Grease Monkey Jive

  “Shit! Shit!” Roper grasped at the bleeding stump of his arm. His heels rattled against the floor. “Look what you did!”

  “Give me what I want.” I lifted the blade high and steeled myself. “Or you’ll lose more limbs.”

  “Alright! Alright!” Amber-coloured blood was soaking the carpet under him. His head jerked to a crumpled backpack by the bed. “It’s there. It’s there.”

  I lowered my dripping blade, walked to the backpack and checked it. My hands sorted through clothes and jewellery before finding the leather satchel at the bottom. I pulled it with a grim smile. Roper was staring at me, his face the colour of sweaty cheese.

  “Is there anything missing?” I asked.

  “You used the craft,” Roper whispered, mouth slack at the ends. “That’s impossible. No one can cast magic in the Outlands. No one. It’s one of the rules. Do you know what it means that you can cast out here?”

  My knees popped as I stood, my bad leg giving a twinge of warning. I tossed the satchel on the bed, my lips pressed thin. Sure, no one was supposed to be able to cast out here. The medium of salt, combined with words of power, was a conduit to the provider of magic, the ley-lines. But the lines that fuelled the craft were thought to only exist in The Weald. Somehow, though, I was able to make it work here. One of my secrets, and it was one I didn’t share at any price. At least, not with the living. Roper might have survived the loss of his arm, but I couldn’t allow him to live now.

  I bent over the decapitated arm, prying the gun loose from the rig. The weapon was a little Ruger LCP. Popping the magazine, I saw it was packed with nice shiny hollow point rounds. I punched the magazine back home and aimed the barrel at Roper’s head.

  “How did you do it?” Roper stared up at me, eyes full of fear.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of monster are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said again, then pulled the trigger.