Skin tones of every color and shade blend into the masses. Monsters of every shape and size create a bustle, and a few humans are sprinkled into the mix. They mostly keep to themselves, though no one bats an eye at them.

  Aside from the military, there is no segregation in the city apart from self-inflicted divides. Humans tend to stick to shops and restaurants run by other humans, and monsters gravitate toward their own kind as well. Advertising never mentions these things outright, but the signs are there.

  ‘Extra-large seating available’ is more of a draw for a Bhotan or Nu’vak than any human.

  Uniforms are plentiful. Black leather stands out as much as it blends in, with soldiers on patrol and others out to grab a bite to eat between shifts.

  No one pays attention to anyone else, and the anonymity is freeing, even if liberty inside these walls is its own kind of illusion.

  After a few blocks, the sweet scent of baked goods floats in my direction. Butter and sugar with a hint of cinnamon make my stomach growl, and I follow my nose to a street market. Shadows cover many of the stands, cast from the tall buildings that frame the streets, but they don’t take away from the color here.

  Pink banners and blue-striped canopies, handwritten signs for wares that dot the stalls in rainbows. A few advertise sandwiches or wraps, and another sells meat pies with flaking crusts, but it’s the steaming platter of rum-soaked donuts that catches my eye.

  I shouldn’t waste my coin on something as frivolous as a snack, though the gurgling growl of my stomach disagrees. Ronan’s bread and Reyes’s muffins are good, but they’re still made with whatever ingredients we have on hand. Here in the city, bakeries have access to delicacies I haven’t tasted in years, and as another waft of sweetness blows my direction, I change course.

  Impulsivity has often been my weakness, and I approach the stall before I can reconsider. The vendor is short with a mess of silvery-white hair, and when she faces me, I’m surprised to realize she’s human.

  Wrinkles crease her kind eyes as she smiles at me. “Something catch your eye?”

  “My nose, actually.” I gesture at the donuts as I dig into my pocket for some coins. “Just one, please.”

  “Ahh, you have exceptional taste. Those are my wife’s favorite, but one is never enough.”

  She grabs a sheet of white paper and rolls it into a cone. Fresh steam billows from the pile as she scoops three and drops them inside.

  “Put your money away, dear,” she says with a dismissive wave. “It’s on the house.”

  “I don’t mind paying,” I insist.

  She shoves the food in my direction with a shake of her head. “You have a look about you.”

  The warmth from the donuts spreads through the paper and heats my palm, and I cock my head at her in question.

  She gestures at the food in my hand. “Like someone who could use a stranger’s kindness.”

  All that thick emotion I’ve stashed away pushes at the lid of its box, threatening to spill over. I try to double down on my blasé expression, but it doesn’t come as easily under her inspection.

  Needing to compose myself, I tear off a piece of donut and pop it into my mouth. A quiet groan forms around the buttery cinnamon and the bite of dark rum.

  “Anyone could use a stranger’s kindness when it tastes like this,” I say once I swallow, and her smile turns pleased. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly,” she says. “I always welcome good conversation.”

  “Why do you set up here and not in the human markets?”

  She offers another smile, this one softer and laced with a quiet, lingering sorrow. “Atlanta was militarized shortly after the rifts opened, but it took decades for the fighting to stop. My father fought in those riots and lost his life for it. It left my mother a widow, but she eventually found love again.”

  She pauses for a long stretch, as if she’s gauging if I’m worth trusting with her story. The assessment feels important, so I don’t interrupt, and soon, she continues.

  “He was what they like to call a monster, but he was very kind and took care of me like I was his own. They didn’t hide their love, and neither side liked that very much. They made sure we knew it, too. Their relationship wasn’t illegal, but there weren’t many places we could go without getting nasty looks from others.”

  She gestures around the marketplace, and I let my eyes wander over its occupants. Sure, it’s mostly monsters, but there are humans woven among them.

  “Things are not so easily divided or defined,” she says, drawing my eye back to hers. “Human, monster… that doesn’t matter as much as one’s heart. When I fell in love, it also crossed that unspoken line. But we were happy, despite the ugly words and opinions of others, and I stopped hiding. I let them see me here.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I say, knowing all too well the hardship of that same forbidden love.

  She shakes her head. “Your struggles make you stronger, whether you want them to or not. Life is funny like that. It doesn’t give us much of a choice. Our scars tell our stories, and I believe they should be worn with pride.” She nods at my eyepatch. “It looks like you have plenty of stories of your own.”

  “That I do,” I agree as I reach up to trace the edge of the leather strap. “Though mine weren’t given for anything quite so noble.”

  She hums softly with a quiet note of doubt lingering in it, and after a pause, her voice is gentle as she says, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

  “True,” I counter, “but there’s a world of difference between being cast aside for daring to show your love and choosing to run from it.”

  “Is that why you’re in the city?” she asks. “Running away?”

  A faint smile curves my lips as I give her my inevitable truth. “I’ve spent years running from it all. Even longer hiding in the shadows I built for myself. It’s time to head straight into the mess I’ve been avoiding.”

