Page 51 of Shadowfox

I felt them before I saw them.

The shadows. They weren’t moving. They were . . . just there.

A gap appeared—an alley.

A figure that might have been leaning, or might have been stone.

A flash of movement in the window above a butcher’s shop.

It could have been nothing. It probably was.

But I knew the truth:

Paranoia in this job wasn’t a flaw.

It was a learned skill.

Adjusting the weight of my shoulder bag, I kept walking.

The notice board stood beneath a crooked iron awning on Váci utca, its wooden frame damp from the cold, its surface layered with curling and ripped papers.

I approached, pausing just short.

There were five flyers.

Three for lessons of one sort or another.

One for ration assistance.

One, as expected, for a Liszt Academy performance.

It stared back at me with cruel indifference.

Its corner was un-torn.

Its surface unmarked.

It was untouched.

18

Thomas

Willhadahabitof talking to himself when he buttoned his shirt.

They weren’t full conversations—just those under-his-breath, half-charming, half-grumbled remarks that revealed far more than he intended. Today, it was a string of curses aimed at the stiffness of his collar and the angle of the sun streaming through the hotel curtains. Grinning like an idiot, I watched him fumble with his buttons and let him talk, let it fill the space between us, because it was the last calm we were going to have for the rest of the day.

After a moment of blessed normalcy, I found the edge of the bed and began tying my shoes with mechanical precision, listening to the rustle of cloth, the clink of buttons. Will’s reflection flickered in the wardrobe mirror. His sleeves were rolled just enough to suggest he wasn’t trying to impress anyone—but he always did. How could my beautiful boy not?

He turned to me at last, holding out my tie. “You’ll look less like a war criminal with this on.”

“And more like a bureaucrat?”

“Which is worse in some circles,” he said, smirking and stepping close enough for me to feel his breath against my jaw.

He looped the tie around my neck, pulling the ends through with practiced ease. We didn’t look at each other in the mirror. We didn’t need to. The weight of his fingers said everything—be safe, be smart, come back to me.

Tie in hand, he turned toward the bathroom door and tugged for me to follow. A dog on his leash, I had little choice. Once inside, he cranked up the shower and faucet, then resumed tying the knot.

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