Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Seventy Five: A Beginning

The first spots of rain pattered on the roof and ran from the broken gutter in a steady tap. A damp breeze blew through the open window of a room on the upper floor of a derelict house. Inside the room, the only light came from a single candle on a small, square table.

On the table lay an array of objects; coins, a necklace with a purple gemstone, a hunting knife, a dagger. A series of pins, some thick and some thin. A crowbar, a rusty hammer. Several small vials containing liquids of varying colours. Sprigs of dried plants, most looking innocuous. Demon teeth.

Human teeth.

A figure sat at the table, fiddling with a metal contraption that still shone and smelled of burning and rust from the forge. Arlen had received it that day and was impatient to use it, but putting any weight on his amputated leg still sent shooting pain through his entire body. He scowled, running his fingers around the cup where his stump would fit – supposedly, if it didn't need adjusting. It had all got very complicated very quickly, but it had to be done.

The candle flickered and Arlen looked up at the window, but it was only the wind. That was another dark-damned pain to deal with; the window needed a covering before the rains came in earnest. Demon cries echoed through the city. They were getting louder again.

He levered himself up using the stick that Usk had brought him to use in the interim while his leg healed. It was galling to rely on it, and he dreaded the day he would have to attend one of the Devils' meetings with it. Having it kicked out from under him would be humiliating. Still. It was better than arriving on hands and knees or clinging to Usk's back.

Stew boiled on the fire; thin, with no meat. The good hunting had all retreated into the scrublands with the number of demons abroad, the livestock were on dark season rationing, and butchers were pricing accordingly; it was hardly like Arlen could get out to steal any, either. There was only so much potato a man could handle, and if he hadn't been so hungry, the pale chunks bobbing in the water might have brought him to vomiting. He stirred the pot with the ladle, shoved another two sticks of kindling onto the fire, and grabbed a nettle wine bottle from the small stash on the floor.

A noise outside startled him as he popped the cork; he hefted the hunting knife previously lying on the table and levelled it at the window. If Silas was back again...

But it wasn't Silas. A figure appeared, faintly silhouetted against the hairline cracks of blue-grey in the sky, the first signs of a changing season. They struggled to haul themselves over the ledge from the crates below, though they didn't make quite as much of a mess of it as the first time.

Arlen grinned as the figure stopped, brought up short by the glittering selection on the table. Two pinpricks of green widened in the depths of a hood.

"Jesper left your old one there," Arlen muttered, gesturing to another brown cloak folded in the corner. "I'd keep that one, though. He fucked the other one right up."

The figure didn't move; he seemed to have frozen.

"You hungry?" Arlen asked. "It's potatoes. Like every other night."

The figure shook his head.

Arlen thumped his way back to his chair and sat down in it. His companion shakily took the second available seat, as if he expected the chair to bite him.

"I know what you look like, kid," Arlen drawled. "And you can hardly go around with that on in these parts."

With a nervous glance at the window – Arlen grinned, daring him to try and escape this one – the figure pushed down their hood. The boy's hair was all-white and had grown past his ears since Arlen had last seen his face; his eyes settled in deep hollows. Haunted eyes, but determined. Wary.

Arlen grinned again, and put the knife down with a rattle that made the boy flinch and rock the chair.

"So, kid," he murmured, excitement like he hadn't felt in months coming to life in his chest. "Are you ready to start?"

Jordan Haverford lifted his chin and met both of Arlen's eyes – even the dead one.

"I'm ready."

Author's Note:

First of all, thank you so much for reading! This story means a lot to me and the support it has received has been incredible, so thank you all so much for sticking with it to the end.

Second, if you're looking to read further, Nightfire has a sequel titled Nightsworn, which is now available on my profile and will be updating weekly!

I hope you enjoyed the story - I loved writing it. Feel free to let me know what you thought - I love reading your comments!

Thanks again, and hope to see you again in book two!

Regards,

Elinor (giveitameaning)