Pretense

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The store was modest—not too small, but dingy. Several figures stood on the far side, arguing by the sound of it. She stepped through. The smell of spices, ripe fruit, and overripe meat wafted through the air, intertwined with the faint, stale, damp smell of mold. She felt a small crunch beneath her boot as she moved inward. A ripped sack of beans had spilled on the floor, and an overturned basket of tomatoes had rolled everywhere. Some had been squashed underfoot, probably by the current visitors.

Three men were circling what seemed to be the storekeeper. Two stood on either side of him, while one directly in front was waving a bayonet knife and growling in his face.

“Come on, Niko, don’t be a cheeky bugger,” drawled one of the ruffians, his voice dripping with mockery. “It’s just four bushels o’ corn and that lamb you’ve got tucked away in the back. Don’t make me cut ya, Niko—I hate havin’ to clean me knife.”

“Please, lads,” Niko begged, his voice trembling, “for the love of God, you can’t keep doing this! That lamb—it’s for a christening feast, I swear!”

The thug sighed dramatically and gestured lazily to his cohort. "Otto, hit him for me, will ya?"

One of the other thugs grabbed a mason jar from a nearby shelf and smashed it over Niko’s head, exploding it into various pieces. The man yelled out and crumpled to the floor, clutching his head, now covered in berry jam.

“That’s your problem, mate,” the first ruffian said with eerie calm. “What we say you give us—you give us. No arguments. Elsewise, we hurt ya. Simple as that.”

Niko lay curled on the floor, quietly sobbing, jam and blood mixing as they dripped onto the wooden planks.

“Oh, up you get, you lobcock,” the ruffian growled, kicking the prone man with an air of bored menace. He brandished the knife in front of Niko’s terror-stricken face. “Go fetch it now, ’fore I get real nasty.”

All of them were too busy to notice that someone was standing behind them.

“Oi! Leave off!” Her stern voice startled the figures, who turned to face her. Despite the gloom and the wide-brimmed hat somewhat obscuring her features, she was discernibly a young woman—comely and fair-haired, although her clothes made her appear quite soldierly.

The three hooligans gawked at her in surprise, then at each other. Abruptly, they hooted in unison, and the store boomed with laughter.

She looked them over—a mangy lot, unwashed and grimy, wearing beige pants full of holes; some patched, some not. Tattered, dark blue coats with torn collars and missing buttons. Very young, brash, and not that bright. She’d seen their ilk before. Obviously, they were soldiers—former ones, by the look of them.

“Looky ’ere! You’ve left the door ajar ’n now a pretty bird’s flew in!” one of the lads said, and two of them laughed. The third one smiled crookedly at her.

“Blow me down, ain’t you a stunner!” He was the youngest of the three—handsome, his features youthful. Lean, yet broad-shouldered.

He stowed the knife in his belt, dusted his coat halfheartedly, and tried to button his shirt where there was no button. Brushing his long, clumpy chestnut hair to one side, he swaggered forward.

“’Ello, gorgeous! Where have you been all me—”

The sound of a shutting door cut him off, and any words thereafter caught in his throat as a dark figure stepped in line with the young woman, looming over the terrified lad.

“—life.” The boy stared slack-jawed, as his bravado melted away, at two mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one fiery amber. He felt them as if they were burning holes clear through his skull. His friends were no less aghast, sheer panic prevailing in their voices.

“Is that a bloke? What the bloody hell is that?!” one of the deserters exclaimed.

Its whitish-gray long coat, fastened with loose-hanging belts and straps, did little to humanize it—if anything, it only added to its menacing presence.

“A blighter! Must be! It’s... it’s a monstrous hound, it is!” another stammered.

“A hellhound, to be exact,” the lass added snarkily. “You’ve had your fun, lads. I think it’s best you clear off now.” Her tone was biting.

The youngest blinked several times in confusion but managed to snap out of his initial shock, regaining what little sense he had. He took a few brisk steps backward.

“Sorry, love... we’ve had our fun, aye. But we haven’t our stuff,” he said, gesturing to his associates.

