Chapter 64

  The Broker's Shadow

  The rain had finally quit, but the air still clung to me like a bad debt. Thick, damp, and unwilling to let go. The ground was a muddy mess, smelling of wet earth and old smoke—the bitter leftovers from the fire we’d snuffed earlier. Our camp wasn’t much to look at. A few tarps strung together, a couple of makeshift lean-tos, just enough to keep the worst of the night off our backs. Somewhere nearby, water trickled over stone, the sound slicing through the hush like a whispered warning.

  Spudsworth and his merry band of potato-brained degenerates were supposed to be keeping watch. I wasn’t buying it. They gnawed on roots like they’d struck gold, eyes half-lidded, lost in some starchy stupor. Useless? Almost. But at least they were quiet. Small victories.

  Inside the tent, the lantern threw jagged shadows across the canvas. Rocky worked over Ember, his rough mitts steady despite the stink of demon blood and antiseptic hanging in the air. She winced as he cleaned the wound, the poison still biting at her nerves. I could hear her teeth grind, sharp and controlled. Rocky muttered something low, voice just a ripple under her strained breathing.

  Outside, Reggie paced. Typical. Twitchy as ever, his paws flexing like they wanted to grab something—anything—but he kept them pinned to his sides. He watched the tent like a starving dog eyeing a butcher’s back door. He’d just met Ember. But he keeps calling her “the toots,” like he’d stepped out of a black-and-white movie. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was just a jumpy little rodent. You’d be wrong. Reggie had claws.

  I kept my attention on Scrap. He crouched over the loot we’d pried off the troll, fingers sifting through gold, iron, bits of scrap. The jackpot. The kind of haul that put a glint in even the deadest eyes. He muttered under his breath, counting, weighing, measuring.

  Nibbler was off doing what Nibbler did—disappearing, reappearing, coming back with things he shouldn’t have. The little bastard had a gift, if you could call it that. A nose for valuables, a touch lighter than air. He wouldn’t leave us high and dry, though. Not unless the odds told him to.

  The air held that kind of quiet. The thick, waiting kind. The kind where you hear every drop of water plunk against the leaves, every whisper in the brush, every ember in the fire dying slow.

  The kind that comes right before the storm.

  Rocky pushes through the tent flap, his face set like weathered stone. The lantern behind him flickers, throwing his shadow long and jagged across the damp ground. His hands are stained—blood, antiseptic, and whatever foul sludge he scraped outta Ember’s wound. The stink of troll poison clings to him, sharp and sour, barely masked by the alcohol burn of whatever he used to clean her up.

  "She's holdin' on," he rumbles, voice like gravel in a grinder. "But that poison? Nasty stuff. Troll swill. The kinda thing that don’t just kill ya—it makes ya wish it did first."

  I take a slow drag off my cigarette, let the acrid burn settle in my lungs. Grounds me. Gives me a second to think. Smoke curls outta my nose as I speak.

  "Still singin' the same tune, huh?" My voice is low, like I’m draggin’ on a smoke even when I ain’t. "No new verses from the dame?"

  Rocky rubs his nose like he’s tryin’ to scrub the truth outta it. "Still stickin’ to that hostage story," he mutters. He glances back at the tent, then drops his voice to a whisper. "But somethin’ ain’t right, see? She’s too cool. Too... resigned. Like she already knows how this plays out. Like she ain't fightin’ it."

  That sets my nerves on edge. Hostages beg. They plead. They claw at life with both hands, tryin’ to keep from getting dragged under. They don’t sit back and wait for the tide to take ‘em.

  "She’s the broad we gotta watch," I grunt, flickin’ ash off my coffin nail. The ember flares in the damp, then disappears into the muck. "Till she proves she ain’t dirty, she’s wearin’ the bullseye. Capiche?"

  Rocky folds his arms, noddin’ slow. "Yeah, Cap’. But somethin’ don’t add up. If she’s in on it, why whack the troll? That’s like shootin’ yourself in the foot, ya know? Makes no damn sense."

  I chew on that, watchin’ steam rise off the wet earth. The night’s thick—damp wood, old rain, and the distant rot of somethin’ better left unfound. The quiet stretches between us, heavy, waitin'.

