Chapter Six

If she wanted, Christique wouldn’t have to look very hard to find Secrat Copé. He was out of options and there was only one path left for him. Without the necklace in his possession, he was back to where he started. Nay, that actually wasn’t completely true, and in fact, he was even worse off than when he started. Before, he at least had his flask, but now, he didn’t even have that. He wanted that back. He needed it back. If he couldn’t have the necklace then that much was imperative to him – whether it was about pride or he was a gluten for punishment, it mattered not.

Where Christique kept his flask was a question he still lacked a clear answer for. He had no doubt she found the flask after their night together, the woman had a keen eye in general, but, now, she was in search of her own missing memento. What she did with it next was what mattered most. Maybe she sold it. That was very possible. It wasn’t worth the same as the necklace, but it would still fetch a small fortune. Possible, The Thief had to admit. He didn’t like that possibility much, however.

Maybe he would sell her and see how she liked it, thought Secrat. It wasn’t a serious possibility, but it was a thought that amused him for a moment.

Secrat held one of his knives in his hand. He looked at the blade – sharp. He admired himself in its reflection. He had certainly seen better days. If the flask wasn’t there, he would have to do something to make up for his losses.

2.

The Thief did his best to stay clear of Alsabenya, a feat that was easy enough. It was a small restaurant, not unlike a lot of the ones that could be seen around The Trading Network. Its aim was to supply halfway edible food for a wholly unreasonable price. It, in itself, was an act of manipulation. All of the restaurants all silently agreed to mark up nearly every item on their menus a few times over, knowing the visitors of the Whispey Deserts had money to spend and nowhere else to go.

Christique didn’t own Alsabenya. She had made as much apparent in their earlier conversations. She was an employee – likely underpaid. Why was she an employee for such a lowly establishment? Secrat didn’t have the slightest idea, but he didn’t have the interest to look either. The mystery of Christique and her strange origins would have to go unanswered. All he wanted was his flask and to never see her again.

The hours Alsabenya was open told of a big window where Christique would be away from her home. Nevertheless, for a matter of certainty, Secrat kept just far enough away from Alsabenya not to be detected and waited. The moment he took sight of Christique’s happy and smiling face, he knew he was given the clear to pay her house a visit.

She was neither happy nor smiling, however. Instead, her face looked frightening enough to scare a child. Even Secrat was a little bit intimidated by her. Sadly, that couldn’t stop him. The little bit that Secrat Copé had in this world had been taken away from him. It didn’t mean much, but it didn’t take much to mean everything in Secrat’s small world these days.

The Thief readied himself with all the equipment he had, which wasn’t much. He was a minimalist. He was a minimalist who carried ten knives on his person at most times, but he was a minimalist, nevertheless. The knives were small and easy to maneuver around with. His fighting was all about stealth and quick reaction time, thereby eliminating the necessity of heavier, slower weapons.

Picking the lock would prove to be a more treacherous feat, especially when attempted in broad daylight. It would require a steady hand and the ability to blend in seamlessly. On his way over, he fought the urge for his eyes to wander. He made eye-contact with people he walked by, but not too much eye-contact. There were a lot of folks around, which meant it would be difficult to break in without drawing suspicion. Some of the men and women, the merchants and tradesmen, stared at him. He smiled in return; his hand reached down at the handle of his knife nervously. Fidgeting.

This wasn’t his best moment. At his best moment, he could have kept composed. He would be able to pull from all the training he had gotten in The Red Flux and make the right decision without having to think twice. Unfortunately, something about accidentally killing a fellow member of ones’ troupe, being exiled from said group, and then, having your most recent treasure stolen from you by a little girl did something to hurt a person’s confidence.

With a keen eye, he surveyed each building, and soon, realized exactly how little he knew about Christique’s house. The night he had spent with her, it had been dark, also, there had been other ‘distractions’ that had kept his attentiveness diverted elsewhere. There wasn’t a whole lot that really stood out about any of the buildings on this strip (Secrat hesitated to call it a street). They were mostly sand homes. All except for a handful that opted to make use out of wood or planks. Ironically, the ones that went the extra mile and brought in the extra material were the ones that looked the shabbiest and like they were damn near about to fall apart. Of course, this was all for a reason. No one stayed long at the Desert and the finer, more extravagant living accommodations were so expensive that they were largely reserved for noblemen or royalty.

