Page 10 of Shades of Silver City

Holding my breath for as long as possible, I try not to inhale the musky, bitter stench coming from the bucket of dirty water beside me while I attempt to clean. It’s impossible not to think about how many bacteria are on this grimy rag. It’s the last one I have, though. All the rest are dirty, sitting in a burlap sack, waiting for Jeremiah, my boss, to take them to the laundromat.

“Jus tryna have a friendly talk, Tasia,” Fredrik mutters when I don’t respond. He hiccups, shaking his empty glass at me. “Fine. Another Sharp Wing at least.”

A brown haze hovers around his body like always. It’s a bland shade, one that’s easy to ignore, unlike some of the brighter colors around the room. I keep my gaze lowered, afraid the wavering colors will nauseate me.

Huffing, I toss the rag back into the bucket. Why do I even bother trying to clean this damned place? It’s not like health inspectors come to this side of the city, and folk like Fredrik certainly don’t come here for the atmosphere.

We might serve local craft beer, but hell, it’s our low prices that lure these deadbeats in, not the quality of the beer itself. I’ve told Jeremiah before that if he raises his prices, he might draw a better clientele. He scoffed at me, claiming that if he did that, he’d have no patrons at all.

I don’t love The Rising Star, but it’s a comfortable job. I’ve been here six years now, and sure, the pay is shit, but it’s better than the alternative. I’ve searched for other jobs in the past, and the only options were to sell my skin to the rich from Sweetcreek or clean up after them. Neither sounded particularly enjoyable. At least here I can serve those I understand—those like me.

Muttering under my breath, I grab a frosted mug from the concealed cooler below the counter, position it under the tap, and fill it with brown-red liquid.

“Come on, any day now.” Fredrik belches, and I turn, catching him as he uses the hem of his soiled shirt to swipe away the slobber from his chin.

My nose wrinkles.

Even six beers can’t distract him from my purposefully slow pace.

The air in the bar is hot and sticky, made worse by the poor air conditioning and crowded space.

An outdated rock song plays on the jukebox, one that I’ve been sick of hearing since my first week here. At least the other patrons seem satisfied with their drinks and conversation. They pay me no mind.

I don’t like to drink—a harsh irony for a full-time bartender. My ability becomes harder to ignore when I'm intoxicated. Even so, I’ve sampled our Sharp Wing. It’s a high-malt amber with a delicious caramel aftertaste that even I can appreciate. But people like Fredrik will never value it for what it is. The people who visit this place want to drink as much as possible for as little money as possible, hoping to escape their miserable lives for a few hours.

Suppressing a bitter laugh, I lock eyes with Fredrik. Although he mumbles something rude at me, he gives me a grin. I slide his mug across the counter toward him, intentionally letting it slosh around. A good amount splashes onto the counter, and he swears at me.

“I ought to not tip ya for that.”

“Shame,” I say with a sigh.

He sits at my bar five nights a week, orders seven Sharp Wings a night, totaling fourteen silver even, and tips a single silver every time. But that’s not even why I dislike him so much. It’s his predatory, thin-lipped smile. The way his beady little eyes roam my body with open interest.

I turn my back to the patrons, and my eyes snag on a sketch tacked to the bulletin board behind the bar.

My breath catches.

I’ve seen it every day for the last six months but never paid it any attention until now.

With a shaking hand, I reach for the flyer and pluck it from the bulletin board.

The noise from the bar fades to silence as I stare at the sketch.

It’s a man not much older than me, with a sharp jaw, prominent nose, and tattoos on his neck. He wears a hoodie that covers his hair. The drawing is in black and white, and it’s more of an exaggerated caricature than an accurate depiction, but I recognize those eyes.

They’re colorless in the drawing, but in real life, they’re an ethereal golden hue—almost cat-like.

Underneath the drawing, in scrawling handwriting, it says:

Wanted for murder

By order of the High Chancellor

The Phantom

Reward: 5,000 Silvers

The notorious Phantom of Silver City.

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