Inked

“Do I want to know?”

“You really don’t,” Dieter said as we edged around.

A large black nose with a ring through it poked over the top of the pen as we passed, and a low, menacing sound issued from behind the metal. “I don’t think he likes you,” Dieter observed.

I would have made a comment about that making us even, but it would have required taking a breath.

We finally emerged into (relatively) fresh air beside a packed bar. It was outlined with a row of lanterns made out of green and amber beer bottles. They swayed cheerfully on their wires, splashing moving colors on the floor below. Behind the counter, vegetables were being stir-fried in huge, shallow pans, sending clouds of fragrant steam skyward. My stomach reminded me that I’d skipped lunch, but we didn’t stop there.

A couple streets over was an even more impressive establishment, in a tent formed out of army blankets. Over the entrance, someone had rigged an old Vegas sign: cocktails was spelled out in fat, fifties-era orange bulbs. Inside, hot dogs sizzled on a cinderblock grill next to the bar and every folding card table had its own flickering candle. They weren’t needed for lighting, but added to the unexpectedly inviting atmosphere.

We didn’t stop there, either.

We did stop at the entrance to a small dark cave, sitting all on its own at the end of a side street. Once my eyes adjusted, I understood the reason for the lousy lighting—and why the place made no effort to advertise. The smugglers, assassins, illegal arms dealers and narcotic pushers that made up 90 percent of its clientele probably preferred their privacy. I recognized half a dozen wanted criminals slouched at tables in the shadows. One must have recognized me, too, or maybe just what I was. He raised a glass in a mock salute. He knew I wouldn’t take him in—not when he’d be back on the street in an hour.

“Stop looking like that!” Dieter said, sounding a little stressed.

“Like what?”

“Like you want a fight!”

I realized that my hand had automatically gone to my potion belt. I slowly removed it, and the shadowy shapes on either side of the door relaxed slightly. We threaded our way through the crowd to a slab of plywood raised on sawhorses—the bar, I assumed. The tables were packed, but the area around the bar was empty. That probably had something to do with the presence of a large, reeking Awsang behind the counter.

“That’s Tilda,” Dieter said, appearing unfazed by the smell. I found that I wasn’t that bothered myself. I had new standards now, excitingly.

I perched on a stool and summoned up a smile. It was a little hard to tell if Tilda smiled back. She was busy slurping something from a plastic Burger King cup through her hairy proboscis. Since Aswangs are carrion-eaters, I was just as glad I couldn’t see what half-rotten delicacy lay inside.

“Beer in a bottle?” I asked hopefully.

The slurping continued. Guess that meant no.

“I’m looking for a friend,” I told her, figuring it was worth a shot. I reached for my wallet intending to show her Cyrus’s photo, but found that it was gone. And a moment later, so was the stool. I hit the floor and a giggling kobald scurried out from under me, heading for the door as fast as his childlike legs could carry him.

My lasso caught him around one chubby foot before he could make his escape. He tried to shake it off, but I strengthened the spell and started dragging him back, ignoring the stream of profanity I couldn’t understand anyway. He wiggled and squirmed and left furrows in the dirt floor with his fingernails, but I wrestled him closer. Until he shape-shifted again, into a column of fire, which the lasso couldn’t hold.

He flew out of the door on a wash of sparks, but with no hands he’d been forced to drop my wallet. It hit the floor with a thud and a sizzle, so I lassoed it instead, put out the flames and pulled out Cyrus’s photo. There was no visible reaction from the barmaid to any of this.

I added a twenty to the picture, and the bill disappeared faster than I could blink. But Tilda only shook her head. “She doesn’t know him,” Dieter translated u

“He might have been in Were form—”

I was going to describe his markings, but never got the chance. Tilda spat a great wad of brown-tinted yuck on the floor. “She doesn’t serve Weres,” Dieter interpreted.

“Why not?”

“Since you guys left, the gangs have turned into a major pain in the ass. They’re all bad, but the Weres are the worst. Like this morning, a bunch of them burnt out the settlement where I was staying. I lost everything.”

“That sucks. So do you see him?”

Dieter put his head down on the bar. “I lose my entire stash, get caught by that fucking bounty hunter and meet you—all in the same day. My life more than sucks. Sucking would be a step up.”

“Yeah. So do you see him?” I repeated.

“See who?”

“You said there was a wardsmith here,” I reminded him, striving for patience.

Dieter’s eyes flitted around the bar, or at least as much of it as he could see without actually sitting up. “Guess he’s not here today. He don’t come in all the time.”

If he’d had any hair left, I’d have pulled it. “Do you know where he is when he’s not here?”

Dieter gave a horizontal type of shrug. Then he seemed to find an idea worth getting vertical. “You know, if you bought me a drink, it might—” I slammed a knife down, catching his collar and pi

“Answer the question!”

He rolled his eyes up at Tilda. “That ward guy been in here lately?” She made some odd noises that in no way resembled speech, but Dieter seemed to understand. “She said he’s got a shop around the corner, only he likes to drink so he’s usually here. But she hasn’t seen him today.”

“What’s the name of the shop?”

“They don’t have names. But you’ll know it.”

“How?”

“Well, a little clue would be that it has ‘wards’ over the door,” he said, pretty sarcastically for a guy with a knife millimeters from his jugular. But then, considering his personality, it probably wasn’t all that unusual for him. “Can I get up now?” he whined.

I pulled out the knife and manhandled him out of the bar. Around the corner, we came across a support column that seemed to serve as a sort of community message board. Up close, it was obviously dwarf-made, smooth and organic-looking, like wind-sculpted rock. Only the wind wasn’t responsible: the minerals needed to form it had been magicked from the surrounding soil.

We found an ad for “wards and charms” and directions to a shop near the end of the path, in a primo location where three trails merged. It was the usual tent made of army blankets and two-by-fours, but was bigger than most and had a plank with a hand-painted thunderbird above the entrance. It didn’t actually say “wards,” but around here, a pictogram was probably better anyway. I pushed back the blanket serving as the door and we went in.

The tent appeared to have several rooms, with the outer fixed up as a showroom. A lantern swung overhead, casting golden light over a couple chairs, a tattered Navajo rug, a floor-length mirror and a glass showcase. There didn’t appear to be anybody here.

I walked over to the showcase. Two glasses stood on the counter, the light through their contents casting a pink stain over the case. I bent over and sniffed the nearest one—and almost passed out.

“Is this what I think it is?” I held it out to Dieter.

He snatched it and took a long breath. “Whoa. No wonder he stopped buying from me!”

“The wardsmith was a customer?” Dieter suddenly looked shifty. “I won’t turn you in,” I told him impatiently. “I’m after a killer, not a drug user.”

“A killer?” His expression veered into panic.

“No one you need to worry about. Now answer the question!”