The two of them sheepishly scattered and went to grab a sack of produce each. The shopkeeper stood up meekly, still clutching his head. He flinched as they moved past him but did nothing to stop their pilfering.

“Without the stuff! As I’m guessing you haven’t paid for it. Except in beatings and threats, that is,” the newcomer retorted.

They froze in place and looked at each other with concern. One of them threw a quick glance toward the demon, hoping it was a momentary apparition. His eyes confirmed the opposite and dropped to stare at his ragged boots instead.

Their leader showed a nervous smile and spread his arms out theatrically. “No other coin, I’m ’fraid...”

“Then leave it,” she said, equally theatrical, gesturing toward the door. “And piss off.”

The boy’s smile faded. Behind him, the other ruffians sniggered, but the sound died quickly as he turned slowly around, red-faced. “Well, you’re a cheeky cunt, ain’t ya,” he sneered back at her.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled from her companion. His dark fur almost blended in with the shadows around him, in stark contrast with the rows of sharp, white teeth along his long muzzle.

The lads froze, faces pale as though the blood had fled them entirely. The youngest swallowed audibly, though he tried to keep steady.

“Mate,” one of them whispered, his voice cracking, “we should go. Let’s just go, yeah? It’s—”

The younger boy yanked him by the collar. “Did yer bollocks drop off? Go find ’em then,” he shoved his companion aside. “’Cause we ain’t leavin’ without what’s ours! It’s just a girl and her overgrown mutt!"

The young ruffian brashly drew his knife again, brandishing it with a mix of desperation and bravado. The blade flicked threateningly between the traveler and her demon companion, pointing as if to intimidate both.

The girl narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. She took a moment to think, then turned around and walked toward the exit. The lad scoffed victoriously, and the rest let out a nervous titter, masking their sigh of relief.

She opened the entrance wide, stood to one side, and turned to her companion. “Show the chaps out, if you’d please. Harsh as you’d like,” she instructed.

“As you say, Master,” he replied, turning toward the deserters and smiling politely. “Gentlemen.”

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“They split me head open! Look! And I’m the lucky one, ’cause they shot dead ol’ man Bocker in his field, they did!” fretted the villager, dabbing at the wound on his head with a cloth as he tried to keep pace with a tall, gaunt man.

The man was taking big strides down the street toward the store, angrily mumbling curses while trying to put on his soldier’s coat—and failing miserably. Its sleeves were emblazoned with marks denoting him as a sergeant.

“What if they start letting themselves into our homes? Takin’ our food? Sleepin’ in our beds? Havin’ their way with our daughters! Our wives even! Blimey, Sergeant, I thought you had words with ’em? Look at me head!”

The sergeant turned abruptly, grabbed his irritating escort by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him close. His features were harsh—the gray hair and scruffy mutton chops, silvery-colored coarse stubble, the deep grooves in his face, and his grayish skin made him look as though he were carved from cold metal. The villager yelped in surprise.

“Quit buzzin’ in me fackin’ ear!” he said through gritted teeth. The alcohol on his breath could’ve burned a man’s nose hairs. “Go ’n stand guard under yer wife’s skirt then, you milksop! Go... fack off!”

He pushed the man away and angrily strode on, mumbling curses all the while. The villager fixed his ruffled shirt and slinked away like a scolded dog.

With the store in sight, the sergeant made a conscious effort to compose himself. He sighed, slowed his gait, cleared his throat, and straightened his coat. He massaged his calloused hands, partly to calm the tremors and partly in anticipation of what he thought would be another stern “talking-to.”

Feet away from the entrance, his preparations were suddenly cut short by a yowl coming from within. He stopped—moments before one of the hoodlums flew out of the shop, landing face-first.

Then another flew out.

And another.

All three were now strewn in the middle of the dirt road like bales of yesterday’s harvest, cursing and moaning, and rubbing whichever part had made contact with the ground first.

The youngest ruffian rolled from his face onto his back. “Almost... had ’em, lads...” he muttered, short of breath. “Second time ’round we’ll...” His words trailed off.

Following this comical cavalcade, a young woman calmly walked out of the store.

