“I don’t recognize that one.” He’s talking about me.
Roy laughs. “He’s harmless. I can vouch for that.”
“What’s your name?”
“Henry.”
The cat blinks. “And your last name?” “Whelp.”
“Hold on a moment.” He shoos us backward and shuts the door. Roy looks at me and shrugs. “That’s never happened before.”
We wait.
A moment later the door opens again and the cat steps aside. “Welcome,” he says.
The building inside is huge. Shafts of incandescent light cut down from hanging fixtures, slicing up the dusty air. It’s a huge warehouse of some kind. The ceiling seems like it’s miles away, crisscrossed with girders and chains. Foundry basins dangle from them, swaying gently in the drafts. The vast floor is punctuated by ancient refinery equipment, languishing in rusty silence. There’re a few wrought-iron staircases too, whirling up to nowhere. It’s huge in here—it must take up half of Dockside. I can’t even see the far end. It’s lost in a fog of darkness.
Not far from the entrance is a makeshift throne, a chair soldered together from nuts and bolts, hammers and wrenches, cogs and gears, and a million other bits of junk. Like the door that’s just been sealed behind me, the whole thing has been cast in solid gold. All around the base are wolves, ten or fifteen of them, sauntering back and forth, or merely curled up in the shadows of old machines.
Roy nudges me, pointing up at the dwarf who’s perched in the golden throne. “That’s Skinner,” he whispers.
He’s larger than I expected. He’s a dwarf, sure, and is likely no more than four and a half feet tall, but he’s sturdily built. His body presses firmly against the fabric of his clothes, which are impeccable. He wears a three-piece gabardine suit, with gleaming white gloves on both hands and a collar buttoned tightly up to his chin. In fact, it’s so tight the skin of his neck bulges over the fabric. Everything about his dress is taut and tiny and perfectly precise. But it’s neither his size nor the fastidiousness of his dress that strikes you. What strikes you most is his face.
Skinner’s face is a catastrophe.
Down the center is a scar—a shiny, pink river as broad as his mouth, dividing his whole head into two crooked halves. Whatever happened to him must have healed with all the precision of blood spatter. This guy is hideously, sensationally deformed. His nose is a rutted, cauliflower-like bloom, his blazing green eyes are entirely misaligned, and his lips are two lumpy piles of mash. Between them, he’s chewing on a long stalk of straw.
“Whelp?” he asks. His voice cuts into you, deep and harsh. He plucks the straw from his mouth, confused. “You’re not who I expected.”
“Maybe you were thinking of my father. He used to work for you.”
A cloud passes over his warped face. “Hard to forget.” He frowns and his lips tighten into pink puree. “I do hope you’re a little more reliable.”
Roy throws his arm over my shoulders. “I can vouch for him. We’re friends. We go waaaay back.”
Skinner frowns. “I wasn’t talking to you, was I, Mr. Sarlat?”
Roy’s tail dips an inch or two. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was frightened, or at least ashamed.
“Well, now,” says Skinner, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Why don’t we get down to business?” He looks up to the gloom that fills the ceiling. “Shall we?”
A great roar of whistles and applause fills the room. The ceiling is suddenly illuminated. On platforms ringing the ceiling, there are scaffolds covered with bleachers, deep ziggurats laden with countless wooden tubs. Inside every one of them, sloshing in the depths of every barrel, are water nixies. The whole of the Dockside mob must be up there.
“Skinner!” one of them hisses. He splashes steamy salt water down on us. “Start the race! We wanna see some action!” As he says it, the cheering rises, feverish and hot.
But Skinner’s not easily fazed, not even by a raft of nixies. “In due time,” he says. The lights dim along the scaffolding and the nixies once again fade into darkness. “But first—” He looks at me. “Some of us are new and may be unaccustomed to the way things proceed. The rules are simple: one lap around the warehouse.” He points to the floor. “First wolf back here wins.”
Some of the other wolves nod, but the majority are merely bored. “Oh,” continues Skinner, “and what exactly do you win? The best prize of all, of course. A place. A place in my pack.” He points to the sloppy, bloodred lines painted on the floor. “And please, I implore you. No cheating. My—ahem—‘men’ are here to ensure that all of you follow the markers. Aren’t you, my boys?” Goblins step out of the shadows. Each one is as big as—if not bigger than—Gunther. They’ve been lurking in alcoves all along. “You see?” says Skinner, grinning madly. “Do try to avoid cutting corners.”
