Ruled

by Keira Blackwood

The situation was under control until Ernie whipped out his gun. A few drinks too many, the deputy swung his weapon in front of him over the crowd of tense miners.

  “Time to go,” Ernie squeaked. “Allayall need to respect the law. I am the law in this town. You can’t just show up and leave nails and holes in the street for someone to get his tire popped or his axle misaligned. That is not respecting the town. That is not respecting me.”

  “That’s enough, Ernie,” I said.

  “She’s the law too,” he said, glancing at me for a moment.

  That tiny flick of Ernie’s gaze away from the bikers was all the time it took for hell to break loose. Glasses shattered onto the floor, fists flew, and the two groups that had chosen to sit separately mixed in a mess of violence.

  The bearded man that Ernie had been staring at swung his fist at the side of Ernie’s head. I kicked the back of his knee with my boot, knocking him down to all fours. I wasn’t in time to catch Hicks’s blow that knocked Ernie to the ground, but as light shimmered off the jagged end of a glass bottle, I snapped my attention to the weapon. I caught Hicks’s wrist, with the broken glass only an inch from Ernie’s neck, then twisted, forcing him to drop his weapon. Thick fingers wrapped around my neck and squeezed, blurring my vision. With all of my strength, I forced the palm of my hand up into the center of Roscoe Hicks’s ugly face. Hicks released my throat, and hunched as he cupped his bloody nose. His hateful glare told me it hurt as much as he deserved.

  Ernie climbed up off the floor, rubbing his hand across his swollen cheek “That’s assaulting an officer of the law,” he yelled. “That kind of violence will not be tolerated. Maybe you weren’t listening before.”

  The big guy wasn’t listening now. His eyes were locked on me, and full of fire. “We know where you live, little bitch,” Hicks growled, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “But I am in charge around here. If you missed the star on my chest, there’s no way you could miss the letters on my back: D-E-P-U-T-Y,” Ernie continued. “Maybe it should have the word ‘law’ too, so there’s no confusion. Clearly you missed it.”

  I met the hatred on the biker’s face with a small smile. “Well, I know where you’ll sleep tonight,” I said, then handed my cuffs to Ernie.

  “You can sleep in a cell,” Ernie said, and put a cuff around one wrist, and pulled on the metal behind the giant. He didn’t budge as Ernie tried to collect the other arm.

  “Let’s call this trouble ended for the night,” I said to the room, looking across the crowd of angry miners and townsfolk. “I’d hate to have to bring in anyone else.”

  “Let it go,” one of the miners said to Hicks, and tapped him on the shoulder with his palm. The large miner relaxed his arms, and allowed Ernie to restrain him.

  “That’s it, big guy,” Ernie said. “You don’t want me to hurt you putting these things on.” The weight of his heavy stare was lifted when the door closed behind Ernie and Hicks.

  My boots stuck to the grimy, wood floor as I walked back to my waiting beer. I sat on the red stool with the duct taped vinyl, and listened to the chatter return to what it had been before the scuffle. Charlene rubbed her hands around Paul’s biceps as she stepped out from behind him. His back straightened at what looked like unwanted contact. The fortunate distraction meant he wasn’t hitting on me. I looked around the room at what had become the new normal in Riverwood—townsfolk and Eventide Resources, content to share a bar one minute then at each other’s throats the next. Considering the tension, it was lucky that all I had to deal with was Ernie and the occasional bar fight. That I could manage.

  Grizzly Bait: Chapter Two

  Liam

  The shape was similar, but the size was all wrong. Sweet, soft, and full of raisins—the taste was much more pleasant than the real thing. The sticky pastry hardly filled my palm, but a true bear claw would have dwarfed my human-form hand. It must have been the shape that landed the dessert its name.

  Crumpling the greasy paper in my fist, I aimed for the can across the room. A flick of the wrist and the trash hit its mark, landing on top of a pile of breakfast sandwich wrappers and the styrofoam cup from my first meal of the morning. The basic digital alarm clock on the nightstand read eight thirty-six. Close enough, I was tired of waiting.

