Gray ducked his head between his knees, his hands gripped in his hair.

The door at the far end of the room creaked as it opened. Someone heavy walked towards him and their clothes rustled as they came to a stop. Gray shivered in discomfort, his skin breaking out into goosebumps.

They were followed by the whisper-quiet swish of Lunn’s robes.

And the gentle thud of Lunn putting his leather bag onto the concrete floor.

Gray ignored them, tensing for the bang on his cell bars, or the sharp Othoan commands for stand up.

‘Child,’ said Lunn. When Gray didn’t respond, Lunn said, ‘Irritation. Thorn in my side.’

Gray's whole never-offend-a-fae rule had gone out of the window the same day Gray had given Lunn a black eye, and it absolutely had gone out of the window when Lunn had forced Gray to drink a foul-tasting potion only minutes ago. It was sliding down his throat.

Stealing through his body.

And, for gods sake, Lunn was back with his leather bag. Which meant more potions or tonics or drugs.

Gray brutally ignored Lunn.

It was Gray’s one piece of power in these concrete cells. That he could sometimes make Lunn and the bounty hunters work to get what they wanted from him.

Which was movement.

Eye contact.

‘Pathetic human child,’ said Lunn.

Gray ignored him.

‘Idiotic mortal,’ said Lunn.

Gray stayed completely still.

‘Puny meat-eater of the lowest order,’ said Lunn, really getting into his stride. ‘Feeble lifeform I could crush like a bug. Ugly virgin who pales next to my magnificence.’

Gray gave Lunn a rude gesture with his hand, and spoke muffled into his knees, ‘I’m alive. Happy? You giant dirt-’ he lifted his head, to stare whoever the latest bounty hunter was, and it was Longwark, ‘-bag.’

Gray froze.

A black crow perched on Longwark’s shoulder.

Branbright’s crow.

Longwark’s wild hair, usually so frizzed out, was looking damp with grease. Shadows of bruises marked his face, his neck, his hands, masking his rune tattoos.

He looked like he’d crawled out of the Krydon prison and - somehow - gotten his hands on a wand. And a small axe, which dangled from his belt.

His face betrayed nothing. There was no hint in his gaze if Longwark was here to help or -

Killian had stirred in his cell.

Gray slid his gaze to the side, to check him. Just for a second.

Killian watched, his dark hair hanging in his eyes. He looked like death warmed up.

‘Why have you got that Othoan costume on him?’ said Longwark, stepping closer to the iron bars of Gray’s cell.

His voice was soft and sarcastic. Filled with his usual disdain.

It was rubbing Lunn the wrong way. Or perhaps it was Longwark’s complete lack of fear in Lunn’s presence. The way he turned his back to Lunn, and when he deigned to look Lunn’s way, Longwark met his gaze without flinching.

Lunn flexed his long fingered hands, his cold gaze growing hard.

‘It offends you, sorcerer?’ said Lunn, the slightest inflection in his tone indicating he was delighted to have caused offence.

‘The stupidity of thinking a costume will increase the bids on this boy is offensive,’ said Longwark. ‘Or you only deal with fools?’

‘I’m dealing with one now,’ said Lunn.

‘Now,’ said Longwark, his crow fluffing up on his shoulder, ‘I’m offended.’

‘Hey, asshole,’ said Gray, because hold gods, holy Clochaint, was Longwark here to throw shit at the fan? The egos battling over offence was next level. Lunn would kill him. ‘Take a walk.’

‘He’s got a mouth on him,’ said Lunn. ‘Good child.’ A pause. ‘Though, Wilde prefers that, yes? An ability to talk?’

‘I don’t know what Wilde prefers,’ said Longwark.

‘You said to my lady,’ said Lunn, ‘you were one of Wilde’s.’

Longwark grunted, moving closer to the iron bars to peer at Gray. ‘Did I?’

Gray staggered upright, pressing his back against the wall, his skin growing slick.

Lunn would absolutely kill Longwark.

The fae was drawing himself up to his full, impressive height. The sensation of his magic - magic that crawled over and under Gray’s skin at the same time - was growing in intensity.

Longwark wasn’t holding his wand. He wasn’t holding his axe. It wouldn’t matter if he were - there would be no way he’d be faster at magic or combat than a fae.

Though his huge fist was closed and he’d not opened it once. Gray’s jaw was clenched, because he suspected that there was something inside Longwark’s fist, but even if there was a damn miniature curse bomb in there, directly confronting a fae was suicide.

Alchemic curses could fit into tiny jars, sometimes - the Dragon Curse Fury could fit into a bottle the size of a hazelnut.

‘Sir,’ said Gray, ‘you need to take care.’

‘You know what bid I think I will offer?’ said Longwark, his intense gaze on Gray. ‘Eleven star pebbles.’

