Sometimes, I think I'm lucky.
I mean, kind of. Not in the "things work out" way, but in the... minimalist way. I don't have parents to worry about. No annoying cousin showing up out of nowhere. No friends I have to text back. No debt, not even to the local butcher. No responsibilities. Just Jaden. Just him.
Which, okay, maybe isn't nothing.
But still. It makes life easy. Easier than most. Being a 'Enigma Hunter' means I'm not bound by insurance, or some contract with bullet points and liability clauses. No salary either. Which sucks. But more pay if I do more. Less if I don't. And recently—I've decided to not.
I crash at Jaden's place. A week now. I've taken up residence in his study, living there like a dusty bookend. Just me, my notes, and piles of his scribbles. Jaden's great. He feeds me. He feeds his pets. He feeds himself.
In that order, yes.
Seriously, in Jaden's eyes, his pets are divine beings. Probably reincarnated saints.
I owe him a lot, actually. I only know how to read the Wagonrian script because of him. Didn't even realize how useful that would become until this week. I barely slept. I just kept reading.
"You're really committing," Jaden said from the floor, legs crossed, book in his lap.
He used to read alone. Now I sit nearby. Apparently that makes it more fun?
"People grow, Jaden," I told him, flipping a page. My voice was all wise and solemn. "I've realized something deep. Enlightening."
He tilted his head. "Yeah?"
I looked at him, real serious. "Knowledge... is power."
"Beautiful," he said. Smiling. "You sound like the folks from the Wisdom Sect."
I made a face. "Hey, don't lump me with them. They read like it's their job. We're better. We're agile. Street-learned."
He laughed. Genuinely.
But, yeah. He didn't get it. The way I did. Knowledge—it changes the way you see. A week in his study and the word "Enigma" stopped being just a word. It became a shape. A system. A map.
"I'm heading out this afternoon," I said. Offhanded.
He blinked. "Not staying another day or two?"
He tried to sound casual. But I caught the reluctance. He's not great at hiding it. Still, he's the type who'll always step aside for someone else. Even when it hurts.
"Gotta make money," I said, shrugging. "Landlord's looming. Might repossess my shoes next."
"What's the plan?" he asked. "And I mean besides the whole 'Enigma Hunter' gig."
I took a breath. "Salt Tarvan."
It's not far. 5 Forest Avenue. Holyland district. Just four blocks away from Jaden's apartment. Near enough that I could wander there without losing a toe.
It's a bar.
But it's also a watering hole for the Church of the Saltmother folks. They like the name. Salt Tarvan. Very thematic.
She—Saltmother Veriditas—is considered the Mother of Life. A goddess in roots and stone. Their symbol is a giant tree. Sometimes called the Tree of the World. Or the Tree of Life. Depends on which clergyman you ask.
I don't believe in her. Or any of them. But I'm good at faking it. I can nod in prayer and hum a hymn just fine. Just enough to mingle.
The door's made of ebony. Solid. Heavy. It creaked when I pushed it open. A small bell jingled above. Crisp, musical. Sharp enough to turn heads.
One head, anyway. The bartender. Leaning on the counter, polishing glasses like it was a sacred ritual.
"Welcome," he said, polite and soft. Then went right back to the glass.
The place was quiet. Empty almost. Maybe three people in the corner. Low conversation. Muted laughs.
It was afternoon. Sun still high. Most people were probably working. Rushing. Busy. Not me.
I took a stool. Smiled.
"Got anything you'd recommend?"
He looked like someone who should model gloves. Blonde hair, pale skin, high cheekbones. I hated how effortlessly charming he looked.
"Nice afternoon, right?" he said. "Try a 'Sunshine Afternoon'."
Smiled again. Of course he smiled again.
I pretended I wasn't irritated. "Sounds fancy. Is that something you give to someone... special?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "Special how?"
"Very," I said. "Maybe twice the normal amount."
He paused. Then set the glass down.
"Call me Miles. Hold on a sec."
He turned. Pulled on a rope behind the counter. Subtle, but I noticed it. Likely connected to some hidden bell. Old-school. Very pastoral.
I ran my fingers along the edge of my sleeve. Felt the grain. Watched him.
About a minute passed. Then, she appeared.
She wore a green spinning dress. Emerald green. Almost too bright in this dim place. She moved with that confident ease, like every step had weight and reason.
Brown hair. Dark eyes. Red lips. And on her sleeve, the Tree of Life symbol.
A deacon. Has to be. Not a priest. Definitely not a bishop.
The Church has a hierarchy. Deacon, Priest, Bishop. Jaden's brother Collins is working his way to priesthood. A reserve. A trainee. Bishops rule over regions. Cardinals oversee multiple. And the Pope? He's the voice of the goddess herself.
"Hello, this gentleman is?" she asked.
I gave a polite nod. "Feron Mornez."
"Mr. Mornez," she echoed. Then smiled. "Please follow me."
No name in return. Not even a fake one. She just turned.
I followed.
The Salt Tarvan has layers. Public in the front. Private in the back. It's a gateway between the devout and the fringe. The ones who aren't official. The ones who dabble. Like me.
Every year, someone stumbles into the supernatural. Not all of them join a church. The system can't catch everyone. So, they create outreach points like this.
Offer a drink. A chat. A job. It's bait. But dressed in soft lighting and good liquor.
Other churches do this too. It's not unique.
She led me to a door. Knocked. Waited.
A voice called out. Deep. Calm.
"Come in."
She opened it, gestured me through. Stayed behind.
I stepped in.
Small room. Maybe twenty square meters. Leather couch against the wall. Empty coffee table. Brown wood. Unused.
The desk was massive. Heavy. Behind it sat a bear of a man. Middle-aged. Beard like a bramble patch. Wearing a suit with sleeves rolled. Muscular arms. Hair everywhere.
He had glasses perched on a sharp nose. Didn't suit him. Not even slightly. Made him look like a librarian mid-transformation into a werewolf.
He was reading.
I cleared my throat. "Hello, sir."
He didn't look up.
"Sit," he said. Waved. The wind from his hand hit my cheek.
I hadn't noticed the chair. Wooden. Basic. I sat.
Five minutes passed.
Then, finally, he looked at me.
His eyes—
I froze. Reflexively.
There was no warmth in them. No hint of peace. Not even a shred of compassion. Not the kind you'd expect from the Church of the Saltmother. Not kindness. Not faith.
Just danger.
Madness.
Like a caged thing sizing up a meal.