“Hey, help! This guy wants to bend me over a garbage barrel! Let me go, you pervert!”
I got a good grip on his hair, yanked him back against me and raised the sword blade to his throat. He froze when the metal touched his skin.
I faced his gang. Three grubby boys, the oldest about fifteen, watched me with wide eyes. The little girl they’d used as bait ran over and hid behind them.
The boy in my grasp burst into renewed struggles, trying to catch me off-guard. I pressed the blade harder against his throat. I wasn’t going to kill him, but I didn’t care if he got cut a little. “Shouldn’t you kids be in school?” I said over my hostage’s head.
“Uh… give us your money,” the tallest boy said, falling back on routine.
I almost laughed. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you give me your money?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. On the ground, right here in front of me. Come on.”
The kids looked at each other.
I leaned close to my prisoner. “Better get ’em moving,” I snarled in his ear.
“Give him the damn money!” the kid squeaked.
The tallest boy, evidently the leader, stepped forward and said, “No. I don’t think you’ll hurt him.”
I slid the sword just enough to slice my hostage’s neck. It was no more than a glorified shaving nick, but the nice thing about those harmless, shallow cuts is that they sting like a bitch and bleed quite freely. This one did both, and the kids gasped. The little girl began to cry.
“Hell, Scotty!” my captive screeched. “Give him the money!”
“All right!” the boy Scotty said. He tossed a small bag to the ground at my feet. It jingled when it hit. “There. That’s all we have.”
“Is that the truth?” I asked the kid in my grip.
“Yeah!” he shrieked.
I slowly withdrew my sword. The boy was sure I was about to cut his throat all the way, but I wasn’t. When I released him his knees collapsed, and he crawled over to Scotty’s feet. He put his hand to his throat, and when he saw blood he passed out.
I picked up the money. It was maybe enough to buy a couple of meals. I looked at the raggedy idiots, sighed and tossed the money back to Scotty. “Here. This was embarrassing for all of us.”
Scotty caught it and stared at me. “Are you going to kill us?” he asked, his voice low but steady.
“No, you moron. But I should, just to save some other sword jockey from having to put up with you. Do you have any idea how close you came?” I sheathed my sword. “You guys are really bad at this.”
“You’re mean!” the bait girl said, then ducked back out of sight.
“Yeah,” I agreed, and turned to go. And that should’ve been that. But I never saw the blow coming, since whoever struck me did so from behind. I felt only the rush into that big black pool where nothing hurts and nobody bothers you.
THIRTEEN
My first thought as I awoke was that my head hurt so much, if anyone spoke to me, I’d cry. The second was that the room was way too small for my head.
This was the third time in my life I’d been knocked out. Those who make their living relaying tales of heroic deeds at fancy banquets would have you think this was no more than an inconvenience, to be shaken off as easily as raindrops. Their heroes always snap wide awake and rush off to make up for lost time. I can guarantee that the folks who come up with those stories have never been seriously whacked in the head.
“Is he alive?” a woman’s voice asked. I couldn’t place it, but I’d heard it before, and recently.
“I didn’t hit him that hard,” a boy replied with a child’s superior impatience. “He’s breathing, isn’t he?”
“Quiet,” a new voice snapped. It was older, rougher and female. “He’s awake. Now get out.”
Door hinges protested, wood scraped against wood and I felt that slight change in air pressure that said a heavy door had closed. I decided to open my eyes.
The back of my skull felt like mashed potatoes. I blinked, groaned and tried to make sense of the confusing lights and shadows. Luckily the room was dark, but a table lamp provided some dim illumination. I blinked, tried to rise and found I was on my stomach, my hands tied to my ankles behind me.
“Don’t try to move,” the older female voice said. She sat just out of the lamp’s illumination.
“Okay,” I rasped out. The room was very small, and I lay on what felt like a blanket spread across uneven wooden crates.
“You were asking about Epona Gray.”
“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know this one, but I realized where I’d heard the other woman’s voice before. “I guess I didn’t give Trudy a big enough tip, huh?”
“She knows I’m always interested in certain things.”
“Like Epona Gray?”
“Always.” She leaned forward. I saw frizzy hair backlit so that her head resembled a dandelion gone to seed. “You’re a smart guy, I’d guess. So I don’t think I have to explain too much. Whether or not you leave this room depends on what you tell me about Epona Gray.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where is she?”
“Dead, as far as I know.”
The frizzy head leaned back. “Then why are you asking about her?”
I wriggled as much as I could. “This is really uncomfortable,” I groaned. “I’d feel a lot chattier if you’d untie me.”
“And I’d feel a lot less safe,” she said. “You can answer my question just fine from where you are.”
I squirmed some more, but couldn’t reach the knife in my boot, or even tell if it was still there. “I knew her once,” I said. “I just wondered if anyone else around here might remember her.”
“Everyone that knew her is dead,” the woman said with deep certainty. “Except me.”
“Not everyone,” I replied.
“So you knew her?” she asked derisively. “When?”
“Right before she died.”
Again she leaned forward, and her frizzy hair caught the light. “And how is that possible?”
“Hey, lady, I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I met her the night she died, I only spoke to her for a few minutes, but since I was back in the area I asked a waitress a harmless question. This seems a lot like an over-reaction.”
“Nothing to do with Epona is ‘harmless.’ ” She leaned back again. “Tell me how she died.”
I saw no reason to keep it a secret. “She was poisoned.”
She paused for a long moment.
I took advantage of the silence and asked, “And what the hell do you know about it? I was the only person who walked away from it.”
The smile in her voice had no warmth. “Not the only one,” she said, imitating my tone. She reached over and turned up the lamp.
I could not begin to guess her age. Her face was a mass of scar tissue, and her hair grew in ragged white patches. “I crawled out of a burning house. I was on fire as well, but I made it to a creek and put out the flames. Did you know that, if you’re burned badly enough, you don’t feel it?”
“Yeah,” I said. I recalled those same flames myself, and the blood-soaked beast roaming through them.
“My parents died. My friends died. Everyone died because of Epona. On the very day I was initiated into her mysteries.”
I went cold. It took a moment to find my voice again. “You’re only about eighteen years old, aren’t you?”
She crossed her legs, deliberately letting her wraparound skirt fall open. Her legs were a little hairy, but had
