Page 140 of Tracking Snow

HAMs.

A lot of HAMs.

Of fucking course.

They had an axe to grind against Rap, Poison Apple, and me. I just didn’t expect them to show up with literal axes.

Switchblade already open in her hand, Lilah’s hair is slicked back and her smile is sharp enough to count as a second blade. Behind her, Wrecking Ball ducks through the destroyed doorway, shoulders almost brushing both sides of the frame.

"We heard Poison Apple is closed," Lilah calls. "But we figured we’d drop by to make sure it’s a permanent closure."

Rap’s glass lowers slowly.

Geanie makes a strangled sound beside me. It’s almost absurd the way the tiny orange cats smile on his chest as twelve-armed purist dickwads file into our bar with bats, pipes, chains, crowbars, and bottles stoppered with burning rags.

"This is a hate crime," Geanie says, voice gone high and offended. "And a fashion crime," he adds with a sniff, eyes flicking to their jackets.

No one laughs.

"Touch my bar," Rap says coolly, still from a seated position, "and I’ll bury you under it."

She says it, but there are too many of them. I may be a kickass female, but unless an army shows up, the three of us are well and truly fucked.

"Ladies, gents," I stand, stumbling a bit, realizing the liquor has rudely turned my knees to jelly. I glare down at them. I wasn’t drunk when I was sitting. But I guess I’ll have to work with what I’ve got, so I start again in a voice meant to calm the room. "Is this about the magic thing again? Because I still think that none of you have had a personalized experience that really helps you connect to what magic is all about, or what supernatural powers can do for you. Allow me to demonstrate."

With that, I lift my closed fist to my face and start to blow on my thumb. I make sure to puff out my cheeks and put a lot of effort into it as my middle finger slowly but surely unfurls until I’ve inflated a perfect message tailored just for our newcomers.

"Eh?" I say, my gaze bouncing between it and them with awe and open expectation, as if I’ve done the most amazing magic trick of all and am waiting for my applause.

"Leave the blue-eyed freak to me," Wrecking Ball says.

"To us," Lilah corrects. Then she puts two fingers up to her mouth and lets out a piercing whistle.

Windows explode inward from the left.

Then the right.

Glass rains over the tables and couches as rocks crash through them from the outside. Oh goodie, there are more of them.

One of the HAMs hurls a fire bottle toward the far wall. It bursts against the shelves near the lower liquor display, flames racing over spilled alcohol in a hungry orange line.

Rap moves first.

She throws her empty glass straight into a man’s face, grabs the Jolly Roger bottle by the neck, and swings it like a club.

I’m already moving, one dagger in my hand, the second sliding free from the thigh holster under my skirt. My body snaps into the old rhythm. Weight low. Knees loose. Blades reversed.

Wrecking Ball sees me and grins.

"Little twig," he says, before throwing a punch I easily dodge even in my inebriated state.

"Big mistake." My knuckles crash into his nose. A loud crack reverberates against my fist as blood spurts from his broken face.

He yells, hands covering his face.

I shake out my throbbing hand. "Ouchies."

Geanie throws a barstool at someone. It hits with a terrific crash. "I hate violence," he shouts, grabbing another stool. "I am built for the entertainment industry."