“Get out of here,” she snapped at the crow, who was doing his best to try and beg for a piece of her sandwich. Fortescue was having none of it. She was tired, hungry and cold. Not even the meager tea she’d managed to brew was warming her up.
The crow tilted his head at her, as if saying, You don’t really mean it. You’d love to give me a piece of your food.
“Go away,” Fortescue hissed. She opened her palm to him, flat, and he scooted forward, expecting to be fed. Instead, a plume of blue-violet fire spewed forward and he cawed in fright. A second later and he was in the air, cawing angrily.
“Serves you right.”
It was a particularly tedious stakeout. Nicholas Irons was wanted for crimes that he hadn’t yet carried out—but had planned. Crimes that the Council had decided were crimes, and the Council really knew best in this case. But, as usual, Fortescue was the bloodhound required to sniff out the wanted person and bring him back. And so here she was, perched on a rooftop across from Irons’ flat, watching for signs of activity.
At her ankles, her Alram, Jasmine, circled with a low growl.
“Just stay out of the way,” Fortescue told her. “I don’t require you to fight my battles for me.”
She reached down and petted the black cat’s head. Cringed. It felt like petting a skeleton with some skin on it. But that was just how things were.
“Fucking Council,” she muttered.
Movement caught her eye. The front windows of Irons’ flat had lit up, and a figure was pulling back some of the curtains. Tall. Definitely male. It was time to go.
“Stay here,” she told Jasmine, before taking a few steps back and judging the distance between roofs. The width of one street. Not too bad. She lunged forward into the night air, picturing the other rooftop and willing the shapes of her body to pass through the air. Her fingers warmed as she landed, soundlessly, where she had intended. It was old magic, but she was good at it.
It was easier still to unlock the roof access door—just a wave of her hand, a mumbled word—and descend into the warmer corridor below, taking the stairs to the door of Irons’ flat. She paused, taking a moment to steady herself. She’d researched him: Irons was good with a sidearm, and he’d been trained in physical combat. She would need to take him down with surprise.
Fortescue said a string of words she knew well, and immediately melded into the shadows—as though she’d willed herself to melt into thin air. Grabbing hold of the shadows, as though they were handfuls of rope, she slid around Irons’ door and entered the flat. It was illuminated well and sparsely decorated with furniture. A non-magical assassin would have had a rough time.
Irons was still by the window, looking out. She grabbed more handfuls of shadow and skirted the room. To the naked or unpracticed eye, none of the shadows moved, but a skilled eye might have seen her fumble slightly with the shadow of the curtains. Fortescue cursed in her head, but her target—all she could see was his back—didn’t seem to notice.
As soon as she reached his own shadow, Fortescue leaped into action, tackling Irons to the floor with a mumbled charm that would prevent him from being able to move his limbs. They fell back, she on top, and she placed her hand around his throat in preparation to completely knock him out—
“Whatthehellisgoingonohgodswhoareyou!” squeaked her target.
This time, Fortescue did curse aloud, in a language only a few knew: Malsi, the language of the halfbred.
It wasn’t Irons at all. It was a man who looked almost identical, especially from the back. But his nose, his cheeks and his eyes were different.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked him roughly.
“M-McGoverns, ma’am, I—” He stopped, looked at her. Realization dawned on his face. “You’re a…”
“Shut up,” she muttered, resentful. A long stakeout for nothing. Irons had slipped into hiding, then, perhaps. “Wait. What are you doing here?”
“I’m not proud, ma’am, but I’m… well, I’m housebreaking,” McGoverns admitted.
Fortescue laughed harshly. “You’re the worse one I’ve ever seen. Do you often open the windows and let people get a good look at you?”
“They’re fine velvet, if you please, and I was going to—”
“Shut. Up. I don’t need this right now,” she said, not particularly caring about letting her anger impact more-innocent targets. “I’m going to let you up, and you’re going to run as fast as you can away from here. If you talk about what’s happened, I’ll find you. Being prosecuted for housebreaking will seem like a trifle in comparison. Do you understand me?”
McGoverns nodded frantically, eyes wider.
Good. He’d worked out what she was. That was mostly bad, but it had its bonuses in intimidation. Fortescue muttered a few more words—a curse to let her know if he did talk. Then she jumped to her feet and banished her charm.
“Go,” she said shortly.
He vanished like smoke, running like a man who had a panther or enraged monster on his heels.
Fortescue murmured a few more curses, this time in her own language, and then with a wave of her hand turned off the lights and re-drew the curtains. It was back to square one.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
