City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [91]
He realized that he was even beginning to get attached to the place, and perhaps, with a little effort, he and Marysa might make love like they used to in the old times. Their relationship wasn’t quite as perfect as it used to be back in the day, some hundred and fifty-odd years ago, but since they’d repaired things between them a few months previously, they were at least considerably more intimate. They were starting to read the little gestures again, to hold eye contact a little longer. Gentle touches across the other’s cheek or ones directed against the side of the neck. Their relationship was being rebuilt in the little details, which made nights like this all the more important.
In rolled-up shirtsleeves, his tail extended well out of the way for fear of splashing it with hot oil, Investigator Rumex Jeryd set about the task of making dinner for two. Marysa had begun to hum a tune in the other room while she stoked the fire, a song he couldn’t recognize, but it felt as if they’d begun dating all over again. Her body was becoming noticeably better toned with her martial-arts training, and she was now confident, said she could handle herself in any physical confrontation, a claim that left her open to his innuendo. Though it also helped make him more conscious of his own expanding paunch.
Who’d have thought an old coot like me could still feel like a kid falling in love at this age . . .
He unwrapped the steaks and laid them sizzling in the hot pan. He turned to unhook some dried rosemary, which wasn’t as cheap as it should have been.
Damn rip-off traders.
Within a minute, something began smelling bad.
He lifted the pan away from the stove immediately, and examined the steaks with his investigator’s eye.
Marysa popped her head around the doorway. ‘They’re not done already, are they? You only just put them on!’
Jeryd gave a bitter laugh. ‘Something’s not right with these.’
She approached him, laid a hand on his shoulder, her perfume a pleasant contrast to the smell emanating from the pan. She said, ‘Has the meat gone off?’
‘No, I bought these steaks earlier, didn’t I, and they looked fresh to me. I mean, they weren’t dried out or anything.’ It then struck him that the smell reminded him of something – and not something from a wholesome source.
‘It can’t be . . .’
‘What?’ Marysa demanded.
‘No, it just can’t be.’
‘What?’ she repeated, now irritated. ‘What do you think it is, Rumex?’
Jeryd placed the pan very carefully on the table, and closely scrutinized the contents. ‘I remember a similar smell from funeral pyres . . . which suggests this meat is either human or rumel. I can’t be sure though – perhaps it’s just some unusual breed of livestock.’
Marysa squealed in shock. ‘That’s vile, it can’t be hominid.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ Jeryd put the pan aside. ‘But in the morning, I’m going to find out where the hell the trader got this from. As I’ve often said, the good investigator always follows his nose.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Streets were cold and narrow. The doorways of the stores were empty, apart from drunks or the insane hopeless.
Brynd was intoxicated by his own nervousness. He carried none of the money Malum had asked for and he had come without telling the others. This was something he had to do alone. So what if he died; the prospect of death seemed to lessen the pressure of having to protect this city, the pressure of being what he was in a world that hated such beings.
Brynd sauntered into an empty iren site two streets away from the Victory Hole tavern, a vast cobbled courtyard with three-storey buildings built up along each side, with only one or two windows showing lantern light. There was a chill to the air and he paused for some time, listening to the sound of his own breath.
Someone hailed him by rank, the sudden sound resonating within the enclosed space. Malum was leaning against the wall over in one corner, arms folded, face