by E. A. Copen
I gave the door three solid raps, and it opened on its own.
Walking into the shop beyond was like stepping back in time and strolling into a medieval alchemist’s shop. Strange contraptions sat on wooden tables. A metallic model of the solar system spun on its own, powered by nothing but gravity. Wooden shelves lined the walls, each filled to the brim with glass jars. Some of them were no bigger than a shot glass and contained brightly colored liquids. Others were large enough to contain the pickled heart of a yeti, or the testes of an ogre. Dragon scales that had long ago lost their luster hung on the wall. Snake skins draped from hooks next to two-headed blowfish. Dusty tomes with titles in Latin, Greek, and Arabic occupied a shelf close to the counter where small aquariums housed live frogs, scorpions, and insects. A gray cat with bright yellow eyes hopped onto the counter and licked its paw, paying no mind to me.
“I’ll be right with you, dear,” called a woman from the back.
I leaned forward to glimpse the back room where three massive iron cauldrons steamed under a red light.
The beaded curtains moved aside, and a heavyset woman came out of the back, pushing a bandana up her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed almost enough to hide her freckles. “Oh, my! Aren’t you a sight? Guess I was right about the rain. Mistress Marigold, at your service!” She wiped her hands on her apron before extending one across the counter to me.
“I’m just here to buy a few potions.”
Her face fell. I couldn’t tell if it was because I didn’t want to shake hands, or my announcement. “Oh. Well, you’ve come to the right place. What kind do you need, honey? I’ve got a whole bunch. Love potion? No, you look more a fighter than a lover. How about a strength potion? I’m experimenting with this new cherry flavoring. It’s very popular in the Lakelands!”
“No, thanks.” I counted out several bills and placed them on the counter. “I just need an antigen potion.”
The last of her enthusiasm faded, replaced by sympathy. “Oh, well that’s… I… One second. I think I have some of that around here.” She turned her back and flipped through some keys before selecting one and unlocking a cabinet behind the counter. “Here it is!” The shopkeeper gingerly lifted a small box of a dozen vials, each full of a charcoal black liquid. She glanced at me, giving me a good look up and down. “I’m sorry to say it’s quite expensive, the ingredients being so rare and all.”
I counted out a few more bills. “How many can I get with this?”
She took the money, counted it, and plucked two vials from the box, carefully placing them on the counter. Half of my pay for two vials of life-sustaining antigen. It was enough to keep me going for a week, maybe ten days. No more.
I sighed and took the vials. “Thank you.”
“Wait!” she called as I turned away. The apothecary scanned the shelves behind her before grabbing a larger draught of ice blue liquid. She rushed out from behind the counter to press it into my hand. “For the pain.”
“Oh, I can’t afford…”
“It’s on the house, dear.” She closed my fingers around it, pity widening her eyes. “It’s the least I can do.”
I stared down at the bottle in my hand, shame burning in my heart. “Thank you,” was all I could mumble before stumbling back out into the rain.
Chapter Two
With my sword at my side, I walked the streets of Atlanta in the rain, arms crossed and shoulder aching.
Somehow, I found myself in the old stadium district. The ancient, round sports complex still stood, used now as a practicing ground for guild fighters. Most of the entrances had been sealed. The few that hadn’t boasted thick iron chains and padlocks only guild leaders could unlock.
I passed the stadium, navigating broken sidewalks to where an old newspaper stand stood, still open, despite the weather and the hour. I bought a copy and tucked it safely under my arm before slipping into a residential neighborhood.
Hidden among the square-stacked apartment buildings stood a tiny liquor shack with a flickering neon sign out front advertising beer and pool inside. The bars on the windows matched the same smoky dark steel holding up the billboards near the stadium. The front door to the bar was one of those rolling corrugated metal doors, the kind they put on shipping and receiving doors. It was up, revealing some industrious person had installed a set of batwing doors. The slow, ambling rhythm of a guitar playing the blues drifted out the open door.
