Nyx

Now that they were reasonably certain the still-sleeping fighter would recover in time, Nyx leaned close to Matthew and murmured in his ear: “I’ll be stepping out for a minute to take care of some minor business. Have one of your boys find me if you need anything.”

Matthew gave a noncommittal grunt, not really paying attention, and Nyx decided to take that as agreement. She slipped out of the tent, and was soon enveloped in the heady scents of sour sweat and stale alcohol as she wandered at a carefully measured pace through the muddy field. Her feet left no imprints in the mud. Of course, she did not really have ‘feet’, and she only maintained the illusion of ‘walking’ out of consideration for the mortals around her. They tended to become terrified at the sight of a Fallen One ‘flying’, and it was bad form to frighten one’s pets without good reason.

Mortals parted for her, and most kept their gazes downcast—she always enjoyed seeing how well her kind had brought the humans to heel, taught the value of paying deference to the True Blood.

An emaciated beggar soon fell into step beside her, head jerking occasionally with withdrawal from one substance or another. He had trouble matching her pace, wanting to walk faster than she intended, and repeatedly had to slow until she caught up.

The beggar had followed Catherine as she had requested. He brought her to a spot in the busiest part of the fairground, where a woman lay pathetically sprawled in the soupy mud between two tents, her face and arms and legs a mess of bruises and cuts, hair wet and plastered to her cheeks. A bottle of dark spirits dangled in her limp grip, the neck teetering dangerously close to spilling out its contents.

Nyx could not decide whether to be impressed or disgusted. In the end, she decided it was simply amusing. “Catherine,” she said, voice raised to cut through the commotion all around.

The woman blinked, groaned slightly, but otherwise gave no indication that she had heard.

“Most calamitous?” the beggar murmured by her ear.

Ah, that’s right. He’ll be wanting his reward. These substance-dependent humans can be so impatient.

“Leave,” she said with a dismissive wave, and took a step away from the repulsive mortal. His weakness did not appeal to her at all. He was nothing at all like her chosen one. “You will receive your treat from the Headmistress.”

The beggar instantly began backing away, nodding and bowing before turning and scurrying off. Nyx sighed as she watched him go, and felt a tiny, uncharacteristic stab of weakness in her ‘heart’. The Headmistress was much more strict with her pets than Nyx was—once they took a liking to her treats, she did not let them off her leash until she had worn them down to dust.

Nyx could not find any satisfaction in living that way. After all, she held true fondness for humans, and to see the ones she favored meet with misfortune made her feel… something. Maybe a human would describe the feeling as ‘queasy’? No, not quite. ‘Sad’? No, that wasn’t quite it either. ‘Dissatisfied’. That was it. Simple dissatisfaction at seeing her efforts be undone. Or, maybe… Maybe it was ‘rage’. Yes. That word resonated well within her.

She could never live the way the Headmistress did, but then, all Fallen Ones were different. Only the filthy Bright Ones tried to enforce some unnatural sense of unity, and how had that turned out for them?

“Catherine!” Nyx repeated, more loudly this time.

The woman shifted, head slumping onto one shoulder, and her half-lidded, slightly cross-eyed gaze finally fixed on Nyx. “What is it?”

“You’re drunk,” Nyx observed.

“Am I?” Catherine giggled. She dribbled spit on her own chin like an infant, smacking her lips noisily.

“Did you perform the task I gave you?”

“Yessssssss.” She stretched the word out impossibly long, then trailed off once she lifted the liquor bottle to her lips and took a clumsy swig, half of it spilling out the corner of her mouth.

“And?”

“He’s…” She burped, then smacked her lips. “He’s definitely a hitter.”

“Be serious.”

“Fiiiiiine.” She went to take another swig of alcohol, but her arm faltered halfway and she cradled the muddy bottle against her chest instead, smearing filth between her breasts. “I distracted him, I Identified him, I fed him laxatives, and I made fun of him until he looked like he was about to cry.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“No, I’m lying out my ass.” Catherine burped again, then she dribbled a small quantity of vomit down her front. She grimaced at the taste, and washed it down with more alcohol.

“Very well,” Nyx sighed, choosing to believe the whore’s report.

It was better than Nyx had expected. She hadn’t thought Catherine would get close enough to the Hero to speak with him personally in the first place. Maybe the girl might become a valuable pet after all, if she could be weaned off some of her more… inconvenient habits. Unlike the Headmistress, Nyx preferred her assets to be alert and effective.

“What did the Identification reveal?” Nyx asked.

“It was… incomplete. But I know he put all his points in Dexterity. All twelve of ‘em. And I know he has Web on top of all the Soulbindy stuff.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Is that all?”

“That’ssssss it.”

“Very well. You have done well, Catherine. You may enjoy your… leisure activity for the rest of the night, and we will discuss your compensation once you have regained your wits.”

Catherine did not reply. She just tossed back the last bit of brown liquor, then let the empty bottle slip through her fingers. She murmured something that was seemingly directed at no one in particular, her eyes drifting up toward the rainy night sky, but Nyx could not make out a word of it over the noise.

* * *

Will

He knocked at the door of The Lucky Lady, then waited. When there was no answer, he knocked again. After the third time, he felt confident that there was no one inside, but he was not deterred. He was going to get that drink one way or another.

