Awake O Sleeper, excerpt

The Louisiana swamps were exactly as Galen had remembered.

Just outside of New Orleans, the cypresses rose high into the starry night, dark sentinels that watched over the borders of the swamps. The trees had pushed as much into the city as they could, their cloying branches draping over houses and their roots upturning pavement. Within the realm that the trees guarded, darkness overtook the Black Feathers. Hanging vines and the lecherous branches of willows grasped at their shoulders and packs, tangled their green fingers in their hair. The air was wet. Thick, almost palpable. Galen started to sweat under his suit despite the chill of the night air. The ground beneath his feet surrendered to every step, almost eager to soften and envelop him if he felt the desire to fall. Roots stuck up here and there, ready to assist in the self-destructive act of walking through the swamp in the dark.

The familiar sounds of dank evenings filled his ears. Insects and amphibians screamed for mates—tiny animals stalked through bushes and grass. The sounds mingled with the damp staleness of the air around him, summoning up a primal fear and awareness within Galen’s mind. The swamp was alive. They were not traveling through it so much as they were surrounded by it. And the swamp was hungry.

Galen knew that there were things out there to be afraid of other than demons and men.

Under the cover of the canopy, Galen could barely see the road in front of him. He knew why the Black Feathers had chosen to travel without light. It was the same reason that none of them had spoken above a whisper since leaving the cathedral-basilica hours earlier. Sage had eyes and ears everywhere. Even in the swamp.

Galen glanced behind him. His eyes had adjusted remarkably, even in the gloom, and he could make out the dim shapes of dozens of people behind him. He walked at the front of the group with Karasu’s man Edwall. Karasu herself had moved ahead with two scouts, making sure the path ahead was clear for the rest of the soldiers. When he glanced back at the group, Galen noticed most distinctly the two glowing pits of Icosiel’s eyes only a few steps behind him.

Icosiel hadn’t said a single word during this journey, and that bothered Galen. The demon had been very vocal in all of their previous encounters. When he was about to kill him on the salt flats of Utah, Icosiel seemed unable to stop himself from bragging. When he sacrificed himself in San Francisco to save the world and kill Uriel, Icosiel had explained to all of them in painful detail why he was the only one with the ability to do the deed. Galen wouldn’t say he knew Icosiel intimately, but he knew that the demon was talkative if nothing else.

Galen knew this sudden silence was significant, but this was not the place to address it. All focus needed to be on the attack on Sage’s home.

As if to emphasize his point, a root appeared in the path and snagged Galen’s boot. He went down into the mud hard. He held back a curse and placed his hands underneath himself to return to his feet.

He felt strong hand grab his left arm and drag him up. Standing again, Galen saw Edwall glowering at him through the gloom.

“Ain’t you supposed to know these swamps?” the man whispered.

“I do,” Galen said, and yanked his arm back. “Ain’t easy to navigate in the dark, though.”

“Karasu can do it fine.”

Galen frowned. He brushed himself off and kept marching forward.

Edwall came up behind him.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?” Galen kept walking.

“I just needed to say something at you.”

“I reckon you do.”

“Listen,” Edwall said, moving up beside him and speaking even lower. “Your story you told back at the Roost. I didn’t know you fucked boys.”

“I fuck everybody,” Galen said. “What’s it matter?”

“It don’t. Well, I mean it—I ain’t judging you for it, I mean.”

“I already been judged.”

Edwall spat. “What I mean to say is, I need to ask something of you. You and Aiko—“

“Me and who?” Galen asked.

Edwall grunted, shook his head. “You and Karasu knew each other from before. Before she came out here, made all this.” He gestured behind him. “Before she sparked this fire.”

“Aiko?” Galen said.

“That don’t matter. Forget all that. What I need to know from you—What I need is…”

“What?”

Edwall hesitated, and Galen could almost see him biting his lip through the darkness. Discomfort emanated from the man like a stench.

“What’s going on?” Galen asked.

“I need to know if you and she… You just said that you’d fuck anyone, so, I need to know if—“

Galen froze in his tracks. “Are you serious?”

Edwall stopped ahead of him. Looked back, his bright eyes penetrating and looking straight into Galen’s.

It was Galen’s turn to shake his head in disbelief. “Is that why you have beef with me? Is that why all this has been going on? You think me and Kary—“

“That ain’t her name.”

“I don’t believe this. Listen, you primitive son of a bitch. Forget that itch you’re feeling in your trousers. Right now. We’re marching up to the front door of the most evil motherfucker this side of the Mississippi, and you’re asking me this? I don’t care what you think or what you feel, but this ain’t important. You knock this shit off.”

Edwall growled. “You ain’t—“

“No,” Galen said. He stepped up into Edwall’s face. “No arguments. You get your ass in line and follow Kary’s plan. If we survive this, you can worry about getting your pecker wet later. But if we do this right now, if you want to stoke my coals and draw iron on me, then Sage wins. Do you understand?”

“You can’t—“

“Do you understand me?” Galen said, nearly shouting. The Black Feathers marching nearest them froze. Edwall looked around at them, his face a mask of rage and embarassment.

“No one talks to me that way,” Edwall said.

“Do you wanna do this?” Galen grabbed the nerest Black Feather—a tall man with a beard—and pulled him into their converation. “You wanna maybe tell your friends here what you’re risking the mission for?”

Edwall clenched his teeth, stared Galen in the eyes. But he remained silent.

“I didn’t think so,” Galen said. He released the Black Feather and stepped back from Edwall. “This ain’t the time, and you know it.”

Galen walked away and rejoined the march. He didn’t look back at Edwall. He shook his head, unable to understand that man. He wanted to lay with Karasu? That was the reason he was such an asshole? Galen couldn’t believe it. He had admonished the man for creating that conversation, but, truth be told, he would have relished drawing pistols in that moment. What an idiot.

Icosiel suddenly swept up beside Galen. “Is he alright?”

Galen looked up into the demon’s glowing eyes. “What?”

“Edwall Sprague,” Icosiel said, glancing backwards. “I overheard all of that and he seems hurt.”

“He stabbed you earlier, you know.”

Icosiel touched his chest gently. “I survived.”

“So will he,” Galen said. He looked forward into the darkness, knowing Karasu was out ahead of them scouting and clearing the road of demons. Thank God she had not heard that conversation.

“Matheson,” Icosiel said.

“What is it?”

Icosiel breathed in deep, and sighed. “I need to ask.”

“I know.”

“You know what about.”

“I know.” Galen swallowed. He felt shame in his chest as he prepared to say the next few word. “I don’t know where he is.”

“But you had him,” Icosiel said. “When last I saw you—when San Francisco was going up in flames. You had him.”

Galen continued to march. “Yeah, I did.”

“Did he survive?”

“Yes.”

“Then where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Icosiel moved like a blur, stopping Galen in his tracks. His eyes glowed brighter, and faint flames licked at his black teeth.

“I don’t know,” Galen repeated.

“That’s…” Icosiel trembled. “That’s unacceptable.”

“Who the hell are you to get angry at me about Joshua?” Galen could feel his blood starting to boil.

“You promised me you’d keep him safe.”

“What right have you to demand that of me? What right have you, after nearly killing him? After giving him to Asmodeus and causing this entire fucking mess? You reappear here, pretending like you’re our friend, looking for… looking for what, exactly? Forgiveness?”

“No. I don’t expect any such thing. But you have to—“

“So I’m responsible for him now? You break his legs, feed him to monsters, watch as an angel uses him like a goddamn puppet, and then have the audacity to tell me his well-being is my responisbility?”

Icosiel shook his head. “I was not in control. I was a different person.”

“A different person? Are you serious?” Galen shoved Icosiel. The demon didn’t budge, which only made Galen angrier. “You’re a goddamn monster. A fallen bastard son of Heaven. I know your kind well and you never change.”

“None of us do,” came Karasu’s voice.

Galen looked to his right. She emerged from the dense foliage onto the trail, her scouts with her.

“You forget that we were all left behind, Galen. We as well as him. Your god abandoned us all. Icosiel just happened to be abandoned first.”

Galen moved his lips wordlessly.

Karasu folded her arms across her chest. The rest of the Black Feathers had stopped marching and were gathering in a circle around her.

“The mansion is not far from here,” she said. “We have found a clear path.”

“Any patrols?” Edwall asked. He had come up beside Galen, but was staying well away from him.

