Bereft: Foretold

29 | A Human Fear

Throughout the day's tedious and trying hours, my eyes were drawn again and again to Itheria's coast and the haughty tower sitting upon the ridge. The creature in me that lacked any semblance of patience resented the need to dance around my target instead of attacking it directly, and I mustered an impossible reserve of self-restraint to tame my actions. I wanted to tear apart my query with my own hands, but what I lacked in ability I had retained in strategy.

I would be patient. I would wait.

Itheria's underbelly was considerably trimmer than Verweald's, though it held scars and secrets just as Amoroth's city did. The huntress and I trekked through the cold, wet byways and alleys that traced Itheria's borders and found nothing of our target. The black mage we sought was a known Reave peddler, though the possession charge had been so slight the syndicates weren't particularly keen to flush him out. Doing so required resources, and Everett Robinson wasn't worth those resources.

The throb of rock music broke the new evening's complacency as it radiated through the asphalt underfoot. I folded my arms against my chest as I read the name of the sleazy downtown bar as it was written in violet neon. Like many of Itheria's establishments, it was exclusive to Terrestria's other community, the structure dripping with reflective wards that made it difficult to look directly at the building. All I discerned was a general sense of the layout, the composition of its materials, and of course the sign.

The huntress stood at my side, shivering and blowing cold air from her mouth, bundled in a coat with a knitted cap on her head. "It's cold!" she blurted through chattering teeth as her hands rubbed her covered arms. "Ain't you freezing?" 

"No." I checked the street again for pedestrians, then eased open the building's front door. The smell of cigarettes and stale booze wafted out on the heated air, and I wrinkled my nose against the obnoxious odor as I entered the bar and Connie followed after. The squeal of an electric guitar crackled through the aged speakers hanging over the crowded bar. A few eyes tracked our entrance, but given how large the crowd was, no one took any real notice of our presence. Under the music rose the sound of sizzling, greasy food, and plates of broiled burgers were coming through the room on overburdened platters. 

"Are these people mages?" Connie asked as I walked us past the counter to a vacant booth on the far side of the bar. The interior was poorly lit by a mixture of fluorescent beer signs and fizzling holiday lights, the ceiling panels stained by cigar smoke and pockmarked with toothpicks. 

I lifted a brow. "You can't tell?"

"No?"

It should have been obvious, even for a human who couldn't detect the faint, acerbic taste of metal that clung to the air about the magically inclined men. They favored their standard issue coats with the satin lining done in the color of their syndicates. In a place such as this that was hidden to ignorant normies, the mages were more brazen with their outlandish mannerisms and quirky gestures. They freely traded sparks and rolled parchments along with drinks and bar food. 

The huntress and I sank into opposite seats in a rear booth, the vinyl creaking under my weight as I leaned into the generous shadows. From my pocket I retrieved the folded contract on our mark and examined the black and white photo again, taking in the accrued details about his routine and known haunts. The man dealt Reaver, an addictive and deadly drug known among the other communities of Terrestria and the Vale, which meant he didn't stay in a singular locale for any extended amount of time. We'd trailed the outlaw for much of the day and had, at last, caught up. 

Everett Robinson sat at one of the stools, eating an early dinner while he nursed a beer. He wore the same style of coat as the other mages', but his was older, shabbier, and the mustard colored lining was torn. His uncombed hair was thinning and heavily laced with gray, and his weak jaw was covered with the beginnings of a scraggly beard—but he was easily recognizable.