Ride towards New Hope, lie in wait for the Qink, then bring him in for questioning.

A simple snatch and grab, a job Joey ‘Cold Cut’ Morelli could do in his sleep. Eighteen years he’d been breaking legs on the Frontier, and five more back home in Boston, mostly as an associate but sometimes for the love of the game. Enforcer, bodyguard, bag man, and bookmarker, Joey had done it all, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the books were permanently closed to an Innate mezza like him, then he would’ve made his bones a dozen times over. Short, neat blue crystal spikes in place of hair, all slicked back like he’d just come back from the barber’s, that’s all it was, but it kept him from getting a seat at the table. Why? Because of a bunch of outdated traditions that said Innates were less than human. Load of garbage is what that was. If Joey hadn’t come to the Frontier, he would’ve made Capo by now, running crews outta an office and living large because he knew how to get shit done.

So how much trouble could one runty stronzo really be?

Mikey being Mikey though, he had to get all stressed about the job, telling them not to do this and be sure to do that, yadda yadda whatever. Had to be clean, had to be perfect, had to go off without a hitch, and most importantly of all, had to happen without him. A Mikey Snow Show classic, delegate the work and claim the credit. The miserable fuck. Only reason he called the shots was because both his parents were Sicilian. Claimed they were islanders even, but the name gave the lie away. D'Ippolito was a mainlander name, a fact every real Sicilian knew, and only a cake-eating American import Guido like Mikey would believe he could ever get away with a lie like that. That’s why he’d been a made man for so many years without moving up, because the bosses knew you couldn’t trust half the words coming outta his fat greasy mouth.

But Mikey was still a full-blooded Sicilian and more importantly, a made man who paid his dues, which meant this was his show. Man was an earner, but not a great one, not after what went down in Pleasant Dunes. Why else would Mikey have to slog it out into the sticks, risking attack from animals and Abby both, just to shakedown a bunch of yokels and hillbillies? Because he needed the money to kick up to the bosses, that’s why. Job paid peanuts compared to what other goombahs earned shaking down businesses in town, and you were more likely to get shot or killed too. People out here don’t mess around when it comes to strangers, and took a lot more convincing before they were willing pay up. Didn’t have much in the way of cash either, which meant taking payment in crops, hides, hogs, and whatever else these backwater hayseeds might have.

All while this fucking Mindspire was droning on too, giving Joey a headache like you wouldn’t believe.

What he wouldn’t give to have this same job in town, any town at all, making collections once a month by walking down the street instead of spending three weeks riding through rough terrain once a season. Be even better if he could get in good with one of the lucky chucklefucks running games, girls, or numbers, all cushy jobs that raked in money hand over fist. Didn’t no one want the extra heat from bringing on a mezza Innate though, because his appearance was enough to make most coppers take notice. Couldn’t even get in good with a smuggling crew because he was too easy to pick out in a lineup, so he was stuck playing muscle for a loudmouth peacock like Mikey.

Which is why he just spent the last six fucking hours laying in a fucking bush next to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb with a blaring migraine while waiting on some punk kid to pass by. Because two weeks into the Advent, Joey cut a Spell Core out of some twisted pillbug looking Aberration and ate it to get the edge he needed to survive. A stupid move he’d regretted ever since. Didn’t just turn him into a freak of nature, an abomination no one would look twice at, but it also kept him from making his bones and moving on up in the world. How was he supposed to earn if no one would take him on? Had a kid to feed too, one dumber than a bag of rocks that he never wanted. No helping it though. The kid’s blue spiked head meant there was no doubting the kid was his, and the brat tore his working girl of a mother apart on the way out, so what else was Joey supposed to do?

Nothing, that’s what, nothing besides follow orders and hope to get in good with someone higher up the food chain. Was getting too old to be the muscle anymore, so it’d be best if he got permission from one of the Capos to start his own crew. One with his kid and all those idiot friends of his, but they all had to start somewhere, right?

That’s why this loud-mouthed Qink was gonna be Joey’s ticket to the big leagues. The Firstborn, people called him, the oldest kid on the Frontier who happened to be some hotshot Spellslinger too. Had a bit of a rep as a gunfighter too, taking out a couple chumps here and there, but Joey knew it was all talk. People didn’t have nothing to do out here besides swap stories, and wasn’t none of them true. How’s he supposed to believe that some kid who just turned seventeen was one of the best trackers this side of the Divide? A professional Abby Hunter too apparently, one who made his living out in the badlands which even the Rangers avoided unless they had no other choice.

