Chapter 28: A threat to food source

“I’ll check it out, make sure they’re okay. It might be nothing,” James said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “but it doesn’t hurt to check.”

Jacky inclined her head, worry etching fine lines around her mouth. “Thank you, James. I appreciate it.”

“Alright, I’ll go look for them. Which stall were they going to?”

“They go to the same one every time—Wendy’s, outside Potter’s Lane.”

“Okay. I’ll check it out.” James was already moving, cloak snapping behind him as he pushed through the tavern’s back door and into the midday bustle.

The streets of Castletown were alive with the usual clamor: hawkers shouting prices, carts rattling over cobbles, the distant clang of a smith’s hammer. James moved fast, shoulders cutting through the crowd like a ship through water. Potter’s Lane sat on the eastern edge of the market district, a narrow artery lined with open stalls and lean-to awnings. The air here smelled of fresh-turned earth, drying herbs, and the faint metallic tang of cheap iron tools.

He found Wendy’s stall easily enough—bright red awning, crates of root vegetables stacked high, bundles of garlic and onions hanging like pale lanterns. Wendy herself was a stout woman in her forties, apron streaked with soil, hands busy sorting turnips.

“Have you seen Alice or Freya today?” James asked without preamble.

Wendy looked up, squinting against the sun. “Who are you?”

“I’m James. They work for me at The Fenrir. They were supposed to buy produce here and come straight back. They haven’t returned.”

Wendy wiped her hands on her apron and nodded slowly. “Aye, they were here a few hours ago. Bought the usual—garlic, onions, a sack of carrots, some leeks. Paid fair, no fuss. They left together, heading back toward the tavern district as far as I could tell. Didn’t say where else they were going. Sorry, lad, that’s all I know.”

“Thank you.” James gave her a curt nod and turned away, mind already racing.

He scanned the street for the telltale blue tabards of the town guard. Two men stood at their usual booth near the lane’s mouth—one leaning against the post, the other idly sharpening a dagger on a whetstone. James approached without hesitation.

“I’m James, owner of The Fenrir tavern. Two of my employees—women named Alice and Freya—went missing after buying produce from Wendy’s stall. They should have been back hours ago. I need help finding them.”

The taller guard, a man with a scarred cheek and tired eyes, straightened. “We can’t help you unless a full day has passed. Too many false reports—people just running late errands, stopping for a drink, visiting family. We’d spend all day chasing shadows.”

“You don’t understand,” James said, voice low and edged. “They’re new to Castletown. They don’t know anyone else here. They wouldn’t just vanish.”

The second guard shrugged. “Rules are rules. You’ll have to talk to Captain Kenneth. He’s the only one who can authorize an immediate search party.”

“I met Captain Kenneth last night at the opening. Where can I find him?”

The taller one snorted. “He left this morning to inspect the neighboring farms—routine patrol. Won’t be back for a week at least. Your girls will turn up long before then, mark my words.”

James exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “Thank you for your help.”

He turned away before they could offer more platitudes. The walk back toward The Fenrir felt longer than it should, every step heavy with frustration. His mind churned through possibilities—slavers, thieves, some petty accident in an alley—but nothing fit neatly. Alice and Freya weren’t helpless; they’d survived worse than Castletown’s streets before he’d bought their collars. Yet hours had passed, and the market was emptying into the afternoon lull.

How can I find them? If this were Earth, he could ping their phones, check social media, pull traffic cam footage. Here, he had no such equivalents.

Then the thought struck like cold steel: the Ring of Finding.

He hadn’t worn it since the mage’s shop years ago, a plain silver band etched with faint runes. It had never been truly tested—not like this. Bob had used it once to locate trinkets and coins, guided by vague intent. But people? Living, breathing people?

He immediately went to the brothel and rushed to his room, heart pounding harder than it had during the boar fight earlier. The door slammed behind him. He yanked the Ring of Finding from his finger, clutched it in his fist, and closed his eyes, willing it to work. He pictured Alice—her quick smile, the way she tucked stray hair behind her ear when nervous—and Freya, quieter, always watching the room like she expected trouble. Find them. Please, just find them.

Nothing.

No tug, no warmth, no faint thread pulling at his chest. The ring sat cold and inert in his palm, the runes dull under the afternoon light slanting through the shutters. Frustration boiled up, then understanding hit like a cold slap: the amulet—the one that Mathin had inserted in his side to protect against spells like the slavers had forced on him years ago, blocked magic from harming him and from him using it. Of course. The ring’s magic flowed through him; the amulet choked it dead.

He exhaled sharply, shoved the ring back on his finger anyway, and headed downstairs.

Subotai was leaning against the bar, nursing a tankard of the chilled beer, looking half-asleep in the quiet after-lunch lull.

“Alice and Freya went to the market and have not returned,” James said without preamble. “The guard won’t help until a day passes—too many false reports. But the girls don’t know anyone else in town, and this is unlike them.”

Subotai set the tankard down slowly. “Have you asked if Fel can find them?”

“No. It’s only been a few hours. I wanted to try other things first. But now is the time.”

James strode back to The Fenrir. The courtyard was warm in the sun; Fel lay sprawled like a silver boulder, eyes closed, belly rising and falling in deep, contented breaths.

“Wake up,” James called. “I need your help.”

Fel cracked one glowing eye open and fixed it on him. “Can this wait?”

“No. Alice and Freya are missing, and I do not know how to find them. Can you help?”

“James,” the wolf rumbled, voice thick with sleep, “they are not magical, so I cannot sense them. Ask the watch.”

“I did. It’s too soon for them to look.”

“Then ask a mage for help.”

“Great idea. I will ask Bartholomew.”

“Fine. I am going back to sleep.” Fel rolled onto his other side with a heavy sigh, tail flicking once in dismissal, and closed his eye.

James paused long enough to tell Jackie where he was headed—”Bartholomew’s shop, back soon”—then hurried through the winding streets to the mage’s narrow storefront. The bell above the door chimed as he pushed inside; the familiar smell of hot metal, herbs, and ozone washed over him.

Bartholomew looked up from a workbench cluttered with glowing runes and half-assembled devices. James explained quickly: the missing women, the guard’s refusal, the failed ring attempt.

Bartholomew shook his head, regret in his lined face. “That kind of magic is beyond me. I am more comfortable working with objects to create things—enchantments, wards, conveniences like your cold taps. Locating living people across distance requires a different specialty: scrying, true divination. You will have to find a mage with that ability. I wish you luck.”