Let the joining of flesh between man and woman be a joyous occasion and remove all curses. Spurn the man who should come between husband and wife; scorn the bride who withholds such sacraments from her betrothed—The Book of Lust, The Sacral Compendium.

  Maro and Bloodbane rode into Tepress in the early evening the next day. The cloudless, blue-grey sky lent aid to the chilly, early spring air. Tristan’s body, wrapped in a canvas, slumped over his horse while Maro tied its lead to the horn of his saddle. Runnel resembled a bear riding astride his splotchy brown horse, and his face hadn’t moved one iota since the night before, as if chiseled from irritated granite. Maro reckoned the big fella was in a bad mood since he refused to sell his saddle, but if the burly man didn’t want to trade words, silence was a companion who couldn’t disappoint.

  Silence is gold in your pocket. Better than trying to decipher his speech.

  They rode in from the southeast, the direction Maro once took to run away from Tepress and the duty of escorting a little girl home. When he set out to chase down Maribel, it’d been from the northwest side. To the south, the vegetation grew in abundance—massive oak trees, sprawling wild grass, and unforgiving rock—and much closer to the town’s outskirts than on the northern side. Plus, to the north, on the way to Red Creek and the Barren Frontier, flora came sparse. Maro once slept under a few shrubs in the ass-end of nowhere, only to be roused by the hot breath of a warg.

  Maro’s horse, Bastard, went to the guildhall, knowing the way without any prodding. It’d become their habit over the last nine months. While he planned to retire the old boy and let him live out his days in comfort, training his mare wasn’t going well, and she proved to be a stubborn bitch. So, time and again, he and Bastard hit the trail. Most trips were short jaunts to the next town over, or a day or two out in the woods, but ever since the Lanton gang, they hadn’t pushed as hard.

  Thank the Autarch, too. That shit was brutal.

  Bastard stopped in front of the hitching post, dust coughing up from the parched earth below his hooves. It hadn’t rained in a month, the winter dry and cold, and the weather hadn’t turned into the scorching inferno his brittle bones yearned for. He swung out of the saddle, his long, gray trench coat swaying as he did. Bending over, he rubbed his inner thighs.

  The people of Tepress were still milling about in the setting light, in transit to their homes or saloons. The flowing dresses of hurrying women swayed as men scuffed their boots across wood planks near the storefronts. A creaking wagon pulled by four horses rolled through the middle of the manure-littered, hard-packed street, heading southeast, the road they entered from. In the back, under the white, rounded canvas, he saw two children with gloomy, dirty faces, the interior packed with all their meager possessions. Maro watched them for a time, wondering where they were headed, what prospects awaited them at their new destination.

  Law of the Land. One place’s promised salvation is another man’s damnation.

  He shook his head and turned his attention back to his traveling companion. When they made eye contact, he saw Bloodbane, still in his saddle, staring at him.

  “I go saloon. Must have woman.”

  Odd statement, considering we just arrived. Surely, he’s going to wash before swapping body sweat?

  The thought made him want to vomit. Maro could think of a dozen things more important than wetting his wick. Since they’d been together, Bloodbane had been about himself, but money and women took center stage—for the Mium.

  Hell, I ain’t the easiest person to open up either.

  But what words did pass between them, and Runnel’s actions, told him enough.

  The man’s demerit’s lust. He’s all about money and fame. That’s why he wanted my saddle.

  It was why Bloodbane sought a woman now.

  Everyone had a demerit, a monumental flaw to them, just like everyone belonged to a House of the Gods. Not all demerits were negative traits, but how they were incorporated could be. Maro’s demerit of intolerance made him a miserable son of a bitch all the time. He couldn’t stand the shortcomings of others, and no excuse proved decent enough or valid. A demerit of lawfulness would cause someone to turn in their own jaywalking mother for a pat on the head and a warm fuzzy in their chest. The slightest provocation construed as unlawful would rip someone apart on the inside until they righted the wrong.

  Thank the gods I don’t have that issue. Rescuing Maribel would’ve been a nightmare.

