City of Dust

Chapter Two

Keres Guild House is located in the OldTown section of Eureka, in a mansion that I was told was once owned by a private men's club. Before that, it was apparently the residence of a lumber baron. There's a large black-and-white framed photo of the mansion in its heyday hanging in the common room showing rolling, manicured laws and sculpted topiaries. I looked at it once and shrugged, uninterested. I didn't particularly care for the house's history, as long as it provided me with a place to decompress, sleep and was adequately equipped to care for Winston.

My room, which I had bought out from under an older Hunter, is situated in the tallest tower and affords me a 360-degree view of the area—when I'm awake and interested in enjoying it. I was told that it was an inspiration for Disneyland, a fact that piqued my interest somewhat but only because it was one of the last places my parents and I visited before everything went to shit.

The road leading up to the Guild House is cracked and broken, like much of city and its people. Weeds grow in-between the cracks, resilient like cockroaches in the face of an apocalypse. No one cares to put any effort into fixing the road because all of our resources are put towards defense. If someone intent on attacking the Guild House happens to twist their ankle or fall down and break a limb, all the better.

Gates cobbled together from the hulls of millionaires' yachts and massive shipping containers loom large over the dusty road. Winston's cloven hooves scrape across the pavement, kicking small pebbles and stones out of his path. As the big guy cannot be shod like a horse, I've taken to casting small protection charms over his feet. The last thing I need is a lame battle-elk.

Hunters loiter outside of the main gate, shooting the shit with each other and smoking. Tobacco and other drugs are forbidden inside the grounds, so they come out here to get high. My preferred method of stress relief is a long bath and a good book—both of which are in short supply.

This afternoon, three men sit outside in old plastic chairs around a duct-taped card table. An ashtray full of used butts and stubbed-out joints sits in one corner while they play poker. Two out of the three men's heads are bare, which is ridiculous to me considering how unpredictable the dust storms can be. But at the end of the day, I'll still have skin on my face.

"If it isn't the golden girl of Keres House and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," greets Nelson, a forty-year-old former car salesman, with a slight curl to his lips. He doesn't like me because I've topped the Guild leader board for the past year. Nelson thinks that because he's old enough to be my father, his name should be at the top. Hate to break it to you, Nelson, but just about everyone here has the same amount of experience in the game.

I ignore Nelson, as I always do, and guide Winston towards the main gate. Six Guild members patrol the catwalk, each armed with poisoned crossbows, pump-action rifles and small vials of holy water. The crossbows and rifles are for monsters, the holy water is for rogue lesser demons.

A chair scrapes back as I lift my gloved hand to signal the gatekeeper. Great. I frown behind the layers swathing my face.

"Raine." Keaton Ibbot, a nice-enough guy—if that's what you're looking for—walks up to Winston, but keeps a respectful distance. Winston snorts and flicks an ear, causing Keaton to take an extra step back.

I tug at my face covering, pulling it down far enough so he can see my full expression. "Yeah?"

"Do you think we can talk later?"

"No." Yanking the cloth back up, I cluck to Winston. The massive bull elk begins to walk towards the gate as the large doors are cranked just wide enough for his bulk to pass through.

Keaton wisely doesn't follow. He's still under the impression that there is something between us—an impossibility. I told him at the beginning of our fling that it was on a need to know basis—if I needed something, I'd let him know. Not the other way around.

Our arrangement lasted for a few months until the fool decided that he was falling in love with me. I did not agree. Now he's trying to rekindle a flame that was never lit in the first place. This moment is Keaton's second-to-last chance at dropping the case of his own volition. One more and I cease being nice.

The manicured lawns of Keres House now are home to the training fields. I honestly cannot say the last time I saw a patch of grass anywhere on the property. Grass, like a lot of plants, has been nearly scoured clean from this part of the country. Elsewhere in the world, I hear that they have the reverse problem—in Paris, at the start of the Turning, a massive jungle grew overnight and swallowed the Eiffel Tower.

I give a respectful nod to those who greet me on the fields and continue around towards the back of the property. Winston and I pass a married couple on a pair of Shire draft horses and the battle-elk snorts and tosses his head. Two pairs of eyes glare at me.

"Easy," I murmur to Winston, patting his neck to calm him down, but only for the couple's benefit. (I can't have everyone pissed off at me.) Winston may be large, but he's a hundred times more agile and useful in combat than draft horses. And they know it too, having outfitting their mounts with makeshift horns that look as if they will snap off at the slightest bit of pressure.

I dismount when we reach the stables. Nearby, I hear a small group of Hunters who continue to cling to their motorcycles laughing and joking as they pour every last ounce of blood, sweat and tears into keeping their toys running. Sooner or later, they'll have to give up. California, or at least our part of the state, is not kind to combustion engines any more.

Humming off-key to myself, I lead Winston into his loose box. The bull elk rests his head on the edge of the box and people-watches as I strip off his gear. An apprentice Hunter, a girl as young as I was when I joined, waits outside of the loose box with a saddle tree sitting in a wheelbarrow. Part of being an apprentice is assisting senior Guild members. I've been told I'm an easy task-master, because all I ask for is to see to Winston's comfort. I heard that fights have broken out over who can take care of the big bull.

Unbuckling the myriad straps that hold Winston's armor together, I slip the saddle from his back and place it on the tree. One by one, I hand the flexible pieces of armor to the girl, who arranges them neatly in the wheelbarrow. The saddlebags, which hold my personal talismans, and my Winchester rifle and crossbow remain by my side.

Finally, I remove the elk's hackamore; Winston snorts and shakes his head, ears flapping.

"They'll be clean by sunset, Hunter Barlow," the girl, whose name I don't remember, tells me.

I nod absently and step outside the loose box to grab Winston's brush. The battle-elk groans with pleasure, shutting his long-lashed eyes as I take the stiff brush and run it over his dust-covered brown-grey haunches. There's no way in the world that I'll ever get all of the dust out of his coat and I've long given up trying. All I can do is move it around, because it will eventually return. Eureka is no place for neat-freaks or obsessive-compulsives.

After getting most of the dust off of Winston's coat, I grab a thin blue and white tartan blanket from his tack box and throw it over his back. Loosely buckling it around his belly, I put a hood over his head, outfitted with eye protection but leaving his muzzle free for eating and drinking.

Winston makes a rumbling sound of contentment in his throat and pivots to plunge his muzzle into his water trough. After checking to make sure he has enough feed for the night, I pat the battle-elk on his shoulder and leave the box. My stomach twists and rumbles, reminding me that I have to eat, too.