Chapter 1
A rough voice echoed off buildings and funneled through dimly lit city streets.
“Stop!”
He didn’t.
Instead, the hooded thief kept running, package in hand.
Zane continued chasing the man, yelling as they dashed down alleys and cut across sidewalks. They dodged horse-drawn carriages sloshing through grimy streets, a mixture of wet ash and mud clinging to Zane’s boots in a thick paste. Hot blood raced through his veins, and he felt more alive than he had in months as he reached underneath his black coat and pulled a wand from its brown leather holster.
He tried to aim as the thief maneuvered through shifting crowds of people.
Zane cursed the saints.
There was no clear shot with dozens of bystanders shielding the thief, so he slipped the wand back under his coat.
Then he started to limp.
Pain radiated from old injuries like a fire spreading over dry leaves, creeping up Zane’s side until he wheezed and nearly doubled over. With his free hand, Zane fished out a flask filled with healing elixir. He poured the green liquid directly into his gullet between labored breaths, and the thick sap did its job, smothering the pain that had threatened to overtake him.
That stuff’s going to kill you one day.
Zane ignored the silky voice whispering in his ear. His spent muscles found renewed strength and the limp faded away, allowing Zane to close the distance just as the thief turned down an alley. Zane passed the cane he’d been carrying into his right hand, then whirled it through the air, striking the hooded man’s legs.
The thief slammed into the cold brick street and rushed to right himself like a panicked animal. Zane lunged at his prey, grabbing a handful of the man’s hoodie and sending them crashing down. Zane felt half a dozen cuts and bruises forming, but he pushed aside the pain as he pinned the thief.
“Let go,” the man yelled as he thrashed. “It’s mine. I found it.”
Zane’s military training kicked in. When the thief bridged his hips and reached out to shove him, Zane sprawled out, bracing against the attempts to buck him and brushed away the push. With the thief’s arm still outstretched, Zane caught it and leveraged the limb between his own arms, then yanked it away from the man’s body.
“You’re gonna break it!”
“Then let go.”
The hooded man kicked and tried in vain to plant his feet and escape Zane’s hold. With the package still in hand, he threw awkward punches into Zane’s side while screaming for help.
Zane tightened his hold, ignoring the weak blows. “Let. It. Go.”
He was tired, but Zane’s voice remained stern, in control as he repeated his demand until the thief finally dropped the parcel next to him.
“Fine. Take it.”
Zane wasn’t about to trust a thief. “Push it away from you.” The hooded man spat in reply.
Zane tightened his hold.
The thief screamed in pain and again attempted to bridge under Zane’sbody, but he held fast. With a final yell, the man pushed the parcel as far as his free hand would let him. “There. Now let me go, dammit.”
Zane released the man, stood, then grabbed his cane and slid it through a loop of string around the parcel. He raised the package to his left hand and pointed the tip of his cane at the thief. Zane verified the box’s contents as the thief dragged himself to the nearest wall and leaned into it, cradling the arm Zane had held nearly broken and sobbing under his hood.
Zane felt pangs of sympathy. The man didn’t strike Zane as a professional criminal.
And I thought I was cruel, the silky voice said. That man has nothing, and then you nearly tear off his arm.
Zane tried to ignore the voice, but it cut deep. He sighed. “Sorry things got rough, but you’ve been stealing for days now. My client— well, they wanted this back before you had a chance to fence it. It’s not personal, but ...”
The man locked eyes with Zane, and for the first time he got a good look at the thief’s face. A massive tumor bulged from his neck and his lips had a metallic rainbow sheen.
The hairs on Zane’s neck stood up at the telltale signs of a potion addict after many years of abuse.
“What I drink in the gutter isn’t good enough anymore,” the thief whimpered between sobs. “You gotta understand.”
Zane understood all too well. He fingered the outline of the empty flask in his jacket pocket.
It must be like seeing your future self.
The voice’s comment left a lump of dread in Zane’s throat bigger than the thief’s tumor. His hand moved from his flask to his wallet, and Zane pulled out some coins and dropped them in front of the still sobbing man. Zane wasn’t interested in seeing what came next; he leaned heavily on his cane as he walked away.
After returning the parcel and collecting his pay, Zane limped home, the empty flask feeling oddly heavy in his pocket.
There was only one way to remove the weight.
The thief’s face flashed across his mind’s eye, but it didn’t stop Zane. With the pay, he bought more healing elixir. They called it troll’s blood after the mythical creature, and it was one of the best healing potions one could buy legally.
On the first floor of his building, Zane ran into his apartment manager, Mrs. Mose, who was stooped and sweeping the floor. “How are you today, Mr. Vrexon?”
Zane gave a polite bow, holding the small box of troll’s blood at his side. “I am doing well, thank you.”
She eyed the crate under his arm. “I hope you didn’t spend all your money on that.”
He laughed nervously. “Of course not. I am merely restocking out of occupational necessity. Being a private detective can be dangerous.” It was a well-rehearsed lie he told everyone—including himself.
She pushed her lips together. “I worry about you, Mr. Vrexon. You are either on a job or you spend all day in your room waiting for one to walk through your front door. When was the last time you spoke to a friend?”
He deflected. “Well, it is hard to talk to friends when one has rent to pay.”
She eyed the box again. “Lack of community drives the bottle to the hand. You can’t heal what you ignore.”
Zane winced and quickly bowed once more to Mrs. Mose. “Thank you for your time.”
He walked up three flights of stairs and entered his flat, which doubled as his office. He turned up the gas lamps on the walls and lit them with a match. A small stack of bills on his desk seemed to both mock him and beg for his attention. Zane set the crate next to the paperwork and relaxed in his chair. But the bills kept staring, so he sighed and sifted through them. All but the last month of rent could be covered with the night’s earnings.
With what he had left, that is.
Zane would give all he could to Mrs. Mose, and she would let him stay so long as he paid her back in full later.
He could feel a headsman’s axe hanging above him, and he started looking for an escape. The bottles of green liquid on his desk seemed to pulse like beacons guiding him to safety. They reflected Zane’s face, but all he could see was the addict’s tortured gaze. In the end, Zane’s inner addict won, and he opened one of the bottles with a resigned sigh.
He sipped the troll’s blood as he shuffled through the other letters. Most were from people soliciting money and trying to sell him the latest fad in clothing or medicine, but one letter stood out. It was from his old friend from the war. Dennis.
He was surprised by the letter. They’d last spoken when Zane was released from a military hospital many years ago. Most of the letter was a lengthy greeting, but it appeared Dennis—who now went by Dennis Zel—lived in the same city as Zane, Alviun, where he owned a potion shop and was married to a woman he described as heaven sent. He loved her so much he’d taken her last name. But the otherwise sweet letter ended on a sour note. In rushed handwriting at the bottom, Dennis—at least, he assumed it was Dennis—had written:
Zane, the real reason I’m writing is to tell you my wife, Vana, is in danger. I dare not explain it here, lest it fall into the wrong hands. But I ask you, old friend, please keep her safe if anything should happen to me.
With saddest regrets for not reaching out sooner.
Your old friend, Dennis Zel.
Zane frowned and looked out the window, wondering what Dennis had gotten himself into.