  A demerit of lust had to be one of the craziest, but it could be worse. A demerit of obedience—or even disobedience—would make life far more insufferable. Zealotry, greed, malice, compassion, love … for these qualities to be at the forefront, forsaking all others to the detriment of all …

  Horrible way to live.

  “Alright,” Maro grumbled.

  “Come when finished. You meet someone.”

  Maro didn’t really want to get tangled with a sweaty, worn-out floozy, and preparing himself for the worst, he said, “I ain’t keen to stand in line behind you.”

  Bloodbane tilted his head back and laughed. “You funny man.” He shook his head. “No, better. A man.”

  Maro cocked an eyebrow.

  “I see him often,” Bloodbane continued.

  Maro crossed his arms. “Well, that doesn’t sound any better. What you do in privacy’s none of my concern, and if that’s the tumble in the hay you like, I say graze away, but don’t think I’ll entertain such notions.”

  Bloodbane laughed again, his belly-rumbling ‘huh huh huh,’ startling a woman walking on the other side of the road. Runnel pointed. “By Autarch, Maro, you funny. No sex, talk. He makes weapons. Must know.”

  Thank the fucking Autarch.

  “Right.”

  Runnel turned his horse and hurried down the road.

  About to think up an excuse to not go on the hunt.

  Moving closer to the second horse, Maro untied Tristan from the saddle and hefted him up on his shoulder. For a moment, he thought his knees might buckle under the weight.

  One more confirmation: I’d lose a scuffle with Bloodbane.

  Holding his breath and praying to the Autarch he made it, Maro hurried up the rickety, weathered steps, opened the paint-faded door, and shuffled into the hall. Horace glanced up as he neared the counter.

  “Ah, Mr. Prakk,” Horace greeted, his face brightened by Maro’s arrival.

  Maro dropped the dead body on the floor. The head hit with a sickening crack, and his stomach turned queasy. The guild hall manager leaned over the counter and peered down at the canvas-wrapped body. Horace signed Maro up nine months ago and in the dead of night, Horace thought he’d come to rob the place. The manager had long black hair sweeping past his shoulders, and a thin moustache, almost like a pencil smudge above his lip.

  “Who do we have here, Maro?”

  The bounty hunter pulled out a folded wanted poster and slapped it down on the unvarnished counter. He spun it around to face the other. The scent of sawdust, leather, and oil permeated the air, and he took a deep inhale through his nose. He’d always like the smell of this place, a timelessness, hallowed by all the hunters who’d come before. He found it comforting.

  “Tristan Bolag,” Horace read. “Pity you didn’t bring him in alive—would’ve been a hundred. Dead, he’s only worth fifty.”

  Maro grunted as he reached down and pulled back the canvas so Horace could identify him.

  “Yeah,” Horace muttered, “that’s him, alright. Let me grab the cash box.”

  “Wait.” He pulled out another wanted poster and presented it in the same fashion.

  “Jester Chester Pennyworth,” Horace read in a slow voice, “wanted dead, two-hundred crowns.” He cocked and eyebrow and peered down at Tristan. “I only see one body.”

  “Good … your eyes aren’t shit.”

  Horace huffed and waved the parchment. “You can’t cash in two wanted posters with only one body.”

  “Sure I can, if they’re the same person.”

  Horace’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that Jester Chester is Tristan Bolag?”

  “Yup.”

  “He got the tattoo?”

  “Checked the smelly artwork myself.” Maro glanced down at the body. He knew what happened after death, and he wouldn’t be helping to verify now.

  The man shit himself. I ain’t dealing with the mess.

  “Show me.”

  Maro shook his head. “You want to see? Take a whiff of his dead ass yourself.”

  “Check it,” a new voice called out. Maro looked left, seeing Guild Master Drallus, and he hadn’t heard him enter the room. Odd, considering the peg on his right leg and the unmissable waddle. Drallus was also blind in the left eye, with a deep red scar running from his hair and clean through his jawline. Add on his corpulence and wheezing breath, and Maro couldn’t guess how the man’s arrival surprised him.

  The step, clop, step, clop of Drallus filled the silence as he came further into the room.

  “Drallus.” The ex-soldier greeted him with a dip of his head.

  “Maro, my boy! Glad you’re still alive.”