Copé scratched his head, trying to find a clear sign to help him remember which house belonged to her. He thought back to the night in question and could vaguely remember the creak of wooden floor planks beneath his feet but he didn’t know many specifics other than that. He couldn’t remember what kind of roofing it had or what color the door was, both of which were distinct details that would have helped him further narrow things down.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the events of that night. Then, when he finished imagining them having sex, he tried to imagine the events leading up to it. In the end, it was the wooden porch that was the giveaway. On the way to her makeshift home, Secrat could distinctly remember himself struggling and nearly tripping on the second step of her small porch. Before, he had simply chalked it up to his own inebriation, but, upon inspection, he could now see that the plank was slightly uprooted. It wasn’t very much to go on, but that, coupled with his own intuition, sooner or late, Copé found himself at her doorstep, or, at least, what he was almost certain to be her doorstep.

Unfortunately, his own doubts kept it from being a complete certainty. This wouldn’t be the first time he robbed the wrong person, and the last time damn near cost him everything.

He was out of options though, and, in this case, at least, the worst case scenario meant only that he would have broken into a stranger’s home. There were certainly worse things he could have done. The lock was simple, without extravagance and without sophistication, it was the way most locks were. The, ahem, key to lock picking was patience and a steady hand. Those and a lack of time were really the only things that could keep Secrat from being able to pick most locks.

He had been well trained at it, after all. At The Red Flux’s campsite, there was a wall filled with all sorts of different locks. It had locks meant specially for doors in every major city, across every district, as well as locks for other things like safes and cabinets. As part of each thief’s training before becoming an Elite, it was instilled in them how to pick each type of lock.

The mistake in that, and where his training now failed him was that he didn’t have time for mistakes and patience was a luxury that would not be afforded to him. If any person happened upon a man fidgeting for minutes and minutes with a door knob, it would certainly be enough to draw suspicion. However, if he did it fast enough and casually enough, it would look like nothing more than a man unlocking his door and going inside. That was how fast Secrat would have to be. He waled nearer to the door. It didn’t particularly feel familiar, but it had been much darker before.

The main center of the Trading Network with the tables and merchants was, of course, the most congested and populated part of the area, whereas the spots meant for idle living tended to thin the herd. Still though, there remained more than a handful of people around to pay witness to any of The Thief’s fumbles. Some of them were sat down, resting, blankets rolled out. Others were merely socializing and biding their time for whatever it was they were waiting for.

The Whispey Deserts were miserable at the best of times, which kept it from being much of a place for tourists, instead it was usually only visited with a purpose in mind, that being usually the relationship between buyer and seller.

Secrat looked at the keyhole and readied his hand. He messed with his pin, he fidgeted and tweaked, moving the tumblers up accordingly. It didn’t take long before a small mistake soon stifled his efforts. His hand flinched unexpectedly, restarting the process. The Thief steeled his nerves the best he could, but it was a hard fought battle. His hand was shaking more than necessary. There were no eyes staring at him, and he knew that, but only under the surface, and above the surface, there was a layer of frightened dismay. Calm down, Secrat thought to himself. You’re fine, he reassured himself. Assuredly, Secrat readied his hand again, trying to stay calm and remain focused. He moved up one tumbler and then the other, breathing as steadily as he could.

The voices talking from behind him didn’t fall on deaf ears, but he couldn’t make out any of their words. They were like the buzzing that came from an annoying fly. Were they noticing him, or just having a discussion? The Thief didn’t know. He couldn’t know. But, he also couldn’t let it bother him. Either he would fail or succeed, but, unless he stayed the course, the former was a foregone conclusion.

Then, with a click, the feelings of defeat left him. He hadn’t been defeated, he had won. The door was unlocked. Although it may have better suited the part for him to casually enter into the abode, his abode, as far as onlookers were concerned, his own giddiness got the best of him and he entered the shack not like it belonged to him, but like a man being chase by The Carvers.

His back pressed against the door on the inside, savoring the sense of relief that came over him. Thievery in broad daylight wasn’t something he saw himself getting used to anytime soon. As he walked further into the small shack, he, at least, almost immediately recognized the bed. It was neatly made. Secrat smiled at the sight. There were some good memories that happened there. He looked down at the floorboard. In a bit of wishful thinking, he was hoping he would see the flask staring back at him and that he would be able to leave the shack and then, the Whispey Deserts, straightaway. Unfortunately, God laughed in the face of wishful thinkers, bringing them only harrowing disappointment.

Pity.