And they were supposed to believe this kid had a house out there? Bullshit is what that was. Even someone trained by the fucking Marshal himself couldn’t be that good, meaning it was all just a story the papers wrote up because they didn’t have nothing better to report that day. If the Firstborn was such a big deal, then why’d he Mark a horse in front of two Innates? Kid thought they wouldn’t notice? Joey clocked it right away and told Mikey soon as they were out of earshot, said they oughtta grab their guns and go back to teach the kid some manners, but Snow Show was too much of a pussy to even consider it. The idiot believed all the stories about the Firstborn, like how he walked into the Sherrif’s Office at Pleasant Dunes and gunned down that sick fuck Gil and four of his boys without breaking a sweat, or how he hung a man out the window of a saloon and stood on the street with a single revolver in hand ready to take on an entire town.

While the man struggled for dear life no less, long minutes with his legs propped up against the wall until the Firstborn shot those out from under him. A fucking joke is what that was. If the kid was that cold, then they’ve locked him up in a labour camp somewhere far away from civilized folk.

Joey even heard someone say the kid was a full on Magus, as if anyone could believe that. Mikey did though, which was why he rode off with Fingers as a ‘distraction’ while sending Joey and these two knuckledraggers around the long way to lie in wait. A waste of time and effort is what that was. If they’d’ve turned around and rode in heavy, that smart-mouthed kid with the big hat would’ve shit his pants as soon as he saw them coming. The bosses were gonna have a big laugh when they heard all about how Mikey Snow Show was afraid of the big bad Qink, all 5’8 and a hundred pounds of him. If he really was such a big shot, then how come wasn’t no one talking about him until about a month back, when Vanguard National went up in flames and he showed up smelling like smoke? The official story was a load of horse shit too, some line about a drunken brawl that ended in their explosives stockpile going up, but didn’t no one buy that. Ronald Jackson was a careful man, one who knew he way around chemicals. If he wasn’t, he would’ve blown his whole operation sky high years ago, instead of leaving the bosses scratching their heads and wondering how a single Independent mine could match all of Mount Rimepeak’s output with less than a tenth of the workforce.

Well now the bosses knew how, and they’d pay good money for a firsthand account. Only problem was all their usual sources were coming up dry. Mikey knew plenty of scumbags up in the desert, but they didn’t agree on nothing besides the fact that two crooked Rangers died down there, and this Qink kid walked away with Ronald Jackson’s Nagas while leaving his right hand behind. Mikey only wanted revenge, because he was all buddy buddy with Ron, but Joey knew the bosses would want to talk to the kid, and they’d remember the man who brought him in. That’d be Joey, not that lazy fuck Mikey, not this time. It was Joey’s time to move up now, show the bosses that their rules were on the outs and he deserved a seat at the table, which he’d do by not only bringing them the kid, but all the answers they were looking for too.

Like if any of Ronald Jackson’s explosive caches might’ve survived, and who might know about them…

Least that was the plan, one that seemed perfect on paper. Was only one trail from Carter’s compound back to New Hope, so Joey found the perfect spot to lie in wait. A big hedge of bushes up top a dirt mound which the trail went around. They’d see the kid coming from a good while away, shoot his horse and his bull when he got in close, then work him over until he was singing like a canary.

And it all went according to plan too, right up until the kid spooked and ran just as they were about to shoot.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb only made things worse, firing off shots they didn’t have. Explained why they were rolling with Snow Show, because wouldn’t no one else want them with aim like that. Left Joey no choice but to sling the Spell he’d been holding, his signature Ice Knife modified with Mercy Metamagic. Flick a drop of water, freeze it into an icicle, and send it hurtling out to punch through skin and bone before exploding into a mist of freezing air. Was the Spell Core he swallowed way back when, a safe enough bet since it was only Conjuration. A School of Magic which was dangerous enough, but not so dangerous to get you on a list or conscripted into service.

The Ice Knife Spell was a good one too, or at least it was in Joey’s hands. Problem was, the aim wasn’t all that great, which was why he wanted Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb to wait until the kid was in good and close. One of them must’ve spooked him though, made some noise the kid’s big goofy ears picked up from at least twenty-five fucking metres away. Wasn’t Joey who gave them away, and it wasn’t his fault his Ice Knife missed either, clipping the big fucking tree that was their marker for when to open up on the kid’s horse. Soon as he got past the tree, that was the plan, but someone just had to fuck it up.

Pushing himself up to his feet while his meal ticket galloped away, Joey kicked Tweedle Dee or Tweedle Dumb. Wasn’t sure which. “Mount up,” he said, but before he could say anything else, he felt the Spell close in around him. A Hunter’s Mark, same as what the kid used on Finger’s horse, and Joey felt his stomach drop. “Fuck,” he growled. “I’m Marked.” Glaring at the two boneheads who were still laid out flat, he took cover and kicked the other one for good measure. “Get after him you idiots.” The hoofbeats were dwindling away as he peeked over the saddle to see if the Qink was still in sight. “Kid knows where I am, so I’ll head inland and he’ll stick to the shoreline. He’ll be running full speed for New Hope, which means we gotta get him before – ”

A sharp crack followed by a piercing whistle cut through the air, and for a second, Joey thought Tweedle Dee slipped and fell off his horse while getting up into the saddle. Even then, a slow fall shouldn’t have cratered his head like that, with bright red blood and and dark bits of brain spilling out onto the dirt. Time stopped for a moment, then sped up as Joey’s heart seized in his chest and he hopped down off his horse, keeping the big dumb animal between him and whoever was shooting.

