Tomas stormed into Clarity’s law office like lightning preceding thunder, temper carrying before thought. Today, he didn’t care to behave. He had just found another kid’s dead body on the flats.
“Olin,” he bellowed, ignoring the handful of hungover deputies shocked awake by his entrance. One fell off her chair. Another continued snoring, arms cradling his head against his desk.
Sheriff Olin Helk didn’t glance up from his paper at the back of the shabby office, lit by unwashed windows that had long since lost their transparency.
“Olin,” Tomas said again, weaving around battered desks and chairs chewed by rusk rats and stopping in front of the sheriff’s desk.
“I heard you the first time, Tom,” Olin said, flipping a page in his newspaper.
“Why the hell didn’t you answer?”
“Was I supposed to answer? I know my name. You like attention; you got it from my deputies.”
Blood pumping like liquid metal through a centrifuge, Tomas dug the crumpled WANTED poster out of his duster and slammed it down on Olin’s desk. “What is this?”
Olin still didn’t look up, leaning back in his chair so he could raise the newspaper to hide his face. “Wonderful artistry, considering the rush job. Better than The Night Butcher poster, don’t you think?” His smug tone was worse than seeing him smile.
A hulking mass of muscle and spiky fur glared at Tomas from the poster; at the top, red letters dripped The Terror of the Flats in bright contrast to the dark illustration. “This’ll get folks killed, Ol. I said you needed to get involved. To handle it. Not to get others involved!”
“Protection of Clarity is a shared responsibility, Tom. And you’re on the offensive side of things. I am on the defensive, which requires recruiting able-bodied allies.”
The nonchalance oozing out of his thin lips made Tomas squeeze his fists; it was all he could do not to swing one at the sheriff’s jaw. His middle finger broke through the worn leather glove tip. “I can’t protect the whole damn province. That’s not my job. And if I am having trouble catching this rusk wolf, how the hell do you expect normal folk to do it?”
“It’s not like I conscripted farmers to go hunting for the beast. I offered a reward that should attract Headhunters.”
“And the desperate. Two bars of Greenmetal? Can Clarity afford that kind of reward?”
“Not really your concern. You asked for help, and I gave it.” Olin crossed his feet on his desk. “If you were better at your job, it wouldn’t have come to this.” The motherfucker turned another page carefully, studying that infernal paper the way he appraised each townfolk for their usefulness. Or hindrance.
Tomas’s blood heated to molten metal, and his vision darkened. He thought Tomas wanted his attention? Fine. He’d get the man’s attention.
Tomas snatched the Redmetal rifle off his back, took aim, and shot the round wood carving hanging behind Olin’s desk; the shield insignia of Emperia’s Law Enforcement Core. “You took oaths to protect. Cowards hide behind others to avoid their duty.”
The deputies in the room finally attempted to look useful, halfheartedly cocking pistols in his direction. Useless. Tomas could blow the lot of them through the windows with a click of his teeth. He loosened his gloves, pressing them against the gun to help peel them off if it came to that.
“Enough.” Olin lowered his paper and nodded to a bulky deputy. “Jones, take the deputies to the brothel or something.”
The deputies clambered out as soon as the words left Olin’s mouth. They had no genuine concern for their boss—hired for their muscle and not much else. Olin liked to be the only brain in the room.
Tomas locked his gaze with the sheriff as the office emptied.
Olin had the hard eyes and condescension of a mire cat, coupled with the cowardice of a fawn. It had only intensified with age. Muddy brown hair curled out from his insufferable hat—the brim dipping down in the front and raised on the sides, just like the one Tomas wore. A mockery.
“I didn’t help you get into office so you could sit on your ass and shrug off danger the way our last sheriff did. You could use those meatheads for more than just raid defense; send them after the rusk wolf.”
Olin’s mustache twitched. “What I do with my deputies is not your place to decide. You helped me into office to atone for your mistakes,” he growled. “I could have your gun license for pulling a rifle on me, Weather Watcher.”
Tomas snorted. “You wouldn’t.”
“Lower that antique. You and I both know you haven’t been able to shoot a damn thing in seventeen years.”
Tomas’s gut twisted. “Yes, I have.”
“Rusk wolves and skinhares don’t count,” Olin spat. “And you know what? I’m tired of your shit. Hand over that rifle. Now.”
#
Tomas hated this dust-bitten town. Hated the backward residents, too caught up in self-preservation to look beyond the sights of their Redmetal rifles. Hated the way everything—from the scrap metal structures to the cracked clay roads—faded into the surrounding flats, shellacked with red dust. He hated his inability to leave it behind no matter how far he traveled, like polishing a bear trap that had sunk its teeth around his ankle.
Olin was far more conniving than a steel set of teeth, holding a debt over Tomas’s head more solid than shackles and heavier than the Forbidden Mountains.
“What’s the strongest drink I can buy for seven grams of Redmetal?”
Tomas glanced up from his whiskey. A woman with far too many gray hairs to match her smooth, tawny skin leaned over the bar beside him. Strands of tousled curls stuck to her flushed face, layered with the dust from the flats.
