𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨 | 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐬

31. Monsters

Jericho's stand wasn't far, just a few turns through those cramped streets where the ground was always damp.
By the time I reached him, the smell of fried batter and whatever spice he always pretended wasn't too expensive to use, made my mouth water.

Climbing onto one of his stools was a whole mission on its own. Those damned things were giants, taller than half the kids in the Lanes.
I got one knee up, almost slipped, then finally managed to pull myself onto it, breath puffing out like I'd just ran a mile.
Jericho looked up from the pot he was stirring and barked a laugh through his sharp teeth, muttering something in that tangled fishmonger language of his— all rolling consonants and clipped clicks. I never knew the meaning of the words, but I always understood the mood.
I set the coins on the counter, pushing them toward him. He tapped them with two fingers, eyebrows raised in question.

"For food," I said. "Please."
He made a satisfied grunt, scooped the coins into a little tin box, and then pointed at me with the ladle— a quick flick that meant stay. Then he reached under the counter and pulled out a clay bowl already steaming. He set it in front of me with a little flourish, like he was serving royalty.

I smiled. "Special today?"
He nodded once, firm, tapping the bowl twice. That meant fresh batch. The good stuff.
I started eating, legs dangling off the stool, trying not to drip broth down my shirt. Jericho moved around behind the counter, humming to himself in his strange language, rhythm steady as the bubbling pots. Then shadows shifted at the corner of my eye. Two figures approached.

I didn't lift my head right away, but the stall seemed to tense. Like even the air knew trouble when it walked up.
"You seen him around?"
The voice was rough, belonging to the older man that slid a cramped, ripped picture over the counter. Heavy steps, heavy smell.
Jericho's ladle froze mid-stir.

The younger voice chimed in, sharp with impatience. "The Hound. People say he takes this route."
My stomach knotted.
Hound of the Underground.
They were looking for Vander.
I kept my eyes on my bowl.

Jericho didn't answer with words, couldn't— not in their language— but he gave one slow, bored blink. Then he shook his head once. Clean and clear.
The older dude leaned closer. "C'mon. Don't play dumb."
Jericho sighed through his vertebrate nostrils, reached under the counter, and slid a scrap of paper toward them— a blank one. A gesture I'd seen him use before. It meant I've got nothing for you.

The teenager— with his olive skin and black hair completely shaved on the left side on his tattooed head— flicked his gaze over the note, then at the fish-like Vastaya, then around the street like he was expecting someone to jump out. "Someone said he checks in with you, now and then."

Jericho clicked his tongue, a sharp scolding sound, and tapped the counter with the ladle. Eat here, talk here. But don't bring trouble to my stand. Even I understood that one.

The older man scowled. "Fine. But if I get word he showed up here—"
Jericho cut him off with a dismissive wave of his ladle, turned his broad back, and went right back to stirring his pot. The conversation was over.
The younger boy hesitated, eyes drifting for a heartbeat toward me. Not long. Just enough to feel like a pinprick between my shoulder blades.

I sucked in a tiny breath and kept looking down at my soup, pretending I was invisible.
They left a moment later, steps fading into the alley.
Only when Jericho relaxed again, did I let myself breathe too.
He glanced my way, gave a quiet grunt, and nudged my bowl as thought to say keep eating.
So I did.

I'd always felt safer at the stand than most places in the Lanes. But that day made me wary.
Something about the way those two guys had asked, about the way Vander's friend stiffened every time they showed up... settled deep in my chest. I felt it then, sharp and ugly.
An impending threat aimed straight at Vander. I didn't have the words for it yet, but the feeling was there all the same, raw and crawling under my skin.

Anger followed. Not loud, or explosive— it was hot. Boiling. The kind that sat heavy behind my ribs and made it hard to swallow.
After that, I started visiting Jericho more often.
I told myself it was because I liked the food, because I liked sitting there and watching the steam rise and listening to the pots sing. But really, it felt like waiting. Like some part of me knew those two would come back.

And they did.
Again.
And again.
Always around the same time.
Same path down the alley.
Same questions, dressed up in different tones but carrying the same threat underneath.
Jericho never gave them anything— just the same shakes of his head and dismissive gestures, the same quiet refusal that never wavered.

Sometimes they noticed me.
Once, the younger one tilted his head, almond eyes narrowing as he looked me over. He asked Jericho something with a crooked grin, jerking his chin toward me. I didn't understand the words, but I captured the intent.
Is this one yours? Some stray you picked up?

The Demi-Human with aquatic features answered with a sound close to a growl, baring his sharp teeth and planting himself between me and the counter like a wall. I stayed quiet, shoulders hunched, eyes down, memorising the sound of their voices anyway.

Other times, I followed them.
From a distance. Careful. Small enough to blend in the chaos of the Lanes, slipping between pipes and shadows the way I'd learned to do. I watched them speak to others, saw the way people stiffened or leaned in too close. And once— just once— I saw them stop for a man with a scarred-up face and a voice that scraped like metal.

They talked for a while. I didn't hear any of it, but truly, I didn't need to.
Even back then, I understood enough to know this wasn't going to end quietly.
Because it didn't.

I'd overheard it by accident at first— plans slipping loose when they thought no one small enough mattered. They were talking sabotage, a strategic one. The kind that didn't just hurt someone, but erased them. And the moment I realised who it was meant for, something inside me snapped so hard it scared me.
They were going to take him away.
They were going to rip away the only other thing that had ever felt even remotely like family.

It felt dangerous in a way that made my skin prick, and a specific memory came back in jagged pieces, like static— my fingers wrapping tight around the handle of the hammer I'd taken from Vander's kit, its weight too heavy for my small hand but my determination was indominable. I remembered the smell of oil and damp stone, the way my heart was pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

I had found them a few days later, when they were alone, and it was all it took.
I launched myself at the older man, a sound ripping out of my throat that didn't feel human at all. The hammer came down hard against his shoulder— once, twice— metal meeting bone with a sickening crack.
He screamed, stumbling, dropping to one knee.
"Finn!" he barked, voice raw with pain. "Get this rat off me!"

Hands grabbed me from behind. Strong, fast.
I barely had time to twist before the younger one— Finn— yanked me back and threw me down like I weighed nothing. I hit the ground hard, breath punched out of my lungs, dirt and grime scraping my palms. But I didn't let go of the hammer. I would not.

I snarled, teeth bared, chest heaving.
The older man was clutching his shoulder, face twisted, eyes burning with fury. Finn just stared at me— wide eyed, calculating, like he was trying to decide whether I was feral or stupid enough to try again.
I answered that for him, and charged.
Reckless and blinded by rage.

He moved faster this time. Caught my arms mid-swing, lifted me clean off the ground, and slammed me sideways into a fragile wooden crate stacked nearby. It shattered on impact, boards splintering, glass exploding around me.
I cried out as I hit, the sound coming straight from my chest.

Pain bloomed everywhere at once.
I felt something warm spread across my hands and soak into my clothes when I pushed myself up. Pale pink. Too light to be blood or dirt, too wrong to ignore.
Glass crunched beneath me.

I lay there shaking, hammer still clenched in my fist, lungs burning, vision swimming— already knowing, even then, that I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross.

The pale sheen on my hands caught the light in a way that made it almost... glow.
Sticky, thick, too strange, seeping between my fingers and soaking into the fabric at my wrists.
I stared at it for a second too long.

A cold wave rolled through me right after.