She was golden-haired—long and straight—and wore a tall, wide-brimmed hat of dark green with matching pants and a long, heavy frock coat, dusty and worn out, with a light-brown waistcoat underneath. An exquisite, deep burgundy scarf was loosely draped around her neck. She had unusual gloves, missing the fingers for her index and thumb. and well-traveled, hardy boots wrapped in canvas gaiters.

Before the sergeant could utter a word, adding to the maelstrom of confusion, a demon followed her out.

It resembled a man, slim and muscular, but with the legs and head of a hound, its large, alert ears pointing upward. It had raven-blue fur, black hair in several long braids hanging down to its waist, and wore an unusual long white coat and pants of the same color, now grayish with grime and time, both adorned with belts and straps.

“Cut your losses, gents; you’re not getting anything apart from bruises today,” she said with a hint of snide.

The three of them were in no hurry to get up.

The youngest stood first—his body taut as a bowstring. Part of his gaunt face was covered in dirt, dust, and small trails of blood where he had hit the ground. His lips twisted into a half-smile, quivering with rage. His sunken, blue eyes shimmered deviously as he stared at her with intent.

He spat on the ground defiantly. “Go fack yerself!” he cursed, and reached for something in his jacket.

She was faster.

Her coat flapped back to reveal a veritable arsenal—hand bombs, gunpowder cartridges, a knife hanging on her left hip, pouches upon pouches, and a pair of beautifully ornamented flintlocks. One was holstered at the middle of her waist, the other on her right hip. Her hands moved quickly and deftly toward their handles. With a flourish, she unholstered both of them.

The pistols glowed hazily in her hands for a brief moment as she took aim. They were extraordinary but abnormally bulky—the dark mahogany frames were larger than standard, and half of each was plated with charcoal-gray metal with a silver sheen. Both ended in a snarling wolf’s head for a muzzle.

“Don’t...” she said slowly. Her anxious eyes were wide, fixated on the boy, who mirrored her look. Despite his anger, he was having second thoughts staring at not only one but two fire-spitting wolf-heads.

The demon bristled with anticipation and took a threatening step forward.

The deserter licked a drop of blood off his lips nervously, hand clutching tightly at his flintlock’s handle, his eyes darting back and forth between the traveler and her dreadful companion. His entourage’s faces were pale-white, their feet firmly planted on the ground. More from fear than out of loyalty.

“Enough!!” bellowed the sergeant as he jumped into the middle of the scuffle, arms wide. His voice boomed throughout the village square. Time-tested and battle-worn, it was capable of stopping birds mid-flight, let alone anyone and everyone in the vicinity.

Startled, the lass jerked back and raised her guns skyward, gaping at him with a mix of bewilderment and disbelief.

“Are you mental?!” she exclaimed.

“Holster those damn things, girl... ’n do it right-quick,” he growled, piercing her with a bloodshot, blue-eyed stare from under his bushy eyebrows, which looked as though they were made of steel wire.

The audacity of the man had taken her aback. She and the deserters exchanged confused glances.

“Not on your life!” she snapped.

“Holster. The bloody. Pistols,” he barked.

She didn’t comply but gritted her teeth and regarded him angrily from under the brim of her capotain. Her demon companion seemed especially perturbed by the rapidly devolving situation. The sudden arrival of this steely-eyed, loud man was one problem too many at the same time.

His eyes shifted between his master, the three troublemakers, and the old soldier.

Remarkably, he couldn’t help but take note of how clean the man’s coat was—especially in comparison to the three mangy boys behind him, or even the rest of his own raggedy outfit: dull-colored boots covered with old, dried mud; unpatched, grimy woolen trousers; and what was once an off-white shirt, now pale-yellow and saggy, covered in multicolored stains. Everything on him was neglected and falling apart—but his army jacket was spotless.

The man had a gun on his belt but wasn’t bothering to wield it, nor did he even threaten to reach for it, despite the situation, which was becoming increasingly tense and decreasingly animated. Everyone sat locked in place, doing their best impersonation of incredibly lifelike statues, drowning in a small sea of palpable animosity.