“One,” Karasu said. “A demon sentry at the edge of the grounds. He will not be reporting us.” At that, one of her scouts chuckled.

“How far?” someone said.

“Just around this copse of trees ahead,” she gestured through the dark. “There is a road beyond. Follow it right and a stone wall will appear on one side. That is the property’s edge.”

“It’s also where we’ll be found out,” Galen said. “He’s got some sharp-eyed men watching over the gate. We won’t get far before they know we’re there.”

“Then it is also where we will make our stand. Edwall, you will lead the troop up to this wall and make your presence known. Use the wall as cover. Fight as viciously as you can. Utilize Icosiel. He will be your greatest ally. We will part ways just before the road—“

“Shut up,” Icosiel said.

Karasu looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Shh,” Icosiel said. His glowing eyes were unfocused, tilted upward. He was listening.

Then Galen heard it. A pitter-patter, like dead leaves brushing across a street. He realized that it was the beating of tiny wings. Thousands of wings. Millions. Moving through the trees above.

Icosiel turned his gaze to Karasu, eyes wide.

“To ground,” Karasu said in a shout-whisper.

In one fluid, surprisingly quiet motion, every Black Feather soldier dropped onto the wet earth and covered their heads with their hands. Galen and Icosiel followed quickly.

The fluttering above grew louder, closer. It turned into an insect-like hum, filling the air and drowning out all other sounds of the swamp as it passed above them.

“What is it?” Karasu whispered.

“Cacodemons,” Icosiel responded. “Minor fallen angels. Tiny beings of pure, solidified energy.”

“Angels?” Edwall said.

“Very minor,” Icosiel said. “Unthinking. Beings of trivial misfortune and unnoticed miracles. They’re harmless.”

“Then why are we hiding?” Karasu asked.

“Because they are only harmless alone,” Galen said. “One cacodemon will loose a button from a shirt. Two will pull a loose thread. Ten can make a scratch from a tree branch draw blood.”

“And ten-thousand can bring plague to an entire city,” Icosiel said.

“They belong to Sage?” Karasu asked.

“They do,” Galen said. “He uses them as a barrier. Bad luck repels most visitors.”

“Have they spotted us?”

“Yes,” Icosiel said.

At that, the humming broke into shrieking, like a dirge screeched out by a thousand carrion birds. The vague light of the stars was blotted out and Galen could feel the onrush of air from frantically beating wings.

“Tell everyone to stay down,” Icosiel said.

“Do not move!” Karasu shouted.

The Black Feathers remained prone, and Icosiel sprang to his feet. His arms burst into pale flames, and for an instant Galen caught sight of the cacodemons. They were amorphous, multi-limbed things. Writhing balls of meat and wings, with iridescent eyes and vertical mouths filled with shining teeth. Thousands of them, filling the canopy like leaves. Their non-uniform legs reached down as they plunged hungrily towards the soon-to-be-unfortunate mortals below.

Icosiel struck his arms upward, and brilliant fire blossomed from his hands. The flames enveloped the crying swarm and set fire to the canopy. The cacodemons shrieked in sudden pain as every single one of them was engulfed. Their bodies went up like matchsticks, bursting into flames and rapidly deforming into blackened husks. The thousands of cacodemons fell like ashen rain upon the humans below. Their shrieking stopped, and the Black Feathers hastily batted away the shriveled bodies and beat out the fires that had popped up on their coats.

Galen rolled onto his back, suddenly feeling heat on his face as he saw that the huge willow above shone with white-hot flames.

“They know we’re here,” he said.

Karasu crawled to her feet, swearing in her native tongue.

Icosiel looked about at the men and women gathering themselves, at the tiny charred and burning corpses about them. Everything was brightly illuminated.

“I had to,” the demon said.

“No time,” Galen said. He stood in the mud, and drew the two revolvers he’d collected from the Roost. The steel of the pair of Peacemakers gleamed black in the flickering light of the canopy fire. Normally Galen would’ve passed these guns up for having been in service in Sage’s New Orleans, thus meaning their cartridges were hand loaded by his enterprise. Normally Galen would never be caught dead using Sage’s bullets. But the thought of putting one of these slave-loaded rounds through Sage’s forhead felt both poetic and practical.

Icosiel’s face stiffened, and he looked off into the dark.

“They’re coming,” he said. “Two of them—scouts.”

Galen heard handguns and knives clearing leather, saw Karasu draw Kiyomeru from her scabbard. The Black Feathers immediately formed a defensive circle under the light of the burning canopy. Icosiel lit his hands into balls of fire. Edwall raised his shotgun to his shoulder. Everyone remained silent—the only sound was the firey crackle of bark and leaves above.

Sweat beaded across Galen’s forehead. He could feel his ears burning, could feel the weight of the heat above. He watched Icosiel. The demon’s supernatural senses allowed him to pierce the dark beyond the clearing, and Galen could see him staring at one very particular spot.

The first demon exploded from the underbrush. Its black skin flashed in the firelight, its body comprised of dozens of fang-covered tentacles and circular mouths filled with buzzsaw teeth. It had no eyes, no human-like torso. It was a mass of writhing bladed limbs and nothing more.

Karasu shouted—not a command, but simply a bestial warcry. She charged forward amidst a hail of gunfire from from her back. The demon twitched and spasmed as iron rounds tore apart its flesh, but it kept coming. It met her in a split -second, barbed tongues lashing out of its mouths. But the barrage of iron was slowing it. The demon stumbled, tentacles and teeth flying from its body like splintered wood. Karasu ducked and slashed upward. Kiyomeru tore through the bulbous flesh of the thing’s body, splitting it unevenly down the middle and spilling hot intestines across the wet ground amidst sparking orange blood.

Just as the first demon’s limbs stopped moving, the second one descended through the flaming canopy. This one’s shape was more defined, more purposeful. A precision tool, an assassin’s blade. It was humanoid with only three limbs, each apendage ending in a glistening sword. It fell upon them screeching. Galen looked up just as he heard its hideous voice and saw the red eyes burning with bloodlust and looking straight at him. He couldn’t move. His reflexes were too slow. For an instant, he knew that this was what his death looked like, and felt an intense self-hatred for how he had gone out. Then Icosiel was above him, plowing into the demon’s center mass and tackling it out of the air. It all happened so fast that Galen had barely registered the move until Icosiel was already on the ground, wrestling with the demon. Icosiel’s fists were ablaze as he drove them into the demon’s face. Its bladed legs stabbed into Icosiel’s flesh again and again, tearing him apart but not slowing his blows.

The Black Feathers moved in. A few of them held back seemingly out of fear of accidently shooting Icosiel, but the majority were not so cautious. They emptied their guns into the brawling demons. Glowing orange blood burst from the wounds of iron bullets, and Icosiel fell back shouting. In the chaos of the moment, the blade-limbed demon couldn’t right itself and writhed under the rain of burning metal.

Galen stumbled as Karasu rushed past him. She lifted her sword above her head and immediately the Black Feathers ceased firing—Kiyomeru descended and beheaded the bleeding demon.

A few Black Feathers whooped in triumph, the rest remained quiet. Karasu stood heaving, her shoulders shaking and Kiyomeru dripping with red blood. The distinction between the bright orange blood from iron wounds and the death-signalling dark red that the mystical sword disgorged from the bodies of demons had become very apparent to Galen. Kiyomeru did something strange to otherworldly creatures. It didn’t just kill them, it made them mortal in the instant before it dealt the killing blow.

Karasu was shivering, and Galen felt himself worrying that she was going to fly into an uncontrollable rage again. But he saw her shut her eyes, so her slow her breathing. She needed a moment, but she was managing herself. Again Galen was impressed with how much she had changed in the last few years.

“Fuck,” came Icosiel’s voice.

Galen looked through the crowd and found Icosiel lying in the mud. Orange oozed across his body. His skull was split with a long glowing fissure. His left hand was clearly broken. He was gritting his teeth and frantically tearing the iron slugs out of his flesh with his other hand. None of the Black Feathers moved to help him.

Galen stepped forward and looked down at Icosiel. The demon blinked through burning eyes, only noticing Galen after he’d been standing there a moment. Galen reached a hand down.

Icosiel paused as he was pulling a bullet our of his neck. He looked up at Galen almost in confusion. Then he flicked the bullet aside and placed both hands underneath himself to stand up. He got to his knees and noticed Galen’s hand still floating in front of him. He recognized the gesture for what it was and doused the flames of his own hand before grabbing Galen’s and climbing to his feet.

