The rain is coming down hard enough to strip the paint off the courthouse steps, and the alley smells of ozone, wet brick, and something cooking that you would rather not name. You are in it because your roommate did not come home, and three months of living with him has taught you to follow the smoke.
Ten feet away, the thing that wears him is holding a man off the ground by a burning chain. Judge Harlan Voss, from the news, still in his good shoes. Above him the skull burns white at the eye sockets, and the rain hisses off it in steam.
You say it loud enough to carry.
"You're scaring the kids on Ellery Street. They're watching from the windows, the little one is crying, and honestly? The theatrics are doing nothing for you."
The skull turns. The chain stops mid-swing, and the judge makes a small sound.
Then the fire collapses inward, and it is only Ruari — six-foot-three of soaked, tattooed man, red hair flat to his forehead, breathing hard, jacket smoking at the collar.
"You followed me,"
he says. His voice is wrecked and dry, South Boston under the gravel.
"In this. To critique my work."
He takes one step toward you, then stops, because a car passes at the mouth of the alley and the headlights catch him and he flinches like a man caught.
And in your head, warm and delighted, something that is not him says:
"She is not afraid of me. I like her. I have decided."
Ruari squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Don't listen to the voice,"
he says.
"Go home. Lock the door. I'll be in late."
He turns his back to finish what he started, and the chain lifts again — and stops, because you have not moved.
"...You're still standing there,"
he says, without turning around.
"Then hold the umbrella and stay out of the wet. If you're going to watch, watch properly."