Episode 8: What We Keep

Hell's Broker 1: Echoes of Ink and Fire

Blood tastes different when you're running on borrowed time.

I spat copper into the gutter as we stumbled from the Blackwater ruins, my ribs screaming protest with every step. The Auditor's curse flared beneath my skin like a brand, reminding me that staying upright was a temporary privilege, not a permanent right.

Mercury padded at my heels as we staggered through the empty streets, her paws silent on the broken pavement. Every few steps she looked back, fur bristling, like she could still hear the echoes of Blackwater chasing us. She stayed close enough that her warmth brushed my ankle, the one steady rhythm in our uneven retreat.

Darius leaned heavy against Lilith's shoulder, his face gray with exhaustion. The connection the Chorus had forged into him during the attack pulsed like an infected wound beneath his shirt, and I could feel it trying to sync with my own cursed mark. Two broken frequencies looking for harmony.

Loki picked glass from his hoodie, grinning despite the blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow. "So. That was fun. On a scale of complete disaster to total catastrophe, I'd rate that a solid apocalypse with a side of oh-shit."

I couldn't argue. Whatever had happened at Blackwater, it wasn't over. The Chorus hadn't just been recording our actions. They'd been authoring them, writing us into their script one choice at a time.

"Where now?" Lilith asked, scanning the empty street for surveillance. Her knives were already back in their sheaths, but her stance screamed readiness for the next fight.

Before I could answer, a familiar voice cut through the night. "Here."

Eizek stepped from the shadow of a loading dock like he'd been waiting there for hours. Probably had been. The old tattooist moved with the patient certainty of someone who always knew three moves ahead.

"This way," he said, not waiting for agreement.

We followed him through a maze of side streets and forgotten alleys until we reached a row of abandoned houses that looked like broken teeth against the Baltimore skyline. He stopped at one with boarded windows and a door that had been welded shut, then pressed his palm against a glyph carved into the frame. The metal seal dissolved like sugar in rain.

"Welcome to safehouse three of seven," he said, pushing the door open. "Salt lines, silver mesh in the walls, and wards that predate the Civil War. Nothing gets in without bleeding for it first."

The interior was sparse but functional. Mismatched furniture, blackout curtains, and enough weapons to arm a small rebellion. The air tasted of old magic and older secrets.

I collapsed onto a couch that had seen better decades, fighting the urge to pass out. The curse mark was spreading, thin tendrils of corrupted ink crawling up my ribs like seeking fingers. Whatever the Auditor had done to me, it was getting worse.

Mercury leapt onto the armrest beside me, her tail flicking in agitation. The cat pressed her head against my shoulder, purring hard enough to make the curse pain ease for a heartbeat. Her amber eyes scanned the room as if weighing every shadow, the quiet guardian who never needed to be asked.

"Hold still." Eizek knelt beside me, his hand pressing flat against my ribs, over the faint lines he'd carved into me days ago. The ward flared once, and the tendrils of ink froze, caged for now.

"So that one wasn't decorative," I muttered half-jesting.

"None of them ever are," he replied.

I gritted my teeth as the flare faded. "Your Fold friends keep dropping your name like it's supposed to mean something. Care to explain?"

His eyes flicked toward me, unreadable. "Later."

Darius slumped into a chair, pulling his shirt open to reveal the chaos the Chorus had made of his chest. The original burn glyph was barely visible beneath layers of recursive script that twisted and reformed even as we watched.

"It's getting stronger," he admitted. "I can hear them sometimes. Whispering about scenes yet to come. Lines I'm supposed to deliver."

"Lines about what?"

His eyes found mine, and I saw fear there. Real fear. "About my sister."

The words hit like ice water. I sat up straighter, ignoring the fresh wave of pain from the curse. "Keisha."

"They call her leverage. They say she's the pressure point that makes me dance." His voice cracked. "She's nineteen, Larissa. Seventeen and brilliant and she thinks I'm just her stupid older brother who sends money for college. She doesn't know about any of this."

Lilith exchanged a look with Eizek. "If they want the girl, they'll take her. The Chorus doesn't make empty threats."

"No," I said, the word coming out harder than I'd intended. "Nobody writes her into this script. We pull her out tonight."

Eizek's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "Johns Hopkins dorms. Three blocks of student housing with minimal security. Doable, but risky."

"Everything's risky now." I struggled to my feet, testing the limits of the curse. "Darius, which building?"

"McCoy Hall, fourth floor. But Larissa, if they're watching"

"Then we move fast and hit hard." I looked around the room at the collection of broken people who'd somehow become my crew. "Lilith, you're point. Loki, perimeter watch. Eizek"

"I'm staying here," he said quietly. "To anchor the wards and monitor frequencies. If this goes sideways, head for the harbor. And grab the comm gear on your way out."

I wanted to argue, but he was right.

Lilith swept past the weapons rack to a metal case by the door, popping it open to reveal a nest of small electronic devices. She tossed earpieces to each of us with practiced efficiency, keeping one for herself and pocketing two spares. The gear was military grade, designed to work through interference that would scramble civilian radios. "Channel seven," she said, fitting the piece into her ear. "If we get separated, Eizek can track us and coordinate extraction."

Twenty minutes later, we stood in the shadow of Johns Hopkins University, watching the dorms like predators sizing up prey. The campus was dead quiet, just security lights and the occasional drunk student stumbling home from parties that had ended hours ago.

McCoy Hall rose six stories into the night, all brick and institutional arrogance. Keisha's room was a lit window on the fourth floor, marked by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the blue flicker of a laptop screen.

"She's awake," Darius said, checking his phone. "mid-term week. She always pulls all-nighters."

"Good. Conscious people are easier to evacuate." I checked the glyphs on my arms, feeling for any resonance that might give us away. "Lilith, can you get us inside without triggering alarms?"

She nodded toward a service entrance. "Fire door. Old lock, older alarm system. Give me two minutes."

We moved across the quad like ghosts, hugging shadows and avoiding the security cameras. The curse mark burned with each step, but I pushed the pain down. Focus first. Agony later.

Lilith made quick work of the lock, her glyph etched knives serving double duty as picks and alarm breakers. The door swung open on silent hinges.

The stairwell was a monument to institutional aesthetics: beige walls, fluorescent lights, and the kind of carpet that had given up hope sometime in the eighties. We climbed in silence, Loki's imp senses testing for surveillance while I fought the growing certainty that we were walking into a trap.

Fourth floor. Room 412. Darius knocked softly, a pattern that sounded familiar.

"Keisha. It's me. Open up."

Movement inside. The sound of a chair scraping back, footsteps approaching the door. "Darius? What the hell are you doing here? It's three in the morning."

"I need to talk to you. Face to face. It's important."

The door opened, revealing a young woman who looked like her brother filtered through intelligence and optimism. Keisha Vale had Darius's strong jawline but softer eyes, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing Johns Hopkins sweatshirt, pants and the kind of glasses that suggested actual studying rather than fashion.

Her desk was a battlefield of ordinary college survival: empty Red Bulls, highlighters without caps, ramen cups stacked like miniature towers, post-it notes reminding her of exams. The kind of mess that spoke to late nights and futures still unwritten.