  "Loose end," I mutter. "Double-cross. Or maybe..." I take another drag, let the smoke snake outta my mouth like a ghost. "Maybe she’s playin’ us all for suckers."

  Rocky’s jaw tightens. We both know the truth of it. Out here, everyone’s got an angle. Nobody’s clean.

  Reggie bolts outta the tent like a bullet, his tiny claws scrabblin’ against the wet earth. His fur’s bristlin’, beady eyes dartin’ between me and Rocky.

  “The dame’s up,” he squeaks, winded like he just ran a marathon. “She’s awake, boss—Toots is awake.”

  I take one last drag, let the smoke curl in my lungs before flickin’ the butt into a puddle. The ember hisses, drownin’ out in the muck. Wet tobacco and old ash mix with the smell of damp earth. I grind it under my paw, roll my shoulders.

  “Alright, let’s go have a little chinwag with the broad,” I say, steppin’ toward the tent. “Time for her to spill the beans.”

  Rocky moves like he’s gonna follow, but I raise a paw, stoppin’ him cold.

  “Not you, kid,” I say, givin’ him a look. “This ain’t a picnic. It’s a private sit-down, a one-on-one, ya get me? You wait outside.”

  Reggie shifts on his feet, jittery. “I should—”

  Rocky plants a mitt on his shoulder, firm. “Boss’s orders,” he rumbles, voice steady but thick with finality. “One-on-one. End of discussion.”

  Inside, the tent stinks of sweat, old blood, and the sharp tang of whatever cocktail Rocky cooked up to keep her alive. The lantern flickers, throwin’ shadows across the canvas. Ember’s sittin’ up, back straight like a steel rod, even with pain clawing through her. Her dark eyes lock onto mine. Cold. Unreadable.

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  “You have questions,” she says, voice flat. “Answers are cheap.”

  I grab a crate, drop onto it. The wood creaks under my weight. My tail flicks, slow, deliberate.

  “Alright, princess,” I say, leanin’ forward. “Let’s cut the crap and get to brass tacks. We’re gonna start with the straight dope. Ya dig?”

  She exhales through her nose, tilts her head just a hair. Then she talks.

  The story drips out, steady, practiced. A sob story wrapped in steel.

  Once, she was human—just some farm girl, livin’ a life nobody’d ever write about. Then King Arthur came. Burned her village, turned her family into corpses. She shoulda died too. Instead, the Mistress of the Infernal Realm plucked her from the ashes, dangled somethin’ better than death in front of her—power, purpose, vengeance. Ember took the deal. Became somethin’ else. A demon. A soul collector, bound to serve the one who gave her a second life.

  Only, when she finally got her shot—when she stepped back into the world to gut the bastard—Arthur was already dead.

  “Yeah, and I got a bridge in Central Forest to sell ya,” I mutter, rollin’ my eyes. “Helluva story, that’s for sure.”

  “Believe what you want,” she says. “But it’s the truth.”

  For eons, she stalked the shadows, cuttin’ deals, collectin’ souls, feedin’ the ever-hungry maw of the Infernal Realm. But then, Arthur’s name resurfaced. Another shot at vengeance. A chance to finish what she was reborn to do.

  Only… she didn’t find Arthur. She found a man. An innocent man. A father figure. Someone she… loves.

  Now, she’s stranded. The Mistress still whisperin’ in her ear, pushin’ her toward the kill. But she can’t do it. Not to Grant. Not to the guy who gave her a name, a place, a reason to be somethin’ other than a monster.

  “Eons,” she whispers, voice distant. “I’ve been making deals, collecting souls. Killing… for eons. Until… Grant.”

  I bark out a laugh, sharp and bitter as cold coffee. “Irony, huh? The guy saves ya, then names ya Ember. Ember. The flame that never caught. Like he’s lookin’ right through ya, seein’ ya for what ya are—nothin’.”

  She finally meets my gaze, and for the first time, I see it. Not just the weariness. Not just the hollowness of a killer too long in the game.

  Loss. Regret. A grief that’s sat in her gut for so long, she don’t even feel it anymore.

  “Grant saved me,” she says.

  I lean in, voice low. “Yeah… and that ain’t just coincidence, sweetheart. That’s a message. Plain as day.”

