Adrian’s plans for his Easter holiday didn’t include community service and they definitely didn’t include a group of old-aged necromancers reanimating bodies. But when a corpse goes missing, he’s the one that has to track it down—before anyone notices the dead man walking.
“He had to go to hospital, Adrian. You understand that, don’t you?” The social worker sitting on the other side of the desk frowned. He was still young—barely a year past thirty, if Adrian had to guess. There was a roundness to his cheeks that most would call baby-faced; unfortunate for a man that dealt with the irredeemable delinquents of London. Adrian’s eyes drooped, but he forced them open and tried to focus on the man’s words rather than his appearance. “You bust his lip open and left a fracture down his cheek bone. He had to have stitches.”
The social worker—Harvey Walters, according to the plaque at his door—waited, then sighed. Adrian could already guess what was going through his head, another troubled kid, just like all the rest he saw, some of which got back on track, most of which didn’t. Adrian half considered replying—to either Mr. Walter’s words or the thoughts clear as day on his face—but clamped his lips closed and turned away from the desk to look over the posters on the wall instead.
“Looks like he got in a few shots of his own though.” Mr Walters gestured to his swollen lip and the slowly greening skin around Adrian’s eye. A few days ago, it had been a violent mix of purple and black, a cosmos in space. He understood why people called them shiners now. The stares it caused had felt like he was under a spotlight, drawing everyone’s eyes to him.