Compared to a room full of globs, wolves, and nixies, Skinner looks about as harmless as a child. He’s more like a perverted amoeba than an actual dwarf. Why do all these goblins slavishly obey someone like that?
“Oh,” says Skinner, “and one more thing: I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll tell you what . . .” He tugs at the glove on his right hand, pulling it off finger by finger. With the freshly exposed digits, he takes the straw out of his mouth and holds it up. It’s a dirty yellow color, chewed-up on one end and damp with spit.
And then something strange happens.
Skinner pinches the stalk of straw between his bare thumb and forefinger and suddenly there’s a cool gust of air stirring through the room. Even from up above, the spatters of the nixies fall dead silent. It’s all because of the stalk of straw.
It’s been turned to gold.
I put a paw to my pocket. I’ve got something just like it—and it’s enough to convince me: Skinner was there. He was at St. Remus before Doc killed himself. Or worse: Skinner’s the one who strung him up.
Skinner tosses the alchemized stick up in the air and catches it with his other hand, the one still sheathed in a glove. “To the winner,” he says. Beside me, Roy whistles under his breath and suddenly, I realize something. This is what Siobhan meant when she told me Skinner was untouchable. Not that he’s merely powerful and aloof—and surely he is—but it’s also that he’s exactly that: untouchable. He’s got some of the old-time magic inside him. Make contact with his skin and that’s it, you’re done for, turned to gold. No wonder the globs are so well behaved.
“Now then,” says Skinner. “There’s one last thing we need to take care of before we begin.” He smiles at us, which is almost too hideous to look at. Nevertheless, not a single one of us turns away.
“It’s time,” he says, “to take your medicine.”
18
READY TO BURN
BEYOND THE THRONE, THERE’S A TABLE COVERED WITH UPTURNED HUBCAPS. They’re arranged like soup bowls at a fancy dinner. In the pit of each one is a glistening pile of powder, twinkling in the shafts of lamplight.
Dust.
This isn’t the low-potency, slow-burning medicinal stuff you get from the likes of Nimbus Thaumaturgical. This stuff is so bright it looks lit from within, like each little heap has a whole power station to itself. It’s been refined and concentrated far beyond the legal limit. This is the hard stuff. This is what foxes in alleyways will try to sell you from the insides of their ratty coats. This is nixiedust.
Skinner directs us from his throne. “If you want to be a dust runner, you have to be fast. But fast isn’t enough. You’ve also got to have—what’s the word? Grit. Which is the reason why each of you is going to take a hit of my very own special blend. It’s as close to the old times as you youngsters are ever gonna get. It’s meant to turn your inner self into your outer self.” His mouth spreads into a tortured grin. “Bring out the true ‘you,’ in a manner of speaking. Which ought to keep things interesting.”
A spray of spineless laughter comes from up above. I realize now—too late, of course—that I’m in way over my head. But a glance over at
Roy tells me he’s feeling none of my apprehension. He’s eyeing the dust on the table with unabashed relish. His jaw falls slack and a gobbet of drool falls out, blobbing on the floor.
All I can think about is the last thing Dad told me at the prison. Whatever you do, don’t take his dust.
“Gentlemen,” says Skinner, “choose your poison.”
The others scamper up eagerly to the table and start jostling for a hubcap.
“You, too,” says the tuxedoed cat. He’s standing at the base of the throne, waiting for me to proceed.
I take a step back from the table. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”
The cat frowns. “No,” he says, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. It falls open and reveals a gun strapped to his narrow chest. “I don’t think you have.”
Guess I don’t have a choice.
Everyone else has picked up a hubcap. There’s one left on the table. It’s waiting for me. I step forward and the cat rebuttons his jacket. I pick up the cap and raise it to my snout. The dust wobbles in its shallow home, rising out of its own volition, anticipating what’s to come.
“Go ahead,” says the cat. “We’re waiting.”
