Strike at Midnight(16)

“This is Jeremiah,” Marcel said. “He came looking for you.”

Marcel was obviously feeling sorry for the kid, as he looked at me with a pitiful look on his face.

“What can I do for you, Jeremiah?” I asked as I sat down on the couch. There was enough distance between us to keep the kid comfortable because I remembered what it was like to be that age and looking like hell itself.

“C-Call me R-Rem,” he stammered, trying to hold eye contact but failing. “It’s easier to say.”

“Okay, Rem,” I said, approaching with caution. “Why did you come looking for me?”

“I heard that you find people,” he said, and he started to twiddle his fingers in the fabric of his smelly tunic. It looked more like a sack with holes cut in it.

“I do, but I usually take them to the jailhouse. Have you got someone you want me to take down there?”

His eyes flickered with fear—just for a quick second—then he shook his head.

“No, lady. I promise. I just want to find my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“He went hunting two days ago and he never came back. I want to see if you can find him.”

Marcel was looking on from the doorway but was no help whatsoever. He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Where do you live?” I asked Rem, and he looked down at his hands.

“We move around.”

“I get that,” I said, understanding he was most likely a stray. That was what they called people around here with no permanent home. “But where are you living now?”

“Me and my brother were staying in a stable house. We got to stay in the barn for helping out with the horses, but the owner threw me out when my brother didn’t come back. He said he couldn’t be responsible for a kid.”

“How old is your brother?”

“Nineteen. He looks after me.”

“No other family?”

He shook his head.

“Okay,” I said, and I wondered if he had brought anything with him. It made me think of the small bundle I had managed to take away with me when I had fled my home. “Where are your things?”

He nudged his leg against a small wrapped-up pouch. It looked dirtier than he did.

“And where are you staying?”

“I’ll find somewhere. I just need you to help me find my brother. That’s all.”

He was avoiding, which was fine with me. When life had dealt you with enough shit, you got used to only trusting yourself.

“How do you plan on paying for my services?” I asked him, because I always charged for my services. In my experience, the only things that came for free had terms attached, and the kid would no doubt feel the same.

“I was hoping I could do some jobs for you. To pay off the debt.”

I nodded and said, “I suppose we could come to some arrangement. But I’m on another case at the moment, kid. A paying one. I can only give you any spare time I have for now.”

“That’s fine,” he said, relief written all over his face. “Any help will be good. I need to find him.”

I looked at Marcel as if to say, Some help here?

He got it—thankfully—and came to sit next to me.

“I might have the odd job you could help with,” he said. “You can crash on my couch for a few days in return, while Rella looks for your brother.”

The kid nodded again but I could tell he wanted to say more. He was struggling with what he would see as kindness, and part of him would be angry for accepting it. At least that’s how I had been.

“Great,” Marcel said. “Why don’t you start by going in the kitchen and making yourself a sandwich? Then you can go off back and hose that dirt off you. We keep a decent place here.”

“Yes sir,” he said, happy to be given a task. It would make him feel more worthy of what he was being given.

“I’ll get you one of my old shirts and some breeches you can roll up once you’re done,” Marcel added. “You’ll have to keep your own shoes.”

My eyes looked down before I could stop myself, and on his feet were pieces of material that had been fashioned into some form of shoe. Rem slowly pulled them out of my view, and I changed the subject.

“Can you read and write?” I asked, knowing I had been blessed with some education before my world had come crashing down on me.

“Some. But I’m better with my hands. And at gathering information.”

“Information?” I asked, my interest piqued.

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s valuable to some people.”

“It is,” I agreed, and it was very valuable to me at this moment. “What do you know of the Stables Gala House?” I asked him. That was one of the places that I was told the duke had often frequented.

“I know it’s a place where they show off the horses for people to buy.”

“For the nobility to buy,” I corrected. It was a place that was exclusive to those who could afford to flaunt their wealth. Or at least pretend it. Sometimes titles didn’t come with coin, but that didn’t matter if you were able to act the part. “It would be easy to dress up as a stable hand and snoop around a little bit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He smiled. “I agree.”