“What the f – ”

Those were Tweedle Dumb’s last words, spoken as two shots whizzed by only for the third to explode his head, leaving the rest of him to fall down and join Tweedle Dee in the dirt. Both had their rifles still in hand without firing off a second shot, but Joey wasn’t about to risk moving out into the open to get them. He had no idea where the shots were coming from, so he hit the ground and crawled for cover while the stupid horses screamed and ran from the smell of blood. “Fuck,” he muttered, wondering how his luck could be so bad. First the kid rabbits off only moments before they were supposed to shoot his horse, and now there was some hotshot shooter with a bead on him. Had to be a hunter or something, someone out for a stroll who happened to spot Joey and his boys settling in to wait. Same hunter might’ve even warned the kid off, but Joey wasn’t about to go down like this. “You’re dead!” He yelled, once he was back in the safety of his bushes again. “You’re dead, you hear me? You know who you’re fucking with?”

“Cold Cut, right? That’s what he called you.” The voice boomed from his right, that thick, American drawl so many of these hicks had, and Joey pointed his Bashere 1915 towards the source. Pivoting around on his belly, he got into place and reached down to grab his waterskin off his hip. Giving it a squeeze to spray out a stream of water, he spurred the magic to action and pushed everything he could into the Spell. Ice Knife, same as before, but he smoothed out the flows and supported the Spell from all sides until a blade of Ice materialized in his left hand. Not one of those little pig-stickers hunters carried around to gut their game, but a real, proper falcata like what the Romans used, all blue, crystal clear, and frosty. Didn’t feel cold to the touch, at least not to him, and the handle fit in his hand like a dream. Didn’t have to worry about blood making it slick, because any blood around it froze before making it to the hilt, and while it cut real good, he could also send it flying towards his target with only a thought.

“Yea,” Joey replied, staring down the ironsights of his semi-automatic while trying to see through the brush and trees. “So you must stupid then, because you knew who we work for and shot at us anyways.”

“Well, I never claimed to be smart.” The voice sounded like it came from his left now, but even as Joey pivoted towards it, the next sentence sounded from his right. “Though I will say that you shot first, so I call that fair game. Tick for tack, am I right? Good luck now. You gonna need it.”

Holy shit. It was the Firstborn, only his voice sounded off somehow, like he was speaking into a cup or something. “That you kid?” No answer, but Joey knew he was right on the money. “You’re making a mistake, but you ain’t done nuttin’ you can’t come back from yet.” Again, silence, and Joey licked his lips while looking left and right through the sea of white hoping to spot a patch of brown. “These two you killed? They’re nobodies, but me? I got connections. You kill me, and my friends come looking. You let me go and all this? Water under the bridge.”

“Bad move, Cold Cut,” the Firstborn said, his voice so close to Joey’s right ear that he almost jumped to his feet, but there wasn’t anyone around him. “Should’ve stuck to threats instead of bargaining.” The voice shifted to his other ear then back around again, like the kid was circling around the inside of Joey’s head. Bardcraft to throw his voice then, though that didn’t explain the almost tinny timbre to it. “That’s how the Mafia works after all. Fear. People are too scared to report them, too scared to cross them, too scared to even defend themselves, and you prey on that, take advantage of it.” Kid sounded so calm throughout it all, like he was giving a lecture in school or something. “Now though? Now I know you’re scared, which gives me the advantage, now don’t it?”

“Fuck you!” A flash of movement caught Joey’s eye, and he unloaded on it, sending out his Ice Knife and pulling the trigger to his semi-automatic 1915 again and again until it clicked empty and the slide locked open. For long seconds, he kept pulling the trigger though, and kept hearing the click, until he calmed down enough to see that nothing was moving. “I get him?” he muttered, under his breath, pushing his upper body up like a snake to peer out through the brush. Wasn’t no sound, no movement, no smart ass remark, just a puff of shiny, frosty mist that blew away in the breeeze. He held his breath for a hot minute, just watching and listening, but wasn’t nothing out there besides the wind and the leaves. Heaving a sigh of relief, he reached down for a clip to reload his pistol only to freeze in place at the sound of a click-clack behind him.

A sound he heard before, only a couple hours ago when the Firstborn thumbed his hammer and threatened to shoot Joey, Fingers, and Mikey on the count of three.

“Toss that peashooter to the side,” Howie said, his voice coming in clear and crisp with the tone of a man who meant business. Didn’t need to say what would happen if Joey didn’t listen, but he knew well enough how this was gonna go.

“Alright. Easy.” Flicking his wrist, he sent his Bashere deep into the bush.