I pushed through the batwing doors and stopped just inside. Rain dripped from my hair and clothes to pool in a dark circle on the poured cement floor. There wasn’t much inside, just a couple of chairs, overturned barrels to serve as tables, and a ratty old pool table shoved, unused, into one corner. The bar itself got points for ingenuity, though. Someone had stacked a bunch of railroad timbers and driven big thirteen-inch railroad spikes into the corners to keep them together. Someone had rigged old railroad crossing signs up behind the bar to blink, providing most of the light for the tiny bar.
A couple of guys at the bar twisted in their seats to look at me. The guy on the right with the cowboy hat wouldn’t be any trouble. He turned away as fast as he looked at me and tucked right back into his drink. He saw a girl with a sword and decided he didn’t want to ruin his buzz. Skinny on the left must’ve been hard up for entertainment, though, because he elbowed the guy in the cowboy hat next to him and nodded to me.
I made a point not to look at either of them as I found an empty seat on the far side of the bar. “Just a beer,” I said to the bartender.
He grunted and pressed a dusty glass under a tap. The beer he put in front of me was flat, but I hadn’t ordered it expecting much. As long as it hid the taste of the antigen, it’d be worth the price. I checked to make sure no one was watching and dumped one of the black potions into the beer. It bubbled and hissed.
Bottoms up, I thought, and gulped down the whole thing before signaling for a refill.
“I swear that’s what he said he saw,” said someone loudly off to my right.
“Come on,” chided the guy in the cowboy hat. “Everybody knows that once you fall into a rift, there’s no coming back.”
“What reason would he have to lie to me? His information’s always been good. I’m telling you, Dex. If Trillium says the guy walked straight out of a rift, then that’s what happened.”
“Trillium is an Institute sellout, Lucas.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s lying.”
“No,” replied the cowboy, “just that he’s not even loyal to the people who pay him. How much did you pay to hear his bullshit story? Too much, I’d wager.”
The story piqued my interest, and I tuned into the conversation without turning my head.
The man telling the story wore torn, mud stained clothing and drank with a shaky hand. A fresh burn scar marked his cheek. A small group of people had gathered around him to listen.
“Maybe he just got really close,” the cowboy suggested.
The scarred man shook his head and stared off into the distance, gripping his cup. “If my informant says he came out of the rift, then he’s sure of it.”
“Or at least he believes he’s sure,” said the second man.
The scarred man shrugged and reached across the bar to refill his drink. “All I know is the guy is trouble, and you’re a moron if you’re thinking of signing up with him. You’ll get yourself killed, Dex. People don’t walk out of rifts like they’re fucking doorways. It just doesn’t happen.”
A ghost story, I thought, staring down into my beer. No one comes back from the other side of a rift. I should know better than anyone.
My fingers curled around the handle of the mug while the scene from five years ago replayed in my head. The loud whooshing sound of the open rift drowned out my cries as I screamed for Ash not to go. But it was too late. He was dead, and the only thing I had to show for our hunt gone wrong was a bleeding gash on my stomach. My hand went instinctively to where the cut had been.
The band ended their song, and I sna
pped back to the present. Chairs scooted across the concrete floor and shadows pressed in closer to me from behind. I ignored it. The bartender had put my second glass in front of me and I aimed to enjoy it.
“I don’t know you,” said the asshole behind me. “Are you one of those Iron Company freaks?”
“Nah,” said someone else. “No way one of Ike’s people would be stupid enough to come in here. They know better. She’s a poacher.”
“Well?” asked the first voice. “Are you a poacher?”
I moved to pick up my drink.
Skinny’s hand slammed down on my wrist. Beer sloshed out onto the bar, turning it a deeper shade of gray. “I asked you a question, girl.”
I scowled at the spilled drink and met Skinny’s yellowing brown eyes. He had a thin face, all angles and no meat, but no jawline. He’d tried to make up for it by growing in some patchy facial hair. It made him look more like the fifth grader who got held back a couple times than anything threatening.
