In the dark of night, a small rowboat bobbed across the bay toward the merchant ship Dominion.
Found adrift that morning, the Dominion had been quarantined by Saintstown’s port authority and towed to a safe anchor point far from the city’s docks. To a certain element among the citizenry, this was just barely a deterrent. To others, it was practically an invitation.
The rowboat came to a stop alongside the ship, and two figures clambered up the side of the hull. First on deck was Eli, a reedy man barely out of his teenage years with the air of a nervous rabbit. He leapt over the banister with ease, pausing only to light the lantern he’d brought with him.
The sudden burst of flame illuminated a body, lying prone not more than a yard away.
Eli yelped and sprang backward into the banister. The lantern swung in his hand, its light dancing erratically across the deck.
It was littered with the dead.
Eli’s partner, Danny, hauled herself up to join him. About a year younger than Eli and not nearly as tall, she more than made up the difference in stocky muscle. Danny was often described as “scrappy,” although not usually within earshot.
Quickly determining there was no immediate threat, Danny knelt next to one of the bodies: a lanky man with a few gold teeth, equipped with a blackjack and a small collection of lewd photographs. Judging by the blood in his hair and the irregular curve of his skull, he’d suffered a lethal blow to the head.
“I know him,” she said. “He’s one of Massey’s runners.”
Bill Massey ran the most infamous boarding house in Sinner’s Acre. His runners would climb aboard any ship that passed through the strait and attempt to lure its crew ashore, either by persuasion or force. Sailors that accompanied the runners back to the boarding house often found themselves drunk, drugged, and pressed into service aboard another ship within short order, while Massey collected his “finder’s fee.”
Eli swept the light across the deck, more deliberately this time. A few of the other bodies looked to be runners as well; the rest were sailors. All bore injuries that suggested a prolonged and vicious fight.
“This was a bad idea,” he said.
“This was your idea.” Danny knelt next to the dead runner. “Did you bring pliers?”
With pockets full of gold teeth, they picked their way across the deck to the captain’s quarters. According to the ship’s manifest, most of the Dominion’s cargo amounted to provisions and raw materials—valuable, but hard to transport and impractical to fence. But there was also an entry for “personal effects,” belonging to an N. Sinclair.
“Must be something good in there,” Danny said.
Eli ripped the page from the manifest and tucked it into his pocket.
Among the boxes and sacks that filled the cargo hold sat a large crate, labeled “Property of N. Sinclair.” Two bodies lay on the floor nearby: one with its eyes gouged out, still clutching a knife buried in the other’s chest.
The crate was too big to carry. They’d have to open it here.
Eli gingerly stepped over the bodies and knelt before the crate. Its front panel was hinged at the bottom and secured at the top with a padlock; Eli’s picks made quick work of the lock, and the panel fell open.
There was a rush of motion from the darkness within the crate, and something slammed into Eli’s chest.
Eli’s back hit the ground, breath exploding from his lungs as a weight crashed down onto his ribs. His hands darted up just in time to protect his face from long, thin fingers clawing at his eyes.
The weight on his chest lurched away; Eli heaved in a breath as Danny hauled his attacker back with one arm around its waist. The two bodies rolled together on the deck, a violent, chaotic tangle of limbs, until Danny managed to slip behind her opponent and clamp an arm around its neck to hold it still.
It was a young man, rake-thin and naked. Scars covered his body: delicate, long-healed, carved with deliberate intent, whorls and symbols and letters in a cacophony of unrecognizable languages; a vast, interconnected design reaching from his throat to the tips of his fingers and toes. A pair of wide, terrified eyes stared out from behind unkempt hair as he struggled in Danny’s grip.
Eli rolled up into a crouch. “You’re scaring him!”
“I’m scaring him?” Danny replied, incredulous—but she let go.
Her former captive scrambled away until he hit the nearest crate; there, he curled up into a ball, chest heaving and eyes darting around the hold like a cornered animal.
Danny, looking at Eli, said, “You’re bleeding.”
There was a vivid crimson stain on Eli’s shirt where his attacker had grabbed him, but a quick pat-down revealed no scrapes or scratches. Across the hold, blood dripped from one the huddled figure’s clenched fists.
Eli crept a little closer. “You’re hurt?”
The figure curled up tighter, red-rimmed eyes narrowing into a suspicious glare.
“It’s all right,” Eli said. “We won’t hurt you.”
The glare turned toward Danny.
“Any more,” Eli added, awkwardly. He shrugged off his coat and, shuffling forward on his knees, held it out to the stranger. “Here.”
The stranger studied him for a long moment. Then, quicker than a striking snake, he darted forward to grab the coat, quickly retreating to his spot against the crate. He held the coat like a shield between them.
Danny pulled Eli to his feet. To the stranger, she said, “Excuse us,” before steering Eli back toward the stairs.
“What the fuck do we do?” Eli whispered, frantic.
“We let him out of the box,” Danny replied. “We gave him a coat. That’s two good deeds for the day. Let’s go.”
“And what about when the cops come sniffing and he tells them we were here? Do we want the police knowing we were on a ship full of dead people?”
“We didn’t kill them!”
“Says who?”
With deliberate motions, the stranger shrugged into the coat and wrapped it around himself. Danny gave him a nod, while Eli offered a stilted wave.
“So where do we take him?” Danny whispered.
“Not Massey’s.”
“Not Massey’s.”
Eli chewed his lip. “… Faulkner?”
“Fuck no,” Danny spat. “He scares the shit out of me.”