“Keep your eyes forward and interlace your fingers behind your head.”

“That really neccesssary?”

The kid didn’t answer, but Joey felt the Mark surge through him as the Firstborn took aim, even though the Spell’s course correction probably wasn’t needed. “Okay! Okay!” Joey did as he was asked, feeling the strain in his neck as he resisted the urge to turn around for a look. “See? There. Now go on. Cuff me.”

The kid chuckled. A full on snort of laughter. “You think I’m here to arrest you? You see me sportin’ a badge?”

“Well what the fuck you want then?” Joey asked. Kid’s gun was probably pointed right at the back of his head, and he didn’t want no part of it. “You got my word, you walk away and we wipe the slate clean.” Personally at least. The bosses would still want to talk to the kid, but Joey didn’t want nothing to do with the Firstborn no more.

“Don’t want your word,” the Firstborn drawled. “I want answers. Why’d you take a run at me? Seems a big of an overreaction for what went down at Carter’s.”

“Mikey wanted us to rough you up a bit is all.” Seeing a lifeline, Joey grabbed it and talked himself up as best he could. “We’re businessmen see? If we went gunning after every yokel who greeted us with a weapon in hand, we have no business left, am I right? This is a misunderstanding is all. We wasn’t here to kill youse.”

“Sure seemed like you tried.”

“Was aiming at your horse and bull. Keep you from riding off. Spell was Merciful too, got the rod wrapped around my wrist. Would’ve cut you a bit and cooled you down, but wasn’t no threat to your life.” The kid didn’t answer, just let the silence hang as sweat dripped down from Joey’s scalp and ran into his eyes. “I swear on my mother’s grave, that’s the honest truth.” Well, he didn’t actually know if Ma was dead, but the way things were going when he left for the Frontier, he’d put big money on yes. “We was just gonna rough you up and ask youse some questions.”

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The Firstborn exhaled, all slow and calm from right behind Joey. “Questions?” The Firstborn asked, sounding more amused than anything else. “What questions?”

“Nothing serious you know,” Joey said, his mind racing for a right answer. “About Carter and his people, whether they’re stiffing us on the dues. Done a lot of work since we were last here, what with the dock, water tower, and path, so Mikey was curious how they could afford it.”

“Plausible.” The Firstborn’s boots shifted, moving closer as he talked. “Don’t believe you though.”

Shit. “It’s the truth.” Silence. Then a step as the Firstborn drew closer. “I’m t-telling you,” Joey stammered, “T-that’s a-all we wanted to ask, t-t-then you would’ve been home free.”

“I may have been born at night,” the Firstborn said, sounding like he was holding back a laugh. “But not last night. You wanna know why I don’t believe you, Cold Cuts?” Sucking his teeth, the Firstborn didn’t give him time to answer and said, “That’s a stupid nickname, by the way. I get it, Ice Knife, Cold Cuts, but still. Makes you sound like sandwich meat.”

That’s how it was though. No one gets to pick their name. “Name’s Joey. Joey Morelli”

“Bull-shit it is. You a grown ass man of forty. Your name is Joseph.” Big talk coming from a guy named Howie, but Joey knew better than to say as much. “I know what you thinking,” the Firstborn said. “But you gotta ask yourself: do I look like a Howard? No. I got a Qin name that sounds like Howie, so that’s what I go with. Ain’t the same.” The Firstborn scoffed and his voice went low as he muttered, “Bunch of geriatrics runnin’ around callin’ each other Mikey and Joey and Cold Cuts. Embarrassing is what that is. Have some dignity why don’t you?”

The Firstborn had a real mouth on him, but he also had Joey dead to rights, so he kept his lip buttoned up tight. “Anyway Joseph,” the Firstborn said, once he got all the muttering out of his system. “Where were we? Right. You know why I don’t believe you? Because you gave it up too easy. Me, I grew up hearing all about how the Mafia was all big and bad, with a whole code of silence or whatever.”

“The Omertà,” Joey supplied.

“Sure. That.” The Firstborn was pacing now, his voice moving left, then right, then left again. “So here we are, in my first real run-in with the Mafia, and the mobbed up tough guy gives it up that easy? Nah, you want me to believe a lie, you gotta make me earn it, Joseph. Tough guy like you, I thought I’d have to take your foot off before you’d say anything, and wouldn’t get the truth until it was at least half-cooked.”

Joey’s breath caught in his throat as he fought down his panic. That’s what the Qinks were known for, chopping off feet and force feeding them to prisoners, for no real reason besides the fact that they were a bunch of sick, slant-eyed fucks. “B-B-Bullshit,” he stammered. “You’re the Marshal’s Apprentice. No chance you’re dirty like that. No fucking chance.”

“There’s a philosophical thought experiment that I’m sure you heard of.” The Firstborn drew closer to Joey’s left, leaning in close to yap. “If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? What you think?”