Like lightning, Gray remembered the day in alchemy class when they transformed star pebbles into bright lamplight, and something had gone wrong in the alchemy lab, resulting in a painfully bright light.

Gray felt his shoulders tense in alarm.

It was though time slowed.

Longwark was turning. He was raising his fist. Throwing something at Lunn. The crow was flying up in the air.

Gray hadn’t even buried his face in his shoulder when glass shattered against the concrete floor.

Stingingly bright light flooded the cells.

And a furious silence. The kind of silence that thrummed with beats. Silence that expanded.

Gray didn’t know what alchemy this was, didn’t know if it was a curse or some kind of complex magic.

Gray couldn’t cover his eyes enough, he couldn’t screw them shut any tighter. The light was blinding. His eyes watered. Gray pressed himself into the wall.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The light, the silence, whatever the heck Longwark had just released, made Lunn cover his face with his hands.

Longwark had his wand in his hand.

But before he could do anything, Lunn launched himself at Longwark with the force of a bull.

They smashed into the iron bars so hard.

It jostled the entire row, it rippled the silent air and dented the iron bars.

Killian staggered to his feet.

Longwark and Lunn tousled on the floor, in furious silence. Magic sparked - whether from Longwark or Lunn, Gray didn’t know - and they were propelled into the air.

They smashed against the ceiling and dropped back down.

Gray dodged a blast of energy - white hot, and singeing the air - and his skin was prickling with the build of power from Longwark and Lunn as they fought. The crow flew overhead and swooped on the pair on them, adding to the chaos.

Gray grabbed his cotton sheets, and ripped them up with trembling fingers, so fast, to use it as a kind of mask.

He snatched the ammonia and bleach outside his cell, and then he was reaching, reaching for Lunn’s leather bag. His fingertips scraped it.

He latched onto the bag with the very edge of his fingernails and dragged it.

Until it was close enough to open.

Gray rushed through the bag, throwing aside potions and bandages.

Until he found it.

Alill powder.

It was in a silk pouch, right near the bottom of the bag.

Gray rubbed the alill powder onto the iron lock of his cell, his breath hitching and his ears pounding with his pulse.

He didn’t know how alill powder worked, not properly, he didn’t know how long it would take or how much he needed. But the iron lock was starting to smoke. His fingers were burning.

The silence was suffocating.

All Gray could hear was the pulse beating in his ears.

Forcedly careful with his measurements, he poured ammonia and bleach onto the Marri stone by his cot.

It started transforming into sleeping gas almost straight away.

Gray leapt away from it and rushed over to the vent.

He pulled at the metal casing.

Pulled.

And pulled.

It was lodged into the concrete wall too firmly. Gray was reaching for the alill powder in his pocket, his heart in his throat, and then there was a movement behind him.

Gray whirled around.

Killian had smashed through the weakened lock of his door.

Gray stood stunned, staring at Killian.

Killian stood like a nightmare, like the walking undead, trailing silver chains. His face was pale. The battle scars were stark. Fresh and old wounds marked the pallor of his skin.

But he shoved Gray aside, gripped the vent in his bloodied hands, and wrenched it free.

Then, turned to Gray, white faced and hollow eyed, with an expectant intensity.

Gray gestured for Killian to cover his nose and mouth, and felt a ripple of shock when Killian obeyed.

He shoved the Marri stone, which was spiralling gas and quickly disintegrating, into the vent. He hoped - prayed - that the sleeping gas would work, that it would carry into the next room, and whatever rooms lay beyond.

Anything to give them the slightest chance of getting the hell out. Give them a chance to disappear.

The magic had stopped flying over their heads, and Gray looked over.

Longwark had Lunn in a kind of chokehold - a hunter holding down a very angry mountain lion. Lunn was weakened, slower and Gray had no damn clue what Longwark had done to mess up a fae like this.

Longwark was shredded. White spittle was on his lips. Veins bulged in his neck, his temples, his wrists as he struggled to keep a hold on Lunn.

They had to leave, before the sleeping smoke got to Longwark.

Longwark had a wand, he could fahren them.

Gray couldn’t guess at Longwark’s motivations, but he did seem hellbent on getting Gray the heck out of there.

Lunn’s face was turning pale. The dark veins branching over his skin were more stark.

Killian stalked over.

Past the dark and soft form of the crow lying on the concrete.

And with one swift movement, in complete thrumming silence, he hit Lunn in the neck.

Lunn winced. His eyes narrowed in cold rage.

Killian shook out his hand, and then struck Lunn again. In the same spot.

He must’ve been going for a specific spot, Gray thought, as Killian struck Lunn over and over.