“He doesn’t sell people, though.”
Danny fumed. Unfortunately, Eli was right; out of everyone they knew, Mr. Faulkner was the closest thing to a man of principle.
Eli sidled past her and approached the stranger.
“I’m Eli,” he said. “This is Danny. What do we call you?”
The stranger didn’t move, and didn’t answer.
“Okay.” Eli considered. “How about, uh, Jack. Can I call you Jack?”
The stranger blinked at him, but didn’t raise any objections.
“If you come with us, we can get you some food.” Eli glanced down at the blood seeping from the stranger’s fist. “Maybe get your hand patched up. What do you say?”
In a voice barely more than a strangled croak, the stranger said, “I will come with you.”
In a borrowed coat and the boots of a dead man, the nameless thing huddled beneath the eaves behind the nightclub. It shivered; the night was chill, and a light, misting rain drizzled down into the narrow alley.
The boy next to it—Eli—glanced over and offered a sympathetic shrug. “Sorry, Jack. We can’t walk in the front door with—” he gestured to encompass its state of undress, “—you know. Not that kind of club.”
It didn’t know how to answer. Eli coughed and looked away.
The club’s back door opened to reveal Danny, accompanied by two others. The first was a nondescript, well-dressed gentleman of middle age with small, round glasses. The other—
To the eye, he was simply a tall, lean man in a dark suit who hovered over his companion with a protective air. To other senses, there was something of the wolf about him. Something that smelled of old blood. His nature was worlds away from that of the nameless thing—and yet, looking at him, it felt the odd kinship of two travelers on the same, long journey.
Their eyes met.
The man touched his companion’s elbow and bent to murmur something in his ear.
Eli, meanwhile, ignored the larger man entirely. “Mr. Faulkner.”
The gentleman with the glasses—Faulkner—didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Did you come here directly?”
Eli shook his head; the motion was more of a nervous twitch. “Took the long way through High Street.”
Faulkner seemed satisfied by this answer, and his companion opened the door for them.
Narrow, winding hallways led to a private dining room. There were no windows; the only light came from the fireplace and a few candles on the dining table. Faulkner gestured for the nameless thing to sit.
“When did you last eat?” he asked.
“I’m … not sure,” it answered.
At little more than a nod from Faulkner, his companion exited the room. Faulkner, meanwhile, pulled a chair up close.
“I need to touch your wrist.” It was a blank statement of fact, not open to debate.
Reluctantly, a hand emerged from the borrowed coat and reached out. Faulkner’s touch was clinical and impersonal; he held the offered wrist with one hand, curling two fingers to rest at the base of its thumb, and with the other retrieved a pocket watch. After a few seconds he hummed quietly to himself and put the watch away.
Then he turned their joined hands over, revealing the intricate tracery of scars that wound across the back of the hand, up the arm, disappearing into the sleeve of the coat. Another quiet little hum.
Releasing the hand, he raised his own. The nameless thing flinched.
But Faulkner simply lifted one finger and said, “Follow this with your eyes.”
It did as it was told; the finger moved, side to side and up and down. Faulkner nodded and dropped his hand.
He turned his attention to the corner of the room, where Danny and Eli had tucked themselves out of the way. “You said he was bleeding.”
“Other hand,” Danny replied.
Faulkner took the other wrist and peered at the wound. The meat of the palm was rent by the distinct double curve of a human bite. He looked up sharply, but said nothing.
“Any other injuries?”
“No.”
The door opened, and Faulkner’s companion reappeared. In one hand he held a bowl; the other carried a large leather bag. Under his arm was a bundle of clothing.
Faulkner took the bag and opened it to reveal an assortment of bandages and other medical supplies. Withdrawing a bottle of disinfectant, he began to clean his hands. His companion, meanwhile, set the bowl on the table and hung the clothes—trousers and a loose knit shirt—over a nearby chair.
Dressing the wound was a challenge. Faulkner had to wrap most of the hand, all the way down to the wrist, to keep the bandage secure. The end result looked like nothing so much as a big white mitten.
Once he finished, Faulkner stood. “You can get dressed now. Try to eat, if you can.”
The bowl, full of clear broth, steamed invitingly.
As the nameless thing turned its attention to the food, Faulkner’s companion ushered Danny and Eli from the room.
Out in the hall, Faulkner closed the door to the dining room. “You said you found him in a crate. Whose crate?”
“Someone called Sinclair.” Eli handed him the page from the manifest.
Faulkner studied it closely. “‘N. Sinclair.’ A Mr. Nathaniel Sinclair bought a house on Silver Hill last month.” He folded the page and tucked it into his jacket. “I’ll look into it. In the meantime, you two are going to keep an eye on ‘Jack.’”
Danny and Eli both protested at once, talking over each other in a rush, but fell silent once it became clear that Faulkner’s bodyguard was standing directly behind them.
“Let me be clear,” Faulkner said, regarding them both intently from behind his glasses. “Mr. Sinclair took great pains to ensure nobody knew what he was transporting aboard the Dominion. That makes your new friend either very valuable or very dangerous. Until I’ve determined which he is, and what that means, he cannot be allowed to run loose all over Saintstown.”
“But—”
“I would consider this a personal favor,” Faulkner added.
Eli glanced at Danny. Danny shrugged.
A favor from Faulkner was worth quite a lot.
“Glad to see we’re in agreement,” Faulkner said. “Stay out of trouble.”
Faulkner strode away, bodyguard at his heel.
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