The Last Whisperer

4 | The White-Stripped Haired Maniac~

"Then move it. I want to talk to the person in charge." If Atticus was going to talk to anyone, it wasn't going to be a lackey.

He heard the sound of a book shutting. Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming closer and, before he could react, the hardcover of a book slammed into his face.

"Ow! Shit!" His head was thrown to the side. He tasted his own blood in his mouth.

"Go ahead, then. Speak."

The voice was rich and deep. It was youthful. It belonged to a young man that was around the age of nineteen or twenty. Atticus inspected him with his eyes, starting from the polished shoes to the tailored trousers, up to the crisp buttoned lapels, to the raven black hair on his head that had a lock of white at the front. What an odd hairstyle.

Everything about this man—from the way he dressed and the way he postured himself—screamed that he was a filthy rich nobleman.

"What? A kid? I'm kind of disappointed," Atticus sneered at him. He expected somebody older.

The noble raised his book for the second time and collided it with Atticus' face. At this point, Atticus was starting to see his ancestors.

"Why, you—!" His anger boiled and caused his eyes to redden vastly, his skin turning grey.

Sergei drenched him with another batch of cold water that made him regain some senses. Atticus shook his head like a dog.

"I would advise you to keep your inner demons at bay," suggested Sergei.

"Who are you people?!" Atticus yelled at the both of them. "The Garrison? I bet you're the Garrison!"

"Atticus Feathers," stated the young noble. "The man wanted in eight different cities, including Crimson City."

Atticus laughed hysterically. "I'm impressed. Wanted in eight cities but a mere brat like you managed to tie me to a chair. A chink in my pride, truly."

"Nique, I do not think he will provide us any useful information. We should just hand him over to the Ivy League."

The noble raised his hand and shook his head. "No. I don't want to be involved with the League."

"Ivy League?" asked Atticus. "They're finally here?" This was big news to him. Atticus had always wanted to get his hands on their moonstones, especially the rumored red moonstoned Axe of Jude Wrillwraith. If he could just escape this and fought one of them...

He would probably win.

The young noble got into his face as if he knew what he was thinking. Atticus backed away, disgusted. "Don't even think about it, pal."

Atticus chuckled. "Oho! Fine. What is it that you want? Treasure? Gold? Or did you want something that I stole from you dad?"

"I want information on where Nero Galloway is."

Atticus went still. Then his entire demeanor changed. He scoffed and looked away. "I know nothing about that punk."

"So, you do know him," asked the young noble.

"Who would forget a name like that? He's stolen half the riches that are missing in the world and led five ships at one point across the Devil's Sea. He used to be a crewmember of Furball, that's why."

"Seems like you like this guy very much."

"Like him? I loath him. Just as you said, nobody likes us pirates, and if there was one thing that us pirates hate the most, it's the name Nero Galloway."

"Excellent. So, can you tell us where he is?"

Atticus paused. "...Nobody knows where he is."

The young noble scowled. He seemed almost... angry. "Then what good are you to me?"

He kicked the chair Atticus was on. It tilted to the side slowly. Atticus only had moments before his head hit the wet marbled floor.

"Fuck you!" he spat.

"Pfft." The young noble ignored the crass language and headed over to a small table with a tall bottle of champagne. He poured himself a glass and took a sip.

Dammit. I can't transform when I'm wet, Atticus thought.

Insects hated water. That was the reason why the dragonfly refused to come out.

"Have we met before?" asked Atticus. "You look familiar and I feel like I've seen you somewhere."

Now that the young noble was near the window, he could clearly see his face in the moonlight.

The young noble frowned. "I don't believe we've met before." He was clearly lying from the way he said it.

But Atticus was persistent. "No, really. I have seen you before." But where? He thought really hard about it.

Sergei suddenly spoke as he looked at a watchpocket. "We do not have much time, Nique."

Nique? Have I heard that name before?

The young noble sighed. "Another pointless endeavor." As he said it, he was looking at Atticus.

Me? Pointless?

Scoff.

The young noble strode to where Atticus was on the ground and seized the back of his chair. He had sudden flashbacks to when Sergei grabbed his collar at the tavern. The young noble dragged him nearer and nearer towards the fireplace. They were getting oh so close.

"What are you—?!"

He did not get to finish the sentence, because he was thrown into the flames.

The combination of his wet stature and the heat was beyond description. He screamed from the top of his burning lungs as he experienced the inferno.

"And stay there," the young noble cussed at him before leaving the place entirely.

Sergei followed Nique out without a second glance to what they left rotting inside the house. He never usually questioned his master's actions, and he wouldn't start questioning them now.

For this one, he could only guess that he did not have anything else to do with Atticus and refused to let him go victimize more people. After all, Atticus was a wanted murderer in eight different cities.

Bloodtasty murderers like him deserved a death worse than burning alive.

That was what Nique believed.

But then a loud explosion came from behind.

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