Secrat walked further into Christique’s little den, admiring it with a small amount of wonder. There was a shelf in one section filled with books. Unfortunately, they had been written in a language was unfamiliar to him – if he had to guess it was written in the hand of someone from Zeal, a neighboring country to Maharris, that could only be reached by sailing the Amisoic Sea or traversing the harsh Whispey Deserts all the way to the other side. Considering that the Deserts could get hot enough to make the skin blister if a person went far enough, The Thief didn’t envy the person who would try it without a boat. He walked closer to the books. His fingers combed over the spine of each of them. When he looked at his fingers he saw the amount of dust that had accrued. The books hadn’t been touched in some time. He inspected further, hoping to find one book among the collection that had been cleaned off. He came up short.

That was another pity. It wasn’t at all uncommon for particularly paranoid people to have faux books with hidden compartments on the inside. Although there was more he didn’t know about her than he did know, he had a feeling she fell somewhere comfortably in the category of ‘paranoid’.

At last, his eyes left them. His interest had been lost.

To the side, there was a table, and on top of it, a pair of black gloves. He walked toward them, feeling a vague familiarity with them. Before he could make the connection, however, he heard a creak beneath his feet. There was a loose plank of wood. Even more than the rest of the shantytown shack, this plank of wood was held together by a wish and a prayer. Copé dropped down to one knee and immediately began to prod at the loose plank. He thumbed at it, trying to pry it free. Once he brought his knife out for some further encouragement, it obliged. This was the very thing he had wanted to find at the bookshelf – the one thing out of place, the one thing unlike the other. The gap was small, and when he placed his hand in, he immediately felt the grainy Whispey Desert sand. What he felt next, however, brought a smile to his face – it was his flask. He held the metal container in his hand and felt a small feeling of nostalgia when he did. Even if everything else had gone to shit for him, at least he could rest assured his alcohol would have a proper vessel for when it inebriated him.

The shine of its silver had been dulled by the sand and the encrusted jewels had always been faint in the best of times, but its value to The Thief couldn’t be measured in coin, he supposed. Maybe his time away from The Red Flux had made him a little more sentimental after all.

Secrat looked around Christique’s home. For a woman he found so interesting, there was very little to say about her living quarters. He saw nothing he particularly needed and even less that he actually wanted. There was a small chance that her peculiar book collection would fetch a couple coin to the right buyer, but it seemed like too little for what would be a lot of trouble. Thus, with that, Secrat had decided he would be better off cutting his losses and making his leave. He placed the small wooden plank back onto its proper place on the floor, fitting it over the nails, and then, like that, everything looked as it once had.

Unlike Christique, Copé didn’t care about leaving behind a message. The only thing he cared about was getting his flask back, and after that, starting his life over as a thief. Retrieving what had been lost was a self-created rite of passage for himself, and, as he held the flask in his hands, he knew that he had passed. The flask went into his pocket while his eyes were drawn back to the ebony gloves that rested on the table. He looked at them. He held them in his hands. On the top of each glove was a letter patched onto the fabric, the letter ‘K’ stared back at him, holding some type of semblance that was lost on him.

The material was leather and hard, not exactly popular fashion for the Whispey Deserts. Back to the table, they went. The gloves had no worth to him.

A door shut behind him, causing The Thief to stifle over himself, at least momentarily. With his composure regained, he turned around and saw Christique staring back at him. Not unlike how she looked when he saw her in Alsabenya, she was not smiling. Copé didn’t look her in the eyes, in part, because he knew they would be fiery and filled with venom. Instead, all he did was stare down at his feet nervously for a second until mustering up the courage to speak:

“Hello,” Copé said, although the words didn’t feel right for the moment.

Unfortunately, they were all that he could think of saying.

“Hello, yourself,” Christique’s voice disguised her temperament, but Secrat knew better.

Over the years, he had developed a sixth sense when it came to people being infuriated with him. Christique contained herself well, however. She walked nearer to him. Copé reached down in his pocket, searching for one of his knives.

“You stole something that didn’t belong to you.”

Secrat smiled. “It wouldn’t much be stealing if it did belong to me.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thief,” Secrat said, announcing his title, adding in a little bow for good measure.

“Is that right?” Christique asked.

The inflection in her voice made it seem like her question was rhetorical. Copé held his tongue. Her feet moved gingerly on the hardwood floor. There was an elegance to her movement that he hadn’t noticed before, a certain primal aura that he couldn’t properly place. It took him aback some, but he fought off the discomfort – it was a luxury he couldn’t afford himself. He felt the handle of his knife in his hands, but before he could welcome it out from his pocket, Christique moved forward him, lunging at him fast. Her hand clutched his wrist, keeping his weapon tucked away in his leggings.

