The door slammed open with a bang.

  The boar’s head shuddered on its hook, then dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  Hellion stood in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dreary, sodden drinking-hole once again.

  The usual louts lined the bar, all of them staring her way. Hawk stood among them, right in the middle.

  She stormed forward, heel striking hard enough to make the floor complain, Azazel following tentatively behind her.

  A few of Hawk’s cronies pushed themselves upright. He lifted a hand, and they eased back, reluctantly. He offered Hellion a thin, uncertain smile as she closed the distance.

  She stopped an inch from his face.

  "That stupid stunt of yours cost me a lot of money." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "And you're going to pay me back."

  His motley crew, now sporting black, blue and bandage white, bristled. Azazel's stern gaze made them reconsider stepping in.

  "Oh, I... can't do that, love." He shook his head. "I am sorry, truly, that it went the way it did." Hawk's smile shifted. "Best I can do, I’m afraid, is offer you the work. Again."

  Hellion glared at him thoroughly unamused. She drew her flintlock and held it underneath his chin.

  The room gasped and rose to their feet. Azazel’s fists tightened, his weight shifting forward.

  Hawk blinked several times in surprise, looking at the pistol, but did not flinch. He slowly lifted one of his arms and scratched his beard.

  “For sudden, to the brave the worst does bend,

  the black minute comes, and it duly ends...”

  His gaze lifted and met her eyes with an eerie calm. "I can only offer you the work."

  The whole tavern had gone still. In the silence, the air grew heavier by the heartbeat.

  Her breath hastened and her hands were starting to shake.

  With a click of her tongue she relented and stepped back, holstering her pistol.

  Everyone exhaled in relief, but her stern gaze hadn't fallen away.

  "Fine. We'll do your goddamn job." She narrowed her eyes. "But if you stitch me up again, I swear, I will shoot you." She tapped a finger on her flintlock handle. "Just so I can get something out of this."

  Hawk chuckled low, rubbing his chin where the snarling wolf-muzzle of her gun had dug in moments before, and smiled.

  "Fair enough." He nodded and straightened out his vest. "I suggest you take in the sights while you still have time then, new blood — tonight we plan."

  As the day drew to its close and the sun slipped behind the town's bright facades, the streets settled into an idyllic lull for the evening. Distant sounds of merriment lingered, sparse and subdued in their revelry, as four-legged silhouettes surfaced the gloom to prowl along the rooftops. They tarried at the edges of the streetlights, which cast a dim yet dependable glow across the long avenues and boulevards.

  Save in some parts.

  In the narrow, dingy lanes, the lone light that flickered came from a certain tavern, accompanied by the occasional creak of its jovial, rickety sign.

  Hellion and Azazel made their way across the alehouse floor once more. Guided by Rook, they moved through the now sparser furniture, towards the door to the left of the bar. Mumbles and murmurs carried softly from what sounded like a spacious room on the other side.

  They stepped through and entered a narrow corridor, at the end of which slivers of light escaped through the gaps in the inner room's door.

  Just as Hellion hovered a hand on the handle, it swung open.

  She stood facing a dark-haired young man — his demeanor unremarkable, save for the large-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and an expression of surprise plastered on his face.

  "Oh! I—sorry, madam!"

  He immediately straightened, as if called to formation, and stood to one side, holding the door open.

  Hellion nodded politely and entered the brightly lit backroom, Azazel close behind, catching the young man’s one-sided look of trepidation before the lad exited in a bit of a hurry.

  “Ah. The last wayward souls,” Hawk exclaimed, gesturing them toward the lone table where his ragtag crew had assembled. “Let’s begin, then.”

  There were six in all, counting their leader. Battered, bandaged, and cross — the same old, familiar faces. It seemed Hawk had already hired the best of the worst the lanes had to offer, and a pair of drifters were the missing pieces of manpower.

  Hellion took her place at the table, eyed distrustfully by what were now, practically, her colleagues.

  Amid half-empty tankards, playing cards, and a few scuffed groschen strewn across the surface, a drawn map of the streets lay unfurled before Hawk.

