The Deepest Cut

Old wood, tobacco and liquor were all scents Ceara associated with home, alongside the jeers and catcalls of the men gathered around the densely packed tables. Familiar or not though, they still made her nose wrinkle in disgust. She kept her head down, hiding her grimace beneath her hood as she crossed the tavern to the bar.

Rapping twice on the countertop as she passed, Ceara met the eye of the tall barkeep and jerked her chin toward the back. She didn't wait to make sure he followed.

In the quiet of the storeroom, she discarded her cloak with a muttered oath. A deep gash lined the length of her upper arm, bleeding sluggishly through the makeshift bandages she'd wrapped around the injury.

"Why do I only see you when you're injured?" Ronan asked, easing the door shut behind him as he approached.

Lugging around barrels of ale and drunkards had given her little brother an intimidating figure. He'd towered over Ceara since he'd hit maturity but she hadn't realized how much muscle he'd developed until he brightened the storeroom lights with a flick of his wrist and a whispered command.

"Dicey," she said. "You know better than to use magic so openly."

Ronan shrugged. "No one else is here."

Ceara frowned at him. He knew how little witnesses mattered. Magic was useful in a pinch but too traceable to use so brazenly. She didn't protest further, letting the show of magic go forgotten. There were ways for sorcerers to hide.

"It's about time you started using warding spells," she said.

He grunted and snagged one of the cheaper bottles of whiskey off a nearby shelf. The muscles in his arm rippled with the movement. Ceara regarded him as she unwound the bandages on her arm, relieved to find he was in good health.

"You've put on weight."

"You've lost it," Ronan said. "Don't you ever steal food?"

"If there's time." Ceara snatched the bottle from his hand, bit off the cork and gulped down a mouthful of whiskey before he reclaimed it.

"I suppose you'll want to eat too." Ronan tipped half the whiskey onto Ceara's open wound without warning, gripping her elbow to stop her wrenching away from the sting. "What happened?"

He relinquished both her arm and the bottle a moment later, letting Ceara down another gulp as he gathered the few medical supplies he kept in his storeroom.

"A few uninvited guests," Ceara said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"And you came here?" Ronan scowled. "Were you followed?"

Ceara laughed. "Cute."

He sneered at her, his lips pulling back to reveal crooked teeth. A scar cut along most of his face, his flesh puckered around the wound. One of Ceara's mistakes and the reason why she could never look at him for too long. The glint of gold, however, drew her eye to his mouth where the smooth shine of metal had replaced the expected gaps in his teeth.

She lifted an eyebrow, impressed. "Bartending pays better than I expected."

"Planning on retiring?" Ronan asked.

"With the bounty on my head?" Ceara scoffed. "The only retirement I'll get is an unmarked grave."

Ronan didn't argue, only drenched a needle in whiskey and set about stitching her arm back together again. He didn't say a word as he worked, but his shoulders remained tense and his jaw set.

"Quit making that face," Ceara said. "Your family is safe. I won't make the same mistake twice."

She tore her gaze off the scar marring his cheek. Once was more than enough.

"Why here?" Ronan asked.

"You're my brother," Ceara said. "If somebody found my camp, I figured they'd know about you too. I needed to make sure you were alright."

She watched him bandage her arm. His hands were sure and experienced, each gesture measured and precise. As soon as he secured the binding, she hopped off the boxes she'd perched on.

"I'll go," Ceara said. "Keep an eye out."

"At least clean up first." Ronan dragged a hand through his hair. "You'll draw attention if you go anywhere covered in blood."

"Your wife won't question why a strange woman is in your home?"

"She's visiting her mother," Ronan said. "Besides, I can't send you off without feeding you. Not after you took care of me for so long."

Her gaze cut to his scar again. "I almost got you killed."

With a shrug, Ronan turned away. "Last chance, I won't offer again."

He left before Ceara could thank him. She grabbed her discarded cloak and hesitated as she studied the open doorway. It wasn't safe for her to stay, least of all for Ronan and his new family, yet the prospect of a warm meal convinced her to shuffle up the stairs to her brother's apartment.

Unlike the tavern itself, worn and aged as it was, the upstairs residence was stylish and new.

Ceara paused in the foyer, eyeing the furniture. At odds with the battered furnishings she remembered from her last visit, the apartment barely looked used. If it weren't for the assorted piles of general trinkets and papers discarded by busy hands, the place wouldn't look lived in at all.