  Maro only allowed Drallus to call him boy. The old, venerable hunter deserved it, giving limb and eye in service to the hunters. His rank or position within warranted respect. The former soldier in Maro could distinguish between the man and the rank, and had Drallus been an uncouth pile of shit, well, he could respect the office without liking the man. But the guild master hadn’t been that way, and the old timer took a shine to their new, young recruit.

  Maro hadn’t laid eyes on the man in almost three months. Between working around the clock, taking poster after wanted poster, he hadn’t run into him. Drallus came around the counter, and Maro’s mouth dropped open. “What haven’t you been eating? You sick?”

  Drallus laughed. “Nah, been listening to the advice of a medicine man. He’s part of some indigenous tribe or some such out yonder.”

  “Hmm.”

  “They don’t have anyone fat in their tribe, and they eat plenty.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “They only eat animals. Meat and fat and lard all day. Of course, it helps they have all their limbs to hunt, but I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “Seems to be working. How much have you dropped?”

  Drallus shrugged. “Don’t know, but I’ve gone down three sizes. I need a damn rope to keep my pants up.”

  “Sounds like a good problem to have.” Maro toed the corpse with his boot. “So, double pay, right?”

  Drallus nodded, glancing down at the dead man. “If one man is, indeed, both, then yes. Is it safe to presume you have a witness?”

  He nodded. “Guy by the name of Runnel Bloodbane.”

  Both Horace and Drallus looked up at him, their movements sudden as if he’d threatened their lives. Maro glanced between the two. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the sitting room sounded loud in the silence.

  “What?” he prodded them.

  “I’d be careful with him,” Horace said.

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  “The man’s a charlatan,” Drallus added. “Caution would be a start, but don’t let it end there. He’ll do anything for a quick coin, and any job he can take to boost his ego, he’ll do it. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if man dabbles on the other side of the law.”

  Well, shit, that ain’t good, even for a potential partner and just this once.

  Maro grunted, digesting the words. He shrugged, then spun their words back on them. “Any witnesses?”

  Drallus blew out a breath. “No, I can’t say for certainty, but you shouldn’t let your guard down. He’s the kind of man to rifle through your nightly droppings, let them dry, and sell it back to you as jerky.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’ve heard stories,” Horace interjected. “He went out with a group to take on the chimera. Only he returned.”

  “Maybe the other guys weren’t professionals?”

  Horace shook his head. “No, these men had been around for years. They weren’t,” his eyes landed on Maro, and he gave a sheepish shrug, “green like ya.”

  Fair point, so long as he’s referring to the bounty hunting business.

  “We’re talking close to ten years on the average,” Horace said. “Granted, a chimera’s nasty business, and they didn’t have anything palladium, but someone else should’ve survived.”

  Maro blinked a few times and frowned. “What’s this about palladium?”

  Horace gazed at him as if he said the stupidest thing imaginable.

  “Palladium. Ya know, the stuff our most valuable currency is made of? The autarch—a thousand crowns?”

  Maro rolled his eyes. “What does money have to do with beast hunting?”

  “Nothing,” Drallus forced in, “besides that, it costs so damn much. Palladium’s more than currency. It’s the one thing that works on the majority of monsters in our world. Ever hear the tale of a silver knife killing a werewolf?”

  Maro nodded.

  “Palladium. So little of the precious metal is left, and that is worth more than gold or silver.”

  “How much more?”

  “About three or four times,” Horace slipped in.

  “Six, by my reckoning,” Drallus corrected, taking back control of the narrative. “A blade infused with palladium does wonders on any beast you’re trying to kill; you need it, or you won’t survive. Sure, there are some other ways you can kill something: freezing it, fire, choking it, breaking its neck, but the chances are slim. Start slashing with a special knife or sword, and you’ve got yourself a corpse.”

  “Damn.” He chewed his lip. “How much does something like that cost?”

  “More than ya got,” Horace conceded with a smile.

  Drallus chuckled. “Boy, you’d have to save half of your bounties for at least half a dozen years before you’d be close.”

  Shit. There goes my life.

  “That’s why most folks team up,” Drallus continued. “Not many people can afford the weapons, so they do it the old-fashioned way and wrestle it by hand, overwhelm by numbers.”