Secrat flinched, but then looked Christique in the eyes at last. He could smell the scent of her. It was an intoxicating aroma. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his chest. As infatuated as he felt with her, he found himself also completely terrified.

“Can I have it back?”

“I, …,” Secrat stopped for a moment. “I am afraid that is not possible. I do not have it.” Secrat said clearly.

Christique pulled herself away from him. She did it slowly, but with enough distinction to appear purposeful. Her face distorted for a moment until she went back to the restrained and somehow seductive plainness that she had been carrying herself with. She lifted Secrat’s hand out of his pocket. His fingers still clasped onto the knife he had been holding. For some reason, a reason unbeknownst to Secrat, he put up no fight against her and surrendered the knife when she went to take it from him. It was in her clutches now. Her knife. She turned her back on him. This would have been as opportune of a moment as any to ready another of his knives and slit her throat from behind. But, he didn’t do that. He didn’t do anything.

Christique started to walk forward, twirling the knife around, her knife, in her hands. There was a stillness in the air, enough tension to hear a pin drop. Secrat listened to the sound of her brown woven boots knocking into the floor. In her other hand, she held gloves.

Secrat looked over at the table. She must have taken them while he was distracted.

“You sold it?” Christique asked. “What person in their right mind would buy such a necklace?”

Secrat didn’t understand. It was a perfectly fine necklace by his assessment.

“Actually, I didn’t sell it. Someone took it before I had the chance.” Secrat answered truthfully, but Christique didn’t seem to appreciate said honesty.

Chrisique sighed, “At the Thieves’ Network?”

Secrat hesitated. How did she know about the Thieves’ Network? Who was this woman?

“Do you have any idea who took it?” She asked.

Her back was still turned from him. The blade pointed upward. The gloves had since been put away, but Secrat didn’t see where they had gone. Maybe her pocket. Her other hand was on the door.

“I don’t know,” Secrat replied.

Christique let out another audible sigh in response to him. She didn’t feel very much like she had at Alsabenya. She felt colder and more manipulative, and far more in control. It was as though something dormant inside of her had decided it now time to awaken.

“So, I take it you noticed me watching you at Alsabenya?” Copé asked.

It was a stupid question and one that he already knew the answer to. Truth was, the only reason he said anything at all was simply because he wanted to fill the air with something other than the tension he felt between them.

“It wasn’t that difficult to do. I saw you from a mile away,” She reaffirmed. “But you don’t have the necklace.”

“I don’t.”

“And you have no idea where the necklace is.”

“That is also true.”

“Then, I have nothing more to say to you. Goodbye, Secrat.”

Christique opened the door and began stepping out. She walked out the door without any sort of haste. As the door closed behind her, Copé could hear the distinctive clicking sound that the latch made.

“Goodbye,” Secrat replied.

By this time, Christiqque was already out of earshot, however. He didn’t know where she was going, considering this was her own home, but he didn’t care much either way.. He was only happy their altercation had come to an end and he hadn’t had to kill her. He let out a breath. A loud one. It felt almost as if he hadn’t breathed for the entire altercation between them. He didn’t know why, not for certain, but it bothered him. Furthermore, she bothered him. She was able to both intimidate and seduce him at the same time, and he wasn’t for certain which one had the advantage of the two. He looked down at the wooden table again. Then, looked at the door where she let. There was a small tarp tapestry hung loosely over the window beside it. The curtain struck him as odd for some reason. He didn’t understand why at first, but then he remembered looking out at the moon that night they had spent together and there had not been a curtain in front of it. Just decided to redecorate, Secrat supposed. After a few more seconds of biding his time, Secrat at last felt satisfied. It had been long enough now that he could leave the shack without any sight of Christique. That was good. He wanted to be as far away from her as possible.

He reached for a cigarette from out his back pocket. Although he never cared for the taste, he needed a distraction. He reached for his pine sticks next. Although he had very few, he at least had some left. However, when he dug deeper in his pocket, there were none to speak of. Perhaps he had lost them earlier in the Thieves’ Network during his altercation with that little girl. He was disappointed, but that was that, he would have to come to terms with it. The cigarette went back in his pocket, and he went toward the door.

Before he could, however, he watched while the curtains over the window became inflamed, spreading to the door.

Oh, so that’s what she meant by goodbye, Secrat first thought to himself. His next thought: Did she hang up the curtains so I couldn’t jump out the window? That bitch…

3.

