Page 37 of Shades of Silver City

My door slams open, and a couple practically falls through, colliding with me.

“Oh shit, sorry,” the girl says, laughing.

They barely spare me another glance before tumbling into my bed together.

I’m tired. So tired of this.

“Forget this shit.” Snatching my teddy bear from the floor, I clutch it to my chest with oil-pastel-stained fingers, willing the blooming tears not to fall. My phone and keys to The Rising Star are still in my pocket, so I exit my room and cross the living room, fleeing from the apartment. No one tries to stop me.

The tears break free when I’m bolting down the rickety stairs. They’re not tears of sorrow or even anger. My bone-deep exhaustion forms these tears, and as each one slides down my cheek, it’s a reminder of how devastatingly exhausted I am of this life. And how soul-achingly alone I am in it.

Prohibition of Fae and Magic

Silver Edict #3

“All fae entities and magical practices are banned from the city. Any involvement in magic, enchantments, or the arcane is deemed treason and may be met with the penalty of death…”

CHAPTER 9

ARCHER

The crooked, faded numbers of apartment 3663 stare at me as I raise my knuckles to knock.

I am not stalking Tasia.

Just because I’ve followed her home a few times, it doesn’t make me a stalker. My intentions are truly to protect her…and maybe gather intel while I’m at it. But after that second photo of her went up on the city’s UIS system the other day, I’m more than a little concerned. With all the crime around the Packing District, I find it unusual for the focus to be on one ordinary, blonde bartender.

Well, ordinary as far as anyone else knows.

I yawn, stifling it with the back of my hand. Godric and I stayed up all night, roaming the city in search of the Reaper. For better or worse, we had no luck.

Taking a deep breath, I steel my shoulders and rap on Tasia’s door.

“Coming!” a high-pitched voice calls.

A few seconds later, the door is yanked open, and a tall raven-haired woman with sleep-crusted eyes and barely any clothes on greets me.

“Oh,” she says. Her hands fly up and smooth back her hair, and her eyes widen. “How can I help you?”

She plasters on a toothy smile. She’s a cute girl, but she stirs nothing in me.

Not like Tasia does.

I clear my throat, shaking the inappropriate thought away.

“I’m looking for Tasia,” I say.

“Oh.” The girl’s smile drops, and she glances over her shoulder. “Come in.”

She holds the door open wider, allowing me to step inside. The place is trashed, with cups and cans everywhere. Stains litter the aged carpet. It reeks like a gym bag in here.

“I’m Stace,” the girl says. Shuffling past me, she flops down on the sagging couch, which groans under her weight. She picks up her phone and presses a few buttons. “Tasia’s not here. Slept somewhere else last night. I texted her, though.”

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, glancing around the place with disdain. It takes me back to the apartment I grew up in—with Ma and Sofia—and I hate the mixture of nostalgia and guilt that rises with the memories.

“Make yourself at home,” Stace says, waving a hand around.

I skeptically eye a stool that sits by the kitchen bar. Would it be worth it to wait for Tasia?

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