Chapter three, everyone~

CHAPTER THREE

The trek into Kronos was dark and quiet. Nezumi trudged along the sidewalk, fists shoved in his jacket pockets. He stuck to the sidewalks, listening to the cars whiz by on the street. The stench of iron permeating the nearby city stung his nose and made his eyes water.

Being in the human world was like living with a perpetual illness. It dimmed his senses just enough for Nezumi to feel uneasy. There was a headache forming above his left eyebrow, stretching through his skull like a plant taking root. It would only get worse the longer he was surrounded by iron.

He passed the vagrants clustered against the faded stone buildings, a group of pixies with their chattering voices trading old key chains, baseball cards, and other treasures. They ducked their faces when Nezumi stalked by, and only relaxed when he'd left them behind.

In his time at the Unseelie Court, Nezumi had been to Rikiga's place more often than he'd like. Rikiga's apartment was stationed in the dead center of Kronos: a pseudo way-station where the court Folk could rest during their time in the iron city. A century ago, the Unseelie King had instructed Rikiga to erect his home without the use of iron. The blood pact made it impossible for Rikiga to refuse the King's demand, but Nezumi could tell from the dark looks Rikiga gave him during their brief interactions that if he could find a way to board his house up with iron bars and keep the Folk out, he would do so without hesitation.

As Nezumi walked, he considered glamouring himself to become visible to the mortals. It was easier than ducking away from their jutting elbows when he passed them on the sidewalk. He supposed he could simply bump into them, but their confusion at the invisible force knocking them aside was more hassle than it was worth. Nezumi wasn't in the mood for more distress tonight.

As he rounded the corner that led onto Rikiga's street, he almost tripped over a silver spider the size of a small dog, tucked against one of the plastic trash bins. It chattered angrily at him before scuttling into the shadows.

In order to blend into the mortal realm, Rikiga had constructed an apartment complex made of wood and stone and glass. It was an old building, the oldest in Kronos, and only enchantment and immortal intervention had kept it from being condemned. Four stories tall, with Rikiga's suite residing on the top floor.

Nezumi eased around a wooden gate circling the property, a faded sign with the words LATCH BILL hanging loosely above the front door. Before his servitude, Rikiga had worked in another town for a newspaper company by the same name. Even a century later, he was nostalgic for the life he'd lost.

The inside was drafty and dark. From the outside, the whole thing seemed abandoned. Inside, two brownies huddled in the corners around a series of wet newspapers, fast food wrappers, and empty beer bottles. Nezumi suspected, from the disarray of the foyer, that Rikiga hadn't been leaving them offerings for their service. He supposed the brownies could simply leave, if they felt insulted―but brownies were small Folk, with no real protections against the bigger threats lurking just beyond the stone walls. Survival trumped pride, in most cases.

Nezumi's sharp eyes peered through the darkness, locating the stairwell nestled in the far back. Rikiga had no real tenants aside from the Folk that came and went, and a few human vagrants who sought the abandoned rooms to shoot-up in. Those foolish enough to seek escape inside the Latch building often fell prey to the Folk, who promised a much sweeter release than mortal drugs.

Nezumi remembered a time when he'd come to Rikiga's apartments on the heels of the Unseelie King. He couldn't recall the reason the King had come himself rather than sending a messenger, but Nezumi had been young and trembling and new to the darker court, obeying the King's every word if only to avoid physical pain.

After trekking up the three flights of creaking stairs, the King had flopped on Rikiga's plush couch and sighed, "Can't you install some manner of transport in this wretched place?"

Rikiga, blood surging with alcohol that couldn't kill him anymore and mind reeling with hatred for his captor, had looked the King dead in the face and snapped, "Not my fault you can't fly."

The room had gone cold. The Unseelie King's broken black wings twitched, the only movement Nezumi had ever seen from them.

A blood pact and eternal servitude did not prevent a wild tongue.

The King's anger, however, did.

As Nezumi lifted his hand to knock on the front door, Rikiga flung it open. His left eye―crafted entirely of glass―shimmered in the torchlight strung along the inner walls and the foyer of his apartment. There was a scar at the corner of Rikiga's eye, near his tear duct, that one could easily miss if they didn't know where to look. But Nezumi had seen it, had seen the King's long fingers dig into the socket and rip the orb out.

"Wonderful," Rikiga spat. His breath reeked of alcohol, his round face flushed crimson. "He sent you."

Nezumi's lips twitched at the corners. "I've been informed you have something for me."

"Yeah, yeah." Rikiga turned and let the door swing shut. Nezumi jammed the toe of his boot between it and the wooden frame. He eased it open with his shoulder and marched inside.

Inside the apartment was no better than outside. A ratty one-bedroom with a tragically small kitchen and a bathroom Nezumi couldn't be dared to go in. The floors were filthy and covered in bottles, several still with droplets of liquid in the bottoms. Nezumi's nose wrinkled at the stench of alcohol striking him in the face. It churned his stomach almost as much as the iron outside the stone walls. Stacks of books and old magazines sat heaped on a large table set in the middle of the open space.

Rikiga brushed some of the papers aside and unearthed a black knapsack from beneath one of the chairs. He dropped it on the table with a heavy, metallic thump. Nezumi's ears pricked up at the sound.

"Tell that bastard I got exactly what he asked for," Rikiga sneered. "It wasn't easy."

"Of course." Nezumi gave him a sharp smile. "Shall I use your exact phrasing, or would you prefer I give him the abridged version?"

