The Gold in the Dark

Chapter Twelve

The knock came early enough that night still hung like a shroud over the city. Thurie checked the chain was on, cracked open the door, and then eyed the chain again before peering outside. It never hurt to take precautions.

"I need to see him," rapped the city guard, staring down his nose at Thurie. He boldly returned the man's gaze, taking stock of every detail. He was a younger guard; his worn leather armor looked older than he was, the metal studs dull and scratched. His shirt and breeches were the proper dark red of the city guard, and the sword hilt poking out from his scabbard also appeared genuine.

"Let him in," came Dunna's gravelly voice from behind Thurie. He only reached to undo the chain after one final moment of scrutiny.

Thurie fell back as the guard clomped into the room, a wave of predawn air wafting in with him. It was welcome in the dim main room of their apartment. They kept the place clean, but their home had a perpetual air of shabbiness to it that no amount of mopping or dusting ever managed to dispel.

The guard was already opening his mouth to speak before he fully registered Dunna's appearance. Thurie's father was shirtless from the unexpected interruption to his slumber; his state of undress would not have been overly shocking were it not for the stumps at both wrists. The guard shut his mouth with a click and threw a nervous look around the cramped room, all cast in shades of grays and browns. Except... the guard jerked back as he registered the bunches of red and purple flowers on the corner table, surrounding a shrine portrait.

"My late wife," Dunna said as Thurie moved in front of the painting, blocking the guard's view. Thurie could feel her presence behind him, could perfectly picture her smooth, golden skin, dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and lips curving ever so slightly upward in a smile.

The young guard's bravado melted away as he stood before Thurie's father. "I'm s-so sorry. I've heard them talk about that once or twice, back at the station. You should know there's nothing but praise for you amongst the city guard—"

"Business first," Thurie's father interrupted. "How can I help you?"

The guard shuffled his feet and coughed. "R-right. There's been another attack, just a few hours ago. A girl in an alleyway beside a dance hall—slashed up like the others."

And so his father's suspicions had proven correct. It would take more than a few posters to scare the Firefly Hollow Killer away from his business.

"Do we know who she is yet?" Dunna growled.

The guard nodded. "Some people at the dance hall said she was with a group of students from the Royal Dance Theater. We've confirmed her identity as a student there—a girl by the name of Annalise Rauwis, just sixteen years old. Captain Gery was hoping you could come and talk with the students who were with her last night."

"Of course," Dunna said, "of course. Anything for the captain."

Thurie launched into the usual preparations—fastening the straps of the gloved, wooden hands, helping his father shrug on a shirt and vest. He darted into the other room to ready the oilcloth pouch of art supplies, keeping an ear focused on the two men's continuing conversation.

"It's an honor to speak with you, sir." The guard's voice carried in from the main room. "You're a bit of a legend." Thurie shoved an extra pencil into the pouch, wrinkling his nose. It wasn't the first time he'd heard a member of the city guard say such things. Their words were always tinged with horror, whether they realized it or not. He knew what was really on their minds: here was a former city guard who'd put away scores of Haplyr's cruelest criminals, now reduced to relying on his young son for help with the most basic of everyday tasks. They'd plainly rather die than be reduced to such a state. But Dunna Jore endured.