Alchemical symbol: Nickel [https://i.imgur.com/SX7htXR.png]

Outside the closed door of Benedict’s room, alone on the third floor landing with the musty smell of damp laundry and boiled cabbage, Nevin allowed himself to smile.

He hadn’t really expected Thea to know anything about Black Crow, or tell him if she did. But now he at least had one contact in the slums, someone who could go places and ask questions he couldn’t. She might be useful.

And the money for the fictitious potion, he hoped, was enough to keep them safe for a while, or at least fed. That and the apology were a small price to ease his conscience, and if he had to forego a couple of visits to the theatre, what of it? It was money well spent.

If nothing else, Thea might eventually tell him what she knew about Andra. She was still the only lead he had, and without a lead, he could search the area for years and find nothing. The slums were a dense maze of alleys and buildings piled one on the other without order or sense. Even the burned out parts were hopeless. Andra was a ghost. She could be anywhere, down in the undercity, perched on a roof—

A roof.

Nevin looked up at the cracked and cobwebbed ceiling, and slowly his smile widened into a grin.

The heavy hatch resisted his push. Maybe it was locked. He strained harder, his injured arm on fire. Abruptly, there was give. The hatch moved an inch and stopped, and he realised it wasn’t locked — the wood had swollen in the damp and stuck.

On the next push, the hatch swung open. He climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and stuck his head out into rain-speckled wind. The sun sat low, a warmthless orange eye behind clouds and chimney stacks. Nothing unexpected to see here, just an expanse of sloping tiles, a jumble of roofs and chimneys of other buildings rising beyond.

He clambered onto the roof, his boots sinking into a carpet of damp green moss. Slipped tiles left black gaps in the tapestry of green and grey. One cracked sharply as he stepped forward.

Andra had lived on a roof once, or so Sam had said. Whether she still did, Nevin didn’t know, but he felt stupid for not having thought of it before.

If she was up here, he couldn’t see her. The building made a hollow square round the yard below. Nevin stood in the middle of on one side of the square, beside a group of four chimneys. The matching group of chimneys on the opposite side of the square offered the only possible cover.

He picked his way over the tiles down the right-hand side of the roof, away from the street. As he got nearer, he slowed. If Andra was there, walking straight up to her hiding place was the height of stupidity. She would hear him coming long before he reached her. Smell him too, for all he knew. She was much more likely to surprise him than the other way round.

Still, what else could he do? He drew his sword, and crept on, sweating beneath his jacket. The bandage felt tight round his arm, and the wound ached. He thought this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life, and kept walking.

He navigated the corner of the roof, stepping carefully on the brittle, slippery tiles. The four tall chimneys loomed ahead. A ragged blanket and what might be strips of leather hung from a length of rope strung between the stacks.

The breeze carried a smell, an animal smell, the rank odour of rotting meat and untanned skins. Something lived here, and it was none too clean.

Nothing moved.

He crept closer to the chimneys. His sword hand sweated. He adjusted his grip.

Still nothing stirred. He stopped, his muscles so tense he couldn’t move. She wasn’t there, he was sure of it, and yet he was equally sure she could be and he wouldn’t know until her claws were in his throat. His skin crawled as if it had an urgent need to be somewhere else.

A scratching noise came from behind him. He wheeled, sword lashing in a wide arc — but there was no one — only the empty roof and a startled crow flapping into flight.

He span to face the chimneys again. Still nothing moved and he couldn’t stand frozen indefinitely. His heart pounded. Coward. Idiot. Fool. Was he really so afraid of one woman?

One savage lasker woman, stronger and faster than any human, armed with great big claws. Oh, and she eats people.

But he had to find her, if he could. He had a duty. With a sudden burst of decision, he strode forward.

The sheltered square between the four chimneys was piled with rags and animal skins and gnawed bones. No one was there. Nevin lowered his sword. He prodded the rags, to be sure, but they concealed nothing. It was exactly the filthy mess it appeared to be.

A bunch of small shiny objects lined a ledge on one of the chimney stacks. A trophy collection, or a magpie’s stash: silver and copper coins, empty cans and glass bottles, bright-coloured scraps of cloth and paper, and on the end, a sheathed dagger. The sheath was tooled leather with gold inlay and the dagger’s handle was inset with a large garnet.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Nevin picked it up and drew the dagger from its sheath, though he didn’t need to examine it to confirm what he already knew. It was Riga’s knife. A fine blade; the handle moulded itself to his grip as if made for him.

Over the rooftops the afternoon sun burned like a dull ember wreathed in smog. Out there, somewhere, was Andra. And sooner and later, she’d return to her den.

Alchemical symbol: Antimony [https://i.imgur.com/7omjkx8.png]

Dusk, and darkness pooled between shattered buildings. The marked one strode on, following a straight narrow lane bounded by walls higher than his head. Two charred trees penned behind the left-hand wall reached black and broken branches to the fading light.