The bartender was appraising her too, probably estimating the cheapest offer he could make. The woman’s grit-caked clothes showed signs of wear and her rifle needed maintenance, clay crusting the crevasses. She should know better than to neglect something that could save her life.
“Seven grams of Red won’t get you much beyond a shot of rail grain, m’am,” the bartender said, swiping the dry counter with a stained rag.
Tomas pressed his front teeth together; that was hogwash. Seven grams of Red could get folks a few shots of grain, at least.
The woman sat down with a sigh, glancing at Tomas and adjusting her rifle’s shoulder strap when she noticed his lack of weapon. Few folks walked around unarmed, usually crazies—the harmless variety or the kind that was worse than a pack of rusk wolves. Tomas did not look harmless.
The woman pulled a long bar of Redmetal from her satchel and, as if merely cutting a stick of butter, flicked her pocket knife to shave off just enough.
At the sight of an entire bar of Redmetal, the bartender’s eyes widened. Had she no sense? Carrying whole bars of currency got folks killed. She was rich or careless. Judging by the state of her clothes and rifle, it was the latter.
Tomas eyed the patrons behind them.
Fuchsia light splashed on tables of rusted spokes and oak from the flashing sign on the wall spelling out ‘paradise’. A couple shared a meal of beans and rusk rabbit under a green neon sign of pine trees. A man in tanned leathers slouched on a creaking chair, cleaning his hunting knife. Even the woman and son didn’t look up from the map they were studying. No one seemed to notice the bar of Metal at the counter, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t seen it.
“You sure I can’t get you some water to go with your drink?” the bartender asked. “I could fill your canteen. Awfully dry out there on the flats during Flash season, m’am. I only charge thirty grams of Greenmetal.”
Tomas’s lips twisted; thirty grams of Green? Gus was a greedy bastard, but that was robbery, even for the sleazy bartender.
The woman bit her lip. Metal and Might, she was considering it! The saloon was the only place nearby selling clean drinks, but it wasn’t worth that price. Greenmetal was far more valuable, which meant Gus was expecting to haggle for a nice hunk of her Redmetal bar instead.
Tomas squeezed his glass. It wasn’t his business. He shouldn’t intervene; not after the day he had. But as the woman reached for her canteen, his arm moved on its own, staying her hand.
“Allow me,” he said.
Tomas pulled off his thick leather gloves and took the canteen, fingertips tingling as he reached for the moisture in the air building with the approaching storm. He pressed the Bluemetal caps of his molars together and shock charged from his teeth down his spine as he closed the circuit of energy running through his body.
The tips of his fingers fizzed; the tin-plated canteen grew heavier in his hand.
He gave it back to the woman and tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “Condensed moisture ain’t the best flavor, but at least it’s free. The dusty aftertaste ain’t so bad, once you get used to it.”
Gus narrowed his eyes and had the gall to pull Tomas’s half empty whiskey to his side of the bar. Tomas reached over and took it back, daring Gus to cheat him out of his drink. The coward didn’t, turning away with a scowl that said he would water down Tomas’s whiskey for the next month. But the satisfying spark of sticking it to someone today felt good.
The woman accepted her canteen, eyes wide. Tomas’s stomach dropped; he knew that look. This could go one of two ways. Either way, it was time to go. Finding another dead kid and having his gun license suspended all in one day was enough. With the loss of his rifle, he was on sabbatical.
He shoved his stool back, throwing a pre-cut Redmetal chunk on the counter that would more than pay for his drink.
“Wait,” the woman rasped.
She didn’t look afraid; her mouth held the familiar grim line of someone in need. She scanned his long leather coat—cracking near his calves—and traced the bandanna and goggles hanging from his neck. His lack of rifle probably confirmed her suspicion, though that wasn’t by choice.
“You’re a Weather Watcher,” she said.
He bowed his head. After transforming humidity into drinkable water, it wasn’t something he could deny.
Her rigid posture melted, alcohol forgotten on the counter as she gripped the edge of the bar. “Please. It’s my daughter, Norah. She’s only fifteen. Went out to pay respects to my father’s grave and hasn’t returned.”
Tomas swallowed; another kid. “I’m sorry about that. Have you reported it to the sheriff?” He did his best to keep a straight face at such a ridiculous question.
That wavering lip of hers said ‘yes’ before she did. As the saloon was conveniently situated beside the law office, it must have happened just after Tomas had stormed out earlier.
He glared at more Terror of the Flats reward posters plastered behind Gus’s counter, overlapping old WANTED posters of the shadowy Night Butcher.
Tomas leaned on the counter and shook his empty glass at Gus.
Couldn’t even last a few hours on sabbatical. “Where did the girl go missing?”
#
The clay flats.
Arid, unforgiving. Unapologetic. A man could lose himself real quick out here, find blissful oblivion in the anonymity of nature. It didn’t give a shit what someone did or didn’t do.
Tomas breathed in the crackling spice of an approaching storm—one that would hit fast and pass quickly. It was close, though the gray sky above was still a shade lighter than pewter. Flash season was frightfully unpredictable to the sensible folk of Emperia’s clay flats. The corners of Tomas’s lips curled up.
