The old man’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment he nodded, and squeezed Painter’s shoulder, and then let him go. Painter hurried through the Tea House, realizing he’d have to be careful chasing after Able and Wren. He couldn’t draw too much attention to them, after all.
He was lost in thought as he leapt down the stairs in front of the Tea House, and couldn’t quite stop himself in time as he hit the street and ran right into a trio of men, nearly knocking one of them down. Painter reached out instinctively and grabbed the man’s arm to steady him.
“Suh – suh – sorry, I’m sorry, are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just watch–” the man cut himself off as he looked up into Painter’s face, snatching his arm away roughly. “Get yer stinkin’ hands off me, deadling!”
Painter held up his hands, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry, s-s-sss, sorry, sir.”
The other two men closed ranks, one on each side of Painter, as the one he’d run into drew himself up. He was a good four or five inches shorter than Painter, but about twice as wide, and he had a gap between his front teeth big enough to stick a finger through.
“S-s-s-s-sorry!” Gap-tooth mocked. “S-s-s-sorry, he says. You got a busted mouth, deadling?”
“No, sir–” Painter started to say, but before he could say more, Gap-tooth smashed a fist into his face, and Painter hit the ground, his head bouncing hard against the concrete.
“Ya do now!” Gap-tooth said, and his buddies laughed at that, and one of them took a big step forward and kicked Painter in the gut. The shock wave sent all the breath exploding out of Painter’s lungs and made him choke. Then Gap-tooth was on him, a knee in his crotch, crushing but dull pain; a hand around his throat under his jaw, shoving his head back into the concrete. Gap-tooth’s face was right in Painter’s, his foul breath spilling like kerosene over Painter’s mouth and nose.
He said, “You and yer kind better think hard about where you belong, cause it ain’t here. It ain’t nowhere close to here, you unnerstan’? There’s a storm comin’, there’s a storm comin’, and you and all yer kind are gonna wash away or twist in the wind.”
Painter fought to breathe, his vision mixed with dark spots and bright flashes. And floating images, images of Snow, and his reflection, and the window shattering, and dark things. Dark things that he had done before – before Wren had found him. How easily they had come apart in his hands before.
Gap-tooth reared back and punched at him again, but it was badly aimed and little more than a glancing blow. The man spat and Painter felt the wet spatter on his cheekbone and eyelid and upper lip, and then the weight was gone, and the three men melted away, laughing in the haze of Painter’s stunned and battered mind. After a minute, or five, or twenty, he managed to roll to an elbow and push himself up to a sitting position. The world reeled, then settled to a lazy swirl, and Painter felt bile in the back of his throat and realized his hands were cold and sweaty, and he was shuddering uncontrollably.
He held them up and looked at the palms, torn from the fall. Up his slender fingers. How they trembled. And there, at the ends, graceful glints of steel reflecting the yellow-orange street light and the blue of his eyes. The talons of the Weir, a scant half-inch long and sharper than any blade or razor ever honed by human hands. Elegant. Utterly efficient. Painter couldn’t remember having extended them. But for a brief moment he stared at them, and let himself imagine a different outcome. The tearing of Gap-tooth – the gush and spill as the man’s friends screamed in helpless horror.
No. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t like that. Painter watched as the claws withdrew, settling into their housing beneath his intact fingernails. He was better than that. Better than them. In every way. It was his mercy that allowed them to live, not his weakness.
He pushed himself up to his feet, just as a well-dressed couple emerged from the Tea House. The woman gasped when she saw him, and for a moment Painter took it as a sign of her fear. But her eyes softened with concern as they came down the stairs towards him.
“Oh, Painter,” she said, “are you alright? Do you need help?”
“I’m fff-fff,” the word caught. Such a simple word. Say it! “I’m fine, ma’am. Took the stairs too fast is all.”
The man with her shook his head and produced a handkerchief from his fine coat pocket. The idea of anyone carrying a handkerchief struck Painter as supremely absurd.
“Here, son,” the man said, handing him the handkerchief. “You’ve got some… something, there.”