“I dunno?” Joey was sweating bullets now, wondering if he could twist, reach his waterskin, and unleash an Ice Knife before getting shot. Not a snowball’s chance in hell. If only he could use sweat as the Spell’s Material Component, but anything produced by the human body was no good. Too contaminated for the Aether to affect, though no one could ever explain to Joey what in the hell that meant.

Cold metal touched the back of Joey’s neck, and he whimpered to feel it. The Firstborn was a sneaky fuck, moving right up beside him without making a peep. “It’s a yes or no question, Joseph,” the Firstborn said, all calm and cold as can be. “I want an answer. Yes or no?”

“…No?”

There was a pause, then the Firstborn slapped his knee. “See, that’s what I’m saying. No ears, no noise. Some say yes, that sound is vibration, and that vibration will be created regardless of whether there’s someone to hear it. Thing is, sound ain’t the vibration. Sound is our ears picking up on that vibration, so no ears, no noise.” The Firstborn’s breathing grew louder, like he was leaning right down with his mouth next to Joey’s ear. “So following that same logic, if I break a law, and don’t no one ever notice, was a law really broken?”

Holy fuck. “I tell you anything you want to hear,” Joey said, trembling from head to toe. “Anything. You ask, I’ll answer.”

“What’s the square root of 1,293?”

“What?”

“Wrong answer.” The cold metal barrel pressed down hard and Joey let out a whimper, only for the Firstborn to laugh. “I’m just playin’, Joseph. It’s 35.958, just so you know.” Joey heaved a sigh and pressed his forehead into the cool dirt, wondering what in the nine hells did he ever do to deserve this. The Firstborn was a fucking psycho, and Joey had seen some shit in his days. There were some guys like this, who got off on the fear and suffering, but they was usually drunk, high, or fucked in the head. Firstborn was stone cold sober and steady as a rock, which made him a special kinda twisted, now didn’t it?

“So Joey,” the Firstborn asked, sounding playful as can be. “Why you really here?”

“To capture you,” Joey said, holding nothing back. “Mikey wanted to ask you about what happened up in Pleasant Dunes, and maybe tune you up a bit. Had him a connection with Vanguard National, moving product up into the Emerald Plains. Was good money, and he even made friends with Ron, but that’s gone now, so he’s pissed.”

“See? Now we getting somewhere,” the Firstborn said. Wasn’t done with his questions though, and Joey answered every one the little psycho had. Told him all about the Family’s interest in Vanguard National’s methods and how they were looking to learn more about what went down in Pleasant Dunes. Wasn’t enough, so he sang about how the Pugliano Family ran the girls and games up in Mount Rimepeak, and how they controlled the output to keep the prices of stone and ore high. Shared how they ran the girls and games too, and ran the alcohol licensing too, making sure every bar, inn, and restaurant in every mining district bought booze from the family. Labour racketeering, freight theft, fencing stolen goods, and more, Joey knew a little bit about everything and shared it all with the Firstborn, but not enough to get anyone pinched. The bosses would understand, because Joey wasn’t saying anything people didn’t already know, aside from the bit about why the bosses might want a word with the Firstborn.

“You got a bounty, Joseph Morelli?”

“No!” Joey’s heart skipped a beat. “No, no, no. I got a rap sheet, but no bounty. No open warrants. Did a nickel in the mines for aggravated assault a decade back, but that’s it.”

“Damn. What about them other two?”

“I dunno. Ain’t somethin’ you talk about, you know? Might give people ideas, knowing you got a bounty on your head.”

“Shame.” Heaving a sigh, the Firstborn backed off and brought his gun away with him. “Well… Now it’s my turn to make a decision then. Let you go, or kill you here?”

Finally. A light at the end of the tunnel. “You let me go and we’re all square,” Joey said, lying through his teeth so well even he believed it. “I’ll tell Mikey you didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’, that you was just talkin’ big is all.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?” Joey’s gut twisted as the Firstborn chuckled and said, “Probably because you a born liar. Bet you don’t listen so good either, so can’t really trust you to follow instructions either.”

“I will!” Joey exclaimed, seizing onto his last ray of hope. “Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do it. Pass a message, warn them off, whatever.”

“Well… tell you what. Answer me this, and you can go free.” The Firstborn leaned in, and Joey could almost feel the kid’s breath on his cheek. “What’s the square root of 1,293?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Uh… Fuck. Oh god, please don’t kill me.”

“Sorry Joey.” The Firstborn’s tone wasn’t playful no more, as his mind was made up. “You can’t be trusted to keep your word or to listen to instructions, so it’s cleaner if I just take care of you here and now.” After a short pause, he asked, “You smoke?”

Fuck. This was it. Do or die. “Y-Yeah,” Joey said. “Left jacket pocket.”

The footsteps moved away, then the Firstborn said, “Do not turn. Remain facing forward, and push yourself up and onto your knees. Then and only then can you reach for your cigs with one hand and one hand only. You understand?”