  The cheap mattress squeaked with my movement as I rose from the edge of the worn motel bed. The deep, wine-shaded floral comforter was stained almost as badly as the spattered brown carpet beneath my boots. Smoke, sweat, and the stink of someone else’s sex clung to the fabrics and the yellowed paint on the walls. The chemical scents of lemon disinfectant and floral air freshener did nothing to mask the filth from my hypersensitive nose. I’d slept in worse, and likely would again. Grabbing my bag and dropping the small, white keycard on the nightstand, I left the motel without looking back.

  The size of a town or city could be measured by its smell. Smaller towns were closer to nature, with more plants in the yards, and more wood and stone in their construction. Cities were full of trash, metal, perspiration, and desperation. No matter the city, those same four scents were always there. Elkston was no different. If I got lucky, the next assignment would be far from any city.

  Balls of chewed gum, scraps of paper, and crushed cigarette butts littered grime-coated sidewalks that were travelled by bare feet and stilettos alike. I followed the river of foot traffic past a book store and a coffee house. The smell of pastries and freshly roasted coffee was what had lured me into Big Beans an hour earlier. Amongst the crowd, a woman talked loudly on her cellphone, seemingly unaware that the quality of man she shared her bed with last night was being heard by twenty strangers that walked down the street with her. A tall man in a business suit walked beside a white-haired woman with a hill-shaped spine and a pink sweatsuit, each unaware of the traveler at his or her side. The way the old woman kept the pace of the others impressed me, as did the variety of people moving together. After crossing a busy intersection, I arrived at my stop, and the rest of the flock continued past.

  Brute Pawn—the tall white letters glowed against the brick. Below, a long, glass window displayed a fire-engine-red electric guitar and a tube TV that might have been worth something in the nineties.

  “Mostly your type that goes in there,” a shaky male voice said. I looked down at the man sitting on the corner just past the window. His clothes were much too big for his tiny frame, and his scraggly, white beard showed his age.

  “My type?” I asked.

  “Big,” the man said. “Big, and alone mostly. Sometimes two together.”

  “I guess big guys like old TVs,” I said.

  “Nah,” the man said. “Your type never buys a thing.”

  “Maybe the prices are too high,” I said.

  “Could be,” the man said. “Or could be something else.”

  “Sure,” I replied, and looked again at the door.

  “I’m not interested in getting involved though,” he said. “I don’t need trouble with the mob or anything.”

  “I don’t work for the mafia,” I said.

  “Of course not,” the man said. “I can’t get mixed up in anything. I need to find some way to make it. Then I can go back home. See my wife.”

  “If you have someone waiting for you why not just go?” I asked.

  “Can’t go back with nothing,” the man said. “She’s counting on me. Lost my job when the factory shut down, our house with it. I thought the city would be the place to go, but I’m about out of hope.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “It’s just the way of life,” the man said. “Puts you through trials and you have to rise up as best you can. Try not to drown when it gets hard.”

  The gentle click of a turning lock drew my attention back to the door.

  “Best of luck,” I said.

  The man waved.

  Wrinkled, brown fingers flipped the sign hanging on the inside of the door’s window. I waited a moment, then entered. The small bell hanging
above the entrance dinged as I stepped inside. Even if Leonard hadn’t been expecting me, he would have recognized my scent, just as I recognized his. Moist soil, broad leaf evergreens, and an exotic spiciness—nothing had changed since I had met Leonard, except now he carried the minty tang of Bengay. Even in his old age, that man could move—he had crossed the room before I had a chance to come inside.

  Leonard Wakeford waited for me behind the waist-high, glass display case. His short, curly hair was whiter than it had been when I had last visited Elkston’s Brute Pawn. There were more wrinkles beside his warm, dark eyes, and his glasses were thicker than they had ever been. But his smile was as wide and kind as I had remembered.

  “Liam Blake,” Leonard called. “Look at you, all grown up. What’s it been? Ten years?”

  “Fifteen,” I said, crossing the room to my old friend. “But I was no child the last time we met.”

  “So stoic,” Leonard laughed, and placed an envelope on the counter before rounding the glass to meet me. “Sure,” he said, “adult in age, child in experience.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, and took the hand he offered. His dark fingers were calloused from fifty years in the field—years of heavy labor and fierce combat.

  “I think you’ve grown,” Leonard said.

  “Experience comes with time, and I’ve completed my share of jobs,” I replied. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I know, your next mission. I’m glad it’s me that gets to give it to you. And I meant in size,” he laughed. “You’re as wide as a forest.”

