The following evening brought rain. It fell in thin needles that turned Brasswick's soot into black rivulets and cast the gaslamps in trembling halos. Elric leaned upon his cane beneath the eaves of a bookbinder's shop, his eyes fixed upon a figure darting between shadows.
The thief moved like liquid shadow herself — a woman draped in soot-black rags, her cloak swallowing the lamplight. He had followed her since dusk, when a boy had sworn he saw "a ghost-lass" bending over the corpse before the constables arrived.
Elric's instincts told him this was no common cutpurse.
He stepped into the rain."You there. Hold."
The figure froze, then slipped sideways into an alley so narrow it seemed built only for smoke. Elric cursed under his breath and gave chase. His cane clicked against the cobbles, his breath clouded in the cold air. Ahead, the woman glanced back — eyes shining silver in the lamplight — then seemed to vanish outright.
Not run. Not climb. Simply… dissolve.
Elric stopped, chest heaving."An Anomalist," he muttered.
A whisper floated from the shadows."Not your enemy, Inspector. Not unless you force me to be."
From the darkness she stepped forth again: a young woman with sharp features and a half-smile too weary for her age. Her cloak seemed to drink the lamplight, her skin pale against the night.
"My name is Selene," she said. "And if you want to keep your city from burning, you'd best stop following me — and start listening."