City of Dust

Chapter Ten

That damned enfield follows the girl like a puppy, trotting at her mare's side as if he'd been trained to the task. If this is the way the rest of the trip is going to unfold, I'm putting my foot down. There is no way I'm going to be responsible for a menagerie. As it stands, Kayleigh's already fed the enfield three strips of jerky. I shouted at her as she was passing the beast a fourth piece, which she wisely put away.

We rest for lunch and bathroom breaks on the side of the highway, then travel until an hour before sunset. There is no time frame for getting the girl to the City of Dust, so I'm taking us there at an easy pace. Also, I want to see if she has any more abilities that might be of use to a demon lord. And if that's the case, I'm turning around and pulling out of there.

I'll kill crocattas all day long to make up the lost money.

An exit looms ahead. The abandoned husks of mid-priced homes rise next to the highway, indicating that there's a town nearby. Pulling out the mayor's list, I scan the document for the correct direction.

"We're turning off for the night," I call back to Kayleigh. Just then, the winds pick up, sweeping up the dust from the highway and taking it down the coastline. I jerk up my veils, securing them around my mouth and nose. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the girl do the same. At least that's something I don't have to remind her about.

In the distance, I hear metal groan and watch as dozens of lights begin to flicker on. Illuminated in the glow are six massive windmills, each turning in Ehtab's dust storm. As they continue to turn, more lights come on, zipping up and down the naked streets of the town.

But I'm not interested in how the town makes its power. All I'm looking at is the old truck stop just off the exit. Lights glow in every window and the shadows of travelers dance back and forth between them.

Clucking to Winston, I turn his head in the off-ramp's direction. The battle-elk obliges and swings off the main highway, whuffing eagerly at what all the lights promise: rest, a clean bed of straw, and food.

"What's that?" Kayleigh asks, urging her mare next to me.

"A waystation."

"Is that like a hotel or something?"

"Or something," I agree blandly.

The massive hulk of a gas truck is parked next to one of the pumps, surrounded by four armored vehicles. Not only do the constant dust storms muck up conventional engines, but it's nearly impossible to get gas out here. Hence, the security.

I hear the click of more than one gun as we pass by. Kayleigh reaches out and tugs urgently at my billowing sleeve. "Don't look at them," I hiss. "We're not a threat."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a black-clad man wave his companions down. The guns retreat and I breathe a sigh of relief.

The truck stop is broken into three parts: a restaurant, motel, and stables. Both the restaurant and motel's former chain names have been painted over to reflect the new ownership. A man in his thirties lounges in the doorway of the restaurant, a sawed-off shotgun in his lap. He looks up and cocks his cowboy hat back as I ease Winston to a halt.

"Hunter Raine Barlow, Keres Guild," I say, flashing the man my guild ID.

The man studies the ID, then nods. As he moves, I catch the edge of a military tattoo on his forearm. "Just warning you, Hunter, we have six Strikers in-house tonight."

Good to know. "How much are a room and two stalls running?"

"Two hundred. An extra hundred for security and wards on the elk, horse, and ... what the hell is that?" The Black Ops guy sits up straight and points at the enfield sitting as placidly as a dog by the Arabian's right foreleg.