Icosiel scratched the last bullet out of his chest and flexed his broken hand. Galen could see the bones shifting under his black skin, reforming and realigning. He looked up and saw the demon meet his eyes. He recognized that same haunting stare from earlier in the evening—that look of loss and torment, a look that Galen could sympathize with.

Gunshots. A bullet whizzed by Galen’s head and struck a tree somewhere in the darkness beyond the firelight. He spun on his heels and ducked. The bullet had come from the west, from Sage’s forces. The Black Feathers had their weapons up again and took defensive positions behind trees and logs. Galen went back to the ground in a small muddy hollow, both pistols up.

“Dammit,” Edwall said off to Galen’s left. “They’ve figured us.”

“They’ll be coming down on us shortly.”

Karasu rolled into the mud beside him. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many men and demons, Galen? What is Sage throwing at us?”

“I ain’t sure. It’s been years since I’ve been out here, but from what I seen last night he’s upped his detail in my absence. I noticed a half dozen men on the grounds, not counting his house staff. Only four demons including his bodyguard, but he’s sure to have more than that. When I was a boy here, he—“ A bullet ripped into the earth nearby and Galen pulled his knees close. Their attackers weren’t aiming, they were simply firing into the woods. This meant that they couldn’t see in the dark—that they were human. He spat out dust and mud. “He’s probably got most of his demons out hunting for us in the city, Kary. I’d be willing to bet that most of his men here are just that.”

Karasu nodded. “Then we have chosen well our night to strike.”

“Fate rewards those who act,” Edwall said.

“That it does,” Galen said. He looked up then, and saw Icosiel standing above them. He hadn’t taken cover. Galen kicked him in the shin. “Get down,” he said.

Icosiel stared off into the night, no doubt piercing the mist and darkness and seeing the faces of those who accosted them. He remained standing still, until a bullet hit him in the chest. His coat tore, and that was all. No orange blood, no sparks. Icosiel touched the hole in his chest gently. It had already healed.

“They aren’t shooting iron,” the demon said. Then he looked at Karasu. “Tell your people to follow me.”

Bright flames plumed across Icosiel’s body, forcing Galen to shrink back. Icosiel’s body radiated like a bonfire, his black form masked by shimmering waves of heat. Then he lept forward like lightning.

Galen got to his knees and looked out over the brush. Icosiel was racing towards the opposing gunmen like a comet, the trees flickering with light and shadow as he passed.

“Charge!” Karasu shouted. The Black Feathers advanced, popping out of their hiding places and surging forward like a thunderous black river.

Galen jumped up to join them in their assault, to scream alongside them and fire his pistols into the blackness ahead. But Karasu grabbed his arm.

“Galen,” she said. “Not us.”

Galen glanced back. He had almost forgotten the plan. It was Icosiel’s duty to distract while he and Karasu snuck around the back. He looked at Edwall.

The big man was hesitating. He clearly wanted to charge Sage’s walls with his brothers and sisters, but his feet wouldn’t move. He stared down at Karasu.

“This is your time, Ed,” she said.

Edwall’s face twitched. His eyes looked into Karasu’s unblinking.

She reached up a hand and cupped his cheek. “We will succeed, and we will be reuinited. Go, Edwall. Take our vengeance upon these people.”

Edwall hesitated a moment more—he was reluctant, and Galen could see by the look in his eyes that he wanted to lean in and kiss her. But he didn’t. The man said nothing and then stormed off into the night.

Galen’s emotions whirled in a nauseating cocktail within him. Burning desire to rush into Sage’s mansion and kill every man he found. Disgust that Edwall was battling his own primitive lust at a time like this. Empathy for Karasu who he knew had just sent her people into the jaws of death. Anguish for having failed before any of this had begun.

The anguish was most overwhelming. Joshua wasn’t here. He was wasting his time, then, wasn’t he? Joshua was all that mattered to him. This wasn’t his fight.

He ground his teeth. Of course this was his fight. More than anyone else, he deserved to see Daniel Sage taken down. He turned toward Karasu. Two of her people stood with her. Eustace, the door guard from back at the church, and a middle-aged woman with a permanent frown named Connie. They all waited on him.

“Take us,” Karasu said. Her sword was drawn, and her single eye was filled with bloodlust.

Galen nodded. “This way.” He led them off to his left, through the thick trees and swamp and into the unguarded far perimeter of Daniel Sage’s estate.

Humming at Night

I don't want to die.

A Knight and A Dragon

I've always viewed life as anathema to the forces of the universe; light and warmth and sentience are all doomed to fade into oblivion, after all. Art and kindness are protestations against the machinery of entropy. I see myself firmly established in this continuum--a sort of heroic figure who embraces justice and love when decay and hate are so tempting and so omnipresent. I think I value that about myself. I think I want there to be a devil to rage against, even if that devil is simply an unfeeling inevitability that consumes us all.

But what if there is no cosmic war between order and chaos? What if it is all in harmony?

I was reading Marcus Aurelius today. He often speaks of the divinity of the mind, the Providence that lives inside our bodies. He poses a question in Book Twelve: If the gods made such astounding people on earth, how could they have fucked up so hard by letting these people die and their minds vanish forever? All throughout his Meditations he speaks of death as natural, and to not fear it because it is necessary. If this is the case, then surely it is necessary that those unique and intelligent people must also die. They are as part of nature as anything else.

I'm not sure why, but this sparked a feeling in me. It made me realize that as much as I love nature, I don't see myself as part of it. I see humanity (and by extension me) as transcendent, as fighting against entropy. I don't see us in harmony with nature, I see us locked in an eternal battle that we are destined to lose. It's no wonder I'm in a state of constant mourning. In my heroic fantasy, I have cast myself as the martyr who will be forgotten and whose cause will be lost. But I know that chaos isn't actively working against me--there are no demons in this world. No dark gods thirsting for human souls. The universe just is. I will be consumed and recycled by it, but not out of malice. Not out of hate or oppression. The things I do will have impact if I wish them to, they will alter the currents like a stone being tossed into a river.

I think I need to shift my worldview. I think as long as I picture myself locked in eternal battle with an unbeatable foe I'm going to be scared and sad. But maybe that foe isn't real. Maybe this entire time I think I've been holding back the flames of dragon, and if I can find a way to lower my shield I'll see that the heat I've felt has just been the rays of the sun.

TIME AWASH WITH BLOOD-- Chapter Thirteen, Part Two

Rain on her coat, soaking through her sleeves and making the leather stick to her forearms. Sick rain. Damaging. Not refreshing, not life-giving like the rain that fell on the deserts of Lormian. This entire world was wet with infection and felt like it was dissolving under her feet. Therazine drew her hands into her sopping sleeves just to stay as free from the rain as she could.

Vexxer was running his hands under a drains-pout and splashing the filthy water into his face to wash the flecks of blood from his skin. He didn’t appear bothered by the rainwater.

Therazine was leaning against a stone wall, watching down the street. There were no people out now. Not this late. The neon signs were still switched on, blaring their pinks and yellows through the haze, but the lights of apartment were few and far between. A line of rats was running across the road.

Vexxer through his head back with an exhalation. He stared with his eyes closed up into the rain.

“That shit’s poisonous, you know,” Therazine said.

Vexxer turned to her. “What? The rain?”

“It falls from unclean clouds. Drags all of the venom and smoke out of the air and delivers it back down to this city. The sky refuses to accept the harm we do to it.”

“Awfully poetic, coming from you.”

“Don’t splash that shit into your face.”

“Don’t have a whole lot of options, Thera. This is the water we got. Not quite as fresh as Lormian rains, I take it?”

Therazine shot him a look. “What?”

Vexxer cocked his head. “What?”

“I never told you I relocated to Lormian.”

“Your wanted poster.”

“Right.” Therazine grimaced and looked back out into the street. The line of rats had disappeared back into the sewers, or had snuck into an apartment building and were traveling up out of the rain. “We need to get off the streets.”

Vexxer walked up and leaned against the wall next to her. “Maybe not another bar so soon.”

“No. Let’s go back to Maddy’s. Maybe she’s got a gun ready for me.”

Vexxer didn’t object, and when Therazine turned to look at her she saw his eyes were wide and watery, staring at her with concern.

Therazine inched away from him. “What?”

“Thera, you almost shot a man back there, and it broke you.”

