Page 59 of Shades of Silver City

I squeeze myself against him, giving him a silent thanks for this small gift.

"Perhaps if I had chosen the field of thanatology rather than faeology, I could better prepare my family. Alas, I have not chosen to study death. Instead, I’ve chosen a study that shall lead me to my death.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

CHAPTER 14

FANTASIA

The bike hums along at a leisurely pace as we wind through a sprawling park. Verdant land stretches out for what seems like forever on either side of us, vibrant and thriving under the care of the district’s gardeners.

Thick trees tower overhead, their trunks as wide as my kitchen and their branches casting shade over the road. Gardens filled with flowers I’ve never seen before dot the landscape in a riot of color. Sprinklers shower the plants in a cooling mist, droplets sparkling in the sunlight as we pass.

“You live in Sweetcreek?” I mutter. I guess I didn’t take him literally when he mentioned his house earlier. “Of-fucking-course you do.”

Between the rumble of the bike and the helmet muffling my words, the question is lost into the void.

But it’s a bit surprising, honestly, considering his lecture in the alleyway earlier. I swear, for a moment it felt like we were kindred spirits—both furious about the city’s shortcomings, how the PD is neglected, and how the citizens suffer because of it.

But in reality, Archer doesn’t care. He’s living free and easy out here in Sweetcreek. As a Nightcrawler, he’s already part of the problem—they’re notorious for causing havoc around the city—which means he’s partly responsible for the increase of Silver Scouts. The Nightcrawlers step all over people—and probably each other—desperate to climb out of the hole the rest of us get left in.

I’m willing to bet he’s not originally from Sweetcreek. In his mind, he likely thinks he worked his ass off to get here, but my perception is that he shit on his own people to become the very thing most of us hate.

“Well, shit. Being a gangster pays!” I shout.

The scenery gradually becomes less green as rows of connected homes, separated by garages, come into view.

Archer expertly maneuvers the bike into the driveway of a cinnamon-colored brick townhome. When he parks and turns the bike off, the newfound quiet is almost deafening.

After we detangle ourselves from the bike, we take off our helmets. I hand mine to Archer, then work my fingers through my knotted hair, trying to untangle the mess. He fiddles with the compartment beneath the seat, tucking the helmets away.

I inhale deeply, relishing the fresh air. The scent of blooming flowers soothes and delights me. Leaves rustle softly in the breeze, creating a gentle, peaceful melody. A few birds chirp in the distance. The earth-toned houses on either side of the street are nestled into the greenery, their pristine lawns softened by the natural beauty surrounding them. The neighborhood is well-maintained and carefully cultivated.

It’s serene, idyllic, as if the very air is inviting me to slow down and enjoy the simple beauty of nature. The complete opposite of the Packing District. Somehow, we’re still in Silver City, but it’s like an entirely different world. No armed Scouts walk the streets here, from what I can see. No drunkards stumble around midday. In the distance, a dog barks. Children’s laughter carries on the breeze.

The district is exactly how I remember it from my childhood. The nostalgia is almost overwhelming, and I find myself lost in memories of picking ashberries in the field with my mom and dad. We could never afford to live here, despite Dad’s government job at the lab, but we sure loved visiting and pretending we lived here.

Smiling, I glance down at my fingers, almost expecting to see them stained purple. I had so much fun trying to wipe berry juice on my dad’s face as a child. He’d pick me up, throw me over his shoulder, and tickle me until I couldn’t breathe.

“Tasia?” Archer’s voice caresses me back to the present. “Where’d you go?”

Heat spreads across my cheeks as I turn to face him. “Nowhere.”

He squints, giving me a contemplative look before shrugging. “I called out to you a few times, and you didn’t respond.”

This time, I’m the one who shrugs.

“You had a goofy grin on your face,” he says. His gaze flits to my mouth, lingering there a second before moving back up to my eyes.

“I was just…remembering something.”

“Anything worth sharing?”

“Not with you.” I step away, putting some space between us and crossing my arms defensively. “We’re not friends”

Archer’s body goes rigid. Regret washes over me. But it’s true. We’re not friends. He runs the Nightcrawlers. He lives in Sweetcreek.

He’s on top of the world, a rich kid who grew up and wanted to rebel so he joined the Nightcrawlers. We live in two different worlds.

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