“Yea.” Joey did as instructed, pulling out his cig tin and lighting up with his shaky hands. Took a long first pull, filling both lungs and praying the next breath would not be his last, but the Firstborn wasn’t in any rush. That was a relief, so after a second drag, Joey faked a cough, and kept coughing until it was played out. “Can I take a drink?” he asked, his voice all hoarse and eyes still forward. “It’s just there on my hip.”

“Go ahead.”

Good. The Firstborn didn’t know about Ice Knife’s material component. Better still, he sounded like he was standing directly behind Joey, or close enough to it. Slowly reaching for his waterskin, he gingerly brought it up to his mouth and lifted his head for a drink. Kept his lips shut though, and let most of the water dribble down his chin. Did that for a full second, then let out a sigh of satisfaction, like you do when you have a cold, refreshing drink.

And thinking the Firstborn would’ve relaxed along with him, he dove aside and twisted around to unleash his Ice Knife at –

At nothing. Wasn’t no one behind or beside him, no Firstborn to be seen anywhere around, not close by at least. A sharp crack sounded once more, but there was no whistle to follow, no sound for him to hear because Joey’s ears had stopped working the moment the Bolt punched through his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve been called paranoid plenty of times before, but that just ain’t true.

See, the definition of paranoia is the unjustified suspicion and mistrust of other people, and I got plenty of reason to be suspicious of strangers. Especially mobbed up strangers who by their own admission just tried to shoot my horse and bull, and may well have tried to kill me too. Or at least bring me to someone who would later have me killed, which seems like the more likely option. Fact is, anyone who did trust someone like that is closer to crazy than I’ll ever be, because that level of blind faith borders on the religious. So yea, I got trust issues, because I seen enough to know that people ain’t worth trusting without any assurances whatsoever. Ain’t no one out there deserving of trust, not right from the get go, a lesson Errol had to learn the hard way once, and will probably have to learn again soon enough. Trust is earned, slowly built over time, so you can’t go giving it out for free, because that there is a surefire way to get got while trying to do the right thing.

Stepping out from behind my cover, I mosey on over to Joey’s dead body some fifteen metres away with one eye on the surroundings. Had him dead to rights the whole time, and used Minor Illusion to make him think I was standing right there with him. A real versatile bag of tricks that Cantrip is, one I used to great effect in Pleasant Dunes and have been playing with ever since. I can’t draw worth a damn, so my visual illusions ain’t great, but I can throw my voice and fake foot steps well enough, while Prestidigitation lets me fake the sensation of a cold barrel pressed up against your neck and other sensory hallucinations.

Logically, the gun should’ve been a least a little warm, seeing how I shot four times before bringing it to bear against Joey, but logic don’t count for much when you think you got a gun to your head.

Arriving at the mobster’s corpse, I check my work to see a clean hit to the temple, one that would’ve killed him quick. Feel a little bad leaving him to stew for so long, but I had to keep him talking while I looked for a second group of shooters. Stupid for all three of them to sit in the same place, so stupid I was sure Michael and the other Innate were lurking somewhere nearby. Then again, it was even dumber still for them to mount up in plain sight without cover, but I suppose Old Tux’s fading hoofbeats had them worried they’d lose me. Never occurred to them in a million years that I’d slip off my horse and circle back on foot. Saw a clear shot and nailed it with a little help from True Strike, then had to free eye the other target. Took three tries, but that’s none too shabby for some left-handed shooting at some thirty-five metres.

I really should get to the shooting range and practice my aim. My quick draw too. Been putting it off for so long because I was hoping I’d fix things right up and go back to using my right hand again, but I’m thinking it’s time I faced facts and accepted the hard truths.

Things could’ve gone bad if I missed all my shots, and I’m really feeling the lack of a primary Aetherarm. A carbine or rifle would’ve given me much more options, and I could’ve handle this much easier. There’s also the fact that Joey would’ve been far better off riding away instead of hiding behind his horse like a fool. Lot harder to hit a moving target, even with help from True Strike and Hunter’s Mark, so he should’ve gotten moving right quick. Acted like a fool townie instead, which goes to show that even though Joey’s all mobbed up, he ain’t worth much. Man was just a street tough coasting on the rep of his crew, because that’s all he ever needed. He wasn’t no soldier, not even a properly trained shooter, just some smuck with a gun, some Spells, and a desire to use both.

That’s all that really separates law-abiding citizens from criminals really. The willingness and determination to inflict violence on another person. That’s what Carter don’t get. He sees me square up against Juan and Michael and thinks I’m crazy for picking a fight over nothing at all. What he don’t understand though is that if more people were willing to square up like me, there’d be a whole lot less Juan’s and Michaels out there in the world. Crooked cops and criminals do what they do because it’s easy money, and they get away with it because don’t nobody stand up to them.

Not on my watch though. No sir-ree. You see something, you do something, simple is as simple does.