  “And will wherever you’re headed get you into trouble?” she asks with an arched silver brow.

  I bite my lip before deciding to put some trust in her. “It might. I have to find it first.”

  “Ah, finding trouble is often the best part, my dear,” she says, and I’m so surprised that I laugh out loud.

  Her eyes crinkle again as she chuckles along with me.

  “It’s a lot more fun to get into than get out of,” I agree.

  “Do you have somewhere to stay while you search?” she asks, and when I shake my head, she nods to herself. “A friend of mine runs an inn on the outskirts of a human neighborhood. It’s a quiet spot where everyone stays to themselves and minds their own business.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place,” I say.

  Finding somewhere to lay my head is the next item on my checklist, and I’m not going to pass up an opportunity when it so readily presents itself.

  She lowers her voice just enough to make the words feel heavier. “If you’re short on coin, he’s known to barter a room for... other favors. Nothing indecent, mind you, but perhaps not strictly legal, if one were to look into the laws too closely.”

  A wry smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “And let me guess… he’s studied those laws very, very carefully?”

  Her eyes twinkle, but her silence answers my question before she asks one of her own. “How familiar are you with the city?”

  My hand tilts back and forth in front of me. “It’s been several years since I’ve been here, but I know my way around well enough.”

  “Go down to the eastern end of River Street and look for the grocery on the right. Something to do with a boar or a buck… I forget the name.” She waves her hand impatiently. “Turn there, and the inn is a few buildings down. It’s called The Keen Pint, and you can’t miss the sign out front. The pub is downstairs, but there are plenty of rooms to rent on the upper levels.”

  She stops to give me an assessing sweep with her eyes. “The owner’s name is Leif. He’ll be suspicious of you in those leathers, but tell him Cornelia sent you. Oh, and save one of those donuts for him. It’ll do the trick.”

  “Thank you, Cornelia,” I say with every ounce of sincerity I can muster. The gentle smile I offer her is the best my frayed nerves will let me shape, but it’s real.

  Not a mask.

  “Thank me by coming back someday and telling me every bit of the trouble you’ve stirred up along the way.”

  Her time-worn fingers close around my wrist, warm and steady despite the lines etched deep into her skin. She holds my gaze with that same knowing look.

  “I hope you find what you’re searching for,” she says, and it feels genuine.

  I squeeze her hand before I turn away and push through the crowd.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Xeni

  Despite the bright sun and stifling heat outside, the inn is gloomy as I step through the door. My vision takes a few seconds to adjust, the lingering green haze fading as the space comes into focus. The pub looks like it’s weathered the past century and a half with little complaint… and even less updating.

  A lacquered bar spans the far wall, and round tables sit in a haphazard pattern across the open room. The wooden floors are rough-hewn, and worn paths have been carved between the bar and the scattered tables, as if generations have walked them so often, the wood had no choice but to yield. Dim lights hang over high-backed booths with faded brown vinyl seats that hug the walls. Once, they might’ve passed for leather, but now they’re cracked and peeling.

  Run-down, like everything else here, but solid in its own quiet way.

  A few patrons occupy stools along the bar, and every head turns as I approach. I’m surprised to spot two monsters among the humans. A short, thin Ror’ganth sits at the far end, his dark green skin blending into the dim corners. Next to him, a Curtiphan watches me with all three eyes, unblinking.

  Both wear civilian clothes, and their suspicion is thinly masked behind polite neutrality. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes, and they study my uniform with measured glances.

  The human behind the bar clears his throat, and it pulls my attention to his tightened jaw and the way his fingers drum once against the countertop before stilling. He’s tall and broad, with a thick graying beard and heavy brows drawn low over sharp eyes.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  The words are less a greeting and more a warning. Not outright hostility, but close. He’s wary and coiled, ready to show me the door if I give the wrong response.

  I glance at the others once more before stepping closer.

  “Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light, though the cheer is out of place in the tense room. “I was told to ask for Leif.”

  “Told by who?” His right hand slips out of sight behind the bar.

  I stop a safe distance away, deciding that’s close enough. “Cornelia sent me,” I explain, glancing again at the monsters who continue to stare. “She said you have lodging?”

  Leif’s shoulders loosen a fraction, the rigid line of them easing as he nods, but he continues to size me up with unblinking focus as his lips pull into a tight, thin line.

  I shift my weight, gaze darting to the patrons once more before I tilt the paper cone towards him. “She, uh, also told me to bring you this?”

  One donut remains inside, and he stares at it for a long stretch before a loud, barking laugh escapes him. The booming sound is so sudden I take a quick step back.

  Leif’s tight smile shifts into something far more smug at my show of nerves. “Pay yer dues then, boy, and come on back.”

  My palms sweat as I hand over the cone, but he only has eyes for his snack. He shoves the entire donut in his mouth and waves for me to follow.

  The stockroom plunges into pitch darkness as the door thuds shut behind us, swallowing the last sliver of light from the pub in a heavy click. Leif flicks on a single bare bulb overhead, the weak glow casting harsh shadows across the cluttered shelves and his broad frame.

