I slithered through that den like the viper I was. Right until I could almost smell the monster what dwelt here, past the stink of his dark work.

  In the gloom, lit only by channeled mana and a single yellow candle, I saw him. And I saw, the truth of him.

  A faint red trail led from behind that office door. It was woven like a spiders web, connecting the man therein to all the cruelty and suffering that had been committed here. I had seen it the whole time, but only now that I looked until it’s center did the disparate whisps became a whole.

  He drew strength from it, I realized.

  Every path was different, but in this killer I had found mystic kin. He made Steps of torture and ruin, like I did risk and a fool’s justice.

  I moved up, a rotten set of steps that led to the loft over the cove and the docks.

  The door was open just a crack, enough to let some of the light out, enough to let me spy a little of what was inside. I put an eye to the gap and watched as the man paced back and forth, his revolver out. He tugged a smoke from a fat rolled ghostleaf cigar and breathed deep.

  He was nervous, rightly so, and I could feel his eyes dart to the door every now and again, and out the window to the sea.

  Where are your men? Why are they so late?

  Why is it so quiet?

  Here's your answer, motherfucker.

  Click. His head turned to the door. Eye wide, fingers gripped white on protective steel.

  Tension-

  Boom!

  and cut like a knife.

  My scatter gun ripped the hinges right off the door, sending the flimsy wood flying inward.

  A fistful of hot lead propelled by magic and my own lifeforce slammed into the panicked marauder's back.

  He stumbled, smoking and bleeding, pistol and cigar dropped.

  But he did not fall.

  Instead, his rough cut twisted into an evil and hungry grin.

  Shit.

  "Thought that'd do the trick," I muttered and fired again.

  Boom!

  But this time I was too slow.

  Blessed, far more than any of his men.

  Some ability for speed, I realized, as he blurred, crossing the room in a second, cocked pistol in hand.

  I dove to the side, my strange arms giving me a little tug out the path of fanned hammer.

  Pow. Pow. Pow.

  And three more times-

  quick as you like.

  I heard the snap of a cylinder and the rattle of brass as I made for any cover.

  There was all manner of boxes and crates. Likely loot take from raids, or supplies used to feed the bandits and-

  A whimper.

  From inside the crate I was using for cover.

  A human voice, muffled and soft. Then more. So many more. Everyone of these boxes had a person crammed on in...

  "Look what you've done," hissed the slaver, and his voice was heavy with scorn, "woken up all them little duskie brats. I put 'em to sleep for their own sake you know."

  My icy blood grew a little more cold.

  Click. Click. Click.

  He was coming again.

  I had to move. My cover was good, but only because there was an innocent person between me and him.

  He was going to shoot me as soon as I did.

  But better to be dead, than a coward who hides behind kids.

  Move.

  Pow. Pow. Pow.

  Wood exploded from crate and boards as I sprinted toward the railing on the loft.

  I felt fire in my side, but I couldn't slow.

  I couldn't falter.

  I had to run.

  I heard the zip if a bullet as it took my hat from my head. A little hair along with it. In that same moment I plowed through, and into thin air.

  The world slowed for a moment, before gravity tugged me down.

  Right through the deck of the ship.

  I hit hard, and felt something twist wrong, real wrong and then the pain swalled the world in stars and black

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I came too not long later.

  Choking dust and the smell of mold and rot. Light filtered in through numbed senses and a growing ache.

  And there was a hole in my guts. Through and through, I thought. The lack of pink intestine spillin’ on the floor was good proof. My right leg ached and throbbed, but I was sure that was just a sprain. Could still feel my toes.

  For few moments I just lay there and bled and hurt.

  Then my new Ability took effect.

  Ice-Cold Blood.

  The wound closed, bleedin’ stopped. I took in a few steady breaths and the world became that much clearer.

  To say it hurt would be a lie.

  To so I endured it with grace would be a limp dick of a joke.

  I only muffed the scream by sinkin' teeth into my own gloved hand.

  And when it was done?

  I stood. Shaking. Terrified, but still breathing.

  A creak above. Boots on worn wood. He had taken his time comin’ down to me. Used to playin’ with his prey?

  Then he was crossin’ the deck. Every creak freein’ dust from overhead.

  "Come on out little rabbit," called the voice, "I don't want to chase you no more. Can't imagine a hunter you died from that fall. But I can make you wish you did..."

  My shotgun was lost, somewhere between here and the loft.

  But my pair of revolvers still sat buckled into good leather.

  Click.

  Click.

  Hammers cocked. The movement stopped.

  "So you are alive then, tough son-of-a-bitch," he chuckled and began his steps once more, "shoot if you like. Bullets don't work on me."

  Good to know. Guess I'll have to get creative then.

  Chains hung from the roof of the shattered hold. Bolted to rings embedded in the wood. These were where they shackled men and women. Where they bound them, beat them, and then sold 'em to whatever rich fuck was willing to pay the highest bid.

  Worse than that, there were hooks, rusted with old blood, the smell of death lingered here.