Andra paced some distance behind, bare feet silent on dirt. She had followed him like this for many days, and watched, and been patient. But he hadn’t led her to other marked ones.

Hunger had gnawed her patience to the bone. It was time to hunt.

Her prey walked on. He stopped at a door set in the wall. Pushed it; it didn’t move. He banged the wood with his fist: three dull thumps. He waited, stepped back, and looked around.

She pressed herself into the shadows. Night-blind human eyes skated over her, seeing nothing. His breath rose as fog in the still air. Then he shrugged and walked away, continuing along the wall.

The old rounded stones offered easy claw-holds. Andra scrambled up and crouched on top of the wall. On the other side lay a square of churned sodden earth where only the two burned trees stood, dead things pretending to live, yet there was a smell… faint as memory, the clean expansive scent of green growth, of the coming spring.

As if to prevent the dead trees escaping into the city, high walls surrounded the muddy ground on three sides. An odd barrel-roofed building barred the other side. Pigeons huddled along the roofline, a stir of soft coos and warm dusty feathers. Birdshit trailed white down the building’s blank face.

Her prey had reached the corner.

Half-crouching, Andra raced along the wall. Her heart sped, pumping blood to her muscles. Vision sharpened, darkness lightened. The footfalls of the prey echoed loud off stone, louder than the pounding of her heart, the faint rush of night breeze, the skitter of rats.

At the corner, the prey turned left, and walked on, still following the outside of the wall.

Andra jumped across the corner, one wall to the other, sure and silent as a cat. The prey walked ahead of her and below. He passed the shell of a burned-out building, his stride unhurried.

A shudder of excitement ran from the crown of her head to the tips of her claws.

Now.

She launched herself at his back. Falling, she heard his sharp intake of breath, saw his weight shift as he turned. She thumped into the solid meat and bone of his shoulder. Her claws ripped flesh.

Warm blood spattered her face and then she was flying. She twisted in mid-air, bounced off a wall and landed on her feet. Her lungs filled with the sweet iron smell of fresh blood. Blood on her claws, blood on the prey.

He stared, eyes stretched wide in a red mask. A knife wavered in his hand. ‘What the hell?’

Andra bared her teeth. Somehow, she’d misjudged. Her first strike had torn across his face, missing both eyes. The injury was not fatal and now he was armed and ready. But then, so was she. She flexed her claws and leaped.

Her claws snagged cloth, ripped free. The man fended her off with his arm.

He slashed with the knife. She dodged. The blade whipped past her cheek. Blood on his shirt, and fresh rips, the coiling tattoos on his arms showing through the tears: green on one arm, blue on the other. Green she knew meant fast. Blue she hadn’t seen before.

The sight brought a rush of memory, memories of men like him, of cages and pain and helpless rage. She drove her claws at his throat.

He swayed aside. The tips of her claws dragged red lines across his neck, and she knew, then, too eager for a killing blow, she’d stretched too far, left herself off-balance and he was too fast. She couldn’t dodge.

The blade punched into her gut. He yanked the knife free in a rush of pain and liquid warmth.

Reflexively, she swiped at him again. Too slow. Only air met her claws. Her legs faltered.

A strange expression crossed his face. He raised the knife to strike, to finish her.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, each beat pushing life from her body. Her legs had no strength to hold her weight. Her arms would not move to ward off a blow. She dropped to her knees.

So many times she had watched life fade from the eyes of her prey. Now it was her turn. With her last strength, she lifted her head and met his gaze. If she were to die, she would die fearless and facing her enemy, as a lasker should.

Human eyes stared back at her, shining darkly like the blade wet with her blood. And then he walked away.

She swayed, unable at first to understand. Sheer rage cut through the greyness overtaking her mind. She wanted to howl and spit and scream for him to return, to demand he give her death the respect it deserved.

But he had gone and she had no strength. Her blood pulsed over her hands. Claws could not hold it back. She slumped into the mud, and under the mud found stone, hard cold drawing the heat from her body.

Filth and darkness swam before her eyes. Though he had left without finishing her, she would die all the same. A gut wound like this was always fatal. The only question was how long it would take, how many hours of agony.

It was not the first time she had faced death. She was not afraid, only she felt the great distance, the countless days of walking that separated her from her home, and she wondered how her soul would journey so far. For surely the grey place, the quiet land of the ancestors, must lie close to where she was born.

She would not wish her soul to linger among humans. Humans who would not honour her death, for they did not understand such things. Her blood would puddle in their filth and only dogs and rats would eat her flesh. No one would give thanks for her life.

Through the greyness, a soft sound reached her. Movement flickered at the edge of vision. With difficulty, she turned her head.

A shadow crept nearer.

Andra smiled a greeting, and in the gathering darkness, she closed her eyes to rest as every hunter must.