The shack hunched at the edge of the canal like a rotten tooth, its crooked chimney spewing smoke that smelled of burnt sage and something sharper—chemical, wrong. Jay shouldered the door open, bell jangling like a trench whistle.
"Cole, you old coot!" he barked, breath frosting in the dim light. "Need a resupply. I've run dry."
A girl turned from the shelves.
She was young, early twenties, her hair braided with dried lavender and defiance. Her smile was too bright for the gloom. "Good evening, sir! How can I hel—"
"You're not the old geezer," Jay interrupted, squinting. The room tilted. Focus. Her apron was stained with ink-black splotches. Her hands—smooth, unscarred—clutched a mortar and pestle.
"N-no," she stammered, cheeks flushing. "You're referring to my uncle. He's in the—"
"If it's that ugly rascal again," a voice boomed from the back room, "tell him he should stick it in a cow rather than chasing after you!"
Her blush deepened. "Uncle, I told you not to mention—"
"Mention what? The time he tried to flirt with Widow Hargrave's heifer?"
Cole limped into the room, his wooden leg thumping like a mortar strike. He was a mountain of a man, his arms roped with scars that even the war hadn't etched. A tattoo of a serpent coiled around his neck, its fangs buried in his collarbone. Jay had never asked about it. Some stories stayed buried.
"Ah, it's you," Cole grunted, wiping his hands on a rag streaked with iridescent fluid. "Still drinking river sludge, Boron? That swill'll kill the effects faster than a whore's promise."
"S'your tonic's fault," Jay slurred, collapsing onto a stool. "Weak batch."
"Weak?" Cole snorted. "You're pickling your liver. Sit."
The girl hovered, curiosity warring with caution. "Uncle, should I…?"
"Lira, fetch the blue vial," Cole said, not taking his eyes off Jay. "And don't touch the ones with the wax seals. Last time you 'organized,' I found a banshee root next to the chamomile."
Lira ducked behind the counter, jars clinking. Jay watched her—too young, too clean for this place. Like a sparrow in a slaughterhouse.
"Since when d'you have a niece?" he muttered.
"Since her mother decided dying was easier than raising a brat," Cole said flatly. "Eyes up, Boron."
He grabbed Jay's chin, tilting his face into the lamplight. Jay recoiled at the touch—too much like the medics probing his wounds—but Cole's grip was iron.
"Hmm. Pupils like pissholes in snow. How many voices today?"
"None," Jay lied.
"Bullshit. You're twitchier than a trench rat." Cole released him, nodding at Lira as she returned with a vial. Not blue. Gold. It glowed faintly, like a dying ember.
"Uncle, you said blue—"
"Changed my mind. He needs the strong stuff."
Jay reached for the vial, but Cole snatched it back. "This'll last a week. One drop at dawn. More, and your heart'll explode like a powder keg. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Jay sneered, mimicking the officers who'd sent them into the meat grinder.
Lira leaned forward, her voice soft. "What… does it do?"
The room stilled, Silence resounding so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Cole's jaw tightened. "None of your business, girl."
"Quiets the noise," Jay said, staring at the vial. "Makes the shadows stay shadows."
"Shadows?" Lira pressed.
"Enough," Cole snapped. He shoved the vial into Jay's hand. "Get out. And sober up before you come crawling back."
Jay stumbled to his feet, the tonic burning a hole in his palm. At the door, he glanced back. Lira was watching him, her eyes wide with something he couldn't name—pity? Hunger?
"Uncle," she whispered as the bell chimed Jay's exit. "What's in the gold vial?"
Cole sighed, the firelight carving trenches into his face. "Same thing that's in all his medicine, girl. Lies."
Outside, Jay pressed the vial to his lips.
The first drop tasted of ash and honey.
The whispers stopped.
But somewhere in the canal's murk, something screeched.
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