He looked over to the bed he’d given up, where Wren was breathing in the slow even rhythms of undisturbed sleep. At least he hadn’t woken his young friend. Hard not to envy the little king, sleeping peacefully despite the events of the day. Of the week. But then Painter shook his head. Who knew what burdens the poor boy carried? It seemed more like a life in prison than a life of power.
Painter fluffed up the bundle of clothes he was using as a pillow and then lowered himself onto his back carefully. His back and ribs still ached from his near-death experience with Gamble, but already the pain was less severe than it’d been, even just an hour ago. He reached up and lightly ran his fingers over his cheekbone, and over the gash that Mouse had had to seal up. Still puffy, and warm to the touch, but some healing was already evident there too. Funny, the way people treated him, like he was something lesser, something to be pitied. If they only knew… but then, even Painter still didn’t know all the ways he was different. Better, even.
His thoughts turned to Snow. If she had only known, would she still have joined up with whatever gang it was that had poisoned her so? Her eyes haunted him. The look of utter horror as she stared at him, mouth open, as if Painter had risen rotting from the grave. If she had only given him the chance, could he have even explained it to Snow?
Not with his mouth, no. Odd that with all the other improvements the Weir seemed to have made, they couldn’t fix his stutter. Improvements. Something within him revolted at that idea. They weren’t improvements as much as they were violations. And yet, he couldn’t deny that the Weir had in some way made him stronger. For so long they had been nightmare creatures, bringers of terror and death. His instinctual hatred was only natural. It was a challenge to even entertain the idea that maybe the Weir were in some way not completely evil. But if they were completely evil, then what did that mean for him?
Painter laughed at himself for trying to find reason in any of it. It all seemed meaningless. Useless attempts at philosophy by an untrained mind. Maybe life was just a series of accidents after all. Probably he was too tired to think. He lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, and let his mind wander, heedless of its direction.
The room was dark except for thin orange ribbons cast on the ceiling by the street lights through the blinds. Not dark to Painter’s eyes, but what he knew was dark for normal humans. Normal. Average. Common. Unremarkable. Painter closed his eyes and let himself smile at that. Yes, that seemed a better description. Unremarkable humans.
And just as he was finally drifting off into sleep, a soft but sudden sensation caught his attention. He lay still, holding his breath, searching for it again. A few moments later, yes, there. The merest trace of a new pulse of signal. It was hard for him to notice unless he really concentrated. Painter rolled over silently and pushed himself up. Crept to the window. Eased the blinds away from the window ever so slowly. Just enough to catch a glimpse of a shadow as it slipped into an alley.
Someone was in the street below.
“Straggler’s back,” Sky said over the team’s special communications channel. This was the third time the figure had passed near Mister Sun’s place; first might’ve been an accident, and the second a coincidence. But three times was as good as an enemy action. It was a tough call, though. The straggler was either really terrible at avoiding observation, or really good at looking like an amateur. Trouble was figuring out whether he was scouting the site, acting as bait, or just in the absolute wrong place at the perfectly wrong time.
“That’s three strikes,” Wick said. “If you wanna drop him, I’ll work clean-up.”
Technically, as a member of the Governor’s personal bodyguard, Sky was authorized to take any measure he deemed necessary to ensure the boy governor’s safety. It was a heavy responsibility to bear, though, and Sky was ever mindful of the cost every time he pulled the trigger, no matter how justified. And he was nowhere close to feeling justified.
“Finn, you getting any read off him?” he asked.
“Negative. He’s not talking to anybody.”
Sky shook his head. “What are you doing out here, man?” he whispered to the figure below. Straggler moved into the shadows along the building across from the Tea House. “Go home. Just go home.”
“I don’t like it, Sky,” Wick said. Wick hadn’t been blessed with Sky’s patience, but he never went without the OK. Of course, he also usually had a really good read on people, and if he didn’t like it, there was probably good reason. Just as Sky was thinking that, the straggler darted across the street and towards the back entrance. Wick was nice enough not to comment.