  “For those of you unaware,” he proclaimed, meeting Hellion’s gaze for a brief moment, “a special guest has come to our wee town. A big shot from the capital, no less.” He tapped the surface with a knuckle. “And what's more, this distinguished gentleman’s birthday happens to be tomorrow—”

  “To his health!” barked a gravel-voiced fellow, seizing the opportunity to drain his mug, as ale dribbled down his pock-marked face. A great bump on his head made him look like he was trying to grow a horn.

  Hawk smiled and adjusted his rolled-up sleeve.

  “—and he has decided to honor himself with a grand ol' bash. Sorry to say, lads, but it seems all of our invites have gotten lost in the mail.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The table cackled.

  “Nevertheless, he’s a guest in our town, and let it not be said we do not welcome proper. A gift is owed, and a gift we shall provide.” A clever smirk crept across his face, mirrored by the rest of the crew. “The gift of blessed relief—” he spread his hands, magnanimously, “—from worldly possessions.”

  Then his finger landed near the largest square on the map.

  “From here, near the Rathaus. A treasury wagon, loaded with antiques, paintings, and a rake of silver, enough to make a bobby swallow his whistle, will depart tomorrow evening.”

  Hawk traced the route with a finger. “It’ll cut through here—” he followed the winding streets, “—and end at his villa.” He finished with a tap.

  “So we’re goin’ after the wagon, is it?” asked one of the men in a strained, nasally monotone. He was a lanky sort and sullen. His nose swollen and uncharacteristically red against his pale complexion.

  Azazel recognized him as the one flailing on his back in their earlier brawl.

  "Take it you've a plan to deal with the guards? Can't just go in with our cocks out." He sniffled loudly, wincing. "I'm guessin' the ol' toff's not gonna drive it there on his ownsome?"

  "Aye, I've a plan." The ringleader met his eyes. "And the names and location of the four guards assigned to escort it." The group's interest collectively peaked. "So the plan is: we get the poor sods, nab their uniforms and take their places. Sweet and simple, aye? Then we'll divert the wagon."

  Hellion’s eyes darted toward him. For a moment, she looked impressed. Not by the plan, no, but by the sheer amount of information he’d somehow gotten hold of.

  She narrowed her eyes, angling her head toward the doorway.

  “Clever,” the pig-faced man crowed, bobbing his head. “Clever, Hawk, me old son. Proper… whatsit —” He rolled a hand in the air, trying to coax the word out. “— err-a-mite you are! Thought it through, like.” he stated, pleased with both the plan and himself.

  Hellion grimaced.

  "The word is erudite." she corrected. "Not err-a-mite."

  The pig-faced man bristled, brow furrowing. “Ooh, ’pologies, Yer Poshness. Does me lowly tongue scrape 'gainst yer delicate ears?”

  Hellion sighed, exasperated, and only shook her head.

  Hawk threw her a quick glance. He smiled furtively, straightening out some of the creases on the map.

  “We’ll split into threes.” He turned to his left. “Plates, Little Lorenz, Konrad — you’re heading uptown for Hermann Lout. He's a dutiful lad and visits his folks around this time each week. Use that for leverage.

  The three traded an assured look and nodded.

  “Otto.” The ringleader fixed the pig-faced man with a stare. “You and Dog-Eye will take our…” He gestured toward Azazel, “…resident demon to the warehouse district. You’re after the Stonetown brothers.”

  Azazel and Hellion gaped in unison.

  “Word is they’ve got a second job as hired muscle down there.” Hawk leaned in, voice slow and even. “Otto — bribe first, hear me? No threats. No rash moves unless it turns necessary, aye? And if it does…” His eyes flicked to the demon. “You’ve got an ace up your sleeve.”

  "And lastly — one of the guards is a regular at the Silver Lace brothel." He dusted his hands off, as if concluding manual labor. "The new girl and I will drop by and pay him a visit—"

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hellion cut in. “I agreed we’d do your job, but you don’t get to split us up however you like. And why pick me for the brothel, exactly?”

  Hawk frowned. “Name your pick, then.” He raised an eyebrow. “Should we send your blighter? Or one of these mugs?” He waved a hand around the table, drawing chuckles from the others.