Besides Joey’s Merciful Metamagic rod, which is really a bracelet, the three mobsters don’t got much of anything worth taking, but I pick them over all the same. Keep my recording going while I do, just in case I find anything that can incriminate someone else, like a signed note or something the Sheriff can use to arrest someone up by Mount Rimepeak. I knew there was plenty of criminal activity up by the mines, but the sheer scale of operations is something of a surprise. Didn’t think the Mafia was dug in so deep, and so close to New Hope too. I know they were a big deal back in the old world, and that plenty of known criminals from all walks of life were sent over in their first wave of Settlers, but it wasn’t like they was sending their best and brightest. Why would they? Wasn’t like the crews over on this side could kick back to their bosses in the old world, so there wasn’t any short-term profit to be had, and criminals ain’t known for long-term planning.

Their Bashere 1915’s are an interesting Aetherarm though. A semi-automatic Aetherarm of Sicilian design chambered for 9mm 10 Grain rounds. Not the hardest hitting pistol around, nor is it all that reliable, but it puts a lot of decently powered Bolts downrange right quick with a middling amount of precision. That’s why the Spell Cores are cut bigger than your standard 22-10 Aetherarm, so it can sustain the high fire-rate with minimal risk of a Core cracking or exploding. Only takes eight rounds in the standard magazine, which ain’t much, and the 1911 has it outclassed on all fronts besides ease of manufacturing. Makes the 1915 a cheap, fast firing sidearm that is reliable enough for what it does, though I’m still of the opinion that a revolver is superior in every which way.

Folks get too hung up on rate of fire, which is important when you talking about rifles and heavy weapons, but for a sidearm? Precision and reliability above all else, because when you pull a sidearm, you in a position where you absolutely need it to hit and kill whatever it is you shooting at.

Their rifles ain’t much to look at either, Bashere 1918 semi-automatic carbines also chambered in 9mm 10 Grain. Boring and sub-optimal all around, but the Cores are worth something at the very least, so I strip them out, put the guns aside, and sit back to make another big decision. I got three options. One, I bring these bodies in and report what happened. Two I leave these bodies here to rot and pretend I don’t know nothing. Three, I get rid of the guns and bodies both, and save myself a whole lot of headache.

Option one and two run the risk of getting me into trouble, because I don’t got footage of Joey and his buddies shooting first, which means in the eyes of the law, these are not clean kills. I didn’t start recording until after they shot, and while Joey did do a whole lot of shouting about chasing me down, there ain’t nothing illegal about that per se. At face value, it’ll look like I shot two men dead as they mounted up, then interrogated a third before executing him. Which most certainly is illegal and will land me in hot water if the Sherrif chooses to make it so. Sure, my side of the conversation ain’t on recording, since I said everything through Minor Illusion which don’t get recorded, and yea, Joey tried to hit me with a Spell at the end of it, but he didn’t come nowhere close to hitting me, and it could be argued his actions were done in self defense, since he thought I was about kill him.

So I suppose it’s option three then. Disappearing mobsters will send Michael a message, though not the one I’d like to send, and gives me plausible deniability at the same time. Were it up to me, I’d scalp all three of these mobsters and deliver them back to their boss in a box, but I’m pretty sure there are laws against mailing dead bodies. Doesn’t solve the crux of the issue though, namely how the Mafia might want a word about Pleasant Dunes, and I’m rightly worried Carter and his people will take heat for this. Where else is Michael gonna go for answers when his people up and disappear?

The decision made, I use a Ritual to cast Floating Disc and load the bodies and guns up onto it while waiting to see if all the noise didn’t draw anyone in. Funny thing is, if I get caught covering up this kill, then I’ll go down for it either way, even if I got evidence to show it was clean. Ish. Catch-22, but thanks to the Mindspire, I don’t think we got any looky-loos hanging about. Soon as I’m sure we in the clear, I Conjure up a Simple Servant and have him walk the Floating Disc out into lake. The Disc don’t float on water, so with the bodies weighed down with their guns and strapped to the disc, they’ll stay on the lake floor, but not for long. Sure enough, less than fifteen minutes into cleaning the crime scene, I feel my Simple Servant come apart from a blow, meaning Abby done found him and the bodies he brought them, which I suppose makes me the cultist tonight.

By the time I’m done cleaning, it’s well past nine and there’s no chance I make it back into New Hope before the gates close at ten. Cowie brought Old Tux back long ago, so I mount up and head on back to Carter’s. Understandably, they’re all locked up tight when I arrive, but I pound on the side door all the same and say, “It’s me. Gotta talk.”

Less than a minute later, Elodie appears up top of the wall, waving down at me with a big smile on her green-whiskered face. “Bonjour Howie,” she exclaims, and I can’t help but smile at the way she says my name with a French twist. “Papa is opening the door, but he says it is too late for us to play now.”

“He’s right,” I say, trying to respect Carter’s wishes without breaking Elodie’s heart. “Sorry for waking you.”

