City of Dust

Chapter One

The way the girl behind the counter turns white and visibly swallows tells me that she's new. Years ago, I would have inquired about what happened to the previous clerk, but time and circumstances have put me on a different path. All I care about is receiving the proper paperwork and claiming my bounty.

"I ..." the girl stammers, reaching out towards the thick canvas bag with a tremulous hand. "H-how many are there?"

"Three." And each one a pain in the ass to kill.

Her hand retreats. "Okay ..." Instead, she reaches beneath the blood-stained butcher block countertop for the shop's log book.

Jesus, where did Barney get her? It's hard to believe that there are any soft girls left on this side of the country anymore; but one is standing before me, doing her damnedest not to look me in the eye.

I sigh. "You have to count them," I tell her, undoing the thick rope that binds the bag. The bag falls open, displaying its grisly contents: three adult cockatrices. Their throats are slit, but the cuts are nowhere near the venom sacks that go towards part of my pay.

Against all odds, the girl's face pales further until she's nearly transparent. Her throat bobs and she jerks sporadically, clapping both hands over her mouth. Moaning, she spins around and dashes through an open door behind the counter. It's not long before I hear her retching.

God help me. Taking off one glove, I massage the bridge of my nose. It does nothing for me, really, but acts as an outlet for my impatience.

Muttering to himself, Barney Moynihan, the owner, strides through the door. In his former life, Barney was a professional football player; now he runs a shop that butchers monsters and sells their parts to demon-hunters and spell-casters.

People like him keep monster-hunters like me in business.

Barney folds his thick brown arms and stares down at the canvas sack. "The bounty was for two, Raine."

Finally, we're getting somewhere. I casually lean on the countertop, angling my elbow away from a stray trickle of blood. Sometimes it doesn't completely drain out. "Yeah, but when has that bothered you before?"

Barney sighs and shakes his bald, scarred head, but he's smiling. A light shines in his eyes as he mentally tallies which clients he will call first about the bonus cockatrice. "Never," he relents. "Are you done back there?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Do I have to?" the girl answers in a thin, weak voice that barely carries across the butcher block.

"Three more days and you'll have paid off your father's debt."

Well, this is interesting. I've never seen an indentured servant at Barney's shop before. It's not common, but after the Turning people had to make due. And the government still has enough hold on this part of the country to ensure that indenture doesn't turn into outright slavery.

The girl slips through the doorway, thin arms wrapped around herself. Strands of limp, brown hair cling cover her eyes like a shield. But hair can't protect you from the stench of three-day-old carcasses stewing in their own fluids on the back of a battle-elk.

I'm told day-old cockatrices smell like hundred-year-old fermented fish, but I grew nose-blind to all sorts of odors a long time ago.

Thankfully.

Barney hands the girl a thick piece of cloth. "Wrap this around your nose. It won't completely block it, but it'll dampen the worst of it."

She does so swiftly, knotting her hair up in the process.