floor. Personal appearance was important to him and, even in crisis, he'd taken the time to don black breeches and a freshly laundered burgundy tunic.
"Pacing like a cat won't make him return any faster," said a soft voice beside him.
He glanced down at Teesha in mild annoyance. She sat on a hardwood bench cushioned with paisley pillows, sewing impossibly tiny stitches into a piece of tan muslin.
Her work-in-progress was beginning to depict a sunset over the ocean. He never understood how she could create such pictures with only thread and scraps of material.
"Then where is he?" Rashed demanded. "It's been over twelve days since Parko's death. Edwan is not fettered by physical distance. It could not possibly take him this long to gather information."
"He has a different sense of time than we do. You know that," she responded, breaking off a piece of blue thread with her teeth. "And you didn't exactly give him much to work with. It could take time just to find and confirm whomever or whatever he might be looking for."
Holding the needlework with delicate hands, she examined her stitches as if this were just another night—although usually she could be found absorbed in some ancient text after sundown. In one of the lower rooms, her shelves were filled with books and scrolls they'd paid good coin to acquire. Rashed did not fully understand why words on parchment were so important to her.
He wished her calm could infect him, so he sat down next to her. Candlelight reflected off her chocolate-brown hair. The beauty of those long, silk curls held his attention for only a short time. Then he was up and pacing again.
"Where could he be?" he asked no one in particular.
"Well, I'm getting sick of waiting," a third voice hissed from the corner shadow. "And I'm hungry. And it's dark now. And I want out of this wooden box you call our home!"
A thin figure emerged from the corner of the room, the final member of the strange trio living in the warehouse. He appeared to be about seventeen years old, though perhaps small for his age.
"Ratboy," Rashed spit the nickname out as if it were a joke told one too many times: "How long have you been skulking in the corner?"
"I just woke up," Ratboy replied. "But I knew you'd be upset if I went out without saying hello."
Everything but his skin appeared brown, and even that had a slightly tan cast from months'—possibly a year's— old filth. Plain brown hair stuck to his narrow, pinched head above plain brown eyes. Rashed had heard many terms in his life to describe different shades of brown-chestnut, mahogany, beige—but the dirty figure of Ratboy brought no such words to mind. He played the part of the street urchin so well, the persona had become part of him. Perhaps that was one of his strengths. No one ever remembered him as an individual, just as another grubby, homeless adolescent.
"You don't need to worry about my anger, unless you give me reason," Rashed said. "You should be concerned for yourself."
Ratboy ignored the warning and sneered, his upcurled lips exposing stained teeth.
"Parko was mad," he answered back. "It's one thing to revel in our greater existence and senses, but he lost himself. Someone was bound to kill him sooner or later."
Hard words froze in Rashed's throat. Although his voice was soft and calm, his expression betrayed him.
"Needless killing is another subject you should not criticize."
Ratboy turned away, shrugging slightly. "It's the truth. He may have been your brother once, but he was mad with love for the Feral Path, obsessed and drunk with the hunt. That is why you drove him out." He picked at a fingernail with his teeth. "Besides, I already told you, for the thousandth time…" His voice trailed off like a falsely accused child facing a disbelieving parent. "I didn't kill that tavern owner."
"Enough," Teesha said, looking at Ratboy like a scolding mother. "None of this is helpful."
Rashed paced rapidly across the small room again. He owned the entire vast warehouse, but this room had been designated for private use a long time ago. Several trapdoors in the walls and floors led outside or to lower levels. Teesha had decorated it herself with a mix of couches, tables, lamps, and elaborately molded candles in the shapes of dark red roses.
With the exception of their unusually pale skin, both he and Teesha passed easily for human. Rashed had worked hard to set up their life