"Fuck you."

Nezumi crossed into the kitchen. A stench like rotten meat rose from the sink, and Nezumi made a mental note not to investigate. The flies buzzing around the faucet were a good indication that whatever was in there had been there awhile. Nezumi doubted it was edible.

He inspected the knapsack instead. It was small, but bulky. Nezumi reached out for the handle and gave it an experimental lift. The contents jangled inside, and there was some heft to it Nezumi hadn't been expecting. Metal, of some kind. Nezumi inhaled, trying to focus through the scents of Rikiga's apartment, but he couldn't tell what kind of metal. The lack of uncomfortable heat he felt radiating from the fabric assured him the contents were not made of iron.

Rikiga wandered to the fridge shoved in the far corner. Its white face was smeared in grime and yellowing stains. Little claw marks ran the length of it on the side―and if Nezumi looked down at the linoleum, he could follow their trail back into the kitchen, through the sitting room, and out one of the windows.

Rikiga snatched a beer from the fridge, popped the top with his bare hands, and tossed it back.

Nezumi clicked his tongue. "Not even going to offer your guest a drink. What kind of host are you?"

"You know, you've got some mouth on you."

"Why, thank you." Nezumi cocked his head and smiled, showing all his teeth. "I'm told it's one of my more charming features."

Rikiga's knuckles tightened around the bottle. "Nothing about you is charming," he growled. "Nothing about either of you is charming."

Nezumi's expression hardened. The first time he'd seen Rikiga, years ago, he'd been struck by the lines beneath his eyes and around his mouth. Nezumi, who had never seen a human until that point, had also never seen someone who was old. The wrinkles on the faces of baba yagas and mountain hags were different than the lines on Rikiga's countenance―beautiful because they wouldn't last forever.

Laugh lines, Nezumi had learned. Crinkles on his forehead, around his eyes, and in the corners of his mouth that indicated Rikiga had probably smiled a lot before the Unseelie King knocked the happiness from him. He looked as though he had the potential to be a worthy adversary when it came to battles of wit, but he no longer cared enough to attempt.

Nezumi knew now that Rikiga wasn't, at least physically, as old as he once believed. Rikiga had been in his early-forties, half through an average human's lifespan, when alcohol and a foolish dare led him to the Unseelie King's throne room. Rikiga could have died that day. By all accounts, Rikiga should have died well over half a century ago. Humans were not intended to live to one-hundred and forty.

"Might want to be careful with those words, old man," Nezumi said. Without the protection of iron, the walls had ears. Any brownie searching for the King's favor would sell Rikiga out in a heartbeat.

Rikiga took another deep swig of his drink. The bottle was nearly empty by the time he came up for air.

"I'm not supposed to be here," Rikiga snarled. His glass eye pinned on Nezumi, his other swimming with a drunken haze. "I turned one-hundred and forty-three last month. I'm a human being. I should be cold and dead in the ground."

Nezumi's jaw twitched. "It's not the most glamorous of abodes, sure. But how many humans can say they've seen the things you have and lived? You could write a book with all you've witnessed in the walls of this building alone. Think about it―no one would believe the stories were true, but it would make for a compelling read. You could get your wealth back, instead of wallowing away in the dirt. You're the one choosing to do nothing with your life."

"I had a life!" Rikiga hurled the bottle at Nezumi.

It missed by about ten feet, shattering on the linoleum like a spray of diamonds.

"I was happy!" Rikiga bellowed. The scarlet color on his cheeks had spread all the way down his throat, dipping into the v-neck of his stained shirt. "And that bastard ruined it! All because I stole a stupid belt!"

Nezumi arched an eyebrow. He didn't know much of Rikiga's past, but he remembered the King jibbing that Rikiga had traded more money than a human could spend in one lifetime for a shot at a leather belt worth less than the stones beneath their feet. It hadn't been the value of the belt that drove Rikiga to it―it had been the thrill. Rikiga, like so few Sighted humans, hadn't comprehended the risks.

One night in the human world, Nezumi had witnessed several drunk men playing a game at a park bench. One man held a knife in his hand, stabbing the table between the slots of his splayed fingers. He grew progressively faster, and faster, until he either grew too tired to stop or missed. A pointless danger just to brag. A meaningless test to prove human superiority where the outcome was not worth the risk.

The Unseelie King never would have let Rikiga escape. Even if he'd sprinted through the Court and into the safety of his iron city, the Unseelie King would have found a way to get his revenge.

"You know," Nezumi said, hefting the knapsack off the table and tossing it over his shoulder, "this conversation has been an experience, but I've got to be heading back. He doesn't like me staying out late."

He turned to the door.

"You think you're different."

Nezumi stopped.

"You think I don't hear the stories they tell about you?" A chair screeched against the floor as Rikiga dragged it back and flopped into it. His voice was low and tremulous as he said, "You act like you're better than him because you've set a few of his prisoners loose just to spite him―but you're not. You're just as sick and fucked up as he is, and someday, I hope someone comes along who makes you realize just how horrible you are."

Nezumi didn't look back. It wasn't the first time Rikiga had popped off at him. Alcohol controlled much of Rikiga's emotions. It had a way of loosening a man's tongue, making him spill his innermost thoughts. Rikiga had a century's worth of hatred built up in him, and it only took a few beers to damage the floodgates.

But Nezumi had better things to do than mull over the words of a drunken fool.

He stepped into the hall and let the door bang shut.

To Be Continued...