She's a city made for rain. She's a city made of rage. She's a city with a rough and seeking tongue. You find it ugly. I find it beautiful.
THE CITY OF HARDACRE 965 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE
The next morning dark clouds rolled in from the north, an unheard-of thing this time of year, coming down from the mountains. The winds had changed seemingly overnight. There was some debate over whether or not they contained rain or snow. The temperature certainly had dropped, but the clouds merely built, obscuring the sky and darkening everything.
The whole city transformed with their arrival, hunkered down, as though it were the beginning of the end. The gardens seemed to shrink, several shops didn’t open, a cat gave birth to a three-headed kitten, and weird howls were heard coming from the tent city beyond the town's walls.
Margaret had spent the morning practicing her swordplay. For all that it was a weapon of last resort, the rime blade rewarded practice. It was heavy, its blade when sheathed in ice heavier still. But she had killed many Quarg Hounds with it. Indeed, she counted herself among the best of her people when it came to the sword. She was certainly the best now, and that made her practice with even more focus than usual. Her arms burning, lungs heaving, she worked through the patterns of the blade, the various rhythms that denoted attack or defence.
But her heart wasn't in it today. Her thoughts couldn’t escape the news of the morning. The deaths on Rowdy Street — three killed, half eaten — and the constables that had chased something monstrous to the outskirts of the city before losing both it and five men — pieces of whom had been found with the dawn. The papers were already calling it the Night of Blood.
David was waiting for her in the dining room, having finished off his breakfast. There were several large plates of food, stacked up before him: such a remarkable appetite for such a thin man. Margaret wondered where he fit all that food. It certainly wasn’t fattening him up, though he had broadened across the shoulders.
Margaret chewed down a few pieces of toast, and some strips of bacon. “Did you have enough?” she asked him, eyeing his plates.
“Just enough,” David said. “Barely enough.” He licked his lips, and there was something grotesque about the movement, something unconsidered and unDavid like.
Margaret shuddered, and David must have caught some of the meaning behind it because he looked almost hurt.
“Where's Buchan and Whig?” she asked.
“Purchasing more supplies. They say we should be ready to leave in under a week.”
Margaret hissed. “They’ve been saying that for a week already. What good are supplies without an airship?”
“I think this time they might mean it. There's word that a ship called the Collard Green is due.”
Margaret wasn't prepared to even begin to hope.
David grabbed an orange quarter from the fruit platter in the middle of the table and ate it, skin and all. He stood up.
“I had a visitor last night.” He almost sounded guilty.
Margaret leaned in close. “Really, he came to your room?”
“No further than the window, but I suspect he would have entered if the constables hadn’t seen him.”
“Before or after he-”
He said, “You've heard about the killings then?”
Margaret nodded.
“It was after. The constables didn't start chasing him until after the third death. He'd killed to build his strength, it radiated from him. He'd have taken me easily last night.”
“You’d have fought him alone?” she asked.
“And I’d have died, you too. I was still too weak.”
“What about now?”
“I’m fine today,” David said, stretching his arms above his head; his back clicked loudly. “We’ll hunt until we find him. I’m ready.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? We can wait, until you’re strong again.”
David swallowed another piece of orange. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
Margaret couldn’t quite explain it herself. But her mood had soured today and her desire to put David at risk had cooled. She didn't so much fear Cadell, but the thing David might have to become to kill Cadell.
“I'm fine, believe me, I'm fine. This must be done,” David said. “Too many have died because I have done nothing. Besides I really think that Buchan and Whig might really be ready to leave, and we cannot leave him here.” As if their guilt wasn’t reason enough.
“If he’s running from constables he can’t be too strong.”
“Perhaps, or he’s just building. Maybe waiting for me to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because when we leave the city, there will be almost nothing that can stop him. Yes, we have to do this today.”