“Nine divines and seven hells. Gods.” The Captain cursed to a higher authority than he’d ever done. “Thrice-damned devils.” The trail had abruptly run cold, colder than the frosted raindrops that pelted the darkened city streets; roughly as cold as the girl he’d been tracking, whom he’d just found frozen solid.
He shook the moisture from a cigarette and pulled from his cloak a small brass dragon, crafted by magic and sold by the dozen to agencies all over the city. He held the dragon in place at chin-height, twisting its tail until a tiny blue flame bubbled its way out of the trinket’s jaws and onto the suddenly-dry hempen paper. The downpour bent around the cerulean embers as he stared at the girl, whose lips would never make another letter aside from O.