  A tear slips down her cheek. First real thing she’s shown me.

  “He’s… my father,” she whispers.

  I exhale slow, rubbin’ my chin. “Well, damn…” My voice comes out like gravel. “Looks like you ain’t the one holdin’ the smokin’ gun after all. Might actually be clean on this one, princess.”

  "You didn’t clip him," I say, voice flat as a busted tire. "You ain’t the one who iced him."

  "I might as well have," she mutters, eyes low.

  I let out a slow whistle, the kind that says . Rocky and Reggie step in, their boots scuffin’ against the floor.

  "But you know who did," I press, my voice low and hard like a gunmetal promise. "You know who put the screws to him, don’t ya, princess?"

  She hesitates. Just for a second. Then she nods. "The Broker," she says, voice barely a whisper. "He made the arrangements."

  "Arrangements for what?" Rocky pipes up, suspicion thick in his tone.

  "For Grant’s… removal."

  I narrow my eyes. "You’re tellin’ me some two-bit, low-rent hustler named took out

  Grant?" My voice drips disbelief. "Some punk called ? Gimme a break."

  She nods again, this time slower. "He works for the Mistress. He handles the... delicate matters."

  "Matters you couldn’t stomach, huh?" Rocky growls, his fists clenchin’ like he’s got a face in mind to rearrange. "Matters you couldn’t go through with? What kinda dirty business we talkin' here?"

  I glance at him. Rocky’s skeptical. Right to be. But he ain’t dumb. Least, I don’t he is. Then again, I ain’t never seen him lose his cool before.

  "I… tried," she says, voice waverin’. "Many times, yes. But I never could."

  Rocky spits on the ground. "Ya dirty rat," he sneers. "Ya lyin’ two-timin’ demon broad!"

  Didn’t expect that one. Caught me off guard too.

  Luckily, Nibbler’s fast. He slips in, puts Rocky in a full nelson before the kid can go full berserk.

  "Whoa, whoa, chill out, will ya?" Nibbler says, holdin’ him tight. "I’m the muscle here, ya rookie. You ain’t gotta go all ape-shit." He looks to me, waitin’ for the call. "Cap’?"

  I step in, voice sharp as cut glass. "Cool it, kid. Or take a powder. This ain’t a playground."

  Rocky sags in Nibbler’s grip, the fight drainin’ outta him. "I’m cool... I’m cool," he mutters, like it pains him to say it.

  I give Nibbler a nod. He lets him go.

  I lay it all out for ’em. Everything Ember just spilled.

  Nibbler folds his arms, eyes narrow. "?" he repeats, voice like he don’t like the taste of it. "Sounds like a ghost, Cap’. Like somethin’ outta a spook story. A guy nobody’s ever seen."

  "Everybody’s a ghost ‘til they ain’t," I say, voice gritty. "Then they’re just another stiff. Now"—I turn back to Ember, my gaze sharp—"where do we find this fella? Where’s he hang his hat, toots?"

  She shakes her head. "I don’t know. He moves in the shadows, like a whisper in the dark."

  Reggie fidgets, tuggin’ at his collar. "Oh... he ain’t no ghost, Cap’," he squeaks. "I

  that, see?" He gulps. "I mean, he had me diggin’ up them crazy Aether gems outta the deep rock, right? But he told me... he told me if I was ever in a jam, I could find him."

  Then, quick as a hiccup, his hands fly to his mouth, his eyes buggin’ wide. "Why’d I just blab that?" he mumbles, like he’s kickin’ himself.

  We all stare at him.

  "You did ?!" We say it in unison.

  "The gems..." Ember’s voice drops to a growl, low and dangerous. "The same gems that ?"

  Reggie nods. Slow.

  And then the princess snaps.

  Next thing I know, she’s got Reggie by the throat, hoistin’ him like he weighs nothin’.

  ""

  Reggie’s eyes dart to me, to Nibbler, to Rocky.

  We don’t move.

  Can’t.

  The boss’s aura rolls off her like a stormfront, keepin’ us rooted.

  "Where?" she demands.

  Reggie wheezes, face goin’ red. "At the old oak… by the whisperin’ falls," he chokes out. "He said—he said he’d be waitin’. In the hideout. That’s what he told me."