Surely, Joe Crag would forgive a little innocent trespassing between friends.

Will placed his hand over the simple door lock. He used Detect [Metal] to visualize the tumblers inside, then Repelled lightly against each one with a sustained cast until they all clicked into place. He tried the handle, and clicked his tongue in satisfaction when it swung inward.

His mirth was somewhat dampened by the pistol barrel aimed at his forehead on the other side of the threshold. He blinked, and readied another Repel to toss the weapon’s owner across the room, but stopped himself when he noticed the rotund frame of the man standing in the shadows.

“Hi, Joe,” Will said.

Joe hastily lowered his weapon with a yelp, uncocked the hammer. “Will!”

“Yup.”

“The hell are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Looking for a drink. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“I happen to own the place, you know, so I get to be here whenever the fuck I want. But for your information, I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I might as well start working early; do some prepping for the day, get some cleaning done.”

“Cool. So, are you going to let me in, or…?”

“Oh, sure. Sorry.”

Joe stood aside, and Will dragged himself inside the darkened tavern. There was only a single candle burning in a brass holder on the counter—no wonder he hadn’t seen the light through the windows. He shrugged the rifle case off his shoulder and let it fall wherever, then slumped down on a creaky barstool, head in his hands, working over his wet scalp with his fingers.

“I guess I don’t need to ask why you’re up late,” Joe said as he took the one candle and went about the common room lighting more. “You’ve been working, eh?”

Will looked down at his blood-spattered clothing. He tried to think of something witty to say, but in the end all that came out was: “Yeah,” followed by a flaccid sigh.

“Rough one?” Joe called from the other end of the room.

“Little bit.”

The tavern keeper came back around, sidling behind the counter and putting his big hands down on top of it. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Fair enough. What are we drinking, then?”

“Something strong. And by god, make it a double.”

“You got it.” He bent down, searched around behind the counter, and eventually rose back up with a short, dusty bottle. It let out a satisfying pop as he uncorked it, and he poured two generous glasses of amber liquid.

Will took one and drained half in one swallow. He gritted his teeth at the burn that spread down his throat and into his stomach, which eventually was diluted into a pleasant warmth all the way to his fingertips. “Whiskey,” he said.

“Whiskey,” Joe replied with a nod. “Best medicine in the world—no offense to you, of course.”

“None taken. I was always better at the kind of medicine that makes people fall down dead, anyway.”

“Buddy, are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you? I’ve never seen you like this.”

Will blinked, and saw a snapshot of a screaming woman behind his eyelid, remembered the feeling of his knife going through her skin and her flesh, and drank down the rest of his whiskey to drown the memory. “I’m not hurt,” he said after a time. “You should see the other guys, though.”

He’d killed a lot of people that night, but the ones he felt worst about were the ones he'd let live.

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Joe said, sipping at his own drink. “When I decided to give sleeping a miss, I thought I’d try checking out that big tournament everyone’s been talking about all week. Couldn’t even make it through one fight. All that blood…” He shook his head, jowls quivering. “Not for me, man. Not for me.”

“Maybe I should’ve become a pit fighter instead,” Will mused, tracing a finger over the rim of his empty glass. “At least there’s something honest about that. I hear they don’t even kill each other most of the time.” He sighed, and slid over the glass for a refill. “Imagine that.”

Joe poured in a thumbnail’s depth. “I’m kind of surprised you’re not there, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, on account of that girl.”

Will frowned. “What girl?”

“That one you brought here. The tall one. Sam Darling, isn’t that her name?”

“Uh-huh.” The warmth of the alcohol left Will at once, replaced by a cold stiffness. “What about Sam Darling?”

“Well, since she’s fighting in the tournament and all. You seemed like you were sweet on her, so I thought—”

“She’s what?”

“She’s… fighting in the tournament. On quite a tear, apparently.” Joe blinked, scratching behind one ear. “You mean you didn’t know?”

Will stood up and made for the door, only stopping to retrieve his sword, but leaving the case where it was. That big thing would only slow him down.

“Where are you going?” Joe called. “The finals will be on by now—you won’t make it in time! Just sit down and—”

Will stepped back out into the rain and slammed the door behind him, shutting out the last of Joe’s words. He glanced down at his arm. Nine AP. He was already worn out, too, with plain ol' exhaustion as well as skill fatigue.

I’ll have to push it.

“Fucking Mongrel,” he muttered under his breath as he steered his steps north, toward Darkside and the haze of light spilling into the sky from it. “I should’ve known I couldn’t trust that bastard to do one single thing right.”

A pit fighting tournament. He’d let Sam enter a fucking pit fighting tournament.

People died in those. A lot of people.

Sam won’t be one of them. I’ll get there before anything happens to her.

I have to.

A max-range Dash shot him high into the air, cresting above a rooftop, and he pushed off the next building with a Repel to keep himself afloat while Dash was skill lagged. Alternating them back and forth, he sustained a sort of awkward bounding flight over Topside, occasionally touching down and running a while to make his AP last longer.

He headed north, toward the lights of the entertainment district, and hoped he wasn't too late.