The Last Smile in Sunder City (The Fetch Phillips Archives #1) - Luke Arnold Page 0,12

my fingers to my teeth.

“Can you ID the Vamp?” I asked.

Simms finally looked up. “Why you interested?”

“I’m looking for one.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say.”

Her book snapped shut as her forked tongue flicked out from her lips and disappeared again.

“I don’t like you sticking your nose into our business, Fetch.”

“Come on, Simms. No need to be jealous.”

She squinted her flat face at me.

“Jealous?”

“Yeah,” I said blankly, “of my nose.”

Luckily, she’d kicked me round too many times to still get any satisfaction from it. Instead, she spat into the corner of the alley and headed back inside, calling to Richie. “Kites, come take inventory.”

Richie put a hand on my shoulder.

“We’ll check the dental records tomorrow. I’ll let you know when we have a match.”

“Thanks, Rich.”

“Now get out of here.”

I thought about arguing but it wasn’t worth the effort. There wasn’t any reason to hang around. Either my guy was a pile of dust in that room or he wasn’t. I just had to wait and find out. There was cash in my pockets and booze in my veins, so I decided to make my way home.

Goblins took a few decades to embrace Sunder City, but once they arrived, they made it their own. Goblin technology mixed Human equipment with magic to create new, often dangerous, inventions.

Their greatest addition was the Sunder streetcar that once ran the length of the city ninety-six times a day. The Coda put the shuttle out of commission, but like a lot of residents, it adapted to a new occupation. Every night after sundown, parked in the middle of Main Street, the streetcar transformed itself into the distribution window for the Beggar’s Bread. The magical engines were refitted with Human-made motors. Not enough to push it up the hill, but enough to get a bit of heat. A metal plate placed over the top of the engine became a giant frying pan, on which the scraps of Sunder City were fashioned into food for the homeless. Some barely filtered river water, grass-flour and collected restaurant off-cuts were thrown into a barrel and anyone with an empty belly could ladle a piece on to the pan and get themselves some grub. Had I done it? More than once, and it wasn’t the worst meal I’d eaten by a long shot.

Running the show were the Brothers Hum, a religious sect of winged monks. Historically, the Brothers had never believed the Elven story of the great river being the source of all life and all magic.

The Brothers Hum had preached that the world was sung into creation by the voice of the moon. It was a complicated and attractive belief system, save for one small problem. It was wrong. We know that now. The Coda was proof that even if the Elves and their scriptures weren’t right about everything, they were certainly closer than everyone else.

I suppose it’s nice to know which creation myth is the right one, but what a price to pay for certainty. The one true legend is dead and belief in any other idea seems foolish. Faith has left us. The gods are gone. Yet, the Brothers Hum remain.

They started serving from the streetcar a few weeks after the world went dark. Rather than give up their calling, they redoubled their efforts and devoted their lives to assisting the city’s most needy.

In my short and sorry life, I’ve seen many people hide a desire for terrible deeds beneath an apparent higher calling. It’s not hard to find a belief system that will support your own selfish needs. The big surprise for me was discovering that it works the other way too. These broken-winged brothers, even without their story, just have naturally decent hearts.

“Not dining tonight, Brother Phillips?” asked Benjamin, a tall monk with a shaggy blond bowl-cut.

“No, thank you. Actually…” I fumbled in my coat pocket for some coins and dropped them into his shaking hands. “For the nights I have.”

He nodded, taking my charity with good grace. I kept my head down and walked away as fast as I could. I always found it more embarrassing to give assistance than to take it.

The night was warm but the breeze was cool and I was happy to step back inside my building. The booze was leaving my body and old aches and pains came in to fill the space. Questions came too: little niggling things that kissed the back of my neck with poison lips.

What good do I think I’m doing?

I’d probably found my guy already: a sprinkling of sand