Nestled within the galvanized air was the hint of a floral fragrance, unnatural beside the Forbidden Mountains. No flowers grew here.
The scent matched the handkerchief Norah’s mother had given him. The girl must be nearby, but he still hadn’t caught a whiff of blood.
Perhaps she was still alive.
A foolish thought. He tucked Norah’s handkerchief back in his pocket. Her mother had wrapped it around a bar of Redmetal as payment. She tried to give him three bars, but that was too much for a corpse retrieval.
Tomas should have told the mother there was no hope. That she didn’t want to see what became of her little girl. Parents always told him not knowing was worse. Until he handed them the gnawed bones of their children. Until they screamed their throats raw, cursing him for being too late.
As if he didn’t already curse himself.
Tremors crawled up his arm, and he squeezed his fingers into a fist, ignoring how empty his hands felt with no barrel to cradle, no safety to release. Seeing the beast dead would give him some peace and hopefully his license back. If this rusk wolf hadn’t moved on again before he reached her latest den. One more failure would push him over the edge—he might actually use his powers to raze the law office to the ground. It was hard enough working solo without discovering the torn remains of children in an abandoned hovel.
Those in his profession often worked in pairs, but that was meant to establish power more than it was for sharing the burden of a heavy assignment. Working alone offered a different kind of safety—one he trusted more than gold-toothed smiles and greasy laughs. Of all the types of folks out there, he hated his own kind the most.
Tomas stooped to study faint tracks weaving through rusted carcasses strewn across the clay flats—a metal boneyard from a time long past.
As the wind kicked up, Tomas hunkered against a rusty vehicle skeleton, the outer shell torn off by scavengers. He raised the bandanna around his neck over his nose and focused on the mountain stabbing through steely clouds.
He found more faint footprints as he broke into a jog, boots pounding dust beneath to the cadence of his heart. The floral scent grew stronger as the mountain ahead grew larger, yet the distance seemed to lengthen. A wail warbled across the cracked ground. Or was that his imagination?
His molars tingled before he tasted electricity peppering the wind. Unfortunately, the way the clouds were twisting, the center of the storm would barely kiss the flats before churning over the Forbidden Mountains. If he hurried, he could catch a few wisps of lightning before it devolved into outlying cyclones. Lightning would be far more effective on the matriarch.
A gale rammed him against another gutted vehicle, ripping his handkerchief clean off his face. Tomas smiled with his full mouth, heedless to the grit filling gaps between his teeth like mortar. He pulled down his thick-rimmed goggles as the rising winds luffed his leather duster against his calves.
The skies moaned; a chill thrilled his spine as he pulled off his gloves and sprang away from the metal bones. Clenching his molars together, he activated his Bluemetal and directed the debris to avoid him, encouraging the moisture beading his goggles to evaporate. With arms outstretched to embrace the building static in the air, he hoped to gather enough for one concentrated strike before the storm continued on and took its power out of reach.
Despite his best efforts to stay realistic, Tomas still experienced a glimmer of hope when he heard a second wail. If that was Norah, at least she was still alive. But in what state?
Shadows shifted below the cliff ahead, but this close to the Forbidden Mountains, it was hard to decipher details. Sight wasn’t a reliable sense here. The mist emitting from the towering peaks leaked down and spilled onto the flats, glimmering like golden flecks of pyrite. Some folks believed malevolent spirits formed the mists, while others argued Quarrell roamed free, using the mists to conceal their passage. Tomas wasn’t certain if he believed in ghosts or mischievous rock golems; he had never seen either.
Rusk wolves, however, he knew. They favored dens built into the craggy cliffs where limestone met clay.
The air currents carried more than just scents now—a panting both desperate and hungry. Silver light gilded the tumult of clouds, ready to release their pent-up energy. The panting continued to strengthen, accompanied by snapping that was far too close. As the clouds pitched like waves overhead, wind raging and pressing against his body, Tomas looked over his shoulder.
A pair of green eyes cut through the swirling dust, spiked fur prickling up a hulking spine. Rusk wolf. It must have been sheltering in one of the vehicles, avoiding his detection. It wasn’t the devilish mother; this wolf loped with the easy gait of an adolescent, still losing youthful specks on its sienna coat. By the saliva dripping from its jaws, it was one of the matriarch’s newly matured litter.
Normally, he wouldn’t pass up the chance to rid the continent of another human predator, but today it was a chore. Everything played second to the matriarch.
“Lucky day, pup,” he muttered, turning back to the approaching cliff face.
Fast as he sped though, the storm moved faster, taking its charged energy with it. A yelp cracked against the foot of the mountain, followed by a warmer cry.
Damnit! The storm was lifting too early. He wouldn’t make it to the den before lightning was no longer an option.
Thunder rumbled along with his growing anger and he clamped his molars together, the charge of Bluemetal surging through his body as he stretched an arm above his head.
The adolescent rusk wolf was gaining on him still, head bowed against the billowing gusts, intent on its prey. Tomas let the wind carry him for a moment, his feet leaving the ground.
