Evelyn Harrow walked quickly along the cobblestone road, arms crossed against her chest. The chill nipped at her sleeves and climbed beneath the collar of her blouse. She rubbed her forearms and muttered to herself.
"Should've brought a damn coat."
She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but fog and lamplight. Her heels clicked softly against the stones. The road twisted with the slope of the hill, uneven and chipped at the edges, but still familiar. Her thoughts wandered to the charity event—how long it dragged on. Hours of shaking hands and avoiding questions. Then the haze of her office after, and the weight of those dreams again. She'd drifted asleep without meaning to, and woke well past sundown, head pounding like she'd smoked a pack before noon.
She hadn't. In fact, she cursed under her breath—she didn't even have one joint left in her purse.
The fog thickened near the edge of town, where the buildings turned to scattered shacks and lean-tos. She reached one now—half-rotted wood with a tin roof that buzzed from the inside like something electric. She knocked three times. Waited. Knocked again, a little more urgently.
Eventually, the door creaked open.
A short man with a thick mustache peered out. His shirt was half-buttoned, and he held a spoon in one hand.
"What can I do you for?"
"Can I come in first?" she asked, glancing behind her again.
He stepped aside.
—
The door to the Black Harpoon swung open with a gust of sea air and the smell of the dock. Laughter from the table in the corner died mid-breath. Glasses hovered an inch from lips. All eyes turned toward the entrance.
A man stepped in, shoulders squared and boots heavy. Blue shirt, black trousers—creased and spotless. A badge glinted beneath the lapel. Vundoran police. Elias recognized the cut immediately. He'd seen the uniform in the capital before—crisp lines, quiet authority, the smell of sweat under cheap cologne. But this was the first time he'd seen it here.
The officer paused just inside, water dripping from his coat. His gaze swept across the bar before settling, pointedly, on Elias.
Elias didn't blink.
A sharp knock drew the officer's attention. The bartender tapped twice on the wood, eyes flicking toward the backroom door. No words. Just the kind of silent message shared between people who've worked long hours together.
The officer stepped forward, leaned over the bar. The bartender disappeared into the rear room.
Elias watched him.
"Fishing in murky water," he thought, "isn't about what you see. It's about what you stir."
His fingers traced the rim of his glass, slow and idle.
"You cast a line and you wait—not for sight, but for vibration. You don't tempt the fish with clarity, you rattle the lure. You move the current, you tap the reeds. You make the quiet things twitch."
The officer straightened just as the bartender returned. She handed over a long, slim wooden box—dark lacquer, rope-tied. The kind of thing you'd keep a bottle in. Or hide something worse.
The officer tucked it beneath his arm and gave her a nod.
Then, before heading to the door, he looked at Elias again. Just long enough for it to be something.
Elias lifted his glass in a lazy salute.
The officer left.
The bartender caught his eye as she returned behind the bar—expression unreadable, jaw set.
Elias leaned forward, one hand drumming the wood. Then he stood, gave a long, slow stretch that pulled at the seams of his coat, and made his way to the bar. He sat on the stool nearest the corner, just beneath the hanging light.
"Next round's on me," he called toward the table of men.
Cheers went up. Chairs shifted. The laughter returned, clumsy and eager.
Elias smiled thinly and asked for a refill of the bourbon. The bartender poured without comment.
"Your date still running late?" she asked, voice dry.
He looked at her sidelong. "Not if you keep me company."
She rolled her eyes and turned away, arranging bottles that didn't need arranging.
Elias sat there, taking slow sips, eyes drifting to the door.
"Wolves don't go for the ones who walk alone," he thought. "They go for the ones who walk in fear. That's what they smell. That's what they follow."
He tapped his glass again.
"This town's full of watchers. Waiting to see if I'm bait or threat. You don't play into their rhythm. You set your own."
The door swung open again.
And this time, Elias smiled.
The trio stepped inside. Boots scuffed, coats damp, eyes hunting. The smuggler led the way, jaw clenched tight, that same sharp twitch in the cheek Elias had seen before. The other two flanked him—one tall with a crooked nose, the other wide-shouldered and scowling.
Elias didn't turn his head. Just sipped his bourbon. But his eyes tracked them in the mirror behind the bar.
The smuggler made a line straight for him and stopped too close. Close enough to smell the sweat beneath the cologne. Close enough to see the crackle in his pupils.
He didn't speak. Just glared.
Elias tilted his glass, taking his time. When he set it down, he smiled.
"Joseph," he said smoothly, a name pulled from nowhere but delivered like an old friend. "Long time. I missed you at the dock."
He glanced over the man's shoulder. "I see you brought some buddies."
The smuggler blinked—caught off guard by the tone. He looked at the bartender.
Elias noted the glance, filed it away. So. Not in charge. And you know it.
"You boys looking to drink?" Elias added casually, swirling the last of his bourbon. "Shame. I just bought the last round. You missed it."
The smuggler's lips curled.
"You think this is a game?"
The bar quieted.
The laughter at the back faded to tension. The men who'd cheered Elias a moment ago now sat straighter, eyes flicking between the trio and the bar. The smuggler's friends shifted too—barely, but enough.
Elias could feel the current change. There it was.
"They're still," he thought, "waiting for that all-too-familiar scent. That signal. The weakness. The blood."
He knocked his glass lightly on the bar. "Refill," he said, smiling at the bartender. "And get a drink for my date."
The smuggler twitched. Then snapped.
His hand shot out and grabbed Elias by the shirt, yanking him halfway from the stool.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
The smile dropped from Elias's face.
He looked at the hand. Then at the smuggler's eyes.
Not quickly. Not panicked.
Just deeply.
"Are you sure you want to do that?"
The question landed like a stone in water.
Before the smuggler could answer, the bartender's voice cut across the room—sharp, controlled.
"You either play nice or you leave. You boys know the rules."
All eyes shifted.
The smuggler's eyes went red. His neck pulsed with heat. But after a beat, he let go—slowly, too slowly—then brushed the front of Elias's shirt in a mock attempt to straighten it.
"Apologies," he muttered sarcastically, and tapped Elias's shoulder twice.
"I'll be seeing you."
Elias picked up his fresh glass, raised it just slightly. "I'm sure you will."
He chuckled, sipping again.
The smuggler stalked off. His friends followed.
The room breathed.
Elias leaned back on his stool and cast a glance at the bartender, grin already forming.
She didn't return it.
"You're paying for their drinks," she said flatly.
He opened his mouth to protest.
She raised one eyebrow.
He shut it again.
But as he pulled out his wallet, the grin returned. A little more tired. A little more knowing.
The easy part's over, he thought.
Next comes the hard part.