  Maro scratched the dark stubble on his jawline. “So, two people taking on a beast by themselves without palladium is—”

  “—Suicide,” Horace finished.

  “Hmm.”

  “Why?” Drallus queried. “What have you got yourself into?”

  “I’m supposed to kill something with Runnel.”

  Horace groaned, but Drallus spoke, “What?”

  Maro shrugged.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Bloodbane doesn’t have any palladium weapons.”

  “You’re gonna die, son,” Horace said, echoing the words he once imparted when they first met.

  “You doubted me before.”

  “A gang’s one thing, a monster’s something else.”

  Drallus waved the comments away and pulled Maro by the shoulder. “Let me tell you something, my boy. Don’t trust the man. He could leave you to die. He’s got questionable character, and only cares about money and fame. If you go, at least ask him this: does the beast have two legs or four? If two, you might have a chance. If four, well…” He held up his hands in askance.

  “Right.” He paused, his eyes slipping from Drallus to Horace, who was rummaging for the cash box, and back to the guild master. “Any more headway on Avardi?”

  “The banker?” Drallus asked, his brow cocked. He shook his head. “That man’s been on the straight and narrow since you wiped out the Lanton gang. We notified Lawman Hugo, but other than him, only the three of us in this room know about it. Trust me, we’ve been keeping an eye on him. Once he gets bold enough, he’ll slip up, and we’ll nail him.”

  How? I destroyed all traces of evidence like a damn fool.

  There wasn’t a day that went by when Maro didn’t kick himself for stupidity. If he would’ve let one of those shits live to bring back and stand trial, well, he would’ve sung like a canary in a coal mine. Then, he remembered the birds warned of death, and such a comparison was about as useful as bringing a saddle to a whore’s bedroom when she asked if you wanted a ride.

  Whatever.

  The jangle of the cashbox behind him pulled his back to the counter.

  “Two hundred and fifty crowns is my count,” Horace said. Maro didn’t say anything. Had the man been wrong, he would’ve pointed out the error. He waited as the manager counted out the coin and scooped it up once he finished.

  “Ya going out with Bloodbane, aren’t ya?” Horace inquired.

  Maro dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “Be careful, watch your back, and think everything through three times before ya commit.”

  I do that anyway, but I’ll make it four.

  “And, remember what I told you about the legs,” Drallus said as he hobbled behind the counter.

  “I will.”

  Maro hurried from the counter and out the front door. Bastard was still standing at the post as if hitched, and his ears quirked upon seeing his master. The scent of a bakery mingled with the copious mounds of street manure, and if hunger tickled Maro’s gut, it didn’t now. Ambling to the horse’s side, he patted his neck and spoke in low, soothing tones. “What do you say you sit this next one out, old timer? Going hunting for a monster, and it might be better to let the missus take this quest.”

  Bastard knickered in response, craning his neck in the direction of the town stable.

  “Yeah, you can get fat and bored while I’m gone. Maybe a sugar cube or two?”

  Bastard’s head swung back in his direction, and he nuzzled his rider.

  “Yeah, you’re a good boy—when you want something.”

  Maro led the horse down the road. Once at the stable, he unsaddled Bastard, brushed him out, put him in his stall, and fed him oats and hay. Once he saw to Bastard, he went to the other stall where his mare awaited. She was a dark beauty, black as midnight, and larger than most; she had to be a giant herself, to support Maro’s frame without him dragging his feet—metaphorically speaking. Standing over seventeen hands high, he’d worked with her and Bastard at the same time, trying to make her accustomed to him and his commands. Bastard might be ornery at times, but he took orders. Maro’s new ride seemed … resistant.

  “We’re going out for a few days. You ready?”

  She twitched her ears and stared at him.

  “Not very expressive yet, are we?”

  Again, he got nothing.

  “What a bitch.”

  He sighed and walked out of the stable, grabbing his bag.

  At the hovel he called home, he threw his bag on the rumpled bed, did a slow turn to take in the dilapidated surroundings of a water-stained floor, peeling paint on the walls, the stale smell of dirt and mold, and the milky white windows.

  Well, that’s depressing as shit.

  So, he headed right back out.

