"Keep that close," I warn. Ghelly turns to me, tucking the sheathed sword he bought closer to his side. "It's a nice piece. People will, ironically, kill for a great weapon."

"I know," Ghelly retorts. He rubs his thumb over the leather wrapped handle, "I'm not an idiot."

"I never said—it doesn't matter," I shake my head. In one day, the little brat got a weapon that could cleave my cheap ass kusarigama in two. And Khalil showing up? I don't need any bad news.

"Honey, I'm hoooome!" I call out when I enter the Burnt Rice Tavern.

"No!" What did I just say about bad news? I turn to Naiomi. Her glare alternates from me to Ghelly; this kid is holding up under Naiomi's icy stare remarkably well. I knew he was a keeper.

"Naiomi—"

"I said no, Namonai. I'm not taking in strays. You brought me an inventor and a warrior, fine. But," She motions for me to get out of the doorway while a few early patrons trickle in. "I'm not taking in helpless strays who can't contribute." Ghelly bristles beside me, but I put a hand on his shoulder.

"You're right, Naiomi," I say, holding up a hand in placation. Ghelly opens his mouth but I continue before his tongue makes us holier than a priest on Sabbath from Naiomi's arrows. "Sorry." Naiomi nods and turns to her patrons with a customary greeting: stonewalled silence and a tilt of the head toward the bar.

"So, that's it?" Ghelly hisses. "You promised me a bed and a hot meal."

"Don't worry," I whisper. I fight down my irritation; this kid really pushes my buttons. Who does he think he is anyway? No, Namonai, come on. You're turning over a new leaf here. Heroes don't murder children. No matter how annoying they may be. I look Ghelly in the eye. "I've got a plan."

||||||||||

I step out of the shower, shaking dark hair out of my eyes. The noise of the street filters in from the open window as I turn to the small mirror on the rickety wooden table. Thankfully, it's fogged over, but I don't need it. I know the ritual by memory.

I rub the handcrafted balm over my skin. It took me forever to get this stuff, and let me tell you, manticores do not play fair. Deadened fingertips go over every ridge and imperfection on my skin. I barely feel it, but I know it's cold.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Next comes the paste, carefully mixed to get close to my skin color. I rub it on top of the balm, the two products mixing together on top of the burns and scars. When coupled with clothes, bandages, and a mask, I look downright normal. Well, normal for Malor.

I hold my breath, pausing halfway through putting on my shirt. Someone's here. I whirl quickly, bandages tight on my face, and sling a small razor at the open street window. I rush forward and grab the intruder. They quickly wriggle like an eel and slip out of my grasp. I duck back to avoid a swipe of their claws. Claws?

"Wikolia?" I ask to the darkness.

"Who else?" That little...

"Why in the seven hells are you here?" I question. I pull my shirt on and stumble around her, lighting a lamp by my bedside. She stands close to the doorway, arms stiff by her side. She remains silent and I slip my mask on. "Hoping to catch me in the shower?"

"Please," The Wyvern says, her nostrils flaring slightly.

"Is that you begging?" I say with a grin. She turns, walking towards the window. "Wait!" I hop in her direction with one boot on. "You never answered my question." Wikolia stops halfway through climbing out the small window. How did she even fit through there?

"Why did you do it?" She asks softly. I sigh, slipping my second boot on.

"Kamapua'a?" I take her silence as confirmation. "It's very difficult to kill Immortals. Even the weakest of them can't properly die. The strong simply heal from the most grievous of wounds. Others, like Kamapua'a, will regenerate their bodies and return, well-rested." Wikolia flicks out her tongue and turns to me, her hands clasped together.

"But why?" She asks taking a step forward. I finish lacing my boots and stand.

"He wanted to die," I reply, shrugging on a brown leather coat, "someone had to do it. Now," I turn to her and cross my arms, "why are you here?" The Wyvern shifts her weight from foot to foot, grasping her hands together tightly.

"I just arrived in the city. I did that job for money," She says quietly. "I didn't have anything to use for food."

"Answer the question, Miss Wyvern," I say. I need to speed this along if I want to keep my promise to Ghelly. She mutters, and I tilt my head in her direction. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

"I said that I don't have anywhere else to go." Wikolia seems to shrink in on herself as she speaks. What kind of joke is this? I decide to be nice to one kid, and now everyone needs my help? Just my luck. I shake my head, putting my hands on my hips. Fine. Fine. I'll do it. Don't say I never did anything for anyone.

"Take the bed," I say, pointing to my thin mattress, "I'm going out, so make sure to close the window and lock the door. And for the record," I turn to her, but she's already curled up on my mattress, snoring. She must have been going non-stop since she arrived in Malor. The mattress creaks under my weight when I sit. I take her whips and put them in her arms. She hugs them tight to her body, her tail wrapping around her waist. "For the record, I heard you the first time." I whisper, patting her scaly body. I'm sure this isn't the last time I'll have a woman in my bed who wants to kill me. Then again, maybe, just maybe, the Wyvern doesn't want me dead. That'd be nice.