At the end of the table there’s a lanky, black-haired wolf. He’s a head taller than me, but thin as a reed. I’d be surprised if he weighs half of what I do. I watch him raise the hubcap to his face and inhale. The dust leaps off the metal, snaking up with uncanny speed, clouding around his head. His snout stabs greedily at the air, huffing and puffing. All the while the dust toys with him, swelling and teasing around his head, until finally it pours inside him with a hiss.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then suddenly the wolf buckles over. He’s sputtering, his face buried in his paws. When he rises again, his eyes glow red. Curls of smoke scallop from his nostrils like a pair of charmed serpents.
“Interesting,” says the cat. He steps backward, leaning casually on Skinner’s throne. “Anytime,” he says to me.
I look over at Roy. He’s got his face pressed to the rusty hub, snorting for all he’s worth. The dust geysers up and dances in the air around him before streaming inside. Roy inhales smoothly. He’s done this before.
“Man,” he says, “I love this stuff.” He holds a paw up in front of his face and we both watch as his claws begin to grow—lengthening, sharpening—so dramatically they rip the flesh of his fingertips. Every one of Roy’s claws is becoming an ink-black sickle. Through all of it, Roy doesn’t even flinch. He just stares in wonder at this new and improving forepaw. He’s like a massive child with a new toy.
When the claws finally finish growing, he puts the improved digits to his mouth, mewling and slithering his tongue between them to lick away the blood. And now the same thing’s happening with his teeth: fanglike incisors growing and rupturing his gums. He grins at me, more wolfishly than I’ve ever seen, and bolts of his own blood drip onto his shirt, melding with the gaudy print.
Luminous veils of fairydust cloud the table. Some wolves become bloated with muscle. Others grow spiraling horns. One wolf’s tail lengthens and distorts to become like that of a reptile—scaly and whip-sharp. They’re all wolves, but now each of them comes with a vicious difference. And they’re all staring at me, waiting.
My own little molehill of magic lies shining and quiet. I look up to see Skinner, glaring down at me from his throne.
“Hurry up,” snaps the cat. “You either take it . . .” He fiddles again with the button of his jacket. “Or you don’t.”
What can I do? If I’d wanted a real choice, I should’ve made it a long time ago and not even come here. Too late for that now. I hunch around the hubcap like it’s a fireplace in the dead of winter. And I inhale.
At once, my face tingles with an infinity of pinpricks. I can’t help but recoil. I block my mouth with my tongue, but the dust skitters in through my nostrils, through my ears. I try choking it out of my snout, but I only run out of air. So I open up.
The nixiedust has a synthetic sweetness that sears my throat and fills my lungs until they’re about to pop. I clutch my ribs and stupidly fight to hold them in. The nixies jeer at me from above. Briny water splashes down in heckling buckets. Then the pain’s gone. The dust is inside me. I look at my paws. They’re normal. I run my fingers over my teeth and skull. No fangs. No horns. My tail is the shaggy frond it’s always been. Nothing’s changed.
Roy yawns, showing off his cartoonish teeth. “Too bad,” he sneers. “Must’ve got the placebo.”
“Gentlemen,” says the cat. His claws beckon. “The starting line, if you please.” He lines us up along a red chalkline on the floor.
“I don’t think the dust worked for me,” I whisper to him. He lines us up along a red chalkline on the floor. Roy takes a spot right on my left side.
He says nothing and with his scythelike claws, he slices away his tacky shirt. Then he drops to all fours and lopes back and forth, cleaving huge divots in the floor. Braids of muscle roll between his shoulders like dough in a mixer.
Up above us, the nixies spume with impatience. “Get on with it!” one of them screams.
“I got money on the big white one,” hisses another. “Don’t let me down!”
The cat steps to the line. Clutched in his arms is an ancient musket. He aims it recklessly upward. “On your mark!” he calls.
We drop to all fours, wound up tight.
“Get ssseeeeet!”
He fires the gun and somehow, miraculously, I’m first off the line, but I’m not out front for long. The black, willowlimbed wolf hurtles past. He looks back over his shoulder and barks at me. Flames and smoke blossom from his mouth. He’s breathing fire. I jostle left, caroming against another wolf—who slashes at me with a lizardy tail. I’m thrown offkilter, yelping as my ankle twists inward. More of the pack judders past.
