Caitlin Kittredge - Bone Gods

“Right,” Pete said, turning to face the twin gits as the pub door swung shut behind them. “You two from the Van Helsing fan club, or did your mums dress you like that?”

Wee Chat’s mouth twitched. “I’m Abbot. This is Dreisden. And you, Miss Caldecott, need to come with us.”

They wanted her to go somewhere, preferably in one piece. Things were looking positively sunny. Pete shook her head to Abbot’s request. “I don’t think so. You’ve got something to tell me, you can do it now or not at all, because I’ve had my quota of shadowy errands for the day.”

Abbot sneered. “I wasn’t offering you a choice, miss.” He pulled aside his coat to showcase a truly impressive knife sheathed on his belt. Abbot made his point by pulling it an inch out of its leather casing, the pure liquid gleam of the silver blade catching the low light. Pete had seen knives like that before—silver over a cold iron core, repellent to Fae and to most other things roaming the Black that would require a stab in the first place. Jack’s old flick knife had been similar, if a fuck of a lot subtler.

She called up Jack’s face in response to Abbot’s show, in her mind’s eye, his sneer and his screen of contempt that let the rest of the world bounce off. Hoping her expression at least managed to be unimpressed, she shrugged. “I guess you don’t care if everyone and their mum knows you’re compensating, then?”

Abbot pulled the full length of the blade. It was wickedly sharp, curved at the end to more effectively hook on to flesh and organs, and wrought all over with thread-fine engraving that danced and swirled under Pete’s gaze before settling.

Whoever they were, the Git Brothers knew their way around spellcraft, and that negated all the positives Pete could find to her situation. Nobody was going to stop Abbot from using her as a replacement sheath for his great pigsticker, if he took the notion into his head. Nobody but her.

“Look,” she said, trying one last time to do as Jack would have done and talk her way free. “I’m sure you’ve got me wrong. I don’t have anything you want, and if I do, I’m sure we can work it so no one ends up in hospital.”

“Oh no, Miss Caldecott,” said Dreisden, as Abbot advanced, waving the knife like he was a small boy who’d just discovered his own penis, “we know exactly who you are, Weir. Whore of the crow-mage.”

Fuck. They did know who she was. And didn’t seem very happy about it.

“As to your condition, orders are to deliver you alive,” piped up Abbot. “Beyond that, we have no further instructions.”

So much for silver tongues. Pete managed half a heartbeat before Abbot lunged at her. He grabbed the front of her blouse and shoved her against the wall of the pub. Pete felt buttons give way.

“There you are. There’s a good girl.” The knife stroked the side of her cheek, perilously close to her ear. “Don’t scream,” Abbot hissed. “Be sweet to me and I’ll be sweet to you.”

He trailed off when Pete grabbed the hand holding her shirt and bent it backward, applying pressure to the wrist and the heel of the hand with her thumb and forefingers. She’d found the threat of a broken wrist at least made men, no matter how large, drunk, or enraged, reconsider whatever they were holding on to. Winning a fight wasn’t about being big. It was about being mean, and Pete had no doubt that when it came to her bad day versus the Git Brothers, she cornered the market on meanness.

Abbot let go of her as Pete forced him loose. For good measure and perhaps a bit, she admitted, from spite, she put a knee into his bollocks. Abbot collapsed, and Pete kicked his knife out of reach before she turned on Dreisden. He was faster and less interested in her tits, and silver and iron appeared in his hand without missing a step. This time it was a straight razor with an ebony handle, more of the liquid spellcraft wrought into it. Dreisden clearly knew this dance, and he came in with a backhand slash that would have opened Pete from crotch to neck if she’d been any slower.

She was small, had always been the smallest in any given class or training during her Met days, and she used her size to duck inside Dreisden’s reach, safe from the razor, pushing her arm into his elbow joint to break his stance and throw him off balance. Pete hit Dreisden one sharp, short punch just under his sternum with her other hand, angling her fist up, and he let out a wheeze like she’d stepped on him.

She jabbed him once more in the hollow of his throat, and that was that. Dreisden fell to his knees, dropping the razor to attend to the pressing matter of not breathing. He looked up at Pete with bulging, accusing eyes as his mouth flapped like a trout’s.

“Oh, calm down,” she sighed. “You’ll live.”

Dreiden swiped at her with one hand, and Pete jumped back, out of reach. She raised her boot to put it into Dreisden’s skull and convince him to stay down. Too late she felt the wind of movement on her back, and something cold and round and utterly too familiar press against the back of her neck.

A voice like carriage wheels scraping over cobbles said, “That’s enough out of you, miss.”

Pete stilled, putting her foot down and keeping her hands at her side.

“Good girl,” the voice told her. To Abbot and Dreisden it snarled, “Get up!”

The pair got to their feet, Abbot standing bowlegged and wincing when he moved. “You didn’t tell us she’s some kind of fucking kung fu master, did you?” he mumbled.

“Shut it,” the voice ordered. “A tiny little thing like her taking out the pair of you—you’re a waste of my fucking air. Go back to the car.”

The owner of the pistol grabbed Pete by the shoulder and turned her around. “I suppose you find this all very funny, Miss Caldecott.”

Pete took in the new addition to the Git Family, and felt her stomach drop a bit. He had gray hair and matching gray eyes, two bits of polished steel. A face that wasn’t quite craggy enough to be carved from stone, but would definitely put a fright into small children. Huge—not wide but rangy, his hand more than big enough to envelope the grip of the pistol with acres left over.

“It was a bit,” she admitted, since with a gun in her face, her policy was generally the truth. “When I kneed him in the bollocks and his voice went all wobbly.”

“Bitch,” Abbot spat. “I should’ve cut you.”

“Could’ve, should’ve,” Pete snapped back. “Didn’t.”

“Car!” the man with the pistol bellowed. “Now!”

Abbot took his leave, grumbling invective that Pete was sure had to do with her heritage and proclivities. The git in charge stepped back, keeping the pistol pointed at her skull. “You going to give me any more trouble, girl?”

“Depends.” Pete folded her arms. “You going to keep calling me pet names and trying to kidnap me out of pubs?”

“You’re a lot of things, Miss Caldecott.” The git in charge grinned. His teeth were very white and straight, like a row of standing stones. “But I don’t think you’re bulletproof.”

“Look, who the fuck are you lot?” Pete demanded. “I was having a nice, quiet drink with a mate. You interrupted me, and you’re rude. I don’t see why I should listen another word you say.”

The git lowered his pistol—it was a .45, Pete noted, with a nickle barrel and an ivory grip, both etched as his flunkie’s blades were. A small cross in ebony was inlaid into the butt of the grip and it gleamed as the man put his weapon, carefully and lovingly, into a shoulder holster secreted under his black coat. “You’re right, I was rude. Forgive me.” He extended a hand in place of his pistol, encased in a black leather glove tight enough to be second skin. “My name is Ethan Morningstar. And I do need to speak with you, Miss Caldecott.”