by Parker Foye
Nine Years of Silver
Parker Foye
Also by Parker Foye
Beating the Bounds
Dust on the Wing
Flight and Fancy (in Valves & Vixens v.3)
Mage of Inconvenience
Pastures New
Red Between the Lines
Ward & Weft
Wolf in King’s Clothing
Nine Years of Silver
Copyright © 2019 Parker Foye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher.
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ONE
Lastings sat in the armpit of the country, burrowed in a crooked inlet more suited to wreckers than honest work. Fishing had dominated local industry since the first settlers walked out of the sea, until city-funded trawlers and their pollution starved the water. Some of the old families still fished for a living, sailing out before dawn in boats their daddies had sailed before them, and catching less than any of their folk before. Some tried commuting inland to work the mines—thinking to keep their land, if not their souls—but the mines went dry after a handful of years, and were closed when nothing remained but the dark. After the mines went the money, and Lastings began to shrivel like something left too long in the sun.
Briar's daddy had been a fisherman before he burned his boat and took his family to the city, never pausing to consider the mines and the dark. Briar's mama had been made for more concrete things; once they'd left the sea she'd become brighter, happier, with the salt washed from her hair. Briar had been happy, too, growing true without the distraction of one eye always on the shore, though his light disposition could be hard to recognise by looking at him grown. But unlike some of his Ranger colleagues, Briar removed his gun and boots to sleep, and nary a nightmare dared bother him.
Not until he chased Dupont to Lastings and saw the sea again.
Near a decade had passed since he'd last stood at the edge of the world, but once Briar alighted at Lastings' lonely station, he knew sleep wouldn't come easy for weeks. The horizon was a challenge he couldn't meet. As he left the train station and walked along the path that hugged the seafront, Briar hunched his shoulders and kept his gaze from the water, focusing instead on the row of beach huts in various states of disrepair. He hoped to find answers in one of them.
Briar considered the last hut in the line, a squat building raised on short stilts growing from the fringes of Lastings' pebbly shore like some strange, lemon-yellow tree. Tidemarks scarred the stilts and the corners of the roof were dented with impact from tumbling rocks; the little hut sheltered in the lee of the cliff, and Briar didn't know how it had stood more than one season with nature gnawing from all sides as it did. Even the plants lining the open windowsill were intent on reclaiming their space, vines clambering out of cracks in the glass and around the hut in all directions, their flowers brighter than he would've reckoned grew in the dying of the year. Back in the city, they were celebrating the autumn harvest festival, but locals said Lastings had only two seasons: winter, and its warning.
Briar should have remembered Lastings always warned before it struck.
Most huts were owned by the Chester clan and let to holiday renters, according to Lastings' Sheriff. Briar didn't see how anyone would stay overnight in Lastings if they didn't have to, if there weren't already a fishhook in their soul, but folk each had their own strange ways, he supposed. In autumn, nothing remained in the rental huts but cobwebs and leftovers from teenagers, and Briar had no desire to tiptoe through their detritus. He'd come to Lastings for Dupont, and to the huts for a witch, and had no interest in remnants from Lastings' kids entertaining themselves. Fishbones and fire pits, if he remembered rightly.
Briar climbed the pile of flat stones that led to the hut's raised door, and knocked. As he waited for a response, he rubbed his hand over his face and scratched his stubble. He preferred to look more kempt when asking for favours, but trains ran to Lastings once a day and begrudgingly, and he hadn't time to clean for company. He needed to find Dupont and leave. But if anyone sought to find a thing in Lastings, they visited the witch at the end of the row, first, else they might as well have stayed home. Briar remembered enough about Lastings to know that.
Other places had lost their traditions, long before the city started taking up space, but a wise person introduced themselves officially before going about incomer's business. And they were polite about doing so; Briar's mama had taught him the importance of being polite to witches back when he'd still been crawling, and as he'd grown, he'd seen out of towners swagger into Lastings with arrogance where manners should've been.
Introductions served the dual purpose of adhering to tradition and ensuring safety, Briar's mama said. She said, Lastings had a lot of hidden spaces. Briar hadn't connected the two lessons for a long time. Nor had Briar seen any of the rude incomers more than once.
Briar held to his manners. Behind him, the sea roiled in a hiss of foam and spray. Briar's lips were dry and by habit he licked them. He tasted salt. Jaw clenching, he knocked again, more sharply, and raised his voice above the wind skimming in from the sea. He'd forgotten water could be so loud.
"Sorry to disturb you. I'm with the Rangers, looking for—for someone who might help. Anyone in?" A cat—or something currently sounding like a cat—yowled inside the hut. Briar grimaced. Cats didn't like him, and they weren't polite about their feelings. "Anyone there?" he called again.
Briar took a precautionary step down to a lower stone. His hand rested by the gun on his hip; witches could turn a man inside out, but bullets cut through chants with alacrity. Yet he waited, polite as any mother could wish their child. Briar might have sent enough bullets to targets to be confident he could draw clean, but he didn't have taste to shoot unless he had no other choice.
