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The first thing Tom notices about the kid is that his eyes don’t look afraid.
Around them lies a small battlefield of broken people in various stages between life and death—their punishment after what they tried to do today. Their intended victim is gagged. His small hands are tied. Blood runs from a nasty gash on his temple. Most of his clothes are torn off. And yet these young eyes stare up at Tom with nothing but reverence.
It shouldn’t feel this profound given how nearly skin and bones the boy is. His face is haggard beneath the remains of baby fat curving his cheeks, his ribs protrude, and it isn’t the first time Tom saved a gamin from a cruel fate. They are always in awe. They’re always afraid too.
Not this one.
His breath goes calm, and he doesn’t look away as Tom discards the last rat into the blind alley. It lands there with a meaty thud, its cooling lifeblood mingling with the dust.
Save for the muffled groans from the others, there’s nothing but silence. No movements on the rooftops. No sign of followers from the corner leading to the main street. Tom wipes his knife before he stores it away.
“You all right?” he asks.
The eyes blink without any further movement, and Tom wonders whether the kid is apathetic or in shock.
Maybe he shouldn’t remove the gag. Cornered children can bite, and with all the filth down here, Tom might come home with more from this impulsive rescue mission than the new contusions itching in his knuckles.
The boy looks at Tom’s skinned hand now as though he knew of the sting. Still not scared.
From this close, Tom can make out the improbable freckles poking between layers of dirt and bruises on milk-pale skin. The short hair appears to be not dark as he always assumed, but skillfully sooted with the faintest trace of vibrance beneath.
Embers, he thinks for no reason he can tell. Black and white with fire glowing inside.
His fingers twitch for the gag, and he pulls it down. The kid shows no inclination to move or refuse help. He doesn’t seem intent to cover himself either, despite his pants are gone.
He just stares back. Stares and smiles, stripped and beaten.
“You should do something about that wound,” Tom says, tapping his own temple.
The smile widens before the gaze leaves Tom for the first time, sliding to his fastened arms. “Untie me, and I might.”
It’s not funny. But a blackened eyebrow arches, and Tom snorts anyway.
“You need to be more careful,” he says as the rope falls to the ground.
The kid doesn’t rub his wrists. Nor does he run like Tom half expected. “Why? You came to save me.”
“I might not be there next time.”
It’s not his job to rescue children after all. It’s a futile business with this life they’re given, and he came close to ignore this incident too. The only reason he changed his mind was that he knows this particular kid. He gave the boy an apple several weeks ago, and the memory of his rapt grin twisted something. It doesn’t mean he’ll come to his aid again.
A shrug. “I can handle myself.”
One of the cretins beside their feet groans, about to come to. Tom leaves the boy standing and frees the man of his boots and pants. He throws the latter to the kid who steps into them, tying the waist with the rope before he rolls up the legs.
“Why not him?” he asks, pointing at the dead guy.
“Because he won’t mind his pants are gone,” Tom says, disdain clipping his voice.
“I like you.” That grin again. It’s blinding. Like someone chipped away the spiked ceiling above their heads and let the daybreak in.
“You have a name, kid?”
“Many.” Another shrug. “Arsehole, Brat…Or simply You if I’m lucky. Nyx if I’m very lucky. You can call me Red though.”
One of the brothel kids.
Though the insight isn’t exactly new, Tom fights against a shudder. Undernourishment makes it hard to tell, but he can’t be older than nine.
“You got a place to get that looked after, Red?” he asks with a nod at the injury. It’s still trickling scarlet, probably needs stitches.
“Perhaps.” He looks at the bodies around them. “Will you strip them of their money and weapons?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because,” is all Tom says. Theft on top of physical assault will make them angrier than they’ll already be when they wake up, and he can do without a bunch of idiots chasing him in revenge. It will end with them being dead, and subsequent cockfights amongst those seeking a claim on this area.
Red seems to ponder before he goes to the dead man lying cheek-down in the mud. He crouches, searches his pockets, finds a tinkling pouch and retrieves one single copper before he stuffs the purse back. He stands, kicks the man in the side, then turns to Tom, coin outstretched.
“For the apple.”
Tom blinks at the money. Then at the kid, blood-streaked, grime-blackened, and underfed. The pinched lips at a brief tremor of his hand the only sign part of his swagger is a shield.
Tom doesn’t need the payment. Levi and Farlan aside, he’s one of the best thugs down here and hasn’t had to worry about where his next meal will come from for a very long time.
This coin could buy bread. Good bread, as far as Underground standards go. Maybe even a slice of cheese and a jug of unpolluted water.
Red’s pulse pumps more crimson down his temple, and Tom makes a choice.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll take it if you let me stitch that up and give you a proper meal.”
“That’s not a fair trade now, is it?” Red says. “A copper isn’t worth that much. Let me pay you back somehow. I know who you are. I can fight for you.”
Tom shakes his head. It wouldn’t be the first ally he made this way. Never kids, though. Never kids. Not even if it would get them off the street.
“I don’t let anyone fight for me who isn’t old enough to grow pubes.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Red spits. The words come so instantly and with such disgust it speaks of a familiar battle. “My age doesn’t matter. Especially not in this shit hole, and you fought since you weren’t much older than me. I make my own choices.”
You really do, don’t you? Tom thinks.
“Give me a chance. I’m small, silent, quick, and smarter than I look. You can still kick me out again if you think I fucked up. I won’t though. You’ll see. You’ll be glad to have me around one day. As far as I know, we’re meant to be.”
Tom looks into his eyes. Wild beyond their years with green spots dappling the brown. He can’t believe he’s considering this.
“What’s your real name?” he asks. “I need to know it if you join my group, even temporarily.”
The green spots start to dance. “I’ll tell you once you patch me up. You can know all my other names too.” He lifts the coin higher, eyebrows arching again, mouth curling in what looks like a dare.
The copper is warm as Tom takes it, and he lets it slip into his pocket. Then he holds out his hand.
“Gentlemen’s agreement?”
Red grins. “If you say so.” His grip is firm for such a skinny thing, his fingers bony, yet warm too.
“Good,” Tom says. “Follow me then.”
“Oh, I will,” Red says. He steps over his unconscious attacker and doesn’t bat an eye when knuckles crack beneath his tattered shoes.
Tom watches him approach the corner and turn to wait. He either did something very stupid today, or, perhaps, the best thing in his life.
Time will tell.
He heads towards the main street, a fearless kid at his side. Behind them, four men lay on the ground.