The potential for a grisly resolution was drawing a small crowd of villagers. Some were passers-by, drawn in by the spectacle that was unfolding. Others arrived at the urging of friends, while some peered curiously from nearby windows—all maintaining a cautious distance.

Finally, she took a deep, seething breath and relented. She holstered her weapons with a sulk, but her hands remained at the handles.

The sergeant huffed like an irked bull and turned his attention to the delinquents behind him.

The young deserter locked eyes with him and saw the hellish fury threatening to wash over him at any moment. He hiccuped and, in a panic, tried to free the flintlock from its holster—but was too slow. The older man was already on him. He grabbed him by the wrist and twisted his pistol arm upward, trying to wrestle the gun away. The young ruffian yelped, and a shot rang out, aimed at the sky.

The crowd gasped collectively.

Before the young hooligan could say anything more articulate, a fist caught him on the nose so hard it made his teeth clatter, and he found himself on the ground again—ass-first, for a change. His companions stepped back, waving their arms and shaking their heads, trying to communicate wordlessly that they wanted none of the same.

“We had a talk,” the sergeant said gruffly, throwing the flintlock away. “Said you’d wait. Said you’d keep the peace.”

The boy chuckled madly and wobbled back to his feet, seething. “With what, you daft bastard?” He dabbed his bloodied nose. “We’ve got no food, no—”

“Don’t take the piss, boy, or I’ll give ya another bollockin’! Niko gave you food last time—I know he did! Stop this nonsense or, by God, I’ll...” the sergeant hissed through his teeth.

“Rotten onions and moldy fackin’ bread?!” the boy yelled back abruptly, his voice cracking. Blood ran down his face. “He gave us shite ’n fackin’ scraps!!”

Murmurs passed through the crowd, drawing his attention. Only then did he notice the growing audience. “Ah, now for this they crawl outta the woodwork...” His sudden outburst subsided into a bitter smile, shaking his head in disappointment. He turned to face them, scanning the gathering with a look of such contempt it seemed as though he was trying to fell them one by one with his gaze alone.

“Piss-drinkin' cowards, the lot o’ you!” he cursed, letting the words sink in before continuing. “You send us out with all yer fanfare ’n smiles, throwin’ yer wee flowers at our feet...” He mimicked a dramatic throwing motion, his lower lip exaggeratedly pursed. “An’ now that we’re back, we’re no better than mangy dogs?” He looked at them searchingly. “You hide in yer homes, tossin’ table scraps at us through a window, hopin’ we’d just go away and die quietly in a ditch somewhere.”

He wiped the blood onto his sleeve and spat a bloody glob toward the crowd. “Well, all o’ you shit-eatin’ twats can choke on a cock! We’ll come back, we will! An’ we’re takin’ what we fackin’ owed as soldiers!”

The sergeant’s shoulders sagged. His expression softened, and his eyes filled with a deep shade of concern. His whole steely demeanor began to melt away.

“Erich,” he said softly, almost in a whisper.

The name scalded the young malcontent, and he locked hate-filled eyes with the old soldier. “An’ you don’t get to give me orders anymore, you sadistic, two-tankard drunk,” he said slowly, his voice dripping with contempt.

The lad turned and went to casually retrieve his pistol. He and his companions strode away indignantly, cutting through the gathered onlookers like a school of frightened fish. As they left the village, the young deserter’s voice rose in a song:

> “I had a comrade,

> A better one you'll never find.

> He marched by my side.

> In step, in step, we stride.”

The sergeant didn’t move or speak. He sent them off only with a downhearted look.

In the brief moments of silence that followed, he snapped back to the present matters at hand and turned to the other potential victims of his anger, who were still standing at the storefront, their faces plastered with confusion.

“Who in the hells are you?” he demanded.

The newcomer was caught off guard by the harshness of the question. “None of your bloody concern, mate!”

The sergeant strode toward her. “You startin’ a gunfight in the middle of the bloody street makes it my concern, girl. An’ you’ll tell me everythin’ I wanna know, got that? Now, who are you an’ what are you doin’ here?”

He moved close enough that one could feel the alcohol emanating from his breath. Or perhaps it was his entire being.