  I need to hire a cleaning lady.

  But that meant spending more money, and right now, even with all the work he pulled in, he treaded water. He needed a big payout to change his life, and if such a windfall came his way, he’d leave Tepress behind—woes worthy of a drink, but he didn’t consume anymore. He’d been tempted when Runnel offered him spirits, but he had the constitution to resist.

  There were several taverns in the town, but only one where bounty hunters gathered. At one point, it had an elegant name, or so the stories went. Now,The Hormoans scrawled across the board. Maro thought it’d be better to spell it right. People might assume only ignorant wretches patronized there, but everyone enjoyed the paly on words. Indeed, hormones ran wild, and at any given time, you could hear a whore moan.

  He entered the saloon, parting the swinging double doors. Smoke lulled through the air, an entity unto itself. Sweet and spicy notes hung thick, carried from the kitchen’s simmering pot. The cacophony of noise hit him but with all subtle tones: conversation, laughter, the jingle of coin, the ruffling of playing cards, drinks picked up or set down on the table, and some stooped, broke-back sod tickling the ivories.

  Funny how no one ever says the piano obsidians.

  The inside resembled a hunter’s cabin, or that’s the impression he got. He’d never been in one before. The wood slats in the floor were unfinished, sanded down by patron traffic. Animal heads clung to the walls, most the docile kind of wildlife: deer, a fox, a bear, two wolves, and a mountain lion. Again, they were the docile ones. None were a warg or any of the other monsters lurking all over Atar. That he knew, he was the only sorry bastard in this joint who killed one.

  He entered the flow of moving patrons as he scanned the room, searching for Bloodbane, and found him sitting at a table to the left and in the middle of a throng of tables. A Sional sat with him. The back of the dark complected man faced Maro, but even so, he stood out. A shock of white hair crowned him.

  Pushing through the people, Maro made his way over to the glossy wood table, pulled out a brass and crimson chair, and sat.

  The dark-skinned Sional glanced at him, his movement sharp and quick, then his eyes went to Bloodbane.

  “Don’t worry,” Runnel said in his thick accent, “friend for job.”

  “Indeed?” the Sional queried in a smooth voice. His eyebrows shot up over pale violet eyes, the incredulity on his clean-shaven face quite blatant. Had his tone been a fabric, Maro would’ve guessed it silk, not that he’d ever had anything so fine in his life. The Sional held out his hand. “Ciacus.”

  Maro took his hand and shook it. “Maro. What kind of name is See-uh-cuss?”

  Ciacus gave a brittle smile. “My kind.”

  Maro shrugged. “Fair enough, I suppose.” He regarded Runnel. “What’s the word?”

  Bloodbane grimaced and leaned forward. “Extortion.”

  Maro’s eyes slid to Ciacus and back. “Someone else taking a slice of the pie?”

  Ciacus laughed. It was rich and saturating, like a thick spread of butter on warm bread. “By the Autarch, no! I don’t hunt.”

  Maro scrutinized the man, noting he didn’t have any visible scars. Come to think of it, he had nice clothes, too. “So, what do you do?”

  “I equip hunters with the best instruments.”

  Maro grunted. “Don’t we get that at the guild hall?”

  Ciacus laughed again. “I’m sorry. Did he tell you nothing about me?”

  Maro shook his head.

  “Well, that’s disappointing. Yes, you get your wares from them. Fine specimens, too, but I make them exceptional.”

  “How so?”

  “I augment them, make them more. Take this, for instance …” Ciacus reached into the bag sitting in the fourth chair and produced a metal bracer. It landed on the table with a metallic thud. He reached back in and pulled out a matching one for the other arm. Along the sides were metal fins, and razor sharp by the looks of them. Everything about the bracer was black, except the fine edges of the fin, which were silver.

  Maro shrugged, his finger fiddling with the nearest, sharp protruding blade. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “It’s protection, for when you get up close with the creature, and trust me, you’ll be up close to the danger when it has its maw around your throat.”

  “Don’t lie,” Bloodbane remarked with his thick accent. “I have plan.”

