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He leads me to the gutters below the memorial where they found the shiner.

A crazy faction says he never really died, despite the hanging body, but they also believe bees are magic-made surveillance.

“Well, gee, you’re just no fun at all.” I lean on the door frame and cross my arms across my chest.

My stance will be ignored, but, hey, can’t blame a girl for trying to crawl back to bed and fall into blissful, alcohol induced sleep. We’ve got a shiner.” I raise my eyebrow-an expert achievement of snark that never fails to drive Sarge crazy.

A row of gallows had flanked the door where the dead, while swaying in the wind, would howl and moan and wail.

When Old Ellis did his jig, a couple of fellas went home with their ears bleeding and cheeks clawed raw.

He snores and I kick him on the ribs, “Out.” I picked him up in after Tiha knows how many glasses of gin.

On the back of his neck is a cluster of dark freckles I hadn’t noticed the night before–my gods, a damn Academy student. The flavour of anise is still stuck on the back of my tongue. The smudge in the middle of it seems ordinary until you look closely and you realise it’s a puddle after a heavy storm, the boy’s Key.A “scholar” I bet, just an ignorant kid who thinks magic’s only use is a quick high. A melancholy beat weaves itself around the smoke, edging by piles of filthy clothes, slithering into the wrinkled sheets until it reaches the boy. If only I had gotten to that kid sooner, the bottle laced with a dreamwake charm would’ve never reached his lips and I wouldn’t have magic jammed in my throat every time I woke up. I snag the pillow off the boy’s head, lean to his ear so he feels the ember warming his skin. The way the tobacco falls it looks like my skin is flaking, sprinkling brown-beige on greyed white sheets. I harrumph at my stupidity for offering a place to crash. The radio’s finished its meandering song and a man is signing off, wishing us a good night.A stray speck of ember jumps to the boy and he winces. By the sound of fists slamming at my door looks like my night is just beginning.Sarge has a look on his face that makes his wrinkles seem like canyons. “Cut the crap, Magic,” he says with a ghost of a smile stuck to the corner of his lips.With that on his face he looks twenty years and a barrel of sadness younger.I suppose the chintz carpet she’s wrapped in kept the chill at bay. It’s hard feigning nonchalance when her mouth was sewn shut with blue string and blood crusted over the corners of her lips. Mad Maggie thought she was a pile of leaves.” I stay crouched by her shoulder. The skin’s turned waxy, but the falling moonlight does everything but make her look a corpse.

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