Chapter 126: Fleeing the Slums
Bartholomew’s face was a dark thundercloud. On any other day, he would never have tolerated such a brazen act—a boy snatching a prize from under his very nose. But the night was already thick with blood and unnatural things, and Jared’s terrifying display of combat prowess had left a deep and lasting impression.
After a moment of rapid, brutal calculation, Bartholomew concluded that he was in no position to make more enemies. He forced a grim smile. “Of course. Finders keepers. It seems, then, that you have no intention of coming with us, Jared.”
Once the spoils were being divided, it was clear they would not be walking the same path. Bartholomew, having decided against creating a new rival, didn’t even bother to press the point. He simply stated the obvious.
“That’s right. Thank you for your care during this time, guv'nor. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to work together again in the future. Farewell,” Jared said.
“Brother Jared, the bullets,” I reminded him, my voice a weak rasp. “They should be on their waists, or in a round magazine.” The gun Jared had taken was a revolver.
The most powerful weapon, the air-canister gun, had naturally been claimed by Bartholomew. But I had no idea how that strange weapon worked; it would have been useless to me, so I had no interest in it.
“Already got them.” A belt, complete with a peeler’s ammunition pouch, dropped from Jared’s sleeve. I was stunned. Had he cut it free and snatched it in the same motion as grabbing the gun?
Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t even noticed Jared take the belt. He himself had dabbled in thievery, and had a few thieves under his command, but he had never seen such speed.
“Let’s go,” Jared said, and carrying me, he turned back to our hovel. Bartholomew, with no more time to waste, went to help his men pack.
Back in our alcove, I felt a growing sense of wrongness. I was dizzy, weak, and I thought at first it was from the sight of blood, or from the blood I had lost—a deficit that even Life Drain couldn’t fully replenish.
But my condition was worsening. A wave of cold washed over me, the same bone-deep chill I had felt when I absorbed the drowner’s magic, an icy current running rampant through my body. My mind was a chaotic storm. Strange thoughts swirled, one moment convinced my skin was turning to maggots, the next that I was becoming a bloated, rotting drowner myself.
My eyes were a canvas for a thousand hallucinations: the drowner was still gnawing on my arm; Jared, packing his things, was consumed by a blinding, white flame; the walls themselves were covered in strange, spinning wheels of bone and light.
“Parula, are you alright? We have to leave, quickly.” Jared was still hastily packing, but he saw me sitting half-slumped on the floor, my eyes darting about, my breathing growing more and more ragged.
“I… I don’t know what’s happening. Was I wounded more seriously than I thought?” I drank another cup of the potion, my hand trembling so badly that some of it spilled. A wave of heat washed down my throat, the familiar sting of alcohol mingled with a sweet, rich flavor. I felt a little better, the cold receding slightly, but the turmoil in my mind remained.
“Of all the times…” Jared frowned, then an idea seemed to strike him. He picked me up and placed me in the bedding.
“Wait, this is no time to rest, eh?” I was confused, but then I saw him wrap me in the quilt, bundling me up, bedding and all, and hoist me onto his back, securing me with a length of cloth. It was like carrying an infant. But I was no baby. A wave of shame washed over me. At this critical moment, I was once again a burden.
Jared, with me on his back, finished packing. We had little to take. He handed me the witch's grimoire and the potion materials, and I clutched them inside the quilt. He wrapped the small pot of potion in another cloth bag and carried it, with the Mandrake in a separate sack.
I was profoundly grateful that I had made him erase the characters and the summoning circle from the floor. To deal with that now would have taken far too long.
Once he was sure we had left nothing personal behind, Jared, with me on his back and his hands full, walked out. Bartholomew and his men were gone. They had moved with a startling speed. Even the other residents had mostly fled. They were all paupers, after all; many could simply run with nothing but the clothes on their backs. We, with our bundles and bags, were the most encumbered of all.
Seeing the last few people running towards the stairs, Jared showed a flash of his old cunning. He carried me in the opposite direction, down the waterway. He found a dark, unremarkable stretch of the wall, pushed our belongings up first, then, with me still on his back, he leaped, caught the edge, and pulled himself up. He moved with a strength that was utterly unlike a man who had just nearly drowned.
Once we were up, I saw the wisdom of his choice. The factory district had heard the fighting. A crowd of workers had gathered at the main exit, their morbid curiosity overcoming their fear of the supernatural. Jared, under the cover of darkness, slipped through the blind spots of the shantytown. We hadn’t gone far when we heard the shrill blast of police whistles and a fresh wave of commotion from behind us. The peelers’ reinforcements had arrived. We had escaped just in time.
“Brother Jared, where are we going now?” I asked weakly. I felt worse and worse. Even wrapped in the quilt, I was cold, and the hallucinations would not stop.
“Just hold on a little longer, Parula. A few days ago, you asked me to look for a room to rent. I’ve already found a few I like. I never thought we’d have to move so soon,” Jared said, a note of relief in his voice.
When I had first asked him to look for a room, he had been reluctant. But out of his trust for me, he had done it, gathering a good deal of information. He hadn’t expected that we would have to move so quickly. And since he, too, could now see the strange and terrible things that haunted this city, and after tonight’s drowner attack, he was certain that the city he had grown up in was extremely unsafe.
Parula was right. We couldn’t live in the slums. We needed a door, a private space. No one else could be trusted. If he hadn’t already looked into renting a room, we would be in a frantic, desperate state tonight.
It was not yet late. The streets were still filled with people—those who had to work late, those out for an evening stroll, those doing their shopping. Jared, with me on his back, ran through the streets, drawing a great deal of attention. When he realized this, he had no choice but to slow down.
I silently endured the torment in my body, and looked up. In the sky, the green moon and the blue moon were so very close.
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