  Ciacus smiled. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t include dying.” He turned his attention back to Maro. “When, whatever you hunt, is pressing down on you, and their glistening fangs are so close you can feel its hot breath, you’ll be thankful for the bracer.”

  “So, I hit them with it?” Maro asked.

  “No, you push it up into their chest. The palladium will do the rest.”

  Maro latched onto the word. “Palladium?”

  Ciacus nodded. “The fine edges are rimmed with it. Press the fin into their flesh, and the palladium—right here,” he said, pointing with a finger to the silver edge, “will go to work.”

  “And what exactly’s the palladium doing?”

  Runnel answered, “Depends on beast. Sometimes, they act drunk, or fall, can’t breathe.”

  “Or sometimes,” Ciacus added, “it enrages them. Either way, they lose their strength and most of their abilities, but it makes them dangerous when they’re trying to flee.”

  Maro mulled over what Ciacus imparted, then his eyes went to Runnel.

  “So, how’s he extorting you?”

  Bloodbane waved his hand to the modified bracers. “Four-hundred crowns! He thief!”

  Maro gazed at the bracers. The expensive palladium aside, the bracers appeared to be of cheaper quality. Maro’s philosophy was if you were going to buy something, make it top of the line quality. It’d last longer, and he’d get more use out of it. During his time with the army, they didn’t buy the finest equipment; everything broke, and they had to replace it almost immediately.

  Military grade’s a coded phrase for shiny shit, but turds can’t be polished.

  On the other hand, having something half-assed on this outing might save his life. He still didn’t know what kind of creature they were hunting, and some special expensive metal was better than none.

  I need to save up for a sword. Too many creatures come in close for the kill.

  “I’ve got two hundred,” Maro broke into the silence. “I can pay for one now, and pay for the other later.”

  Ciacus chuckled and shook his head. “No bargain. They’re a pair.”

  “Yeah, a pair of shitty bracers,” Maro countered. “Ain’t no one going to buy that shit. I assume you made it for Runnel. He’s not buying, not at the price you’re asking. I am. Some money’s better than none.”

  “True,” Ciacus conceded. He pointed a finger at Runnel. “But if I sweat him long enough, he’ll cave. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “I don’t,” Bloodbane countered. “We leave tomorrow.”

  Ciacus shrugged.

  “So, how about it?” Maro pressed.

  Ciacus sighed and rolled his eyes. “Which one’s your good arm?”

  “My right.”

  “Okay, I’ll sell you the left one.”

  “What good’s that going to do me?”

  “It’s not, but if your arm gets ripped off, you still have one to make money with, and I’ll still expect you to buy the other one.”

  Maro didn’t argue with the man’s logic. If he didn’t have but the one arm, what was the point in buying the other?

  “Fine.” Maro forked over two hundred crowns, and his purse felt empty.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Ciacus said as he scooped up his earnings. “You won’t be disappointed with the product. If something’s damaged, I’ll fix for free the first time. After that, there’s a small fee.”

  “Why so generous?” Maro asked, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “You expect something to go wrong?”

  “Not at all,” Ciacus countered while shaking his head. He stood. “But even the best musket has a misfire. I prefer repeat business, and outfitting customers over and over’s far more profitable than trying to drum up new clients who don’t know me. My reputation spreads by word of mouth. I take care of you, and you will take care of me.”

  Valid.

  “Prosperous hunting,” the Sional said, and he departed.

  Maro glanced over at his fellow traveler. “Shall we retire for the night?”

  Bloodbane nodded. “I want another tumble. You should have, too. Ten crowns for the best!”

  Maro eyed the room. It had been a long while since he laid with a woman, and the last time he did so was to remove his curse. He inspected his fingers, but the familiar blue-black that marked the accumulation wasn’t there, so there wasn’t a reason to visit one of their … hostesses yet.

  Ten crowns. Autarch’s breath! Is this guy trying to bleed me dry?

  Maro shook his head.

  Bloodbane shrugged, took another swig of his ale, and passed the rest to Maro. “Don’t be late. Stables, dawn.”

  With that, Runnel lumbered off.

  Maro’s eyes went to the little swig of ale left in the glass. A sigh escaped him as he pushed it away, got to his feet, and left the saloon to return to the depressing shit hole he called home.