“I’ll tell you neither, and even less, you tosspot! And your knobhead mates started that fight when they decided to rob the store,” she said insolently.

His face twisted into a bitter grimace, and he stepped even closer.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The demon moved on reflex, but her outstretched hand held him back. That didn’t stop the two from exchanging baleful glares, and it was hard to tell which pair of eyes held more of Hell’s fury at that moment.

“So you’d have a shootout in the middle of the fackin’ village? Are you daft? Do you go from here till Sunday with yer pet blighter at heel, settin’ matters to rights with yer fancy pistols? Who do you think you are, you wee shite?”

The traveler clenched her teeth. She remained composed, but her hand found assurance in the grip of her trench knife. It was a brutal thing—a wide finger guard with several short metal spikes protruding from it, and at least a hand’s length of black steel hiding in the sheath.

“Go an’ take yer wee circus act back home, girl, ’fore somethin’ bad happens. To you or yer overgrown mongrel.”

The admonishment flustered her, but the last comment made her furious. She narrowed her eyes and spoke in a deceptively calm but sharp tone.

“Right after you go back into the bottle you crawled out of, you old tosser.”

His eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. The whole of him tensed—he looked either ready to charge or explode. Or both.

“Wo-ey! Easy now!”

A voice broke in between them, followed by a man who emerged just in time to mitigate the latest disastrous collision.

“Both of you just... take a breath and simmer down, eh?”

He was of modest stature and build, dressed in a well-made but worn brown waistcoat, with a black puff tie and matching trousers.

Both parties continued to shoot daggers at each other through their newly arrived referee, clearly envisioning something more literal—and perhaps lethal—in mind.

“Please! This is ridiculous! You just prevented a fight only to start another!”

His words didn’t have as much impact as he’d hoped. He turned to the sergeant and placed a hand on his shoulder. “August, please. Leave this to me.”

The sergeant’s teeth ground audibly as he addressed him.

“Please,” the man repeated in a soothing, imploring tone, as though calming a wild animal.

The old soldier stewed for a moment before relenting. “I want ’em outta here, doc! Right-quick!!” With a huff, he turned and stepped back onto the road, glaring threateningly at the two troublemakers as he went.

The lass sent him off with a matching sour look and a rude ‘V’ gesture with her fingers for good measure.

“Ahem.” The man cleared his throat in an attempt to get her attention. He had a smart, cordial-looking face. He wore spectacles, behind which dark-brown eyes glimmered—though not as dark as his beard or hair, both of which were short, well-groomed, and made him look professional.

“Pardon me, miss, but would you and your...” He glanced at her accomplice in apprehension, who, instead, was looking at him with unfettered curiosity. “...err, formidable-looking companion mind stepping into my office briefly? It’s right next door.”

She eyed him mistrustfully. “To what end?”

“Please. It’s best we get out of the street, and it would better allow me to apologize on behalf of our village for what just transpired. Also, I happen to be a doctor, and you seem the well-traveled sort—I’m sure some extra medical supplies won’t go amiss on your journeys. And a quick check-up for your time as well. It’s good to have one every once in a while, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

The outsider tapped the handles of her flintlocks rhythmically as she and her traveling companion exchanged a brief look.

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The office was in no way spacious or roomy, but it had some appeal and a great deal of efficiency. One could describe it more as prudent or frugal than anything else.

There was a heavy wooden desk on the left side, papers and books neatly ordered atop it, right next to several jars of small demonic creatures preserved in fluid. The doctor’s bag was placed awkwardly on its writing surface, beside a mortar and pestle full of a whitish powder.

A large cabinet sat beside the desk, its shelves full of tinctures, salves, powders, and medicines in bottles upon bottles of all shapes and sizes. Placed on it was a bowl of fragrant rosewater next to a damp cloth.

On the other side of the room, leaning against a staircase in which several shelves were fixed, was a table with an assortment of different medical instruments arranged upon it—supposedly to be used on whosoever was laid on the bench-bed located at arm’s length from the table.

In the middle of the room, in front of the window, was a bulky, cushioned chair, where patients normally sat—and which the current one currently occupied.