Until, after Killian had gotten flushed - which was saying something because this guy did not have any blood left to spare - and Lunn crumpled to a limp heap in Longwark’s arms.

And Killian crumpled, too. He propped himself against the concrete wall, breathing shallowly, his eyes shut and his face like stone, as Longwark gently pocketed the crow, and then used chalk to draw a circle on the ground.

Longwark’s hand was shaking as he gripped his wand. Gray’s heart was in his mouth, because Longwark was messed up, Killian was messed up, and Gray was feeling more and more strange with every second that ticked by.

Longwark’s eyes were closed and he was mouthing words - the incantation to fahren - and Killian was dragging himself into the circle.

And Lunn was stirring.

His murderous eyes were opening, just a slit.

And, because maybe it would help him, because Lunn was as much a prisoner as Killian and Gray had been prisoners, and fuck it, Gray kind of liked Lunn, Gray tossed the silk pouch of alill powder at him.

It landed right next to Lunn’s long fingered hand.

But he didn’t grab the silk pouch. He flicked his fingers in such a way that sent chills down Gray’s spine, and that increased the feeling of Lunn’s magic.

He was still moving his fingers when Longwark, Killian, and Gray fahrenned.

CRACK.

Sound returned and it was like gasping in a breath of fresh air.

The crack of the landing the fahrenning reverberated in Gray’s ears, and he landed hard.

He fell to his hands and knees.

The sharp scent of bleach, ammonia, and Marri stone clawed at Gray’s throat, overpowering the faint musty dampness of the echoing large room they’d landed in.

A basement.

Bare. Cold.

With about twenty people, all crumpled and unconscious.

Thick, twisting streams of smoke poured through the vent in the wall, coiling and gathering like storm clouds.

Longwark had only fahrenned them to the next room.

Lunn must’ve done something, something to stop them fahrenning.

Longwark was muttering in northern, and he had his chalk out again, drawing a circle onto the ground.

Two men slumped over the table nearest the vent, their chests rising and falling in a deep sleep. Killian staggered over, holding his cotton scrap of fabric tight over his mouth and nose, and snatched up papers from the desk. He moved with a frantic clumsiness, stuffing papers into his tattered uniform.

Then, his dagger, fumbling it out of the limp grasp of one of the men. His fingers trembled, the weapon slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor. Gray lunged, grabbing the dagger before it could be lost.

‘Griffin,’ said Longwark. ‘Here. Now.’

Longwark swayed on his feet. He was holding his sleeve over his mouth.

And then the door behind them opened, and Lunn leant in the doorway, breathing heavily, his black hair askew from the braid, his robes disordered from the fight.

Longwark had dealt Lunn a good deal of damage, but Gray wasn’t going to stick around to find out how much.

As one, Killian and Gray bolted into the circle.

Lunn was moving his fingers again. He was pushing himself upright from the doorframe with a shaky arm. His fingers were moving, faster, up, down, in, out-

CRACK.

They were outside. Outside a nondescript door with no handle and a lot of old, rusted clutter.

In a steep street.

Into the dusky light of very late night and balmy air and silversmith fumes.

They were still in Sirentown.

The smell of ammonia and bleach and Marri stone lingered. Smoke furled out through the crack on the bottom of the door with no handle.

Killian staggered and fell.

He didn’t get back up.

Gray jammed a rusty wheelbarrow against the door, and Longwark was drawing another circle on the ground, and then grabbed Gray by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into the circle.

Longwark was muttering the incantation.

Killian was staggering to his feet.

Gray thought he was coming, he was going to get inside the circle, he was going to fahren with them.

But, Killian yanked Gray from Longwark’s grasp and pulled them both out of the chalk circle.

Longwark disappeared in a rush of static and with a loud BOOM.

And Gray stared up at Killian, at first completely confused. And then hot fury flooded his veins.

He shoved Killian hard.

Again.

Harder.

Killian bounced off the brick wall behind him.

‘What the hell,’ Gray said. ‘Lunn’s coming.’ He could feel Lunn approaching. Steadily. Carefully. The intensity of his magic was growing. ‘We should’ve gone with Longwark. Lunn’s coming.’

‘Then run.’ Killian’s voice was broken. Shattered. ‘I’m not letting that motherfucker have you.’

Gray hesitated. Didn’t know if Killian meant Longwark or Lunn or Lunn’s lady.

But he didn't ask him.

Gray ran.

He sprinted down a coiling street that had too few lamps and even fewer people.

Then, because Killian was beyond destroyed, and because that pure asshole had helped them get out of the cells, and because even a bastard like Killian didn’t deserve to be kept in a cell and slowly drained of their life, Gray stopped.

Gray ran back.

If Killian was still there, if Lunn hadn't come outside yet, then maybe - maybe - Gray would help him.