The Pale Waters: #1 Reclaimed Souls Series by Washington Kelly

Author:Washington, Kelly [Washington, Kelly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-07-01T07:00:00+00:00

17

We hit the cobbled streets outside. Humidity hangs in the air like a damp blanket.

The clouds are low, heavy, and look ready to open up. It’s late morning, the sky is dim—not too dark—and thin rays of yellow-gray sunlight trickle down.

At least last night’s rain has washed away some of the normal filth one might find on the streets: animal and human waste, rotting food, garbage.

Gray puddles fill potholes and ditches.

With the city empty, two vendors, on opposite sides of the street, stand listlessly—until they see us.

Almost immediately, we are beseeched with offers of food, sun vitamins, new and used hydration patches, and, of course, pre-paid vouchers for sexual favors.

The vendors jockey back and forth, incrementally reducing their prices as they outbid the other, until it might appear that they would pay us to buy something from them.

Good-naturedly, Roland declines their price reductions, and purchases, at full price, a new hydration patch from each vendor.

I stare at him.

“That was nice of you,” I say. “Your purchase might be the only money they earn today.”

He hands me one of the hydration patches. It’s slim, palm-size, and clear except for the image of a tiny, hand drawn waterfall.

A child’s handwriting.

“It was nothing,” he says quietly, pocketing his.

On the backing, as I peel it off to stick the adhesive side to my chest, just above my right breast, micro-needles no longer than the thickness of a fingernail pierce my epidermis.

Coolness spreads all across my chest, neck, and it feels good against the humid air.

We pass under the arch, and enter into the outer reaches of Izkirka.

“Why is the capital empty?” I ask.

“Black water plague,” he answers with unease. “I evacuated the city weeks ago. But some are coming back.”

“Did the royals leave?” I ask, looking over to a lower part of the mountain range east of Izkirka’s city limits.

A dozen mansions peek through dark treetops.

Roland follows my gaze.

“No,” he says and leaves it at that.

“Are you nervous for some reason?”

“That the prototype won’t work?” he asks, deliberately, in my mind, misunderstanding the question. He knows full well what I meant.

I grin at him, but he’s no longer looking at me. Roland’s head is bent low, and he gives a perfect impression of a downtrodden individual, oppressed, depressed, and easily frightened.

I doubt we’ll attract any notice—the city is empty, after all—but at least he’s acting the part.

Roland isn’t a young buck, prancing and dancing in sheer fabriskin robes, singing songs of hopeless, tragic love.

As if on cue, just as we round another corner and pass a large, dilapidated warehouse, a fairly young man, maybe twenty, in a sheer gray robe, begins to serenade us.

His hair—long, blond, and disheveled in a handsomely unkempt way—dramatically flounces away from his face just as a gust of wind pushes into the three of us.

It also alters his fabriskin robe in such a manner that it lifts, shifts, and completely exposes him from the waist down.

I stifle a laugh.

The singing man—known as a romeo—appears to be very happy to see us.

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