Page 11 of Shades of Silver City

Leader of the Nightcrawlers. I knew he was in the gang when I saw the tattoo on his hand, but I hadn’t expected to run into the Phantom himself.

It’s the name given to him by the media, for how elusive he is.

As I stand there, mulling over his name, my chest constricts.

Shit.

We’ve all heard of him and his horrible lack of morals. He and the other Nightcrawlers manufacture and distribute drugs on the street, incite violence, and purposely flout the city’s edicts. They constantly challenge the Silver Scouts, step all over the cityfolk, and steal with reckless abandon.

Fear courses through my veins, quickly followed by rage. He killed that girl. Whether or not it was intentional, if she died from an overdose, he and his stupid fucking Nightcrawlers are responsible.

“Feckin fae sympathizer!” someone booms from across the room, snagging my attention. There’s a collective gasp, a loud crash, and then a few drunk patrons cheer as a scuffle breaks out.

Closing my eyes for a second, I take a breath to compose myself.

“Not again,” I mutter.

Instead of tacking the sketch back on the bulletin board, I hesitate, thinking of the golden aura around the Phantom’s muscular frame.

Even in the shadows, dressed like night himself and standing ten feet away from a corpse, his soul-shade glimmered like the brightest gold. Something about that image gives me pause, and I decide to go with my gut and trust him. Crumpling up the flyer, I turn around and toss it in the trash beneath the bar.

“Screw you! You don’t know what you’re talkin about!” someone else yells back over the music.

“Love those dirty feckers, do ya? I betchur wife does too. Betcha she’s out there right now in the Wilds, suckin em reaaaaaal good.”

“You sonofa—”

Bam.

One guy ruthlessly whacks another with a chair. A crowd rushes over to get a closer look, obstructing my view of the two fighting men.

Everyone’s soul-shades blend and writhe, like a confused rainbow. I strain my eyes to stay focused on the fight, the vibrant colors making me more anxious than usual.

I need to defuse the situation before it becomes violent and someone calls the Scouts.

I suppress a shudder.

I've had my fill of close encounters with them tonight.

“Ya gonna deal with that, Tasia?” Fredrik, who is still at the bar nursing his beer, snorts and points with his thumb.

Of course the jerk finds this funny.

“Shut up, Fredrik. I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight.”

Reaching beneath the bar, I grab one of the bats propped up against the mug cooler. Not the one with nails poking out, no, just the regular one for now.

“There goes your tip, ya mouthy little—”

“Ask me if I care.”

Now I’m seething. My vision clouds, and my clenched fists tremble. The thick tension in the room suffocates me.

Normally, I can deal with Fredrik. And I'm used to breaking up fights, but everything that happened tonight has left me disoriented.

In the midst of the swirling blues, pinks, purples, and other colors, one smoky aura catches my attention.

No.

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