#fenrik1

“Listen good, skoulíki.” It was a siren’s insult. Worm. Digger and dweller of Earth. As if she was not covered head to toe—yes, toe—in dirt right now. Dried dirt, sand, wet dirt, moss, blood. Filth of all sorts. Her elbow pushed deeper into the V of their collarbone, threatening the windpipe where it was vulnerable there. “I saw you palm my knife and I am going to fuck your life up if I don’t have it back by the end of this sentence, because if you think that’s my only weapon—”

It always went like this in Carynthia. She avoided the mountainous region whenever she could, but it wasn’t always a luxury that was afforded those who didn’t have a home, ergo, didn’t have reliable plumbing, ergo, sometimes a bitch needed a bath that wasn’t supervised by pirates in the bay or old men in high-rise apartments. 

Ergo, Carynthia. 

Except the fresh water made the inhabitants stupid she was pretty sure, because every fucking time she came here some slick bastard wolf tried to take her shit. Including the knife she’d kept safe for—

“OW!” Fable rasped out the exclamation. She had the knife back alright. Right in her side. She raised her fist and punched the mutt square in the nose, but when they stumbled back (taking the knife with them) and ran, Fable didn’t follow. “You stupid bitch!” she screamed at their retreating back. 

One ragged breath in, one ragged breath out. She steadied herself on a tree with one hand, pressed hard against the wound with the other. “Spare the tides,” she prayed in resignation. Don’t stop the world for me. 

Anyway, she’d been bluffing. It was her only weapon. Great. 

She wasn’t worried about the wound. Judging by the shaking of her hands she had little time left before the shitty ethereum she’d taken that morning wore off. Physically, she’d heal in the water over the course of the night, forced back into her tail. Because if they’d swiped her knife, they’d sure as shit swiped her e, too. She’d be stuck in this stupid pool until she could charm a dose off someone else. 

Splat. A horrified shriek left Priscilla almost shrill enough to rival a banshee. She shuddered as she wiped the thick, cool blood from her cheek and forehead, mostly just succeeding in spreading it around with her plastic, ill-fitting glove. “Ew,” she whimpered. She still wore the expression of revulsion when she turned to face the service counter, and the customer on the other side of it.

Pinched between her fingers, she held out the bag of premium cut meat—finest in the shop— like it was cat shit. “Is that all?” It was hardly a question; she was really begging not to have to do a second more of this grueling labor. Hilda had warned Priscilla she’d have to work. She hadn’t considered it could get even less glamorous than being a maid.

Hilda turned the wrench over in her hands. Technically she was meant to be working on the old banger of a car she’d bought to fix up since she couldn’t afford more, but in reality she was sitting on its bonnet, knee deep in a daydream, though she wouldn’t call it one of those in anyone asked. 

Honestly, she was starting to think the car had been a waste of even the small amount she’d paid for it and had wondered if she’d been scammed by the idiot pirate she’d bought from it. Hilda ought to kill him, actually. But that wasn’t what had her distracted. Nor was she distracted thinking about the trip - through the whole of which she’d scowl - she had to make to St. Vlad’s later for blood either. 

No, what Hilda was thinking about was ethereum. It was always fucking ethereum. How much she had left, how much it cost now, how much she had in her bank account to pay for it. Since swapping Sinner’s Cove for Fist and Furious, she made less money, and the savings she’d amassed during her time at the former were dwindling faster than she’d expected. Inflation really fucking bit. 

Though her clothes at the time of the event had been black as night, Dusty could smell him with each step she took. The blouse was dumped outside of the record store caddy-cornered to Treaty. Her pants -- oh, her favorite fucking skinny jeans, were disposed in the dumpers behind Up & Atom Burger. It was intense and, honestly, excessive considering how often each territory’s land ran red with blood. Adrenaline was being worked out in ways it hadn’t been in years, sitting on a largening secret. That’s all she could say about that. This third killing hadn’t left her in shock as much as the other two, because this time, Dusty may have been in the drivers seat.

Slowly, but hopefully without giving the creeps, Dusty rolled up to the shop so fucking far out of town, it certainly couldn’t be a real zip code she was arriving to. As a warning, Dusty flashed her headlights and parked as close as possible. She piled out, not expecting the sudden nip to the air as she did. That damn kitchen knife remained pressed to her hipbone, hidden behind the jean’s waistband.

“I come in peace.” She may have been quoting Star Trek, but she couldn’t muster throwing up the sign today.