Page 94 of Fang Fatale

First it’s the lookout: a sour man in a pea coat who takes his smoke breaks on the side deck, never noticing the shadow that blots him out until it’s too late. I never understood the point of lookouts, honestly. You can see a threat coming a mile away and still walk right into its teeth. By the time anyone notices his cigarette still burning against the railing, he's already at the bottom of the harbor wondering where he went wrong.

The second is a girl, barely out of apprenticeship, gutted for this kind of work. She’s doing shots alone at the end of the bar, hands shaking just enough to make me sad. A little gentle coercion, and she’s following me into the alley, where she gives me a sob story about her sick mother and how she only took the bounty because she needed the money.

I believe her.

Bad people lie.

Desperate people usually tell the truth.

"Go home," I tell her.

"I don't have one."

"Then find one."

She studies me for a long moment, decides I'm serious, and runs. I suspect she'll think twice before accepting another bounty, and if that's the only good deed I accomplish tonight, I'll consider the evening moderately successful.

The third is a man with arms like butcher’s haunches and a face that’s already been broken and reset a dozen times. Him I kill. Quiet and fast, in the old way, because he wouldn’t have hesitated if the situation were reversed. That’s how I know I’m still myself: I can tell which ones are worth the mess.

When I slip back inside, Leland's table is three men lighter. One of the remaining bounty hunters glances toward the door, then toward the empty chairs, frowning. Another checks his watch. Someone mutters that Eddie should've been back by now.

Leland doesn't notice.

Not yet.

He's too busy pretending luck is the same thing as intelligence.

Inside the Crab & Quiver, the air tastes like spilled rum and varnish. Right before last call, Leland tosses down his cards with a theatrical sigh and excuses himself for the head.

I slip after.

He’s waiting for me.

The gun’s in his left hand, which is wrong—Leland’s right-handed, always has been—and the hammer isn’t cocked. He’s bluffing, which would be cute if it wasn’t so fucking stupid.

"Hello, Alaric," he says, keeping the barrel leveled at my chest.

"Leland. You look like hammered shit."

"I've been busy. Your doing, mostly." His mouth twitches into something that almost resembles a smile. "I was hoping we could avoid this."

"Were you?"

"I assumed we could come to an arrangement."

Of course he did.

Everything in Leland's world has a price tag attached to it. Loyalty. Friendship. Love. He honestly believes the only difference between a good man and a bad one is how much it costs to buy them.

"I assume you're here for the bounty."

"There was a bounty."

"There still is." He shrugs. "Name your price."

I can't help smiling.

"You still think I'm here because someone hired me."