  “Maybe you’ve just shrunken with age.”

  “Could be, could be,” Leonard said. “So how’s life?”

  “The same,” I said. “And you?”

  “Oh, life’s been kind to me these past few years,” Leonard replied. “I finally settled down and took a mate. Can you believe that?”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I thought that I had reached a point where it would just never happen for me,” he said. “I gave what I thought were my best years to the Tribunal, as you well know. But since I’ve taken assignment duty, I’ve had time to reflect on life. I made room for Hilda. And as it turns out, I didn’t throw away my best years, I just hadn’t gotten there yet. It’s Hilda, and always has been.”

  “That’s nice, Leonard. I’m happy for you.”

  “You should come have dinner with us sometime, before this mission or after. Hilda can cook and we can catch up on the last fifteen years. Boy can she cook.” Leonard patted the soft stomach where his flat abs used to be.

  “I’d like that,” I said, though I wasn’t so sure. I had never been a sit down with the family for dinner type, and I kept busy with work.

  “And don’t give me some excuse that you haven’t any time between missions,” he said. “That’s what I would have done, and I know you’re the same. I didn’t choose to work with a partner, and I see you going out alone just like I would have done. Give yourself time to be social, to have a life that’s not just for the Therion Tribunal.”

  “Okay, Leonard,” I said. “Can I have my assignment?”

  “Of course,” he answered, and pulled the manila envelope from the counter, scribbling something on the corner before handing it over.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said and turned toward the door.

  “Hope to see you around, Liam,” he replied, voice more somber than when I had entered.

  The little bell dinged as I exited, leaving my old friend behind. Leonard 555-1034 a small, neat script on the bottom of the thick, manila envelope. It was a kind offer, and maybe I would call, but we both knew it was more likely that I wouldn’t. This mission would lead to the next, and I couldn’t take the time to reminisce when there was work to be done. Wordlessly I repeated the number to myself, 555-1034—my only contact nearby if I ran into more than I could handle.

  I peeked inside the envelope before moving on. Everything that should have been included was there: papers, cards, photographs, a single key, a burner phone, and a pile of cash. Grabbing a few hundreds from the envelope, I passed the old man by the window on my way behind the building. Leaving the bills in his previously empty coffee cup, I continued on my way.

  “Thanks, man,” he called after me.

  “Just make it home,” I replied.

  The small lot behind Brute Pawn had three places for vehicles to park and a large dumpster. One of the spaces was empty, which limited my options to a silver, early nineties Buick station wagon and a black, Chevy pickup from the late seventies. Either could have been left for me. I pulled the key from the envelope and tried the truck first. The key fit, so I climbed inside. With everything I owned in my bag, and a new assignment acquired, I was ready to go. After setting my black backpack on the rough bench, I pulled out the contents of the assignment envelope.

  There was more than enough cash to get me through to the next job, just as there always was. A new driver’s license and Marshal’s badge named me William Blake Lilyfeather. It seemed Leonard Wakeford still had a sense of humor. I could just picture his face when he made the ID, smiling wide as he imagined me having to call myself Agent Lilyfeather. At least it would be easy to remember. Next in the envelope was a picture of a thin, fair-skinned man, with a dark, handlebar mustache. A baseball hat was pulled down low over his eyes, his hands were in his front pockets, and he was looking over his shoulder. Clearly he knew he had a reason to be followed. His long, sharp nose dominated his scruffy face. From the look of him, my best guess was weasel shifter.

  The large stack of papers offered the most information. His name was Brody Fowler, a wolf shifter. The mission was surveillance—observe and report. Sounded easy enough. I checked the glovebox and found a camera with a long scope—just what the mission called for. Flipping through the report, everything I needed to know was provided. There was no information as to who Fowler was or why it was important for me to track him, only where, when, and how long. It was what I needed and nothing more, exactly the way every mission started. Straightforward, uncomplicated, simple—perfect.

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  About the Author

  Reader of books. Watcher of Netflix. Sketcher of doodles. Mother of dragons. No. Wait. Mother of sweet little boys.

  Keira Blackwood writes steamy paranormal romance full of suspense, action, and a dash of humor. No cheating. No cliffhangers. Always a happily-ever-after ending.

  www.keirablackwood.com

  blackwoodromance@gmail.com

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