His distaste—and, what had Adrienne called it? An "unshakeable yet inscrutable moral compass"—was how come Briar didn't make it with the law. In comparison, the Rangers—and in particular, Adrienne, his team leader—valued Briar's steady hands and sense of independence, and his willingness to chase a contract like he didn't want the devil to get there first. The central office sometimes played coy with information, but Briar trusted Adrienne, and in turn she allowed him a long leash. As a result, Briar had been running for near six years after one thing or another. He'd gotten to like it. The weight of life in his hands, and the magnanimousness of allowing it to continue.
At least, until returning to Lastings. It had been barely an hour but he regretted taking the train. Lastings had its own rules, as inscrutable as the sea, and Briar had never been good at following them.
With a jerk, the hut door opened and a voice came out, shortly followed by a young person with purple hair and an unimpressed expression. Briar scratched his eyebrow, trying to cover for his surprise; the last witch he had knowingly met had been much older, and quick with his driftwood cane.
"I'm Lena," the witch said. Lena toed back their familiar, a scra
wny ginger cat, to keep it from crossing the threshold, then levelled a look at Briar. "Don't you know better than bellowing about a body's place of residence before you ever done met a person?"
"I apologise for my lack of manners," Briar said, as heat rose in his cheeks. "I didn't mean anything by it."
"So long as you didn't mean nothing by it, I guess."
Briar cleared his throat. "Thank you. Might I ask you some questions? My name's Briar Augustin. I'm a Ranger, you might've heard me say." He flashed his identification, a brass star that once had a matching chain. The star used to have fewer dents in it.
"Whole town heard you say." Lena's lip twitched, somewhere between a sneer and a smirk. "What brings you to my door in particular, Ranger?"
"I'm told this is the place to begin. That things in Lastings have rules."
For a long minute, it didn't seem Briar would get any further in his investigation than Lena's doorstep, but then they relented and jerked their chin toward the hut. "Come on in and ask your questions. Mind, I ain't particularly promising answers."
Invitations from witches were rare and polite invitations rarer still. Briar ducked his head, would've removed his hat if he wore one, and stepped up to follow Lena inside. He waited for the familiar to pass first, of course; Briar mightn't have considered himself a Lastings boy for a long time, but some things stayed deeper than bones.
Some things could only be mined out.
"Ranger Augustin?"
Briar started, realising his hand still lay on the doorknob. He closed the door. The light in the hut was dim but warm yellow. The air smelled green from the plants hanging from the ceiling and lining the room, which seemed bigger than it should, with the kitchen and the bed and all. Briar wondered what Lena did for a washroom.
"Sorry," he said. He went to lick his lips but stopped and bit his tongue instead.
Eyes narrowed, Lena lit a cigarette and waved it around a time or two before raising it to their lips and sucking like it had done them a disservice. Tobacco filled the space with a bitter cloud, and they rested the cigarette on an ashtray before taking a seat on the lawn chair at what must've served as their kitchen table. They pushed out the other chair with their foot and looked at Briar expectantly.
A little under six foot, Briar likely weighed an extra fifty pounds on Lena. He eyed the wicker chair with trepidation. It creaked when he sat, but held. Magic.
"Your questions," Lena said, as Briar settled. "You're here for Dupont, ain't you?"
"You know her?"
They huffed, glancing at him quick then away to the sill. A little tomato plant sat there, snug among its cousins, optimistically stretching for the sun. "I know the name. A messy critter, blowing through town like she owns it. She carries a spectre with her and the sea don't care for that. It's dangerous."
Briar wondered if he should take notes. "The spectre, or the sea?"
"What?" Lena's gaze returned to him from the sill.
"You said 'it's dangerous'. The 'it' was a little vague for my understanding."
"It's a little—Both. All. The spectre and the sea and Dupont, all of them are dangerous, and now I'm thinking maybe you are, too. Are you dangerous, Ranger Augustin?" Lena asked.
"I don't endeavour to be."
Lena picked up their cigarette and sucked. Sparks flared within as they dragged deep and breathed out, thoughtful. They had one elbow cupped in their other hand, their smoking hand relaxed as they flicked ash with their thumb. The pose made Briar think of movies at the picture house. Like they should be in black and white.
He leaned forward across the table, cautious not to move too quick for the familiar still padding between his feet. No one said who held the most magic, the witch or the familiar, but in the room of three, Briar wasn't even in the running. "If you can help me find Dupont, I would be grateful. I could move the danger out of Lastings that Dupont brought with her."
"The spectre, or the sea?" Lena asked, being contrary for the damned sake of it. Briar recognised the type.
"I don't much think the sea is going anywhere, and nor would the Rangers have a place to hold it. But we have a place for Dupont, and her ghost, if we must."
