Hendricks stared at me with that bright green glint in his eye and picked up his empty glass with a flourish.
“I’m ready for another,” he said. “Storytelling makes me thirsty.”
I reached for my half-filled cocktail too quickly and my cuff caught the table. I tipped over the glass and as I jumped up to grab it, my other hand swung back too far and hit the iron of the fireplace. I ripped my hand off as fast as I could but a piece of skin was left stuck to the metal, sizzling and bubbling and smelling like meat.
Hendricks had already jumped into action. He filled a bowl with water and some snow from out back and I rested my hand in it for as long as I could manage. He dried it, carefully, then took the honey from the table and spread it over the wound, telling me that there was nothing better for healing skin than a good coat of fresh honey.
“How is it now?” he asked.
“Better. Still stings a bit. I’m so stupid.”
He laughed at me the way he always did, with an indistinguishable blend of fondness and patronizing amusement.
“We all burn ourselves, Fetch. It’s the best way to learn from our mistakes. It’s only when some part of you freezes that you cut the fucker off.”
He cackled madly and made us another round of drinks. And another.
Soon, I was so plastered that I couldn’t feel my fingers or the cold or much of anything terrible at all.
1
I was as cold as a corpse in the snow. Cold as a debt collector’s handshake. Cold like the knife so sharp you don’t feel it till it twists. Cold like time. Cold as an empty bed on a Sunday night. Colder than that cup of tea you made four hours ago and forgot about. Colder than the dead memory you’ve tried to keep alive for too long.
I was so cold, I found myself wishing that someone would fire up the lantern I was sitting in and roast me like a chestnut. Of course, that was impossible. There hadn’t been fire in the lamp for over six years. The open-topped torch used to be one of the largest lights in Sunder City, shining brightly over the stadium during night games. Now, it was just a big ugly stick with a cup at the top.
The field had been built above the very first fire pit. During construction, it was an open chasm to the maelstrom below. Once they’d installed the pipes that carried the flames through town, they’d decided that it wasn’t safe to leave a gaping hole to hell right at the entrance to the city. They covered it over, and nobody was permitted to build on that plot of land.
Instead, kids used it as a sports field. It was unofficial at first, but then the city installed stands and bleachers, and it eventually became the Sunder City Stadium.
When the Coda killed the magic, the flames beneath the city died too. That meant no heating in town, no lights on Main Street, and no chance of fire coming up between my legs. I was huddled in the cone at the top of the pole with my arms wrapped around myself, ducking down out of the wind.
I hadn’t thought about the wind when I’d taken the job. That was stupid because the wind ruined everything. It pushed the cold down my collar and up my sleeves. It shook the lamppost back and forth so I was always waiting for it to bend, snap, and send me crashing to the ground. Most importantly, it made the crossbow in my hands completely useless.
I was supposed to be watching over my client, ready to fire off a warning shot if he gave me a signal that the deal wasn’t going smoothly. But firing into this gale, it would be either pushed down into the snow or flung up into orbit.
My employer was a Gnome named Warren. He was down below in his trademark white suit, blending into the snowy ground. The only source of light was the lantern he’d hung off the gatepost.
We’d been waiting for half an hour, him down between the bleachers, me up in my metal ice-cream cone. I tried to remember if this is what I’d planned for when I became a Man for Hire. I thought I was going to help those whose lives I’d ruined. Do things for them that they could no longer do for themselves. I doubted that covering a Gnome during an illegal exchange reached the noble heights I’d had in mind.
I’d chewed through half a packet of Clayfields, knowing it was a bad idea. They were painkillers, supposed to make me numb, but the cold had already killed the feeling in my fingers and toes, so numbing was the last thing I needed.
Finally, from the other end of the field, a figure crossed the halfway line. She was wrapped up far more sensibly than I was: thick jacket, coat, scarf, beret, boots and gloves. The metal case she carried at her side was about the size of a toaster.
Warren stepped out from the bleachers, holding his hat in his hands so that it wouldn’t blow away.
They stepped close to each other and it would have been impossible to hear their conversation over that distance even without the howling wind. I brought up my crossbow and rested it on the lip of the cone, pretending that my presence at the meeting wasn’t a complete waste of time.
Back when there was magic, I would have had access to all kinds of miraculous inventions: Goblin-made hand grenades, bewitched ropes and exploding potions. Now the only thing that could take someone down over distance was a bolt, an arrow or a well-thrown rock.
Warren reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I had no idea how many bronze bills were inside. I didn’t know what was in the case either. I knew nothing, which put me on familiar ground.
The woman gave Warren the case. He handed her the envelope. Then they both stood opposite each other while she counted her cash and he unlocked the box.
When the woman turned and walked away, I dragged the weapon back from the edge and curled up into a ball, breathing into my hands.
Then, Warren was screaming.
When I looked back over, he was waving his hat above his head. That was the signal, but the woman was already halfway across the field.
“It’s bullshit!” screamed the Gnome. “Kill her!”
Let’s be clear about two things: one, I never agreed to kill anybody; two, shooting women in the back isn’t really my bag. But if I didn’t at least look like I was trying to stop her, I’d have to give up my fee and the whole night would be for nothing. I crouched down, aimed the crossbow a few feet behind the fleeing lady and fired.
I tried to shoot a spot in the snow that she’d already passed, as if I’d misjudged her speed. Unfortunately for me (and the fugitive) the wind changed direction while the bolt was in the air.
From out in the darkness, I heard a yelp and then a thump as she fell into the snow.
Shit.
“Yes! You got her, Fetch! Well done!”
Warren grabbed his lantern and ran off, leaving me in the dark while he cursed her and she cursed him and I cursed myself.
By the time I’d climbed down the ladder and made my way over to Warren, he’d already snatched back the envelope and was putting the boot in. I pulled him back, and he tumbled onto his ass. Since he was only three feet tall, it wasn’t much of a drop.
“Quit it. You’ve got your money back, don’t you?”
I’d hit her right calf. The bolt wasn’t in too deep, but a good amount of blood was dripping onto the snow. When she tried to turn over, it twisted the muscles around her injury. I put a hand on her shoulder to hold her still.
“Miss, you don’t want to—”
“No!” She span around, lashing me across the face. A line of pain ripped through my skin. Her claws were out, sticking through the tips of her fine gloves and shining in the lantern light. She was a Werecat. When I reached for my face, I felt blood.