  He plants his thick hands on his hips, elbows jutting out like barriers, and fixes me with a steady, unblinking look that feels like it’s peeling back layers.

  “Ol’ Nelly’s always had a soft spot for strays,” he says, his gravelly voice laced with irritation. “What kind of sob story did you feed her?”

  “No sob story. I just need somewhere quiet to lie low while I handle some business in the city.”

  “Business, is it?” He grunts low in his throat, scratching his beard as he studies me. “How long you been pretending to be military?”

  “What?” I ask, though the word comes out sharper than I intend.

  My arms fold across my chest on instinct, as if that could somehow conceal the uniform.

  His eyes narrow as he sighs. “Let’s not start by lying to one another. Nelly wouldn’t send you here if she thought you were a soldier, not with my feelings on the matter.”

  I hold his gaze for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “I am military,” I insist. “Or… I was.”

  “You on the run?”

  I meet his steady blue eyes, searching for anything that feels safe enough to lean on, and settle for a half-truth.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “As far as I know, they think I’m dead.”

  His eyes dart down my frame. “Look pretty alive to me.”

  “So it would seem.”

  He studies me for another tense moment. “How long you planning to be here?” he asks as he brushes the lingering sugar from his fingers onto the dark apron tied around his waist.

  “Until I find who I’m looking for,” I respond. “Could be a few days. Could be longer.”

  “You bringing trouble through my door?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I say. “I’m not here to make waves. The quieter I stay, the better… for both of us.”

  He grunts and folds his bulky arms over his chest. “You got coin to cover a room?”

  “Depends on how long I end up needing it.”

  He nods, mostly to himself, then lets out a drawn-out, weary sigh. “It’s quiet here, and I like it that way. Been running this place thirty years, and everyone knows military sympathizers aren’t welcome through my door.”

  “They don’t do routine checks?” I ask in surprise.

  The military has always kept the civilian-run businesses under its thumb. High taxes, frequent inspections, and plenty of off-the-books violence to ensure the owners stay in line.

  Leif grimaces. “They do. But they stick to the pub and don’t linger longer than necessary.”

  I glance over my shoulder toward the door. “How do you stop them from searching the rooms?”

  “A couple of second-floor rooms only open from the alley,” he explains with that same scowl. “We keep them empty so the patrols have a place to duck out of sight when they need it.”

  I raise a brow as I return my attention to him. “Fuck their side pieces or drink themselves stupid, you mean.”

  He shrugs, no denial in the rise and fall of his shoulders, but the way his jaw tightens tells me everything about his thoughts on the matter.

  “It’s the cost of doing business in this city. Keeps the rest of us unbothered.”

  “That's fair,” I concede.

  “I’ll put you on the fourth floor,” he says after another pause, “in a room facing the street so you can keep an eye on things before you head out. Pay me each morning. If your coin runs low, we can talk about other ways to settle up.”

  “How illegal are those ‘other ways’?”

  One shoulder lifts in another lazy, careless shrug as his mouth twitches in what’s almost a smile, the corner quirking up as if he’s fighting it.

  “Legal enough if nobody catches you.”

  “That’s about as straight an answer as I expected,” I mutter, but the tension between us has eased. “Alright. I appreciate the discretion.”

  He nods and motions for me to follow. The same patrons line the bar, eyes tracking us with mild curiosity as Leif slips behind the counter to grab a key. He leads me to the stairs, pausing at the door at the top of the first flight.

  “This door stays closed… always,” he stresses, staring at me until he's convinced I've heard the gravity in his tone. “Pull it shut behind you, and if you ever find it locked from the other side, stay put, unless you fancy running into soldiers itching for an excuse to poke around.”

  He doesn’t wait for my nod before he pushes it open and lets me through, then closes it firmly before we climb two more flights to the top floor. Up here, the street noise below is reduced to a faint hum, and our footsteps echo on the wooden floors. Leif unlocks room 403, then nudges the door wide and glances inside.

  “Water flow’s steady,” he says as he hands me the key, “but the heat’s hit or miss. You’ll have better luck with hot water if you shower during off-hours.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not too worried about it,” I reply, glancing around the room.

  There’s a double bed with a plain white comforter, a hunter-green armchair by the window, and a round table like the ones in the pub. I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and poke my head into the bathroom. It’s simple, too, with a tight stall shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. Everything carries a faint scent of bleach, but it’s clean.

  “Dinner’s on the house,” Leif adds from the doorway as I step back into the bedroom. “Nothing fancy. It’s usually stew made from whatever the vendors are unloading cheap at day’s end, but if you’re around, there’s a bowl for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, offering a quiet smile. “I mean it. I appreciate everything.”

  He nods once, raps his knuckles on the doorframe, and pulls the door shut behind him. The moment he’s gone, exhaustion settles over me like a heavy blanket, and I sink onto the edge of the bed. The last two days have offered almost no rest, and though I know I should keep moving, the lure of a safe place to sleep is too strong to brush off right now.