Then comes Roy, tongue slavering between his teeth. His every stride floats for miles. He’s like a bird in flight, whereas I’m a flawed machine, gears grinding and starved for fuel. My ankle grates with every thud of my feet.
By the end of the straightaway, I’m well behind.
But I still have the leader—the flame-spouter, coughing up fireworks—in my sights. The wolf with ram’s horns leaps sideways, clangs off a yellow foundry basin, and butts into the wolf with the crocodile tail, the same one who wrecked my ankle. The two of them ball up, rolling like acrobats. I can hear the cracks of bones breaking. The nixies love it and splash down their cheers.
The heap left by the two broken wolves now blocks the only path. The rest of the runners, unable to swerve, tumble into them. The sudden pile up shunts any hope of getting by. Roy and I are the only ones behind it.
Roy takes the hard way, throwing his head back and howling. He digs his awful claws into the pack and scrabbles over. Hair and flesh tear away under his feet, throwing back a wake of blood and tissue, spattering my face, stinging my eyes.
And then . . . something happens.
My mind goes soft and dreamy. My thoughts rise up, disembodied, like I’m in two places at once, watching from above while my body keeps going. The pain in my ankle is gone. The crowd noise fades away to nothing, but it isn’t silent. I can still hear the cheers. Every hoot, every bellow, every insult has become its own compact thing.
I can even hear Skinner, miles away on his throne. He’s not cheering. He’s muttering. To himself. Under his breath.
“This is my favorite part.”
All at once, I know what’s happening. It’s the dust. It’s taken its sweet time, but now it’s working. The flaws in my gait are made perfect. My body’s broken machine is now finely tuned and revving with speed.
I reach the heap of moaning, broken wolves, and I leap. In every direction I see the slack jaws of a thousand nixies, who are wound-up and thrilled, boiling in their pots. Even from my mind’s far-off place, I can feel the electricity in my muscles, the sudden voltage of anger and fear and adrenaline. I’m working independent of my brain, which is nothing now but a few pounds of
sloppy gray cargo. I land like an ember—glowing and weightless and ready to burn.
Not a second too soon.
Skinner’s throne is in sight now. It’s the final leg. Roy and the fire-spitter are neck and neck. I’m gathering speed behind them. Roy doesn’t waste time. He lunges. There’s a pop and a sizzle as he punctures the leader’s throat, and he doesn’t let up. He sinks his vast canines deep into the flames that flicker and die, doused by a grisly spurting of red. The nixies shriek for it—and they get what they want.
I want it too. Something’s gone all wrong inside me. Roy’s bloodied teeth make my insides burst with envy. And when his mouth comes away with the remnants of another wolf’s throat, I practically swoon. He spits away the papery skin like garbage and runs and runs. Shoulders and haunches rise and fall. Forepaws and hind legs pound the slats. All the while, the nixies wail, sopping it up.
I’ve almost caught up with Roy. We hammer along in unison. The dust has made me faster than I’ve ever been. I know I can pass him now. Roy knows it, too. He rears up, sprinting as fast as two hind legs will carry him. He swings wildly with his arms and his huge claws bite into me. A sudden pulse electrifies—my cheek, my neck and down my back—but just as suddenly, the pain is gone. It’s the dust, working its magic, fomenting inside me the courage of a lunatic.
Roy falls back on all fours, sprinting with all he has left. An appalling image jumps into my mind—Roy’s fresh heart bursting in my mouth. With a cape of my own blood flapping behind me, it’s my turn to lunge. My teeth go into his belly, latching onto what is inside. His ribs. Roy sucks in an ocean of air as I gnaw into the bone and feel his ribs splitting between my teeth. I taste his blood and—
It’s over. I’m at the foot of Skinner’s throne. Roy lies somewhere behind me; the right-hand cat stoops over him, wringing his paws.
There’s a twinge in my ankle. The electricity returns to my face and back. The dust, having done its duty, is wearing off. My mind drifts back into my body.
“Impressive,” says Skinner. He clinks down his golden steps. “That’s precisely the sort of grit I’m looking for.”
Dust City Page 9
