Windwalker (Bedlam #1)

Lies

AFTER

"That's mucking impossible, Red. No one survives a fall from that height!"

Red's not my real name; it's a nickname. Unimaginative if you ask me, but no one ever does. It's a name given me after my miraculous rebirth, you see. Not one I had from the Before.

"It's a true story, Mick." I traced an X over my chest. "I swear it on the Four Elements."

"Five elements," he corrected. "MUCK."

The pub erupted with laughter.

"How'd you survive?" a patron called out.

"Luck his sweet self snatched me from the Ferryman's grip," I crooned. "I fell right into a hay wagon. And here I stand to enjoy a pint with my best mates." I bowed with a sweep of arm and a cheeky grin.

Another round of laughter rippled through the pub. They took it for an embellished story, a tall tale of the best sort. But truth can be stranger than fiction. And far more dangerous. You see, I didn't survive that fall. Not as far as I can tell. And the unknown, my friend, is the worst kind of bad.

"Luck snatched you just to tease the lot of us!" a woman hollered. The comment brought me back. I was used to the banter. Maybe even enjoyed it.

"Come on, Red. Just one night. It'll be unforgettable." That particular woman, Sally, with pretty green eyes, wanted to rub the muck off my body with her own, if you know what I mean.

"You won't forget it because it mucking won't happen," I said.

Mugs slammed down on tables, and Sally's mates elbowed her with snickers.

I gave the room a wink, and plucked up my respirator. All these years later this one was the real deal, with genuine filters, though I didn't think I needed it. After the day I died, I was reborn to a luckier life.

"The night is young yet, Red. We have trouble to make, you and me," a man named Tomas said. He was a decent sort.

I glanced through the grimy glass. A greenish fog swirled outside. It always did. "We can't know if it's sunup, sundown, or the air is on fire. But what I know is it's past your bedtime."

"My bedtime. You're the one with the wet nose here."

"Nah, Sally's is wetter than mine."

"I just have a cold," Sally said with a sneeze.

"Is Muck illness," an old man named Reece grunted.

"Isn't it all?" I asked.

A round of agreement rose sullenly.

"I'll walk with you," Tomas hopped up, and reached for his respirator.

"Why, so I'll protect you from Spring-heeled Jack?"

"Eh, don't say such things. Bad luck."

"I have loads of it."

Before another fellow with a noble heart and his mind not where it ought to be offered help, I flicked the voluminous hood of my longcoat up and left.

The metal door swung shut with a clang, and I stopped to survey the street. With the fog so thick, it was more of a listen. My ears were keen and my instincts keener—a leftover from my days as a rat. Nothing dire came to mind, so I made quick work of the street. I had better places to be.

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