The fire was bright and uproarious. It ate into the wood slowly like a termite, but spread up the curtains remarkably fast. Although the looming threat of death took precedent, Secrat had to admire the sheer amount of preparation Christique had put into it. She knew Secrat would come by, looking for his flask. She had a plan in place. The way the fire traveled up the curtain, The Thief wouldn’t have been surprised to find out they were slathered with something flammable as well.

The door was either jammed or barricaded, and it wasn’t long before the fire engulfed it, forbidding Secrat from trying to pry it open. There was no other way out of the house. There were no back doors and no other windows to choose from. What was engulfed by the flames was not only the shack itself, but all his options for survival. The warmth of the flame was prevalent. Either poetic or delusional, it reminded Secrat of her breath on him.

He backed away from the flame, and felt as he backed into the wooden table behind him. This is how it would end for Secrat Copé, so it seemed. That was that, and at least he could say he left the world in a blaze of glory. He didn’t like that, and wasn’t ready to accept such a fate, but for the life of him, he could think of no other alternative. But, … but he was Secrat Copé, master thief, and the brightest prospect The Red Flux ever had to offer! That was what he would have tried to tell himself in the hypothetical, at least, but, in the moment, it didn’t really amount to very much. Accolades wouldn’t extinguish the flame. Neither would anything else that Secrat could see. Copé backed himself away from the flames, trying to make sense of his predicament. The wheels in his head weren’t turning fast, but he had at least some ideas that reared in their head.

By now, the fire had completely engulfed the front side of the small one room shack.

He walked toward the bed. The blankets had not yet been blemished by the harsh, cogitating flame. He yanked them off, readying his next move. He wrapped himself around the covers like a caterpillar might wrap itself in a cocoon, then, The Thief pulled the blankets up enough over his body to give his legs reasonable mobility. Once assured, he backed away further from the flame, giving himself enough space to build some momentum. The door was a rather hard wood and Secrat was not large. He would need all the momentum and force he could have. The table was in the way. He used his foot to kick at it, shoving it off to the side and offering himself a clear path to the door.

He looked back at the flame. It had spread some. The Thief knew that the time for action was now or never. Hopefully the fire had dug away at the door enough to assist his escape, and thereby, his survival.

The heat of the flames drew sweat from his brow and his heart now raced faster than a horse. By the time he touched the opposite wall, he allotted himself no time to think or contemplate his next move. The Thief ran to the other side of the wall, charging with all his might – then, rammed against the door! In the end, Secrat had a loud banging noise to show for his effort, but the door wasn’t thrown off its hinges or broken. Instead, Secrat ricocheted off the door and fell on his back, the rug around his body being the only thing that kept the flames from swallowing him whole. Like a cat in water, a thief in fire, he rolled and shook himself free from the blankets as he could. They fell to the floor, only spreading the fire more and more.

Secrat dropped to his knees. He took a second to regain his composure. It was only a second. He didn’t even really have a second for his anguish, but he took it.

The fire had singed some of the hair off from his arms and the smoke was starting to encumber the room. Copé looked at the wooden table he had kicked off to the side. Another idea came to him in that moment. It was a shot in the dark. He was grasping at straws, but they were the only thing he had left. He arose to his feet and began trying to lift the table. Unfortunately, it was heavy. Also, unfortunately, he was not strong. Not physically at least. He wouldn’t be able to lift it, much less throw it. Instead, he decided to improvise. He kicked in the legs, kicking at them with his boots until one of them was broke free. The table dropped at an angle, meanwhile, Secrat now had a four foot wooden club to work with. His intentions were neither profound nor brilliant. Desperate would be a more fitting word to describe his idea. He would throw the table leg at the door until it broke down. The window wasn’t big enough of an opening to make a quick escape, and with a wall of fire on that side of the room, a quick escape is what he needed.

Secrat stepped forward with the wooden club in hand, as he did, however, he heard a creaking sound beneath his foot. He looked down. It was the same loose wooden plank where he had found his flask tucked away for safe keeping. A sly smirk formed on Secrat’s face as a better idea came to him. He covered his mouth with his forearm, trying to prevent any more smoke from entering his lungs. He dropped down to his knees slowly, then dislodged the wooden plank from the flooring and took sight of sand. Sweet, sweet sand. Like dirt, but not quite. It wasn’t until now he realized how much he loved the stuff. Unfortunately, although the one wooden plank came free easily, the others weren’t so courteous. If it weren’t for his pesky shoulders and torso, he would have been able to slip through to freedom. He pulled at the wooden planks, but they wouldn’t come free. That made him nervous, but he let out a breath, one that was polluted with nasty smoke, but a breath nonetheless. He reached for one of his knives. With the handle in his hands, he drove the blade into one of the creases between the planks and scraped and pried at them. He wiggled the blade in between two planks, trying to loosen them, but none of it seemed to be working – they had no give.