“It didn’t break me,” she said. “It’s just been a while.”

“You didn’t look out of practice to me. You would have killed that guy if not for... you almost killed him. Skill wasn’t the issue. But then you broke.”

“I didn’t break.”

“You fell to your knees and started crying about your dead—”

Therazine stepped up to him, adrenaline suddenly up and heart pounding hard. Vexxer put up his hands defensively.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I know what I’m doing, Vexxer. I don’t need you to hold my hand through this. Do you think I’m not capable of killing anymore? Is that it?”

“No, not at all. That’s not what I’m saying. You seem just as comfortable as you always have.”

Therazine’s stomach turned. No, he was wrong. She’d changed in the last few years. She hated this world. Hated the people, hated the culture, hated what it reminded her of. She wasn’t a killer—not anymore. So why was she defending herself from his accusations? Why couldn’t she just admit to him that he was right, that she had a problem?

She wasn’t comfortable. Not with any of this. She shouldn’t be there standing in the rain with Vexxer Roz talking about killing. She should be at home, on her ranch. With Kohl and the boys.

“Let’s go,” she said, and turned from him.

“Thera. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

She marched onto the path, back down the alleyways that led to Ivy Street. She avoided the dark puddles in the depressions of the cobblestone and concrete, especially where no rain fell. Windows were barred. Doorways were barricaded, and occasionally marked with blue drawings indicating that they were warded by the Order of Prevalistics. The black waters that ran below the street trickled up from the sewers and infected people’s bodies, and the doctrine of the church bled down from the high towers and infected their minds. This city was being corrupted from above and below—just as it had been ten years ago. Therazine saw the signs of degredation and decadence as they consumed this world, and she tried to focus on them. Closed-down soup kitchens and newly established brothels. More shadowed foot-traffic and yet fewer faces and voices. Ancient statues slowly being devoured by the ever-present and ever-increasing acid rain. Laminated posters put up by the Order praising piety and decrying individual thought. The decrease in the presence of the Constabulary and the increase in the presence of government gangers.  She needed to keep her attention her—on her rage, and not her sorrow.

They reached Madeline Rhines’ House of Clocks as the rain broke. It continued to come down, but it let up somewhat, letting Therazine’s thoughts return as the pounding of rain diminished. Maddy’s lights were out. Therazine walked up her stoup and knocked.

“Were you trying to keep Lormian from me?” Vexxer said behind her.

“I’m trying to keep as much as I can from you.”

Vexxer paused. “Why?”

Therazine ground her teeth. That had hurt him. She’d meant it to, but after the comment landed she regretted it immediately. Vexxer was only trying to help her, to be there for her. But he couldn’t. She couldn’t let him.

She knocked again. “Maddy,” she called. She tried the doorknob, and was surprised to find it open. She pushed the door and it slid open gently, creaking. Light from the street crept in, outlining the shelves and counters. A soft ticking came from within.

Vexxer stepped up closer, into the doorway. “Ms. Rhines?”

Therazine walked in, cautious. One hand stuck out before her to catch any onjects in the darkness, the other hovered above her hip in an instinctive gesture. After Vexxer crossed the threshold, a voice came from the darkness.

“Close it.”

Therazine turned towards Maddy’s voice. She saw, dimly, a person sitting behind the counter in the gloom. Therazine straightened. Vexxer closed the door.

“Just sitting around in the dark?” Therazine asked.

“Waiting for you.”

Therazine let out a breath. She didn’t like this. “I thought you were fixing up a gun for me?”

“The weapon’s done,” Maddy said. “It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.”

“Okay.”

“But first we need to talk, Husk.”

A shot of anger straight to her gut, of shame. Therazine bit her tongue. Part of her wondered if Maddy had a gun in her hand right now. “Turn on a light, then.”

She heard the sound of a chain switch being pulled, and the small desk lamp on the counter came on. Ruddy light flooded out from under its shade. Maddy sat behind the counter in an alluminum fold-out chair, leaning forward on the countertop. She was still in the clothes they had seen her in earlier, but no eyepatch. Maddy’s face was dominated by the reddish, shadowed depression under her broken brow ridge. It wasn’t the empty socket itself that drew the attention, though—it was the glossy patch of flesh that surrounded it. The scars threaded across her face like a poor weaving, like it had been burned off and she had frantically tried to pull undamaged skin back across the wound.  Therazine remembered taking that eye. She’d had little choice in the matter, but she could still see the spray of bone and gore as Madeline Rhines’ eye exploded out of the side of her head.

“Did you find anything out there?” Maddy asked.

Therazine looked Maddy up and down. She was unarmed, but she was shaken by something. She hadn’t been down here all night. The tallycounter wasn’t anywhere nearby.

Maddy looked past Therazine at Vexxer, barely acknowledging him.

“Let’s get that gun,” she said.

Maddy locked the front door and then took them upstairs. The small room was the same as before. None of the trunks were opened, and Therazine could only assume their contents hadn’t been touched. The workbenches were still cluttered and unlit. She looked to the large rifle that was sitting under the window. Therazine had noticed a harmonica clip leaning against it precariously before she had left—the clip was still in that same spot. Nothing in the room had been obviously touched.

“What have you been doing for the last few hours?” Therazine asked.

Maddy stopped in front of the large steel door that led to what Therazine had assumed to be her firing range. Maddy produced a key and unlocked the door.

“I had visitors,” she said.

Therazine stopped. Vexxer stopped with her.

“Here?”

“Obviously,” Maddy said, throwing open the bolt.

“Who?” Therazine said.

“My landlord. And his friends.”

“Why?”

Maddy looked back as she slid open the door, glaring with one eye. “I took care of my rent.”

Therazine took a step back, touching Vexxer’s thigh right where his Darnull was holstered. She felt his hand come down and grab the butt of his gun.

“Maddy,” Therazine said. “What did you do?”

The room beyond Maddy was cold and dark. Therazine could smell gunpowder and lead. Maddy stepped in and pulled a chain that hung from the ceiling. A fluorescent lamp hummed to life, illuminating the firing range.

“I found you a lead, Husk.”

Therazine shook her head slowly. She tapped Vexxer’s leg again, and he unbuttoned his holster with a light snap.

“Tell me what you told them,” she demanded.

“Very little,” Maddy said. “But… enough. You can’t utilize your old resources within the Bloodletters Society. Not without letting them know you’re here. And you certainly don’t want that. So I’ve arranged for you to have a meeting with the local Deputy Administrator—”

Therazine went through her mental database. The Deputy Administrator was second in line for the position of Magistrate in the event of the Magistrate’s death or sudden resignation, after the Administrator. She dug up a name: Patrick Kettle. Deputy Administrator Patrick Kettle of West Celedin, if nothing had changed in the last ten years. Try as she might, she could not place a face to the name.

“—assuming you do something for him.”

“No.”

“Don’t be shitty,” Maddy said. “I haven’t told you what it is.”

“I know where this is going,” Therazine said, “and I won’t kill someone to pay for your bills.”

Maddy shook her head. “That’s already taken care of. You’re being obtuse. I only told them I’d pass on this offer to you—then my end of the deal is taken care of. Whether or not you actually do it is none of my concern.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Maddy frowned, and placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t give a shit what you believe. But I know that you didn’t find anything useful out in the streets. I know that you’re lost in a world you no longer recognize—”

“I know this city better than you do.”

“Do not interupt me again,” Maddy said. “Do not.”

Therazine stood tall, her shoulder blades pushing into Vexxer chest. She knew he had released his grip on the gun. He’d sensed that whatever danger might have been present was gone now. Therazine stared into Maddy’s eye and stayed quiet, waiting for the other woman to continue.

Maddy growled in the back of her throat. “You’re looking to murder someone big, and I found you a way to maybe get close to that big someone by murdering someone small. I’m fucking helping you, despite all of my soul telling me otherwise. Don’t you spit on me.”

“You’re only helping yourself. You’re selling me to get the local slumlord off your back.”

“Fuck you. If I came to you asking for help with finding materials for a new gun, and you told me that in order to get those materials that I first had to make a gun for someone else with the tools I already have? There’s no question there. It’s utilizing my talents to further my career. You’re a murderer. That’s what you do. Don’t act like I’ve done something reprehensible and you haven’t.”

Therazine shook her head. “I’m not a killer.”

Maddy laughed—a dry sound free of mirth. “That’s right. I forgot. You’re a housewife now. A mother bound to the kitchen and the house. Tell me: do you let your husband fuck you while you cook for him? Or do you make him rub your feet first?”

