The street was dark and damp, apart from the warm glow of infrequent gas street lights. It was a quiet evening in Bacester. Even with the sun still in the air, Gloom Valley sat in darkness under a heavy cloud of smoke and soot. The buildings cast shadows on the narrow streets like a forest of brick and mortar.

  Cyril Rigley, a middle-aged man wearing little more than rags, hurried down the street, frequently looking over his shoulder. His ragged shoes padded on the ground, his toes slapping against the damp stones of the sidewalk.

  His life as a factory worker had been hard and long. There was little joy in the day-to-day, but Cyril continued working, trying his best, hoping for a better life. He had gotten by for almost forty years. That was better than many of his peers could say.

  But he had made a mistake by using his ability. So many of his peers used their abilities daily to assist them if theirs were a helpful kind. Cyril never used his. He hadn’t since he was a child. It was too dangerous, he knew. He’d made a mistake, and now a figure had been following him since he left the factory.

  Cyril wiped a dirty sleeve across his eyes, leaving more soot than he’d wiped away. He turned down an alleyway and pulled on a door, only to find it locked.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  The figure appeared in the mouth of the alley. It was a woman with her hair tied back. She wore loose, baggy clothing and no hat, though she was too clean to be a factory worker.

  “Who are you?” Cyril asked. She looked like an improper noblewoman, not the type of person he expected to be trailing him.

  “Cyril Rigley, you are labeled as Noxious and are sentenced to death,” she said calmly. She stood menacingly, casting a long shadow from the gaslight behind her.

  “Noxious?” He stared at her and tried to turn the door handle again. It shuttered, locked in place.

  “Your ability has been deemed dangerous, too dangerous to exist. Your death will ensure the safety of others.” She took a few steps forward. Her feet landed gently, silently. Four glowing, bright blue darts appeared in her closed fist, each sticking out between her fingers.

  “I haven’t done anything.” Cyril let go of the door. “I didn’t hurt anybody.”

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  “You have the potential to hurt others. That’s all it is.” She continued walking closer, slowly closing the distance between them.

  “Who are you?” he asked, trying to buy time. There was nowhere to go. He only had one option and didn’t want to use it.

  “You can call me Millie.”

  Cyril tried the door again. When it didn’t budge, he imbued his mana into the door handle and stepped away. Ten seconds. That’s all he needed. He slowly walked away from the door, watching the woman approach.

  “Do you do this a lot, Millie?”

  “Everyday.” She lifted her fist to her chest. The mana darts between her fingers cast a soft glow on her tunic.

  “Am I the first innocent man you’ve killed?” Cyril asked, taking another step away from the door. Millie matched it, stepping forward.

  “Anyone deemed Noxious isn’t innocent.”

  Cyril watched the handle, counting down. “Two, one . . .” He ducked, placing his arms over his head. The door handle exploded, throwing bits of wood and metal into the alleyway. Cyril sprinted forward as fast as he could, careful not to slip with his ragged shoes falling apart with each step.

  Millie stood in the same place with cuts along her cheeks. He ran right past her, ducking inside the building. She coughed behind him and followed. The blue glow of her darts was the only light inside, helping Cyril keep an eye on her.

  He felt his way around, running his hands along the shelves. It appeared to be the back room of some shop. Cyril assumed the merchant could afford to replace broken goods. His hand found a jar of pickled onions. Mana flowed from his palm into the jar.

  “Ten,” he whispered, starting the countdown in his head.

  “Cyril, give it up.” Millie walked down a row of shelves. She looked back and forth, rapidly scanning the area for him.

  Cyril crouched at the end of the row, staying below a stack of wooden boxes. “Five,” he whispered to himself.

  A glowing blue dart exploded out of the box near his head, throwing shredded wood near his feet. Cyril stood and lobbed the jar. It sailed through the air with the blue glow of Millie’s darts shining off its glass surface.

  She ducked, covering her head as the jar exploded right in front of her. A fireball and bits of glass filled the aisle, wrecking everything on the shelves. Cyril stayed standing, watching, as the smoke cleared. Millie stood in the same spot. Her hair was singed, even burning a little, and burn marks marred her face. Her clothes, meanwhile, were still pristine, if a little dirty. She had three darts remaining between her fingers.

  “A good effort,” she said. Her hand whipped out, launching the darts. They easily pierced Cyril’s shoulders and chest, passing right through as if his body was made of butter.

  He staggered, falling onto his back, landing heavily on the shredded wood. Cyril gasped, trying to choke down some air. He looked up, putting his chin on his chest, only to see a hole right through his sternum.

  “Hm.” Millie stood over him for a moment. “Another down.” She calmly walked away, leaving Cyril on the floor as he fought for air.

  The Masked Crows. It's available as an awesome paperback, on Kindle, and KU.

  It's my favorite story I've written so far and I have some great plans for the sequels.

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