“I was not sleeping,” she says, before turning to look at someone out of view. Probably her mama, because when Elodie leans over the wall again, she’s wearing a big pout. “But, I have to go sleep now. Bonne Nuit!”

As I wave goodbye, the side door creaks open and Carter peers out at me through a crack. “What’s this about then?”

“Michael’s goons tried to grab me on my way back to New Hope.” I don’t share the details of the fight, or even admit I killed anyone, I just lay out the relevant facts that he needs to hear. “Man’s under the impression I got something to say about a Ranger operation I took part in up in Pleasant Dunes a few weeks back.”

“And you’re worried they’ll come here looking for answers.” Carter don’t look none too pleased, but he don’t get all fired up at me neither. More than anything, he looks lost and a little sad, because I think it’s dawning on him that the time to fight is coming sooner rather than later. Opening the door, he says, “Come on in. It won’t be safe for you to sleep outside.”

“Ain’t my safety I’m concerned about,” I say. “Would appreciate it if you looked after Cowie and Old Tux though.”

“Of course.” Cowie darts right in to find his new best friend Elodie, but the side door is a tight fit for the big horse with all his saddlebags. He wiggles his way in soon enough though, and once he’s home free, he trots on in and leaves me and Carter standing face to face in the doorway. “So what happens tomorrow then?” he asks, showing he understands the real issue here.

“You and yours got a decision to make.” Gesturing around at the compound, I say, “Stay here, feign ignorance, and hope for the best, or take shelter in New Hope. Me, I have to head home either way, let them know I’m safe and see if there’s anything else that can be done, but other than that… I got no real answers.” I ain’t about to have a sit down with no mafia don, not after how my last meeting with a criminal went, and I’m not sure if it would change anything if I did. I don’t got nothing of value to say, as I’m sure they know most of what happened anyways. “Sorry.”

That said, I leave Carter to share the bad news and figure out his next step. Me, I go for a quick walk around the compound and double check the Alarm Wards I recently installed. Along the shore, the Wards take the form of metal fence posts, without the slats connecting them. Each post got runes Etched into them, and any Abby passing between two posts will trigger the Alarm. Simple is as simple does, and so long as you don’t move the posts around too often and top them off with Aether after they’re triggered, then you’re good to go. Got a few more Alarm Wards out in the forest too, hidden ones buried underground with their counterparts lashed to a tree, Wards that’ll warn Carter’s people of more than Abby, but given the limitations, the coverage ain’t great. For the sake of my peace of mind, I throw down a few Alarm Spells with a Ritual to cover even more ground. Takes only a minute for each, though it costs me a tiny bell and 20cm of fine silver wire each time. Not exactly cheap, but a quarter or fifty cents here and there won’t break the bank either. Plus, the Spell’s good for 8 hours, which is just enough for me to get me a good night’s sleep in the bunkhouse. Before I call it a night though, I pull out my Spell book and copy down the Fireball Spell Formula by memory, then settle in to embed the Spell Structure into memory.

Ain’t technically illegal out here, though the rules get a little iffy if the Sherrif wants to press the issue. I’ll get rid of it before going back into town of course, as it’s only a precaution. Probably an unnecessary one at that, as I don’t see Michael coming back tonight with just one minion in tow, but better safe than sorry. Besides, if Michael was so eager about bringing me in, he would’ve been there to help Joey. No, Michael is a careful mobster, a bully and a coward, which means he’s headed home for reinforcements. Why? Because I all but admitted I was the one who done Ronald Jackson in, and Michael wants to settle the account, and maybe see if I got anything else to say about Vanguard National operations.

So really, this is on me. Shouldn’t have copped to killing Ron, or just killed Mikey outright and settled things clean and simple. I admit my fault, and got no defense against it. Wish I could’ve done something without getting Carter involved, but it ain’t my fault criminals do what they do, because they do it regardless of my actions. What was I supposed to do instead? Run like a bunny without fighting back? No, now that’s it’s all done and dusted, I can only take responsibility for my actions, which means figuring out how to fight the mob without getting myself killed or arrested.

Or any innocents killed in the process.

Sometimes, I feel like things are stacked against me. Outlaws have it so much easier without having to follow all these stuffy rules. Can’t even defend myself legally without worrying about getting in trouble. Maybe I should start recording myself 24/7 then, which is just all sorts of twisted. Ain’t fair is what that is, but ain’t nothing to be done about it. Just gotta keep on keeping on and hope I don’t mess up. Only time will tell how all this plays out, but one thing’s for certain. If they hurt one hair on an innocent’s head, I’ll go scorched earth and kill every last mobster in and around Mount Rimepeak. If the law can’t protect the people I care about, then I won’t let the law stop me from getting even.

That there is a promise, no two ways about it, one I’ll sign, seal and deliver to the Pugly-Annie Family’s doorstep myself should the need arise.