He placed the knife down on the floor beside him, and in its place, Copé reached for the wooden table leg. The wooden leg was heavy, not very heavy, but heavy. Hopefully, heavy enough. He stamped it down as hard as he could over one of the planks. The noise was loud. The Thief felt small satisfaction when he heard the sound of wood cracking. It wasn’t broken yet, however. A second stamp with the table leg brought it a little closer to that. The wood was now dented, bowing noticeably. The third strike with the table leg effectively broke it in half.

Secrat gritted his teeth. The way the wooden blank snapped in two caused a small shard of timber to splinter itself into his arm. Without thinking, he yanked it out and let the blood dribble down his forearm. He didn’t have time for it. The adrenaline that was coursing in his veins made him feel almost invincible at the moment. He wasn’t. In fact, he was far from it and as the fire raged on, it seemed intent to express him that fact.

With two planks now removed from the floor, he was almost able to fit himself into the hole. Both legs, at least. The waist was still a problem though. He didn’t attempt to force it, too fearful that he might become stuck in his hastiness.

The Thief took the table leg once more in his hands, prepared to rinse and repeat his previous act.

The fire was nearing him. Much nearer now than it was before. Close, even. The beads of sweat soaked his hair and his clothes. He could feel it becoming more and more difficult to breathe. He choked momentarily on the air around him, dipping his head between the planks to try and bring himself some clean air. It was only a matter of time before he would lose consciousness. He only hoped that if it did occur it occurred before the flames burnt him to a crisp.

He stomped the leg repeatedly over the nearest plank, doing so as fast and as viciously as he could. The plank snapped like a stick beneath the foot of a giant.

Secrat wasted no time on making his escape. The hole in the floor offered enough room for him to make his escape. He rolled forward, his back slapping against the hot sand beneath. For him, at that time, and at that moment, it might as well have been a nice fluffy cloud or bed. It was comfort. It was life. Breathing heavily, near the point of hysterics, he lifted a handful of sand up and let it escape through the creases of his fingers. His eyes looked above him while the fire raged on.

He turned his head, grains of sand sticking to his sweat. He beheld the sunlight bleeding in. There were feet as well. Several of them. There was entire gathering of people, all gathered up and watching on as he damn near burned to death. There was no sign of Christique, not that he could recognize her by her feet, but he liked to assume.

He rolled in the sand. The front side of the building was where all the commotion was. Where everyone was all crowded about, evidently ignoring the loud banging noises Secrat had made trying desperately to escape. He rolled out from under the house from the back end and climbed to his feet.

Part of him felt like gasping for air, but the other part of him managed to contain himself.

After dusting some of the sand off from his arms, he noticed how black his hands were from all the soot. He tried to wipe it off on his clothing, but it was to no avail. While touching his arm, however, he did now fully appreciate the large gash where blood was gradually pouring out of him. That was the cut made from when he smashed the first plank, he realized. He would most likely need stitches for that. He snarled. The pain was beginning to show itself now that the excitement in the air (and smoke) was gone, but it wasn’t unbearable or throbbing yet.

Copé thumbed at it for a second, but when it made the pain worse, he relented. There was a large splinter of wood still dug into his arm. That was something he knew he would inevitably feel with a vengeance later, but it wasn’t something his mind would let him feel just yet.

He walked about and cornered the house, revealing his dirt and soot covered presence to the crowd of people His eyes didn’t catch anyone looked at him. They may very well have been, but that didn’t bother him. His body looked black than that of a man from Jalint, but he didn’t care in the least. It was not like he had anything to hide. He was kind of the victim in all of this, maybe. In the end, he walked in front of the crowd. Not pushing or shoving, but venturing closer than any of them were willing to go.

He took a cigarette out from his pocket, feeling it in between his fingers. He walked up to the steps leading to Christique’s front door and looked at one of the pine sticks on the deck. They had been stolen from him by Christique it seemed. So, that’s where they went, Secrat thought. Unfortunately, they were now burnt up and useless. No matter. The Thief reached his hand slightly by the window, the tip of his cigarette igniting as he touched the flame.

He put the cigarette between his lips.

He never liked the taste, but it distracted him.