Entile

Do you trust me? Neutin had asked her, his voice companionable and smooth. Though his tone never changed and though he never looked at her pleadingly, there was something about Neutin’s face that always made Sandry say;

Yes.

And because of this unfortunate urge, she now walked down Bowstwick Avenue, as if she actually belonged there.

Her hair stuck to her forehead---it reminded her of a horse’s forelock---dank with sweat, but she dared not brush it aside. It covered the purple-black brand that marked her face so that others may see that she was once affiliated with magic.

It was so hot out; she could feel the sweat as it beaded under her shirt. If only she could lift her hair for a second, just long enough to a breeze to touch her skin.

But she couldn’t. Even though she had not seen magic in years, the scar was still as dark against her skin as it had ever been. The pedestrians who walked past her would no longer look at her as someone they considered “normal”. The city authorities would take her off the streets and put her in a cage for the rest of the night.

Better to be hot than locked up, she told herself, but her body disagreed. She had been in the jail cells before---Gifted folk were not allowed on city property after twilight---and they were pleasantly cool, though she was sure the cold concrete floors were not meant to be pleasant.

She turned onto Clovermont and stopped at the corner, holding onto a streetlight. The metal was cool against her skin, refreshing. Sandry had always liked the cold, and up north the territory Tristal was almost always cold, even during the short summers.

It was unnaturally warm out, almost reaching the nineties. It wore on Sandry.

Neutin had asked her to meet him by VoiceBox, a bar that advertised their karaoke nights. Tlasure had massive traffic at night, and it was silly to use cars or taxis to get around. So Sandry had walked, taking the risk of being spotted by a policeman masquerading as a normal citizen.

If I’m caught again, he’s paying my bail, Sandry decided. It had been Neutin who asked her out so unreasonably late, after all.

It took her over a half hour to reach the bar, which had only been a ten minute walk from her apartment. She collapsed on a bench outside the entrance, ignoring the warbling voices that carried out in to the streets.

Under her soft pants, Sandry could here a low mutter coming from the alley next to her.

“Wer is she?” a low voice reverberated out into the street softly. “Neutin said she’d be here by now.”

Sandry stopped breathing to hear better. The voice, harsh with strong consonants, frightened her as well as the words.

“I don’t know, call him.” A softer, more pleasant voice demanded.

“I d’want any more sirens goin’ off on me. An if I loose a spark---”

“I meant the banal way. Here, he gave us this to use, remember. He said the number is already saved in it’s memory.”

“Then how am I gunna get it out?”

There was a snap, like plastic popping under pressure, and Sandry stood to run back home. She forgot about Neutin, she didn’t care. She might have told him that she trusted him, but when there were two strange men, hiding in an alley, waiting for her to show up alone---she just needed to get away.

But she was too slow. Right when she stood, one of them men came to the alley’s entrance. He was holding a cellphone in one hand and throwing a pocket knife up and down in the other.

He paused, noticing her. Sandry turned quickly and ran, but fell back when he grabbed her elbow.

“Gottcha,” he sneered. Sandry felt the knife being pressed lightly against her cheek, but not light enough not to cut. A small bead of blood welled to roll to her chin.

“What is it Miliar?”

The man, Miliar, turned her around into the alley, so the other man may see what he was holding. Sandry looked up to see a man, no, a boy, maybe the same age as her. He had surprisingly dark brown hair and pale eyes that looked like they belonged on an elderly mage. When he looked at her, they widened.

Miliar dropped her so suddenly that Sandry’s knees could not support her weight. She fell forward, her jaw cracking on the jagged, old pavement. She lifted her head, her hair pulling her back down with it’s weight, having fell into a muddy oil slick.

“I knew I felt somein’!” Miliar pressed a booted foot to her spine, but softer than she would expect from a brute like him. It didn’t even pinch her skin. “Unmarked an’ in a banal city like t’is.” He spit on the ground, like it had disgusted him. “She’s a spy, for sure.”