Lena stubbed out their cigarette then grabbed the tomato plant from the windowsill. The sudden movement made Briar twitch for his gun, but he forced himself to settle, and waited as Lena plucked leaves from the plant and crumbled them into the ashtray. They spat, a gross noise that made Briar wrinkle his nose. Lena smirked at his expression and stirred the mess with their finger, knocking his ankle as they stretched to scratch their familiar's ruff. The cat purred like distant thunder.
The ash in the tray shimmered, and the hairs at the back of Briar's neck shivered at the presence of magic. He could smell oranges, the sharp citrus scent making his nostrils flare. The smell dissipated and Lena wiped their hand clean on their shirt before sticking it back in the mess and daubing their finger with a thick layer of whatever it was. They looked at him. Briar looked back.
"You gonna let me lay this on you or you gonna sulk about it?" Lena asked.
Never refuse a witch's blessing. Briar knew that, though he'd never been offered the opportunity before. Didn't mean he looked forward to receiving spit and dirt.
Adrienne wouldn't forgive him losing the lead on Dupont. Briar wouldn't forgive himself.
He stuck out his hand. "Please and thank you."
"You have manners, at least. Even if they're out of date some."
Before Briar could change his mind, Lena grabbed his hand and smeared the concoction on the back of it, some symbol he didn't recognise. Magic hadn't been taught at his school and he remembered only the palest shade from his time in Lastings, stories other children had shared during nights when the sea looked like another sky. His family hadn't been born in magic, anyhow, and he'd been thankful for it.
Briar's skin burned for an instant until the pain faded and took the symbol with it. Ash sank into his skin without a trace. He flexed his fingers and resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers or scratch it bloody.
"This will help me find Dupont?" he asked, to have it said.
Lena shook their head and Briar nearly vomited from the sudden twist in his gut. Witches could lay their hands and a man would fall down dead between one breath and the next. He'd thought himself safe, having been invited inside, but an invitation didn't mean shit if Lena had changed their mind. They'd said he was out of date. What did that mean? Briar's pulse shushed in his ears like the sea in a shell. He swallowed back bile.
Then Lena shook their head again, bright hair fluttering, mouth twisted wryly like they knew his thoughts. "It won't help you find Dupont, but it won't harm you neither, Briar Augustin, whose daddy were a fisherman and whose mother taught me poetry."
"You know me? It's been—"
"Near ten years. You think a decade's long enough Lastings don't know its own when you swagger in like there's salt in your blood?"
Briar bared his teeth, quick as a habit he'd forgot he had. "There's no damn salt in my blood."
The familiar hissed, but Lena only leaned back in their chair, making it protest. They nodded, slow, as if admitting he was right and they were wrong. Briar's hands shook with the force of his denial. He didn't reach for his gun.
"You're right. I apologise. You got no salt in you." Lena sketched a symbol idly onto the table. They glanced up at him, their eyes big and sad as the moon on a cloudless night. "The working will help you find Dupont's spectre, for without it you ain't never finding Dupont. You need Quinn Lawrence, see."
Briar's mouth went numb. The name rose from within him like a dark tide. "Quinn Lawrence?"
"That's right." The familiar leapt onto Lena's lap and they skritched it behind the ears. Its tail flicked like it was pleased. Lena made a kissy face at it but sobered when they looked back at Briar. "I'm sorry. I know you loved him once."
Everyone had known. "We were boys."
"Don't stop it being real."
"He k
illed three people."
"That's what they say."
Rattling against the window made Briar start. A storm had been promising an appearance all day, the air sticky and humid and the sky bowing with clouds, the last effort of late summer. Seemed it had finally dragged on in. Briar smoothed his hands down his thighs. He was glad he'd worn his boots. Nothing made a man feel worse than wet feet.
"Quinn Lawrence," he said again. He hadn't heard the name in years. Tasted same as always. "You know what else they say about him, don't you?"
TWO
Quinn had been born with salt in his heart. That's what they said, the older folks who sat at the shore, their gnarled fingers nimble over fishing nets and deft with scaling knives. When they were boys, Quinn had told Briar how his mama held his wrist tight when the fisher folk creaked with laughter, her head high as she dragged him across the beach from where he'd been playing among the rocks. She never saw how gentle their eyes were, Quinn said. She only saw people in town crossing themselves as she marched him uphill to the lonely house on the path where Lastings met the cliffs; the edge of the world, the highest point in Lastings, as far as Quinn's daddy could go from the shore.
After his mama left, Quinn's daddy went grey and rough as the sea in a storm, near enough to deserve what they did to him. At least that's how Briar'd thought when he heard the story from his own daddy, who heard tell from the few in Lastings that deigned to speak with folk who abandoned the sea for the valleys. That'd been three years prior to the hunt for Dupont, and the knowledge had darkened Briar's memories since.
They called it mining, what those men did to Quinn's daddy. Like he'd been a seam they longed to follow to the source and from there pluck riches like they thought they deserved. But Quinn's people weren't from the land, and all those bastards mined from Quinn's daddy was darkness, releasing it from the cage of flesh and blood and bone where it had been residing peaceably for Quinn's two-and-twenty years.