Cold Moon
Chapter 215
Renn always liked to be early.
Better to get there first and wait than walk with Tallo and Brinks yapping in his ears the whole way. The two would fill the road with their own noise, laughing at their own jokes, drunk on nothing but themselves.
With the half moon out the streets were bright enough but felt longer than they should have. Something about the light of the cold moon always sat wrong with him. Lanterns burned low, their light more shadow than shine.
His boots slapped the cobbles too loud in the emptiness, each step seeming to echo back at him. Somewhere far behind, water dripped in a steady, hollow rhythm.
Half way to the warehouse, the hairs on his arms rose.
Footsteps. Behind him.
He stopped.
The sound stopped.
Turning slow, he squinted into the gloom. Nothing. Just an empty lane and the twitch of a window cover in the wind. He waited, ears straining, but heard only the faint creak of rope and canvas.
Get a grip, he told himself, setting off again. The footsteps didn’t follow. Or maybe they were just more careful now.
Renn breathed shallow without meaning to, feeling the warmth of his own breath hang heavy in front of him.
He glanced over his shoulder again.
Still nothing. No shape in the dark, no hint of movement. And yet, the weight of it was there. Something unseen stalking him in the dark.
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“Renn!”
The shout snapped his head around.
Tallo and Brinks were just turning onto the street ahead, laughing, their lantern bobbing between them. Brinks waved the light like he was signalling a ship at sea.
Relief hit Renn in a dizzy rush.
“Goddesses mercy,” he muttered, picking up his pace to meet them.
“What’s got you looking like you've seen a ghost?” Tallo smirked as they drew close.
“Street’s dead quiet, that’s all,” Renn said, forcing a shrug. There must have been the steps he’d heard, a stray echo rather than someone actually after him.
“Always the jumpy one,” Tallo teased.
“Oh fuck off,” Renn countered without heat.
“Whatever, gotta piss,” Tallo said, stepping unceremoniously into the shadow of a building. One of the few bits of manners he could be relied on for.
“Smoke?” Brinks asked.
“Sure,” Renn agreed, accepting a pinch of tobacco for his pipe.
“It’s such horseshit that we can't smoke at the warehouse. I mean really, how sensitive can that freak be?” Brinks complained. “Surrounds himself with a lot worse than pipe smoke.”
“Right?” Renn agreed, though really he didn’t care. They puffed a while in silence.
“Ugh… Tallo? Are you pissing or having fun? Because we haven't got all night,” Binks complained.
“Probably trying to write his name,” Renn offered.
“Crossed lines shouldn’t take that long,” Brinks countered and they both laughed. Not one of them could read.
“Seriously-” Brinks turned, lamp in hand, swinging the light toward Tallo.
For a breath, the beam slid over cobbles and shadow, then caught on a prone form, blood pooling black?red near the head.
“What the fuck-” Brinks started, then jerked forward as if shoved.
A pale?shafted arrow jutted between his shoulder blades, the fletching ghost?white in the moonlight.
Renn was already moving before Brinks hit the stones.
“FUCK—”
Renn ran. Boots loud on the cobbles now, breath tearing in and out. The street ahead opened toward the warehouse, and the air carried a bitter, chemical?tinged smoke.
Then he saw it, the gang’s warehouse, lantern?glow inside boiling out through its boarded windows, the whole place breathing fire into the night.
A shape moved in the chaos?bright reflection, quick as a thrown knife. For an instant the moonlight caught on hair like the cold moon's light.
Renn’s heart kicked once in his chest.
Something punched through his ribs, driving the air from him in a wet grunt. He looked down dumbly at the white?fletched shaft jutting from his chest, warmth spreading under his shirt.
The street tilted. The fire’s light swam sideways.
Then there was only the cold cobble under his cheek and the hiss of flames in the distance.
