The Carrion's Craft

Chapter 12

"Fethis, what're you doing here!" Myvius exclaimed. He practically vaulted over the counter and captured me into a hug.

"I should be asking you the same thing." My free hand hovered over my brother's head before finally returning a limp hold. Introductions were in order, Simon met Myvius with a polite smile, and Myvius returned it with a stoic nod, unalike his greeting to me. At least the young human was willing to shrug it off.

"So you're working for Freja too?" The wisp questioned as he returned to his post. It was quieter here, tucked away deep into the corner and far away from the clanking gears and conveyor belts. "Freja." It was an odd name, but I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. Humans always did have peculiar names. At least I had a title to add to the face of the woman upstairs.

"Not exactly, we just came to a mutual agreement. You have a package for me?" I asked.

My brother hummed as he flicked through a clipboard. The human who escorted us orbited the machines with a grimace, as if the booming sounds haunted the phantom circling around. I took this window of opportunity to talk candidly, "So, why is it your working for these people? I would have thought Mother would have disapproved." At the sound of my voice, the adolescent dropped the clipboard onto his desk. I wasn't sure if I had imagined it, but I glimpsed his hand tremble for a moment before he turned away towards the pigeonholes.

"Mum doesn't know. She thinks I'm in school, plus these are good people. I'd rather be here and make a difference than sitting in that prison." Given his attempt to cleanse his hair colour of our family heritage, it was apparent that he had entered a phase of rebelliousness. I wasn't sure how to feel about it. Since the day of his birth, I had been neglected by my parents, even as he got older neither of them seemed to have any time for me. Instead I received indifference, empty smiles and hot air. They were not good people, that I understood, and yet I still long for them - for their acceptance and love. So why on earth would Myvius, who received both throughout his life, choose to forsake them?

"Myv, these people are criminals." I pleaded, battling the need to cough. The air was thick with powdered chemicals.

Pulling out a package wrapped in newspaper, he shot me a disdainful glare, "So? You're the reporter, you should know that there are bad guys who ain't criminals too. You ever hear how our old man talks about making his medicine? About all the shit he says he has to put into his product just to keep his license? It's shameful, atleast these guys keep their stuff pure." There was a mixture of emotion in his voice, bitterness with a touch of mourning.

The floorboards beneath my feet croaked, mirroring my aching heart. It was true, the man who contributed to my birth was a crook, and a successful one at that. But I think the worst thing was that I just didn't care. I was never privy to father's work, nor his amounting daemons. But the one thing I did know, was that he worked within the confines of the law. I left my home - my family, not because they were morally bankrupt, but because they simply didn't fit into the role of a loving collective.

A gentle yank on my sleeve pulled me out of my thoughts. A glance down, and I saw Simon's confused nod towards the desk. The package was there, waiting for me to accept it. I took it, the wrapping paper crumpled with an audible crunch as I read over a paper label with the name of the addressee. 

At the sight of my brother's fanciful writing my blood ran hot. This name was the last one I wanted to see on a package like this, the very syllables boomed in my ears along with the clanking of machinery. "You think you'll come and visit at some point?" The dejectedness in my brother's tone was a tell tale sign that Myvius already expected my answer to be in the negative. I didn't disappoint him.

My brother was a criminal and was actively fuelling the addiction of a good man. Pure or unpure, these people were no saints. But then was anyone in this city? I levelled my glare over the young man before me. My brother, pampered from birth, squandered our family's kindness to become an enemy of the law and our own blood. The irony was remarkable, like some contrived riddle dangling over me with a derisive snort. I wanted to bite back, to chastise him for his foolish attempt at returning honour to the family name. But I bit my own tongue. There was no point. He may be my brother, but we were no more than strangers at heart, and I knew better than to talk a hard-headed child to drop his pretences of heroism.