Sandry’s heart began to palpitate, making her chest burn. Panic made her throat ache. “I am not!” she shouted, so he may not speak over her if he tried. “Look at my forehead; I have been marked, but I have not Gift. I have no reason to spy on you!”

The man stared at her. “Miliar, let her go.”

“Phil, I can feel it in her---”

“So can I, but she can’t!” Sandry stared up towards him, her neck aching. His voice was much stronger than she had thought. “How dangerous could she be? I think this might be who Neutin was talking about.”

Miliar removed his foot with a muttered, “Aye.”

Sandry rolled onto her back, and, her pride hurt, she kicked out hard, hitting Miliar in the shin. His leg crumpled, and she kicked up again as hard as she could. She had been hoping to hit his chest, but instead her foot connected solidly with his jaw.

Standing, she threw herself at Phil, only prepared to attack him with nails and teeth. He held her so she was too close to kick him, but she scratched at his cheeks till they were bloody. He let her at first, but after a while his eyes became annoyed and he shoved her back to the pavement.

“Neutin will be here in a bit,” he told her.

“No!” She no longer cared, she didn’t trust him anymore. Not when he led her to this.

She tried to get up again, but Phil kneeled on her legs and pinned her. She felt like a calf getting branded for the first time and flailed. “Let me go---!”

A knife landed in the pavement, blade down, at the conjunction between her neck and shoulder. Miliar bent down and pulled it out smoothly, like the ground was actually a loaf of bread. “Shut up,” he told her.

Sandry turned her head and spit on his shoe. “What good is throwing knifes in a world of guns?” She set her chin stubbornly.

Miliar knelt by her head. In the dusky light, his smile was almost silvery. “It’s an assassins tool, stupid doxy. If I was ta shoot ye, don’t ye think someon’ may come runnin’?”

Of course they would. Or, at least, they would call for a policeman. If he cut her throat, no one would find her body until the dumpster she was lying next to needed to be emptied.

“Why do you need them anyway?” she demanded, determined to be stubborn. She could her Phil scoff from above her. He still hadn’t loosened his hold.

“Ye don’t think there be that much danger so close ta home, do ye?” he asked. “Wat do ye tink wer protectin’ ye from? Stray dogs? Rats, perhaps, ta nasty things.”

“Protecting me?” she snapped and struggled against Phil’s tight grip, to point out their method of protection.

“Aye, an’ it would be easier if ye would cooperate.”

Sandry did not have patience for being teased and began to curse him for everything he was. When she could no longer think of anything else to insult him with, instead of repeating herself, she spat on him again and turned her head away.

He took her face in one hand and turned it back to him, fingers pinching her cheekbones. “Da you think that yer in a situation wer ye may act as is? If Neutin hadn’t said to keep ye unharmed, ye’d be dead by now.” He squeezed her face till Sandry thought her teeth would shatter. She shoot her head, trying to force him to let her go. He released her, but slapped her hard enough for her cheek to turn pink. “Now, be a good lass an’ wait for ye friend.”

Sandry bit down on his middle finger when he pulled his hand away, holding on and tasting his blood drip in with her saliva. He cursed and raised his other hand. Stars burst behind Sandry’s eyes when he struck her temple with the hilt of a blade.

Sandry released his finger, fighting to stay conscious. Some of his blood was on her face, hot, but slowly cooling. Phil finally released her, moving to touch her pulse.

“I’m not covering you on this one,” he told Miliar.

Sandry’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and Phil moved back, picking her up. “She must not have much money, to be this light.”

“At least she is not dead, which is better then we hoped for,” Miliar grunted. “Ta be honest, I tink it might be harder ta travel wit dis one than I thought.”

“Chez will be happy to have someone to share to burden with, at least.” Phil sat down at the bench in front of the bar, lying Sandry across his lap. He took extra care to cover her mark.

“Well see. She still isn’t trained, afta all.”