Poachers were the lowest of the low as far as the guilds were concerned. Freelance mercs who rolled into a town, took all the high paying work, and moved on as soon as they lined their pockets. Every guild everywhere hated their guts, but everyone secretly wanted to be one. There was steady cash in guild work, but it wasn’t always lucrative after everything was divided equally. Everyone knew freelancing was where the money was, and no one could deny there was an appeal to the travel.
Except they forgot about the lonely nights, the three on one fights, and the way everyone everywhere spat on you just for trying to survive. If the option had been open to me, I would’ve joined a guild and put roots down years ago. It’s like the old saying: the grass is always greener in someone else’s yard.
I jerked my arm away from Skinny. “What I am is thirsty. All I want to do is have a few drinks. Warm up. Dry off a bit. I didn’t come here to fight. Let me finish my drink and I’ll move on. Until then, I’m a paying customer, just like everybody else.”
“You listen here, you—”
The cowboy who’d been sitting beside Skinny at the bar suddenly stepped in, pulling Skinny away by the shoulder. “I think the lady said she just wants a drink, Kenny.”
“Fuck you,” Kenny said, and took a swing at the other man. It connected with his jaw, which was apparently a mistake. All the guys who’d previously had Skinny’s back when he was harassing me took a step back. Skinny’s eyes widened, processing what he’d done.
The man ran a thumb along his lower lip. “Now, I know you’re drunk, Kenny. Otherwise, you’d never’ve taken that shot at me. So, I’m gonna let you off easy.” His hand clamped down on Kenny’s shoulder and he gave him a gut punch so solid I heard him deflate like a balloon.
Kenney went down, falling back into the crowd he’d counted on for back-up. They must not’ve liked Kenney that much because they let him fall straight to the floor.
“Sorry about Kenny. He’s really not a bad guy when he’s sober.” The cowboy extended a hand.
I ignored it and worked on finishing my drink.
After a long beat, he lowered his hand and cleared his throat. “I’m Dex Cavalieres.”
“Ember Dixon.”
He waited for me to say more, but I stayed silent. When he realized I wouldn’t respond, he didn’t take the hint, either. He just kept going. “I run the Marauder’s Guild here in Atlanta. You’ve heard of it?”
“Nope.” I shoved my glass to the other side of the bar, hoping for another refill. The bartender ignored me. Just my luck I’d wander into a guild bar. I waved for him to bring me the tab instead, but he continued acting like he hadn’t seen me. Guess I’m not going to get to settle the bill until I give this creep the time of day.
“We’re not as big as the Iron Company, or as well funded… yet. But there’s something to be said for a smaller, local crew. We can take jobs they’d pass on, go places they won’t,” Dex continued.
I put on my best regretful smile and turned on the barstool to face him. “Look, you can save the sales pitch for someone else. I’m not looking for a guild to join.”
He crossed his arms. “Oh, so you are a poacher?”
I ground my teeth a moment before I realized I was doing it and forced myself to relax. “I’m not here to take jobs from any of the guilds. I just brought a mail convoy in from Baltimore.”
“Plenty of guilds in Baltimore to escort the mail,” Kenny chimed in. He gripped his stomach and climbed back onto his stool.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Guess they were all busy.”
Dex sighed. “Look, do you want to get out of here? Talk somewhere a little quieter?”
I gave him another, more lingering glance. It wasn’t often anyone tried to flirt with me. Of course there were the looks, the whistles, the whispering. It’s something you just get used to when you’re a woman working alone with a lot of men on long trips. People get lonely. But from a guild leader? To someone like Dex, I should’ve been as attractive as dog food.
I smiled. “You’re either desperate, or stupid.”
He shrugged and leaned on the bar next to me. “Or I choose not to judge people without getting to know them first. I’m sure you have your reasons for not being in a guild. I’d love to hear them.”
