Wraithblood: The Elixir, Episode 2

You decide to let the blue-cloaked man in before the toughs close on him. You turn the handles on your door, and the massive steel slab swings open with a groan, accompanied by clank of gears and the thud of bolts.

“You,” you say. “Inside. Now.”

The blue-cloaked man obliges, and you close the door after him as the toughs cross the street.

“My thanks, madame,” says the blue-cloaked man, drawing back his hood. His voice is a deep, sonorous rumble. He has black eyes and close-cropped beard, and a white smile that flashes against the dusky skin of his face. “I do so abhor bloodshed before breakfast.”

You blink in surprise.

You know him.

Ibrahaim Nasser, the boldest pirate and the most daring thief in three separate seas. This is the man who outmaneuvered the Kyracian fleet, who raided the Padishah’s treasury, who stole from the Magisterium of the Empire, and lived to tell the table. There is an enormous price on his head on every port from Marsis to Alqaarin, and the tales of his exploits are legendary…as is his hatred for slave traders. Nevertheless, he bought your lockboxes from your father on a regular basis. Apparently honor goes only so far among thieves.

From your door you hear a click, and then a pair of screams. Apparently the thugs were stupid enough to try and force their way inside. You remind yourself to clear the severed fingers from your doorstep later.

“What do you want?” you say. “Did my father owe you money? Well, he’s dead, and if you want it, you’ll have to stand in line.”

“Not at all,” says Nasser. “Rumor said Niall Strake was the best locksmith in Istarinmul, but anyone with an ounce of sense knew that his daughter did the work for him.” His eyes narrow, just slightly. “Though you look…rather the worse for wear, I fear, since I last saw you.”

He’s looking at your eyes, you know. The unnatural, bright green eyes of a wraithblood addict.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “What do you want?”

“I have a business proposition for you, my dear,” says Nasser. “Might we discuss it?”

You lead Nasser into your workshop. Three long tables fill most of the room, covered with half-assembled locks, traps, clocks, and a variety of other mechanical devices. Shelves groan under the weight of books and papers, and scrawled equations and diagrams cover a trio of blackboards. In the center of the room stands a clay statue of the old Caerish death god Rioghath, a relic of your father’s that you’ve kept.

“So,” you say. “Business.”

“Directly to the point, then?” says Nasser with a chuckle. “Good. I will be succinct. An object of tremendous value has entered Istarinmul. Raggan, and a dozen other thieving crews, are planning to steal it. However, they cannot do so without engaging someone of your…unique talents. Which, I assume, is why Raggan wants to meet you tonight…and why he left those thugs outside your door to waylay anyone who spoke to you, lest some enterprising fellow hire you away.”

“So you want me to work for you instead?” you say.

“Yes,” says Nasser. “I will pay you double what Raggan promised you. Along with a share of the profits from the sale of the item.”

You say nothing. That kind of money could get you clear of your debts. Assuming Nasser doesn’t double-cross you, of course.

“My father knew Raggan,” you say at last. Which doesn’t speak highly of Raggan. But Raggan always made sure to pay your father on time.

“I should mention, as well,” says Nasser, looking over your bookshelves, “that Raggan has no intention of paying you. In fact, I suspect that he plans to kill his entire crew after the heist is complete, to keep the profits for himself. You, though, he might keep alive – he absolutely hated Niall Strake, and watching Strake’s daughter suffer would amuse him to no end.” His white smile flashes across his dark face once more. “So…what do you say?”

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