#amunition

The  bell overhead jingled cheerfully in the stillness of the shop, and Fred  looked up from his work-bench. The newcomer was a tall, strong man  wearing a black leather bomber jacket and torn jeans.

A long knife hung from his belt, and a gun printed faintly under the  coat. His salt-and-pepper beard was long but neatly cared for, and his  hair was pulled back in a long tail. 

A heavy motorcycle saddlebag dangled from one hand with no apparent effort. Trade-goods, no doubt.

“Craig,” he greeted the man by name. It had been nearly six months  since he last saw the tough old biker, but they had been friends for  many years and his visit was not unexpected. “I got your call. Mage-killers?”

“Found a coven down south that’s more the baby-eating kind,” Craig  helped himself to a cup of coffee -barely drinkable, but Craig wasn't  picky about anything except guns and booze- “best to deal with them  before the authorities go looking and get more than they can handle.”

Fred chuckled and heaved himself up from the bench. As it always did,  his prosthetic leg- a casualty to a Greater Demon in his youth- tried  to freeze up. Used to it's tricks, he smacked the metal knee with his  wrench- it unfroze- and he kept going. Craig politely ignored it. He had  his own scars from that fight. 

His shop was old-fashioned. Dozens of dark wood drawers lined the  walls like a vintage hardwear store (not exactly inaccurate) full of  everything from tiny firing pins enchanted for accuracy, to specialized  bullets of every kind. 

Of course, some orders were more specific than his usual stock, and  he kept the best for his longest customers. Mage-killer bullets were as  specialized as they came. Designed to prevent healing and regeneration,  resistant to magic, and able to punch through most magical shields, they  were finicky, and expensive.

If Craig didn't have a gun Fred made piece-by-piece himself, he wouldn't even consider selling them.

He stumped over to his safe and punched in the code to retrieve a  wooden box made of Rowan-wood and carved with runes. Inside sat packages  of bullets in all shapes and sizes, labeled by customer and the firearm  they used.

“Three packs,” he told Craig when he came back to the counter where  his friend leaned casually. “Made some shotgun rounds too. You still use  that old monster?”

“Gonna for this trip,” Craig admitted, and took the bullets without  examining them. He knew they were each perfect. Fred would never sell  anything less. “What do I owe you?”

“What do you have to trade?”

It had been years since Fred worked for anything as common as money. These days, trade-goods and secrets meant more. 

Craig thought for a while, and dug into his bag to produce a dozen  small Tupperware containers, and a number of other small items. 

“Ghost-dust, murderer’s bones, vampire fangs,” he named them all off  in turn and Fred picked them up to examine them. “The usual herbs I  trade with from the better covens around. Brought somethin’ special with  you in mind.”

He proffered a jar of shimmering black powder. Craig could feel the  unholy power of it from across the table. “There’s a Fae assassin who  lives out west. Traded her for Nightmare horn.”

“This is worth its weight in diamonds,” Fred observed, turning the  jar over to see the pearl-like shimmer of the fine powder. “What are you  offering?”

“Two ounces and your pick of the rest.”

Craig was a fair man. Fred calculated the cost and eyed the jar  again. “Four ounces and I’ll toss in a crystal dagger,” he countered. 

Nightmare horn was the primary ingredient in some of his most potent  ammunition. Craig would probably get most of it back in one form or  another.

“I don't need the dagger,” Craig admitted honestly. Fred appreciated that about him. “But I’d take a favor in its’ place.”

Favors were dangerous, but Fred trusted Craig more than most and they  had traded favors before, when Craig was short on goods, or Fred needed  something he couldn't get for himself. He offered a hand over the  counter. 

“Deal,” he agreed. Craig clasped his hand firmly, and they shook. He  pulled out a tiny, exacting scale and a tiny golden spoon- silver would  destroy the demonic properties and might ruin the whole jar- and began  weighing out four ounces of the valuable powder. “You have time for a  drink?”

“Only if you stopped drinkin’ that goblin brew.”

“Strained through a dozen cats just for you.” Fred laughed back.  Belying his jokes, the bottle he lifted out of a cabinet was half-filled  with glowing golden liquor. “Nah- made a friend out in Scotland. She  sent me a case of Dwarvish in exchange for a sheleighle made of demon  gold.”

He poured out two generous glasses of the potent brew and set it aside. Craig lifted his glass and clinked it with Fred’s.

“To the Work,” he said with a half, smile. 

“To the Work,” Fred replied, and took a long sip of silky, fiery,  Dwarvish moonshine. “Now tell me the news. The last person to blow  through was that damn half-angel and his demon fuck-buddy and they never  know anything worth knowing.”

 +++

Accidental Oops

Bloody Mirror

Blue Frosting

Brimstone Portal

Burn My Body and Bury Me Deep

Holy Protestation

House of Demons

On Repeat

Vigilante Vampire

You Scratch my Back

+++

Long time no see