“Would you now?”
“Bet you’ve seen some interesting things, been to interesting places.” He folded his arms on the bar and gestured for the bartender to refill my drink. “Me, I don’t get out of Atlanta much. It’d be nice to hear about some other place a bit, hear from a fresh voice. And I could listen to you talk all night.”
I restrained a laugh. “I’m not much of a storyteller.”
“Aw, come on. Just look at you. You’ve got enough road dust on you, and that sword’s worn. You’ve seen things, been places. What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever killed?”
I shrugged and pulled my refilled glass closer. “I just dealt with a nasty bridge troll on the way here. It’s probably the biggest, but not the most difficult thing. Worst one was a rogue vampire.” I noticed Kenny giving me a dirty look, so I turned my back to him, spinning on the bar stool to face Dex slightly.
“No necromancer around to control it?”
I shook my head. “He’d passed in his sleep. Heart attack. The vampire got loose somehow. Started attacking anything that moved. The guilds lost three people trying to corner it. Then they got all wrapped up in the logistics and paperwork. While they were trying to figure out all of that, two more people died. I tracked it to an empty warehouse and put a stop to it once and for all. Sometimes, us poachers are more efficient than a big guild.”
“I’m not arguing that.” Dex reached across the bar, picked up a bottle and poured a shot. “People might not like it, but freelancers are needed. There are places we can’t go, jobs too small to be worth hiring out that solo folks like yourself can handle better. Personally, I think we ought to subcontract that work out to registered agents. That’d satisfy people’s need to regulate and feel safe working with outsiders. Protect freelancers, too. You get your freedom to operate and the people get their problems solved. I make a little on the side.”
“That’s just it, though. Why should you get a portion of the pay for the job I do?”
He shrugged. “Ideally? It’d be in exchange for legal protection. Say that vampire killed someone on your watch and the relatives wanted to take it out on you. A subcontractor relationship would mean that I’ve vetted you, and that legal shitstorm would fall on me.”
“So the guilds would be what? Insurance?” I shook my head. “No thanks. It sounds too complicated to be beneficial. I don’t like the idea of answering to anyone.”
“Yeah, you don’t strike me as the dependent type.” He picked up his glass, toasted me, and downed it, wincing after. “It’s just an idea, though. Something I’m working on.”
“You don’t have anything against poachers?” I asked.
“I prefer freelancers. Bet you do too.” He refilled his glass. “And
I don’t have anything against anybody unless they earn it. I’ve been an outsider looking in more than once. I know it ain’t easy, doing what you do. Gotta get lonely out there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re going to volunteer to keep me company? No offense, but I’m not looking for company tonight.”
He smiled and touched his chest, pretending to be wounded. “Ouch, my pride. And here I thought we’d made a connection. Where’d I go wrong?”
“Is it cliché if I say it’s not you, it’s me?”
“A little, yeah.”
I pressed my lips together and rose, tossing some bills down on the bar. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, Cowboy. I’m sure your pride will recover in time.”
“Cowboy,” Dex mused, running a finger along the rim of his hat. “I think I like that.”
I left the bar with a sour taste in my mouth, and not just from the potion I’d choked down. The rain had slowed to a mild drizzle, but it was still coming down. Puddles marked potholes and low-lying areas on the roads. In the distance, worn neon signs flickered in and out of existence, announcing the closure of every business in Atlanta.
I hurried down the street and into the lobby of a small motel where a young woman with piercings in her eyebrow manned the counter. She looked up from the book she was reading and frowned, looking me over. “We’re booked up.”
“Really?” I gestured to the wall of guest room keys hanging behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder before turning back, a slightly more apologetic expression on her face. “Ok, so we’re not, but… One of the Marauders was just in here. Paid me not to give you a room.”
“You’re serious?”
“Deathly.”
I’d been turned away plenty of times, but most people at least tried to hide it. “Because I’m a poacher?”
She shrugged.
