys!” someone shouted.

  “No!” Shouted the gutted thug from behind.

  Akim patted through his vest, hands frantically pulling at his clothes.

  “They’re gone. Saint’s fury, they’re gone!”

  Wretch dared a glance behind.

  It crouched over the fallen man, a towering figure of flesh and wings. Pale and wet, two burning eyes under a veil of hair that reached the floor, the long black strands wrapped around quivering corpses. Men, women and children dangling like ornaments from its giant body.

  Their former comrade shrieked like an animal, dark locks smothering his face and hoisting him up as if hanged from the gallows.

  The creatures stood, its eyes burning through the haze of smoke and vapor.

  “We got to go through it,” Akim screamed and whipped a sabre from his sleeve. “Spread out.”

  Click

  The creature took a step forward, glass and stools crunching underfoot while the dangling corpses mumbled.

  “Kid,” Akim called with a glance behind, “you first.”

  “Kid?”

  The door to the sewer was half open, Wretch stood there, key in hand, watching them with unblinking eyes. He shut it and turned the lock.

  The world went black and a roar intermixed with human screams so loud it vibrated the metal against his fingertips.

  “Goodbye, Akim.” Wretch whispered, and ran.

  His name echoed behind him, howled by dying men.

  If they were cursing or calling him. He didn’t know.