Therazine lunged at her, but Vexxer’s big hands grabbed her shoulders and drew her back. She struggled against him, but only for a second. Her fingers curled into fists and she forced her body to relax. Maddy was grinning.

“We’ll do it,” Vexxer said.

Therazine looked up at him. “No.”

“Yes, we will,” he said. “We don’t have any other leads. No connections, no resources. And Ms. Rhines is right: we have skills, Thera. Skills that people need. If we leverage those skills, we can get what we need and move on with this job. That’ll be the end of it. Done all the quicker.”

“I won’t kill a man for information.”

“But you’ll do it for money,” Maddy said.

Therazine thrashed in Vexxer grasp. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea why I’m doing this.”

“I’m sure your reasons for killing the Emperor are sublimely heroic.”

“Stop,” Vexxer said. He addressed the room, not either of the women in particular. “Please. Just stop. This is what’s best for all of us. Let’s accept that. Let’s move forward.”

Maddy nodded to Vexxer. “He understands. Listen to your man.”

Therazine wanted to shout at her, to rush her and tear out her other eye. She hated being constrained like this—both physically by Vexxer and in regards to her options. No one should decide her fate. Her life was her own, to ruin or to empower.

“Let go of me,” she said in a low voice.

Vexxer did so immediately, and Therazine felt her limbs slackened. Her blood cooled just a little bit, and she breathed in deep.

“Fine,” she said. “Tell us what this job is.”

Somehow in those last few minutes Maddy had scooped up her little silver tally counter again. She clicked it once. Therazine could feel that in her bones.

“It’s simple enough,” Maddy said. “Patrick Kettle is up for reelection this year. The polls show that his numbers are down, because he’s a piece of shit. He wants his competition eliminated. A man named Anton Carlaca.”

Therazine could feel her mind already running through plans, and it made her sick.

“Why is this other guy leading the polls?”

“Does that matter?”

“No.”

“He wants this Carlaca dead. That’s all you should care about. He wants him dead, and he wants it obvious he was killed. Wants a message to be sent to anyone else who might think about running against him in this cycle. Don’t give me that look. It’s not like you haven’t done this exact same thing before.”

Therazine looked away. That was true. Many, if not most, of the contracts that were offered to the Bloodletter Society were political killings. Assassins were just tools that men used to further gild their own crowns.

“I haven’t heard of Carlaca,” Vexxer said.

“He’s never run before,” Maddy said. “Local Ivy Street boy. Kettle’s son says he’s running on a platform of reformation and ‘hope.’ Whatever that means.”

It was suddenly cold. Therazine closed her eyes and held back a small whimper. Maddy had used the word ‘boy.’ It occurred to her that she might be agreeing to kill someone else’s Bren. Who was she fooling? Of course she was killing another woman’s son. All men are some mother’s son. How many cherished baby boys had she killed in the past? How many mothers had she left mortally childless? Even MonDozer’s sons, as wicked as they were, were the children of one or more of MonDozer’s dozens of wives.

That thought brought her back a little. Wallace MonDozer had been a child at one point, yes, but at the time she killed him he was a murdering bastard and nothing more. As people grow they are no longer pitiable children. As they commit evil they lose their innocence. For all she knew, this Anton Carlaca was just as rotten as Wallace had been.

And here she was—already justifying the murder of a man she did not even know. She bit the inside of her lip until it bled. She saw Vexxer reaching out to touch her shoulder in compassion, and she wriggled away. She stood up straight and stared at Maddy.

“The gun,” she said.

“Ah, yes,” Maddy said. “The surgeon needs her tools to work, doesn’t she?” Maddy stepped into the firing range. The sickly white glow from the fluorescent lamp made her clothes look dirtier, made the skin of her shaved scalp seem flaky and unwashed. It illuminated the fresh bruise under Maddy’s right eye.

TIME AWASH WITH BLOOD-- Chapter Thirteen

The rifle bucked in Maddy’s grip. The walls were heavily insulated and the gunshot did not echo. Even if it did, she only heard a soft thump through her earmuffs. Her firing range was small and lit with fluorescent bulbs, making the atmosphere a clear workspace but unpleasant. Work benches lined the wall behind her, covered in casings and tools. The concrete wall on the far end was concave so that ricochets went away from her—the concrete itself soft enough to absorb excess energy but firm enough so that misfired bullets redirected into the bullet trap that was hidden from view. There were no targets hanging on that wall. This was not a practice range, merely a place for her to make sure her guns did their jobs properly.

She fired again. A burst of black smoke popped from the barrel. She watched the motion of the barrel as it let the bullet fly, and kept an eye on the long tube that ran from the mouth back along the barrel to the receiver. The priming handle jerked back, ejecting the spent casing. The chamber locked closed again.

She pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. Maddy lifted her head and held the gun out. It worked, but it didn’t work as well as she’d hoped. The expanding gas from the fired bullet wasn’t pushing the piston in the tube back fast enough. It expelled the brass from the spent bullet with ease, but it didn’t travel back far enough to load in a new cartridge. So when she pulled the trigger, nothing happened. She primed the priming handle. Another brass cartridge slid into the chamber.

With a grumble, she removed the magazine and ejected the unshot bullet. She’d have to figure out how to apply more pressure to the gas piston effecting the speed and trajetory of the bullet, or think of a way for the piston to travel smoother without more force.

Thoughts of Therazine and her contract swirled around Maddy’s skull. She and that Javadoan had marched out into the night suddenly, seemingly without any plan, or at least without telling Maddy about it. Therazine certainly acted like she knew what she was doing, but Maddy wasn’t so sure. The woman had changed in the past ten years. She was still a violent, unrepentant creature, no doubt, but Therazine’s edges appeared to have been rounded. When she walked to the window and stared out into the street, seeking answers in the wastrels below. She seemed… less patient, somehow. Perhaps out of practice. Maddy wondered how long it had been since Therazine had taken a life. She cradled the gun, looking over the thing in her hands and briefly fantasizing about Therazine using this very weapon to kill the Emperor of the Real.

A light in the corner of the room flipped on. It was just a simple, colorless light, coming from a white box buried in the darkness of the ceiling. It was an alarm, telling her someone had just opened the front door of her shop.

It was well after midnight. Maddy set the rifle down on the reloading bench and picked up a revolver. She slinked out of her firing range and shut the door behind her, throwing the bolt and locking it. As she made her way to the stairs she popped open the cylinder of the revolver and checked itse contents. Seven loaded rounds. She reached the bottom step with the pistol raised in her right hand.

The shop’s lights were still off. Dozens of clocks ticked in silence. The front door was open. Three wide shouldered men were silhouetted in the doorway by pale streetlight.

“Miss Rhines,” said the man in front, his voice coated in a grimey accent that betrayed his noble birth.

Maddy ground her teeth, and drew the hammer of the revolver back.

“You’re trespassing on private property, Chestin.”

The man struck a match and lifted it to his face to light a pipe. The tiny flame cast shadows across young, craggy features, and yellow eyes that stared straight at Maddy.

“Can’t trespass on my own property, Miss Rhines.”

“I rent the place,” Maddy said through clenched teeth. “It’s my home. As long as that’s true then you are walking where you shouldn’t. You have five seconds to get out.”

She heard clothing ruffle, and in the darkness saw the suggestion of the other two men pulling guns from their coats. Chestin Kettle smiled, the pipe stuck between his square teeth.

“You’re falling behind on your payments, Miss Rhines. It’s not yours if you don’t pay for it. I’m here to discuss business with you. Nothing more. Might you turn on a light?”

“Might you get the fuck out before I kill you and your boys?”

She couldn’t see the movements of the other two, but her eyes were adjusting and she saw Chestin gesture for them to stand down.

“There’s no reason for any of that. You wouldn’t kill me, Miss Rhines. You wouldn’t dare.”

“You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

“We’re just here to discuss payment plans. Nothing more.”

The gun felt heavy in Maddy’s hand. But it was steady, and she didn’t drop it.

“No need for any of these hysterics,” Chestin said.

Maddy felt her gut tighten.

Chestin sighed. “Miss Rhines, I haven’t got all night. If you’re going to shoot me, just get it over with so we can all go about our lives, however short they may be.”

Maddy kept the bead of the gunsight on the glow from Chestin’s pipe. His face was stoic. She could almost see him through the gloom, unblinking and unafraid.

