Luc Devereaux

The lock turns with a wet click. Not rust—blood, maybe, or just the damp of Marseille’s breath on metal. Thierry wipes his palm on his thigh, leaves a smear lik…

The dish towel is pink at the knuckles. Fabien doesn’t look at his hand. He looks at the envelope. Manila, A4, sealed with a strip of packing tape that’s alread…

Cold rain drips from my eyebrows. The flickering neon sign of the *Café de la Nuit* reflected in the rain-slicked cobblestones. An ornate key, discarded, glints…

Cold seeps through my soles. Sofia's rain-kissed cobblestones shine like black ice under the neon beer sign. A black rook lies beside a soggy newspaper, its hea…

Cold nips at my nose as I sit on the park bench, collar turned up against the Berlin chill. The pigeon with the missing left claw always waits on the fountain's…

Cold bites my cheeks as I step off the bus. Ahead, the wreckage of the Prague-Vienna train sprawls under harsh floodlights. Snowflakes dance in the harsh artifi…

Rain slaps against my fedora. The Grand Palais looms, a dark giant awakened by the storm. I'm not here for the view. I'm here for the glove. It's a single, blac…

Cobblestones dig into my knees. Prague at 3 am is all shadows and echoes. The alley smells of old rain and newer piss. I'm looking for something that shouldn't …

The key is cold in my palm. Too cold for Prague in May. I should know. I've been working the Charles Bridge for three weeks now, lifting wallets from tourists w…