A few renovations, especially with Ronan's new bride, were to be expected. Yet the entire apartment looked like it'd been replaced.

Frowning, Ceara trailed her fingers over the back of the couch. The leather of the seat cushions was soft against her skin and, beneath her discerning touch, real. Not the fake, cheaper kind sold to poorer families with ostentatious tastes.

Perhaps Ronan's blushing bride had more money than Ceara assumed.

Good, she thought. She wouldn't have to worry so much about her brother anymore.

Leaving the expensive living room behind, she stepped into the modest but spacious bedroom and made a beeline for the closet. Ronan's clothes hadn't fit her for years but she doubted his wife would miss a tunic or two, especially not with her finances.

Ceara froze as she opened the cupboard, her eyebrow lifting. Far from the lush clothing she'd expected, the majority of the dresses were worn and tattered. Several were of a finer cloth but the others were plain, cut from the same hardy fabric used for work.

"What on Earth?" Ceara muttered, comparing one of the formal dresses with the stained over-shirt of a barkeep, one far too small to belong to her brother. "If you can afford a dress like this, why would you work at all?"

She shifted through a few more clothes, disturbing the scent of the tavern downstairs lingering in the material. Ceara shook her head, moving to retreat. Who was she to judge those with expensive tastes? She, after all, stole priceless artifacts for a living and kept most of the more useful trinkets.

Her keen eye caught on a glimmer of gold and, almost on impulse, Ceara reached deeper into the cupboard. The light barely reached the inky darkness at the back of the closet, yet her fingers curled around the small bottle anyway.

Gold tooth caps, the same Ronan wore. Ceara's fingers trembled as she studied the label. One of the finer merchants in the city. Someone who wasn't anywhere in the price range of a mid-wage barkeep who could barely keep his tavern stocked.

Hooves clattered on the street outside, the ring of steel shoes drawing Ceara from the closet to the window. Habit had her pressing her back against the wall, peeking around the curtain to stare down at the police officers gathering in the street.

She'd covered her tracks. Circling the city twice before weaving her way through the streets, back and forth like someone crazed.

Nobody should've known she was there.

Ronan's heavy footsteps sounded on the floor in the next room and Ceara looked down at the jar of tooth caps in her hand. She didn't need to turn to find him watching her from the doorway.

"Your show of magic earlier, you've reached an accord with the police," Ceara said. She laughed under her breath. "I should've known. You've always hated wards."

"They pay well for the loyalty of sorcerers," Ronan said. "I hoped it wouldn't have to come to this. You were supposed to fall in an ambush, not escape here."

"You're the one who told them where I was."

She should have seen it before. Ronan was the only one who could tell anyone.

Studying the revolver resting in her brother's hand, Ceara tilted her head. "Are you going to shoot me, little brother?"

"If I have to." Ronan pulled the hammer back. "I can't let you threaten my family anymore."

The officers in the street dismounted, waving each other to silence and waiting with all eyes turned on the tavern.

"It wasn't simple enough to tell me to stay away?" Ceara asked.

"You'd never listen," Ronan said. "With both of us alive, you'll never leave me alone. Not after you killed our parents." His grip tightened on the revolver. "You're the reason our- my brother is dead. I will not stand here and do nothing while you kill my wife and child too."

"I'm disappointed in you, Ronan." Turning the glass jar over in her hands, Ceara tipped the gold tooth caps into her palm. "Selling your loyalty for a few teeth and some new furniture. I thought I taught you better than that."

Ronan's gaze cut to the space beneath the bed before he caught himself. He'd always been a bad liar and the telltale sign of hidden funds was enough to make Ceara both proud and devastated.

The distraction, however, was all she needed.

Ceara threw the empty jar at Ronan's head and he reeled to avoid it. The rapport of the revolver made her ears ring but she was out of the room without hesitating. As the tavern's patrons yelled at the officers surging into the building, Ceara slid down the banister to the storeroom.

She rammed her shoulder against one of the shelving units, sending it toppling against the door.

"There's nowhere to go," Ronan said, stumbling to a halt at the top of the stairs. "Give up, Ceara."

"All these years," Ceara said, disgusted, "and you still don't know me at all."

She kicked the rug out from beneath the buckled shelves, heaving up the trap door hidden beneath it as Ronan thundered down the stairs. Ceara spared him a deep, condescending bow and dropped into the sewers beneath the tavern.

As the filthy water swept her away, the belligerent shouting of her brother and the officers storming his home faded into silence.