She lowered the gun, and hit the switch on the wall. A warm orange light came to life near her desk, illuminating everything in a soft glow. Chestin Kettle and his flunkies stood in her open doorway, broad-shouldered and wearing finely-tailored black suits. They were all immaculately groomed, with thin goatees and cropped hair underneath grey flat caps. Each had a button on their lapels—a red raven in flight.

Chestin’s stone-like features wrinkled in a grimace. He squinted his eyes, like he’d just stumbled in on his parents having sex.

“By all that’s Real—over that up, would you?”

Maddy was suddenly and painfully aware that she wasn’t wearing an eyepatch, and her empty left socket was gaping out into the now lit room. She reached up reflexively to cover it with her hand, and then stopped herself. She made no effort to pull her eyepatch out of her jacket pocket.

Chestin shook his head. He ground the pipe between his square teeth, and then straightened his jacket.

“You gonna invite us in?”

“You’re already in.”

“Only just. It’s cold out there, Miss Rhines. Don’t be improper.”

“Close my door.”

“I suppose being proper isn’t a habit for someone like you. You heard her, Neddy.”

One of the thugs turned and shut the door gently, and then came back. Maddy stared at them, still as a statue, gun in her hand. Chestin Kettle removed his hat and hung it on the hooked corner of a clock sitting on her shelves. Then he took off his jacket and laid it gently across her counter. He stepped closer to her, taking a big puff on his pipe and letting it out in a slow sigh. He was as broad in the chest as a bull, and paced across the room like a rooster in a henhouse. He stopped in front of her, leaning against the dusty, cluttered shelves. For a chilling moment, Maddy thought he was going to reach out with one of those meaty, calloused hands of his and grab her. It was certainly his style—and the style of the Corbie Club—to take everything he wanted in a straightforward manner. Chestin Kettle’s father had set the example years ago with his unabashed rape of Ventri Kardina the butcher when she’d failed to pay for his protection. Horror storeis surrounded Chestin himself—stories that he no doubt took pride in. Part of her hoped he’d grab her by the waist right then, just so she’d have the excuse to plug him in the gut.

But Chestin Kettle was smart. He knew who Madeline Rhines was, knew her reputation. He stopped just short of her and looked her up and down, twirling his pipe in his mouth.

“You are one ugly bitch. You know that, don’t you?”

Maddy felt heat behind her cheeks. Her hand twitched, wanting to go up to her empty socket again—and she hated her instincts for that. She hated that such simple words from a piece of shit like this made her feel so worthless. But she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t let him have that, wouldn’t let him think that he could weaken her. She remained standing rigid, staring him in the eye and clutching the revolver in her shaking hand.

Chestin held her gaze and waited. When she didn’t relent he raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘I tried.’

“How’s about the money you owe me?”

“I’ve never been late on a payment—”

“Until now.”

“I’ve never been late on a payment.” Maddy raised her voice just a touch. “But these last few weeks have been unusually slow. People are avoiding Ivy. The docks are… And the sewer-sickness is blooming. People aren’t coming in.”

“Isn’t changing the price of rent, Miss Rhines.”

“I’ll pay up what I owe as soon as I can,” Maddy said. “That’s all I can say. What else do you want?”

Chestin smiled. “There’s always… other forms of payment.”

Maddy frowned, and gripped the gun tighter.

“You know what I mean.” Chestin nodded upstairs. “You gotta have some of Old Man Rhines’ stock laying around.”

Maddy’s eyes went wide. This fucker wanted her guns.

She lifted the revolver and pointed it at his stomach. “Get out.”

The other two came up quick, hand reaching inside of their coats. Chestin’s hand waved them off.

“Come on,” he said. “Just one of your father’s antiques and we’ll be square for the next two months.”

“You don’t dare talk about him. Get out. I won’t repeat myself again.”

“Perhaps you don’t quite understand the position you’re in, Miss Rhines.” Chestin took another step up to her, pressing his belly against the barrel of her gun. “You owe money to Deputy Administrator Patrick Kettle. People pay him what they owe, or they accept whatever consequences come their way.”

The muscles in Maddy’s jaw twitched. Her nostrils stung as Chestin blew out a puff of rancid smoke. Patrick Kettle had significant sway in the politics of this district—and near legal immunity while he held the position of Deputy Administrator. He was also a land owner, a slumlord. The less fortunate suffered under his administration, and the wealthy prospered—mostly because the wealthy of Ivy Street consisted of his close friends and dear family. No matter what Maddy threatened, she knew that she couldn’t even so much as slap Chestin Kettle without his father bringing down her entire life.

She lowered the gun, and swallowed hard.

“I don’t have… Father didn’t leave me anything.”

Chestin frowned. “Bullshit. Man loved you. He left you everything.”

“No.” Maddy shook her head. “Not after what happened. The Bloodletters took everything.”

“The Society?” one of the thugs said. Neddy, Chestin had called him.

“Bullshit,” Chestin said again. “He left you his fortune, and his toys. That’s how you leased this place from my father in the first place. Don’t you lie to me, Miss Madeline Rhines. I got a Corbie nose. I can smell a lie before it’s even spoken.”

“They took it all,” Maddy said. “He didn’t expect to die when he did. He hadn’t had anything arranged. The Bloodletters claimed it.”

Chestin grabbed her by the wrist and pulled the gun up between them. Maddy winced at the violent motion—it was like being grabbed in the talons of a massive hawk. The dark steel of the revolver reflected the orange light minutely as Chestin twisted her wrist around, displaying it to her.

“Then where’d you get this piece?”

For an instant Maddy tried to pull her hand free, but it was no use against a brute like Chestin. “It was mine. Gave it to me before he passed. The Bloodletters took—”

“I said don’t lie to me!” Chestin shouted, squeezing her wrist.

“Those assassins are bad news, Ches,” said Neddy behind them. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they took it all when Rhines died.”

Chestin glanced back. He didn’t shout at or scold Neddy for speaking up—and in fact seemed to consider the point now that it had come from a fellow Corbie.

“Why do think I sell fucking clocks now?” Maddy said.

Chestin looked back to her. He twirled the pipe between his teeth. Ash spilled over its brim as it swayed back and forth.

“Maybe,” he said, nodding. “Which is just unfortunate for you, Miss Rhines. Because now you got nothing to pay us with.” He lifted her arm up, twisting so that she’d drop her gun. But Maddy held on. If there was one thing she learned from her father, it was to never let a man disarm you. Not in this horrid city. In Celedin, if a woman lost her ability to kill, then she was as good as dead.

She suddenly thought of Therazine. Chestin’s arm pulled back and his rope-like fingers curled into a fist.

“Wait!” Maddy shouted. It wasn’t a desperate word, but a demanding one. She held up her free hand in a gesture of placation. Chestin paused, his arm still cocked back.

“Wait,” she repeated. “Your father. Patrick. He’s up for reelection soon, isn’t he?”

“So what if he is?”

“Well. I’ve seen the numbers in the last few months.”

Chestin frowned.

Maddy swallowed again, and breathed in deep. “They aren’t getting any better soon, are they? Not with the exodus of West Celedin workers, I imagine. Not with businesses heading offworld.”

“So, what? You promising to vote for him if I don’t break your face? Don’t make me laugh.”

“No,” Maddy said. She looked him dead in his yellow eyes. “Therazine is back in town.”

Neddy gasped. The other thug looked around to make sure there was no one else hiding in the shadows, and drew his gun.

Chestin tilted his head. “The Stiletto?”

“The ex-Archblade herself.”

“You threatening me now?”

“Quite the contrary. I’m offering you a deal.” She grinned. “Tell me your father couldn’t use a little muscle in this race of his.”

Chestin was quiet for a long while, staring at her and moving his jaw in silent contemplation. Then he let go of her arm.

“If it’s true she’s back,” he said. “Why do you know?”

Maddy pulled her arm back and flexed her wrist, keeping the gun pointed at the Corbies.

“Because I’m the only person she trusts.”

TIME AWASH WITH BLOOD-- Chapter Twelve

He hadn’t said anything, but Therazine knew what Vexxer was thinking.