  She didn’t want to admit it, but he had a point — tonight's company made it obvious enough.

  "Oh, don't you fret, Yer Poshness — you'll feel right at home, ya will," put in Otto, smugly, and the room chortled.

  Hellion leveled a look at him like the barrel of a loaded gun.

  "Yeah? Bet you'd know since your mother works there."

  The room howled with laughter. The hooting and hollering stung him well enough, but someone slapped Otto on the back as a closing note. He just stood there, stone-faced, murder plain in his eyes.

  She was trying to hide a satisfied smile amid the bustle when Azazel leaned in over her shoulder and discreetly posed a question.

  "Master? Apologies, but what is a brothel?"

  "Err... it's..." she fumbled. "I-I'll tell you later, okay?" she quickly blurted out in discomfort.

  At the tail end of the dying cacophony, a lone voice rose — assured, declarative and with measured cadence.

  Come, tell me what dishonesty's like? A bully, I trow,

  Who runs up, and blinds you by giving a blow;

  The ringleader threw Otto a look, which made the pig-faced man turn away.

  Or a swaggering sergeant, with spurious airs,

  Who the rustic recruit by his blustering scares;—

  Hawk's eyes came to rest on the young gunslinger and his cadence slowed further, finding a lower tone.

  Or a sly-roger, who so craftily tries,

  In a waltz of words, to throw dust in your eyes.

  A brief, tense pause followed, broken by a tall, sizable bloke with the unfortunate face and puffy lips of a permanent bee-sting victim.

  "What about the rozzers, wad? Not wike they won't be out and about."

  “Pay them no mind, Lorenz — as I’ve already paid them to do the same.” Hawk waved him off with assurance. “The coppers won’t be an issue tomorrow. Their languor is our treat.”

  Something pricked Hellion at the back of her head, then slid lower, worming its way into her gut.

  He had the treasury wagon’s exact cargo and the precise route it would take. Not only that — he knew exactly how many guards, who they were, and where they’d be.

  And to top it off, the constables were in his pocket too?

  Then it clicked in her head.

  "Oh, you f—" she bit the curse off, grinding it between her teeth.

  Those few words came out with such contempt, the whole table turned to look at her.

  She angled a crooked smile at Hawk. "It was you who called the coppers, wasn't it?"

  Silence.

  Hawk’s unblinking gaze met hers, calm as cold stone.

  "You didn't really need another pair of hands for this caper, did you?" she said. "What you needed is a couple of scapegoats if things turn sour."

  Slowly, simmering, she nodded.

  “And who’s more convenient than the violent drifter and her demon that just got pinched for thrashing a tavern…”

  Her smile faded. The table went still.

  The ringleader let a soft smile crack, under a glint of recognition in his eyes.

  "You are something else, girl — I'll give you that." He thumbed his moustache, as if shaping the smile. "And now that you know… I suggest you use it as motivation to do what you're told and do it well."

  Her hand curled into a fist — one that had nowhere to land. With a bitter sigh, she let it go and her gaze fell to the table.

  Hawk let the oppressive silence linger for a few heartbeats before leaning over the table, giving the crew a final once-over.

  “Everyone clear on their job, aye?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Good. Go home then. We start first thing tomorrow.”

  They swept the table for loose change and drained what was left in their mugs. They bunched toward the exit in a buzz of crude banter — already rehashing the night’s events with the odd chortle.

  Hellion gestured Azazel on, then lingered over the map a moment longer.

  Just as she turned to leave, Hawk caught her by the wrist.

  “Don’t think I can’t see what you are, little lady.”

  They locked eyes. Her breath hitched.

  “All your bluster, vulgarity and lowly, performative slang do little to fool me — I’ve spent enough time ’round your kind to know the cloth you’re cut from.”

  He effortlessly pulled her towards him. A dangerous smirk fell across his face. “There's no dust in my eyes.”

  Hellion gaped.

  With a twist, she wrenched free and stepped within inches of his face.

  “You know fuck all,” she snarled, defiantly holding his gaze.

  Then she turned and walked away, leaving him at the table as the door slammed behind her.