Page 9 of Shades of Silver City

“Long as he has our back, guess that’s what matters.”

“By the way, what did you give him back there?” he asks.

“A hair sample.”

“Whose?”

“Add it to the ever-growing list of mysteries around here,” I say as we stride toward the street—back toward the city’s beating heart. “Also…the Reaper’s back in the city.”

“Shit.” He goes still, stopping in his tracks. “You sure?”

I nod, cracking my knuckles. Godric groans and swipes a hand over his face.

“Saw him myself.”

Worse, so did she.

Whoever she is.

"From my experience with chromatics, grey is the absence of color. Perhaps that is why I had not seen a soul-shade in grey. Until yesterday. I witnessed a hit-and-run, and as I held the man’s hand while he bled out, his soul-shade faded from a sky-blue to grey, leached of all color…”

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

CHAPTER 3

FANTASIA

“Yuh tryna strip da wood, Tasia,” a gruff voice says from further down the bar.

I ignore Fredrik, the barfly that’s impossible to swat away, and continue to scrub the bartop with feigned attention to detail. I wish time would hurry so I can finish and go home.

Maybe once I’m there—with Reed, in bed—my mind will stop replaying tonight’s unsettling events.

Every time I blink, I see that teen’s face in my mind—her pale skin, her bloodshot eyes. It isn’t unusual for people to turn up dead on the streets, but I’ve never been the one to find a body before.

More than anything else, though, it was her grey soul-shade that rattled me.

I hate the color grey. Not because it’s a bland, low-saturation tone that offers absolutely no aesthetic appeal, but because of what it represents, the memories it dredges up.

Grey was the color of my parent's soul-shades in their last moments, thirteen years ago.

Silver Scouts.

Silver guns.

Silver City.

Silver is just as bad as grey.

The only difference is that one reflects light while the other absorbs it—but they’re both the same color, reflectivity aside.

Maybe that’s why I hate this forsaken city so much. Silver City is as terrible as the color it’s named after. It’s a low-saturation, shamble of a city.

I shudder, vigorously scrubbing the worn wood, the rough texture scraping against my fingertips. The pendant lights overhead provide only dim light, and they cast shadows, making it difficult to spot the stubborn beer stains. The thick air is stale with alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke. Even with the lively chatter and pulsating music, my thoughts continue to echo in my mind.

Only one more hour until last call.

I can do this.

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