It had been two hours since they’d left Maddy’s gun shop. Two hours of walking up and down Ivy Street and its neighbors, picking out vagrants apparently at random and shaking them all down for information. Most had been entirely out of their minds with addiction or despair. A few had been unconscious and wouldn’t rouse. None were helpful. It was well after midnight at this point and Therazine’s legs were starting to hurt. Her farmer’s boots were rugged and made for tromping through mud and Lormian hills—but they weren’t adequate for walking along cobblestone and concrete. It had been over a decade, but she missed the firm comfort of the light, flexible steel toe boots that she used to wear when traveling the city. Almost every shop down these crowded avenues was closed, and the crowds were thinning. The neon from the bars and gentlemen’s clubs to the south end of Ivy Street burned bright through the haze, but the lights of apartments had gone out. The foot traffic that remained was sparse and paranoid—they avoided eye contact like they thought it could kill them.

Therazine knew what Vexxer was feeling, and she wished he would just say it. He thought they were wasting their time, thought that she had rushed to find a lead out in the night with no clear aim. He thought that this was all pointless, and yet he kept his mouth shut. Why? Because he thought it polite? Because he just liked being around her, regardless of the situation? She remembered him like this back in the day, soft-spoken and considerate, but never as quiet as he was now. If he thought this was all a waste of time, then why didn’t he just say that?

She wanted to turn around and stop him in his tracks. Stare into his wide-set eyes and confront him, ask what he thought they should be doing instead. But she knew how childish that would be. How fragile and small that would make her look. Better to just keep her head down and push forward, and pretend like Vexxer wasn’t even there.

They turned a corner. Down the street ahead the canopy above them opened up. Dusty rain mixed with the white glare of street lights, obscuring the government building that capped the intersection at the other end of the block. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the building. Its columns and domed towers were clear indicators of its public nature, but the identity of the building itself eluded her. She recognized the neon-lit fish shop on the corner, closed down for the evening. The bank across from it, with its large edifice and heavily barred portals.

“Justice Depot,” Vexxer said behind her.

She frowned. “I know.” The 17^th Ward Justice Depot. The local prison and safehouse for the persecuted. JDs were epicenters of crime and degeneracy, towering monuments to just how low and damaged humanity could become.

“We’ll not find anyone we need in there,” Vexxer said.

“Where will we find them, then?” Therazine snapped. She did not look at him.

Vexxer was quiet. A tall man in a heavy trenchcoat approached out of the rain. As he stepped under the canopy he shook himself, like a dog. He took off his hat briefly to shake the water from it, revealing a large scar that ran from the base of his skull and over to in between his eyes. Therazine shuddered in instinctual revulsion. The man replaced his hat and walked on by.

“Thera,” Vexxer whispered.

She didn’t respond. Only stared out into the rainy street beyond.

“Thera, what are we doing?”

“Finding a lead.”

Vexxer sighed. “There’s no one out here. What are we looking for?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Vexxer was quiet for a moment. All Therazine heard was the patter of rain against stone, and somewhere, distantly, a fog horn. Buried in the steel and concrete of these streets she almost forgot that the harbor was so nearby.

“Can we step out of the rain for a moment?” Vexxer said. “Get a warm drink, maybe?”

Therazine ground her teeth, then looked back at him. Vexxer had droplets stuck in his red beard, stray rain blown in from outside the canopy. His head was slick with sweat and rain, and his eyes were turned down in a sorrowful way.

“Yeah,” she said.

They walked into the nearest bar—a violet-lit place with a wooden hanging sign that read Eimbry’s Taproom. The heavy door reluctantly permitted them ingress, and the room beyond was warm and softly glowing. It was a large space, with four columns punctuating an otherwise empty room. A few tables were scattered, all full of people, and the bar itself was wide-set with twenty seats in front of it. Dark red paint covered the walls, muffling the already contained atmosphere that the candle-lighting gave the place. Planks of wood decorated otherwise brick walls, each piece with a plaque underneath. Without getting close enough to read Therazine knew that these plaques advertised that their associated lengths of wood were from offworld. Every bar had its own gimmick.

She sidled up to the bar, Vexxer in tow. They sat between two perfectly quiet men who both appeared to be only a few drinks from unconsciousness, and they seemed to be happy in that place. Behind the bar Therazine saw ornately carved shelves containing dozens of bottles of dark liquid. Those shelves were undoubtably local bogwood—cheap and unremarkable, which explained why the shelves didn’t have a plaque of their own. She glanced at herself in the mirror behind the bottles, and was unhappy with what she saw. A sunken-eyed, long-haired woman matted with rainwater and grime, her heavy clothes clinging to her body like the wet coat of a shaggy dog. Vexxer beside her sat like a giant—a head taller than her and shoulders twice as wide.

The bartender was chatting with a patron at the other end of the bar. Therazine didn’t even try to signal him. Vexxer patiently thrummed his fingers on the bartop.

“You’ve gotta be tired,” he said.

“No time for sleep.”

“Always time for sleep.”

Therazine felt like she’d had this conversation with him in the past. Ages ago, when they were killers together. He was always the practical one, the one who made sure they had a warm place to stay and hot food every night, no matter how far out into the Real they were.

“Thera.”

“Dammit, man.”

“Sorry.” Vexxer blinked rapidly and shook his head. “Old habits. I… You seem frantic. You’re not thinking clearly, I don’t think.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not saying that—Not saying that you ain’t thinking. That’s not what I’m saying. You’re focused, is all. Too focused. What is our plan tonight?”

“Weed through this shitty neighborhood until I pull up the one plant with roots.”

“To what end, though? What are we looking for?”

“Anything.”

"That…” Vexxer bit his lip. “We need direction. We need a course.”

“I have a course,” she said.

“Could you… enlighten me, perhaps? What are we looking for, and how will we know when we find it?”

“I don’t know, Vexxer.” She clenched her fists and stared forward, into the mirror. “I don’t fucking know, okay? I just… I just need to keep looking. I can’t rest. Not now. Not yet. Not while my family’s still—”

“What do you want?” the bartender said. Therazine hadn’t even noticed him slink up. His words were sharp, aggressive. She understood immediately that he wasn’t asking what they needed to drink. And he was staring at Vexxer.

“Kalaphan rum, please,” Vexxer said. “Two. Over ice.”

The bartender stared at him. He had a pencil mustache, and tiny, bat-like eyes that refused to blink. The bartender couldn’t have been half Vexxer’s weight, and yet he stared at Vexxer like he was about to pounce on him and bite his throat out.

“We ain’t got Kalaphan here.”

Therazine glanced up at the carved shelves. Half a bottle of reddish liquer caught her eye, its label reading KALAPHAN FINE IMPORTED RUM. She sat up straight, brushed her hair behind her ears. A glance over her shoulder saw that two men had stood up from the nearest table. They had long coats, and their hands hovered at their hips.

Vexxer’s eyes shot to the bottle on the shelf, and then immediately back to the bartender.

“No problem,” he said. “Coffee will do, if you got it.”

“No coffee for your kind.”

Therazine froze, bolt straight, with her head tilted so that she had one eye trained on the bartender and the other on the slowly approaching patrons.

Vexxer grinned and nodded. “I think we might have stumbled into the wrong place. Sorry about that, friend.” He pushed his stool back and stood up.

One of the men stepped close. He was tall, with a thin, hideous beard and wool skullcap. He placed a hand on Vexxer’s shoulder, fingers digging into Vexxer’s thick coat. Therazine kept her eye on the other man, and on the two more who stood up from the same table.

Vexxer turned, his wide bulk gently and naturally shaking the man’s hand off. His eyes were still downturned, still kind.

“Is there a problem?” he said.

“Yeah,” said the man with the skullcap. “About thirty years back when you stepped into our world, rock-eater.”

Vexxer pursed his lips. “I’ve only been here seventeen years, friend. You must have me mistaken.”

“Only mistake here is you showing yourself out at night. Constables can’t protect you now, Javadoan. No law’s gonna stay our hands this late.”

Therazine watched the other three men form a half circle around Vexxer and the man with the skullcap. One of them reached into his jacket and placed his hand on the hilt of something—a club or a knife.

“I made a mistake. Didn’t come in here looking for trouble,” Vexxer said. “The war was a long time ago.”

“Not for us, it wasn’t. Your kind killed more of my friends than I care to remember. Kept me in the cold and the dirt for six years of my life. And you have the audacity to show yourself here?”

“As I said, this was my mistake. I’ll leave.”

“Not before we take our reparations, you won’t.”

One man stepped forward, his hands coming up in fists. Therazine shot up and kicked her stool out, sending it sliding across the floor and knocking the man’s legs out from under him. He went down and his jaw cracked on the floor.

