Chapter 60: Now Can We Talk?
A yellow bulb buzzed overhead, wheezing like an old man on his last breath.
The garage smelled of engine oil, rust, and cheap tobacco.
Joren stood outside the rolling door and watched the hunched figure working at the bench inside.
Half a month ago, he had come here with a boning knife strapped to his back, reckless enough to think nothing could touch him.
"If you keep standing there like a post, I will tear out your eyes and use them as light bulbs."
Fixer never turned around.
A rusted wrench rang against an abandoned engine block beneath his hand.
His voice was rough, carrying the same sickening chill Joren remembered.
"If you are not here for repairs, get lost."
Joren stepped inside.
Black combat boots crossed the oil stained concrete without making a sound.
He was already within three meters of the workbench before Fixer sensed something wrong.
The old broker spun.
The wrench disappeared, replaced by a modified large caliber revolver aimed straight between Joren’s eyes.
"You looking to die..."
The threat broke off halfway.
Fixer’s cloudy remaining eye fixed on the man before him.
Familiar.
"Is that you?"
The bait Deadwater had taken away to use as cannon fodder.
"Huh. Guess you are harder to kill than you looked."
The caution in Fixer’s eye faded, replaced by the old contempt and greed.
"What?"
"Need another identity?"
"Price went up. One hundred thousand."
"Where is Brann?"
Joren did not waste a word.
The hand holding Fixer’s lighter twitched.
The flame flickered twice and died.
Fixer slammed it onto the bench.
"Brann? That fat bastard is finished."
He abandoned the cigarette and looked at Joren from the corner of his eye.
"I am looking for him too."
"He still owes me two brokerage fees. Tell me where he is and I might give you a little spending money."
"As for anything else..."
Fixer held out one filthy hand and rubbed his thumb against two fingers.
"Information costs."
"For an old acquaintance, one hundred thousand per answer."
"No credit."
Joren sighed.
Pressure crashed through the garage.
Boom!
For one terrible instant, Fixer saw a beast opening its eyes.
Golden vertical pupils reflected his body back at him, tiny as an insect.
The air in the garage seemed to harden into concrete.
The weight of it crushed the breath from his lungs.
"You..."
Strength left Fixer’s body.
The revolver fell from his hand and struck the floor.
He tried to step back.
His legs refused to move.
Joren walked to the bench and rested one finger on the fallen gun.
Barely any pressure.
Crack.
Metal shrieked.
The modified revolver twisted beneath his fingertip, flattened into a thin iron disk, and sank into the solid workbench.
"Can we talk properly now?"
Fixer understood.
"Yes."
"Yes, we can."
"Brann is in the sewers under the old district."
The words spilled out of him.
"Someone wrecked the slaughterhouse last night."
"Brann barely escaped. I did not dare shelter him, so I sent him to an abandoned sewer tunnel we used for moving contraband."
"The entrance is beneath a dry well near the unfinished buildings."
...
Old District.
The scar Norcrest had never managed to heal.
Unfinished towers rose beneath the gray sky like rotten ribs.
Joren stood beside a dry well choked with weeds.
Darkness filled the opening, breathing out damp air and mold.
He jumped.
Wind rushed past him.
Black Dragon formed a cushion beneath his boots, and Joren drifted down like a black feather, landing silently in the mud below.
The drainage network had been abandoned for decades.
Rot filled the tunnels.
Dead rats.
Fermented garbage.
Old sewage.
Mental Force spread from him in a silent pulse.
Everything within five hundred meters entered his awareness.
Water dripping from pipes.
Insects shifting in cracks.
Even a cockroach crawling along the wall.
There.
A maintenance room sealed by human hands.
Inside, one faint life signal burned like the last inch of a candle.
Joren became a streak of darkness and raced through the maze of tunnels.
...
A dying emergency lamp cast pale light across the maintenance room.
Brann lay curled on a ruined mattress in the corner.
The body that had once strained every shirt he wore had shrunk visibly.
His beard was overgrown. His eyes had sunk deep into his face. Dried black blood and mud covered his clothes.
His left arm hung loose at his side.
Broken.
The right hand still gripped a sharpened boning knife.
Even in sleep, the blade pointed toward the door.
"Cough..."
Brann fought to keep the sound down.
Every cough tightened his face.
The wound had already begun to swell and rot.
He could not go to a hospital.
He did not even dare visit a pharmacy.
The moment he showed himself, that monster would find him.
A faint sound came from beyond the door.
Brann lurched upright and pressed his back against the wall.
"Who is there?"
His voice shook.
So did the boning knife.
Creak.
The rusted door opened slowly from the other side.
A tall figure stood in the doorway.
"It is me."
The voice was cool, but familiar.
"Jo... Joren?"
"Is it really you?"
Joren nodded.
His gaze dropped to Brann’s broken arm.
His fingers stilled at his side.
Relief hit Brann so hard that cold sweat broke across his body.
He grabbed Joren by the arm and looked him over from head to toe.
"You are alive."
"Good. You are alive..."
His hands were filthy, leaving black marks across the expensive surface of Black Dragon.
"An Awakened Warrior."
"You really became an Awakened Warrior."
A smile spread across Brann’s battered face.
"I knew you could do it."
He slapped Joren’s shoulder, eyes turning red.
The relief lasted less than three seconds.
Brann’s face changed.
"Why did you come back?"
"How could you come back?"
"Leave. Now."
He tried to shove Joren toward the door.
Joren did not move.
Instead, he caught Brann and held him upright.
"What happened?"
"Was it Dace?"
Brann went rigid.
He pulled a crushed cigarette from inside his coat. His hands shook so badly that the lighter failed again and again.
Joren held out one finger.
A tiny flame rose from Black Dragon and lit the cigarette.
Brann dragged in smoke, then doubled over coughing.
"That night, I was about to close up."
"Then something rushed inside."
"It was Dace."
"But he did not look human anymore."
"Scales covered his body. One hand had become a claw. His eyes were green."
"The moment he entered, he grabbed workers by the throat and demanded to know where you were."
"They did not know."
"So he tore them apart."
Brann swallowed.
His voice broke.
"Then he started eating."
"They were people."
"He ate them alive."
The memory tore through him.
Brann covered his face and began to sob.
Joren watched him.
"He asked where I was."
"You did not tell him?"
If Brann had given Dace a location, the creature might have gone after Joren and spared whoever remained.
Brann wiped tears and mucus across his sleeve.
"Tell him my ass."
"I did not know where you were anyway. Fixer never told me whether you were alive or dead."
"While he was... feeding, I blew the electrical box and ran."
"He caught this arm with one claw."
Brann looked down at the broken limb.
Joren drew in a slow breath.
"Where is he?"