Page 13 of Shades of Silver City

The people nearby chuckle behind their drinks, apparently highly amused. I glare back at all of them. “Play a different fucking song, for the love of Gods!”

By the time I hop the counter, return to my position behind the bar, and replace the bat to its resting position, Fredrik is standing, ready to leave. He shakes his head at me before chugging the rest of his beer. He counts out fourteen silvers, leaving nothing extra for a tip this time, and drops the stack on the counter with a clank.

“Jeremiah’s gonna hear bout thissss,” he slurs before he leaves.

As if I care.

My mind can’t let go of the two men and their grey soul-shades.

Anxiously, I tap my fingers on the counter.

Before I can overthink it, I snag my phone from my back pocket and shoot Mellie a text, asking her to come down and watch the bar while I take a quick break. She can be here promptly; she shares a kid—but no love—with Jeremiah, and he houses them both above the bar in a small apartment. As bad as I feel about burdening her, this is important.

Without waiting for her to reply, I grab the bat—the one with nails this time—and bolt from The Rising Star.

“Move!” I shout as I jostle my way through the crowd on the street, glancing around desperately for the men who just left.

According to my dad’s research, grey soul-shades represent the lack of a soul. His journal is the only insight I have into my magic. It showed up about two years after his death and it explained much about my ability.

Most of his entries are from After Reclamation 370.

The year they killed him.

So, grey soul-shades? They’re only seen in death.

But the two men from the bar? They were filled with vibrant, angry life—very much alive.

Comprehensive Surveillance Protocols and Vigilant Oversight

Silver Edict #12

“…Ministry of Surveillance may monitor public areas to ensure the security, safety, and freedoms of Silver Citizens, thus deterring wrongdoing and upholding order.”

CHAPTER 4

ARCHER

Hours after sending the Scouts on their way, the terror-stricken face of the blonde bartender remains fresh in my mind. As Godric and I walk downtown, my fingers twitch at my sides, desperate to pluck my phone out and check to see if there’s any word from Zeke.

About the dead girl we found in the alley.

And the woman who can see the Reaper.

My phone volume is on high though, and it hasn’t made a peep, so I know he hasn’t relayed word yet.

We move farther away from the bustling city center, toward the slums on the outskirts. The congested skyscrapers slowly give way to stout buildings and massive rundown warehouses that sprawl across entire city blocks. Soon, the hum of the cars and bars and chatter fades away.

I adjust the oversized bag on my shoulder, clutching it tight. The aroma of steamed vegetables and chicken wafts into my nose, and my stomach grumbles. I’ll eat later—after we’ve dropped off food for the street dwellers. Despite the prevailing beliefs about them, not everyone who lives on the streets is an addict or criminal. Most are victims of the system—kids who left broken homes and became adults without education and opportunities. For a few years now, it’s been on my mind to build some kind of facility for those living on the streets, a shelter of sorts.

I’ve thought about renovating my mother’s old building—it’s a high-rise downtown with good bones and plenty of space—but many of the street dwellers live on the outskirts of the city and are reluctant to make their way downtown permanently.

“Pixel found a location for sale—two streets away from here,” Godric says.

“Price?”

He rattles off a number. It’s not too bad.

“Have her place a bid,” I say. “Price is doable. We need to snag it before Arlo Osiander does.”

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