The bar exploded in noise and movement. The man in the skullcap threw a punch and Vexxer caught his fist. The two others came at Therazine, one drawing a truncheon from his jacket. Therazine reached behind the bar blindly and whipped a bottle at the man in front, hitting him between the eyes and sending him crashing backwards into a table. The other man rushed her with the truncheon. She got her arms up as he struck her, taking the force of the blow on her leather-clad forearms.

Vexxer broke the wrist of the man in the skullcap. He screamed, foam bubbling across his unkempt beard, and he fell to his knees. The man on Therazine struck at her viciously, again and again, but there was no technique to his blows. No skill. It was like he was hacking away at an overgrown plant. Therazine absorbed another hit with her forearms and waited as he pulled back to strike again. In that moment she reached out and grabbed his curly, greasy hair and drove his face into her knee. He went down with a wet shout.

Vexxer kicked aside his barstool and stood next to Therazine. Four men were down, two were weeping. The drunk who’d had his legs knocked out from under him by the stool wobbled to his feet. Another man massaged the bleeding lump on his forehead where Therazine had cracked him with the bottle.

Therazine breathed in deep and held it. She stared at these two, and in the corners of her eyes she watched the other patrons in the bar. She could feel the moment balancing on a thin point. Either she and Vexxer had been quick and brutal enough to discourage any further action, or the violence had been galvanizing and the moment would fall to the other side of the point. Her hand twitched above her gunless hip. She dared not move, lest the patrons be provoked.

She heard the spin of a thumb wheel, and turned just in time to see the bartender raise a rifle. Her hand shot out and snagged the barrel, forcing the gun up—the bartender shouted in shock and his finger slipped off the trigger.

With that, the bar plunged headfirst into chaos. Three men charged them, knives and bottles in their hands. Therazine shoved the rifle into the bartender’s neck and sent him crashing into his ornate shelves and bottles. The sound of breaking glass was melodic to her ears.

Vexxer met the first man with a punch that would have floored a bull. The assailant’s head cracked back like he’d been shot and he went tumbling into a table. Therazine spun with the rifle held like a club and broke another man’s teeth. She had just a split second to step closer to Vexxer before the next man reached her with a punch the swung far too wide. She grabbed the rifle with both hands and struck it forward, breaking his nose. Vexxer grabbed another man by the arm and flipped him onto his back, just as a knife came at his shoulder. Therazine swung for the attacker’s head just as Vexxer parried the knife with a slap from his left hand. The knife-wielder spun, blood spurting from a broken jaw, and fell.

Two more dove for them and were put down just as quickly. A third fell upon Vexxer as he kicked one of the downed men in the stomach. Vexxer didn’t see that man, and that man had a steak knife. Therazine aimed the rifle at the attacker, her finger settling on the trigger. For the briefest moment she was aware of what she was doing and what she held in her hands. The gun had come up so naturally, so simply. It had obeyed her commands without question. She demanded that it kill, and it rose to the occasion. The taste of mortal fragility flared suddenly on the end of her tongue. She squeezed trigger.

Vexxer turned just as the rifle went off. The man was taken aback by the Javadoan’s remarkable reflexes and vigilance, and he paused in his stride. The rifle fired, and the bullet passed just in front of the man’s nose before shattering a dark wood plank that hung on the far wall.

Everyone in the bar froze. The men ceased charging, the people at the tables stopped their jeering. All stared at the woman by the bartop with the rifle in her hands.

Therazine felt a rush of fear sweep through her veins. The rifle shook in her hands, and without a directive thought she spun the thumb wheel and chambered another round.

The man with the knife went white. He opened his mouth as if to scream as the harmonica clip of the rifle slid into place, feeding another bullet into the chamber.

Vexxer loomed large and grabbed the man by the back of the head, and then slammed him face first into the corner of the bar. A wet crunch, and blood and teeth splattered against the glasses on the bartop. The man fell to the ground in a pile of screaming, writhing agony.

Vexxer looked at Therazine. The rifle went limp in her hands.

She turned, and saw everyone staring in horrified silence. Their eyes shifted between her, Vexxer, and the mangled people at their feet.

Vexxer breathed heavily through his nose. Flecks of blood dotted his already red complexion.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. Then, to the crowd: “Vekrath’egh Javadahg denu arrkechit.”

Therazine nodded, and let out the breath she had been holding the entire time. She grabbed the clip on the side of the rifle and yanked it out of the gun, throwing cartridges across the floor. The brass clattered and glittered in the candlelight. She pocketed the clip and dropped the rifle, then followed Vexxer out of the building.

The stepped out into the wet night, heaving and pulses pounding. She watched the heavy door swing closed, and the latch itself. Vexxer leaned up against the wall and flexed his hands into fists over and over. Dark spots on his knuckles flared with each movement. Therazine stared at him, waiting for him to stare back. When he finally did he dropped his hands to his sides as if he had been doing something unscrupulous. She only stared. He nodded, and the two of them stepped up the few steps into the open street.

“That surely escalated,” Vexxer said.

“I’d thought the animosity from the war would have burned out by now.”

“It has, mostly.” Vexxer sighed and cracked his neck. “But there are still holdouts of salty veterans. People who see red hair and think, ‘if I kick that guy’s ass, then maybe my dead friends will come back.’”

Therazine frowned. “‘If I kick that guy’s ass, maybe my wife won’t leave me for being an abusive, drugged-out prick.’”

“‘If I kick that guy’s ass, maybe I won’t have picked up my alcoholism during my tour on Javadoa.’”

“‘Maybe if I kick that guy’s ass,’” Therazine said with a small chuckle, “’my government won’t have sent me to get my own ass kicked by those red-haired barbarians in the first place.’”

Vexxer laughed, and shook his head. “Heh. ‘Barbarians.’ Thanks, Thera. I’d almost forgotten about the posters all across this city when I first emigrated here.”

Therazine remembered the propoganda about the Javadoans when she was a little girl. Posters that depicted them as axe-wielding devils with bright red skin and wild eyes. Radio shows where they spoke in gutteral, alien tongues. Stage plays where strong-jawed Celedinian heroes rescued busty women from the salacious clutches of hulking Javadoan barbarians. The memories made her hate this city even more. As a child, she had assumed Javadoans were brutes and monsters. Vexxer was the kindest, gentlest man she had ever met. By the Aether, how old must he have been when he traveled here from Javadoa? Fifteen? Sixteen? How the Celedin must have looked to his young eyes. A superstitious people less than a generation from a grizzly war—people who still hung signs on the doors of their shops that proclaimed NO JAVAS.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Vexxer said. “People are just people. Scared and stupid.”

“I almost killed a man in there, Vex.”

Vexxer looked at her curiously. “Yeah? So did I. If I’d put a little more oomph into that last guy, I’m sure I would have got him.”

“No,” she said, clutching her shoulders tight. “I almost killed a man. With that gun. And I didn’t even think about it. It… it just came naturally.”

“Yeah. Heat of the moment. That’s what you do when you’re fighting for your life.” Vexxer furrowed his brow. “Are you alright, Thera?”

“I almost killed someone.” Therazine stopped and stared at the cobblestone, shaking. “I haven’t… I haven’t killed anyone in a decade. Not since—I haven’t. And this just came so… so… If he hadn’t stopped short, I would’ve… just…”

Vexxer stopped too, and turned fully to her.

“Thera? What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t even think about it, Vex. I just grabbed the gun and went to do it. On reflex. On instinct.”

“That makes perfect sense. It’s alright. You’re just conditioned. Even after ten years, you’re back in this place. It’s what you did here. Just falling back on old habits, that’s all.”

Therazine clutched her head and shook violently.

Old ways, old ways,

Falling back on old things

Gone back, gone back,

Old birds still like to sing.

“I’m not that person anymore. I’m not. I’m… I’ve changed.” She fell to her knees, and felt rain soak through to her skin.

Vexxer was down beside her an an instant. “Thera, what’s going on? What is this? Are you okay?”

“I’m not the same,” she said. “I’m not. I left. I left everything. I’m a wife. I’m a mother. I’m—” Her heart jumped, pumping acid pain through her chest as she remembered Bren. She tucked her head into her knees, clutching her hair with trembling hands and sobbing into the street.

Vexxer wrapped his thick arms around her. She fell into him, weeping uncontrollably. He held her tight, saying nothing.