City of Dust

Chapter Four

After dinner, during which the TV never comes back on, Jae-Seong and I part ways. He retreats to have a meeting with Guildmaster Kessis; I take a quick trip to the treasurer's office to record my bounty, then make the long and lonely trek up to my tower quarters. I don't mind the silence when it's just me and Winston, or Jae-Seong and I, but when I'm left alone with my thoughts, that's when the darkness creeps in. I'm too far gone to find camaraderie with my fellow Hunters. Some days I doubt if I'll ever experience joy in life again.

Slinging the saddlebags over the back of a chair, I prop up the rifle and crossbow. Stepping over to a corner, I strip off each layer of cloth and let them gather in a pile on the floor. I'll hang these outside a window later, to air them out. I typically send them down to the laundry once a week—or two, depending on how long it takes me to complete a bounty. It's amazing how inured to one's own body odor—and of those around you—one can get.

Knives of various shapes and sizes go on the dresser, along with a small coil of rope.

There's a bucket of water sitting on the floor next to my desk. I lift it and place it on the top, careful not to lose a drop. Laying my hands on either side of the bucket, I call up the small magic. Within seconds, the water begins to bubble and gently steams. Pulling my hands away, I dust them off and strip off my black body suit. This I will have sent down to the laundry.

White scars and puncture marks cover every inch of my weather-beaten skin. Luckily, I've never suffered a serious injury in the pursuit of hunting monsters—a rarity among our kind. Reaching up, I loosen the tie that holds my hair in a bun and let it fall unbound to the small of my back. When the Turning happened, not only did it unleash demons and monsters upon the world, but it was also kind enough to give some of us small gifts in the form of magic. It also turned my hair a startling shade of cerulean blue and made me immune to poison—another perk, considering my job.

My own talents lie in casting protection spells and charms. In a pinch, I can light a fire but it leaves me with a headache for several hours afterwards.

I comb my fingers through those matted locks, then grab a wash cloth and a small bar of soap. I wash standing upright on a thick towel, being careful not to make too much of a mess on the floor. The last thing I need is to break my neck by sliding on soapy water.

Once I'm clean and dried off, I grab a handful of dry shampoo and work it through my hair. Feeling marginally better about myself, I pull on my pajamas and take several objects out of my saddlebags: pay ledger, Jae-Seong's cross, a worn children's book about a little critter and Evan, a barred owl plush. Arranging these on the desk, I take a seat and open the ledger.

My finger trails down the handwritten account. Five years of bounties are in here, as well as expenses. Sighing, I prop my chin on one fist and stare at the numbers. By my calculations, I need at least twenty-thousand dollars to get the hell out of Eureka and make it to Alaska. That's accounting for food for Winston and I, artillery, lodging and bribes. The east coast might still be holding it together with their television, movies, celebrities and comforts, but it's the wild west outside of these walls.

Currently, my ledger reads a paltry $6,545—and that's including the $45 I received for three adult cockatrices. Even if I slaughter a whole coven of the beasts, it would only add up to a couple hundred dollars. I need big ticket items, like the ones Nelson has been sniping from under my nose.

Biting my lip, I pull an old notebook embossed with the words "The Orcus Institute" out of a desk drawer and open it to my list of monsters. Myrmecoleon have been reported in the Rockies; their carapaces are said to withstand demon strikes. But do I really want to travel weeks across the state for what could amount to nothing? It's a thought. Chupacabra are a dime a dozen, just like cockatrices, so that's off the table. Merlions are also a no—I hate boats, especially after the kraken incident.

My finger slides down the page: Crocatta.

I sigh.

They're about as indestructible as myrmecoleon, but all you have to do is flip one over and stab it through the heart. Crocatta are half-again as large as lions and considered by some to be an unholy union of the king of beasts and hyena. Their spotted coats vary in coloration from rust red to copper to auburn. Their jaws open unnaturally wide, perfect for showing off an impressive set of teeth.

Of all its parts, a crocatta's teeth are the most valuable. Unlike most mammals, a crocatta's fangs are fused together in a gumless jaw. A living crocatta can bite through an inch of steel and crunch small diamonds like rock candy. No wonder my motorcycle broke.

A single mature crocatta is worth around four thousand dollars, with more than a thousand in the skull alone. Even with the Guild's take, that's $2,800 more in my account.

I sigh again and rub the bridge of my nose. As I look down at the notebook, a tiny piece of loose paper catches my attention. Taking a deep breath, I draw out the small piece of scrap and turn it over. In my mother's hurried handwriting is a series of coordinates with the last number nearly falling off the page.

Instantly, a memory slams to the forefront of my mind: screeching tires, my mother screaming, my father swearing as the car jolts and skids off the road. Saliva floods my mouth as I recall the taste of blood, a result of biting my cheek as we land in a ditch.

Viciously, I shut down the memory right before bright lights shine into the windows. If I pull up the image of those bastards' faces, I'll fall down into a spiral that will take hours to climb out of.

Gritting my teeth, I tuck the scrap back into place. They're the reason that I continue to put my life on the line. Finding them is the only reason why I get up in the morning.

And I will, I vow for the hundredth time, fists clenching on the desk top.

And screw Nelson, too.

Now that my mind is made up, I put both notebook and ledger away in the drawer, and grab the Winchester. Laying it on the desk, I grab an old piece of cloth, oil and my toolkit and go to work cleaning the gun. I hum off-key as I break down the gun, cleaning out all of the dust that manages to work its way inside. Once that is finished, I do the same with my crossbow. It goes without saying, but if your weapons don't work properly, you're dead meat.

By the time both rifle and crossbow are clean and completely functional again, it's time for bed. This, for me, is around nine o'clock—if I'm lucky.

Rising, I grab Evan and the old children's book and head for bed. There's not much by way of furniture in the room, owing to my promise not to remain here for the rest of my life. There's a simple bed, a dresser with a lamp, desk and chair. All that I really need.

As I shuffle towards the bed, I nearly step on my robes. Cursing softly under my breath, I set Evan and the book down and scoop them up. Having been away from them for a few hours, the odor makes me grimace. Gritting my teeth, I walk over to one of the windows, open it and hook the garments onto a series of clothespins suspended from a thick piece of twine.

Now, I can go to bed.

Closing the window, I cross the room and settle down with Evan and the book. I know what a picture I must make: an eighteen-year-old, battle-hardened Hunter clutching a stuffed owl and rereading a children's book for the thousandth time. But it reminds me of them. And it is these memories which eventually lull me to sleep.