  Those were for making examples.

  Iron, all of it.

  Step.

  Creak.

  Boots on the stairs, a silhouette blocking what light came from under the far door.

  I could barely see him, just the outline of his shape. No red trail, no aura.

  I slipped to the side, up against the hull. I drew, silent as a shadow in the night.

  He pushed open, and in.

  And I started shooting.

  Five shots to the head, three to the body.

  Four missed.

  I hadn't really aimed, just let the tendrils do as they liked. They cocked the hammer as quick as they pulled the trigger, and I fired faster than I ever had before.

  He staggered, but he didn't fall. Stunned but nearly unhurt. He grinned through the fire and smoke.

  Then blurred-

  I ducked low, into a squat.

  Wasn't the first time I'd fought a bigger, faster man. I had one of them faces, the kind drunk dipshits couldn't help but punch.

  And when they missed, men like that, they always tuck into a rush.

  I felt his legs slam into my open arms as I stood up. His bulk hit my should with a gasp.

  His own speed and size working against him as I turned a charge into a throw.

  Like a Northman wrestler I pitched him toward the nearest hanging hook.

  And with a thud, and then a squelch of tearing meat, he hit the gory hook.

  His limbs blurred as he panicked, guns dropped as he tried to grab at the metal embedded in his back.

  Why had that worked? The iron? No Imperial shot is always iron jacketed...

  The rust? Magic was funny like that. Rust made by the blood of his victims, now made to torture him. Like one of mama's old stories.

  No time to enjoy the show, nor ponder anymore the why.

  I had to finish.

  I grabbed a length of chain and looped it like a noose. I tossed the cruel lasso around his neck, like I was ropin' an angry bronto.

  More flakes of rust fell all around and Hartwell gagged and coughed.

  Then I pulled.

  He choked, thrashing against the hook and my own strength. He was strong, nearly pulled me off my feet as I began to circle and wrap.

  The chain rattled as I moved. Pulling tight. Around his shoulders, belly and legs.

  Before he could break free I slipped it through a ring mounted into the ceiling, and leveraged it until he was hanging stiff in the air.

  I could could hear bones creak. The man so goddamn tough that even asphyxiation proved weak.

  Okay. Plan B then.

  I walked over to a large wooden chest, ignorin' the clangor and fit behind me.

  Inside was a barrel of lamp oil and a few other odds and ends.

  I hauled the little keg over. Cracked it open with my rusty old knife and started splashin' it all around that evil man.

  "You fire-proof too you son-of-a-bitch?" I almost laughed. The ship would be. Slaver ships always were.

  He screamed through a strangled throat. The muscles in his jaw feathered and strained, his eyes bloodshot with fury and...

  I lit a match.

  Fear.

  "Didn't think so," I flicked it in.

  It took five minutes. Five minutes of screaming. Of begging.

  Even a hard man breaks under that kind of pain.

  And he sure did.

  But somehow. Some twisted way, he just didn't die. An Ability for vitality or endurance, something that made his skin tough, and made him survive what I truly meant to be an execution.

  Normally, fire did folk like him and me in well enough. But I had… underestimated the strength of his tether to this world.

  He was fire-proof after all, and I-

  I had fucked up.

  For all my effort I was left with a crispy, wailin' bandit who wouldn't stop crying.

  Sorry. I didn’t-

  I promise I meant to kill you.

  Not just have some fun. I’m not, I ain’t like that…

  I took the chain, took it up, and looped it careful-like. Then I dragged him out, up and into the light.

  It was a struggle gettin’ to the beach. My Ability patched me up, but it was clear I was far from healed.

  Ice-Cold Blood was more like a salve than a fix-all.

  So, it hurt. A lot.

  But I did manage, had to fix this, best I could. Only knew one good way.

  Moxie was just sat there in her little hole, enjoying the summer sun. Oblivious to all I had seen, done.

  She caught his scent though, just as I dropped him down.

  Drool dripped past a hungry snout, her beady eyes fixed on my still moaning gift.

  I looked in his eyes, and saw a spark of awareness. He was still there, broken, mad, but, still a man, now trapped in his own blackened skull.

  "Why'd you choose to live like this? I ain't asking for fun, I really need to know. I want to understand how a man could become so evil and cruel. Is it just greed?”

  Muffled, broken sobs. A coal-black eyelid blinked over one milky, blind white eye. He was tryin' to speak. So I listened close.

  "Please..."

  No answers. All he could do now was beg.

  There was something truthful in that.

  "No. I’d bet you’ve begged before too. And I’ll bet you did worse than me,” I wiped the wet from my eyes, sea spray or somethin’ and looked to my pig, “finish him off girl.”

  I ignored the sounds of tearin’ flesh and splinterin’ bone. Ignored the hushed screams as I walked away. I’d seen it once, I was allowed to look away this time. Found shelter from my justice in the den of an evil man.

  Once there, I took a crowbar from where it lay discarded near an open crate, and started trying to find a little good amidst all this sin.