The doctor pressed the stethoscope lightly on the base of her chest. “Breathe in, please—now out,” he said, moving the apparatus around. Having done that several times, he then nodded and held a finger in front of his nose.

“Follow my finger, please.” He moved his finger from one side of his face to the other, and his patient followed it with her eyes. He suddenly stopped and stated with surprise, “Huh. Heterochromia,” then stood up to nonchalantly put his tools away.

She gawked at him with concern. “Pardon?” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.

The doctor chuckled and dismissed her concerns with a wave. “Nothing deadly, I assure you.” He washed his hands in the bowl of rosewater before turning back to his patient.

“Your eyes—one is green and the other blue. In medical terms, the mismatch is called heterochromia. A trait you curiously share with your friend there.”

He nodded toward his other visitor, who was examining the little creatures trapped in fluid with childlike inquisitiveness. Upon being noticed, he stood awkwardly in place.

She smiled nervously and let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks for that informative tidbit, doc.” She jumped out of the chair and went to put on her coat. “Well worth the scare.”

“Knowledge is often frightening,” he replied in jest. “But ignorance more so, I feel. And in the spirit of that sentiment, perhaps we should properly get to know one another? Names first, as is custom. Mine is Sebastian Miller.” He outstretched his hand.

The lass turned with a jolt, as if caught red-handed in a crime.

“Oh! Apologies, doctor!” She palmed her forehead. “I know a certain someone who’d tan my hide for forgetting my manners.” She briskly walked over and shook his hand. “And mine is Hellion.”

He raised a brow. “Hellion? What an unusual name! If... you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Would it surprise you to know you’re not the first to tell me that?” she replied jokingly.

He laughed. “I imagine I won’t be the last, either.”

She then gestured toward her accomplice. “And this is Azazel.”

The demon bowed politely. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Master Miller.”

Sebastian’s face lit up, and his mouth hung agape with amazement. “He speaks! And with such eloquence! And manners! Unlike most people I’ve met!” He spoke with what seemed to be very atypical, unbridled enthusiasm before reverting to his professional composure and courteously bowing in return. “Not as much as I am to make yours, Azazel.”

The demon was visibly flummoxed by the unexpected bombardment of compliments and reciprocal courtesy. He searched Hellion’s face for additional affirmation but found none—and received none.

“Now, apologies are due for the unfortunately bad welcome you’ve received. Please accept mine on behalf of the whole village.” The doctor took out a lavishly decorated handkerchief from his pocket and started wiping his glasses with care.

“Such recent events have been a blemish to this otherwise...” He gave a slight pause, visibly searching for the right words, “...mostly amiable and peaceable community. And it’s something we must resolve ourselves.” Emphasizing we, he paused intentionally, letting his words sink in.

Hellion gave him a measured look. “Right. And what are you resolving exactly, if I may inquire?”

The doctor spared a moment to think, choosing his words with care. “Soldiers. Young lads—some of them from this very village. Orphans now, save for one. They’ve… deserted, perhaps hoping to reclaim the life they lost, to escape the death they were thrown into. You must understand, this is a delicate matter for our village, which is why I must implore you not to—”

At that moment, the door of the office swung wide open with a bang, nearly taking it off the hinges.

A portly man, with slicked-back dark hair, dressed in an old grey suit—his color-drained dress shirt visible through his unbuttoned coat—stood in the doorframe, his impish brown eyes gliding across the room.

Once he set them on Hellion and Azazel, he smiled devilishly from under his bushy mustache, spread his arms wide in a theatrical welcome, and boomed in a prominent accent:

“The hero and her fearsome beast! Treating wounds sustained in battle, I assume?”

He laughed joyfully and stepped inside. “Alas, I cannot believe my eyes—that a creature as fair and captivating as you brought those wretched hoodlums to heel so categorically! And even stood toe-to-toe with our Sergeant—a feat in and of itself! A true Amazonian! Doctor, you should be ashamed, keeping such prestigious company all to yourself!”

The doctor opened his mouth to defend himself but was far too slow. The man had already made it to the other side of the now-crowded office and clapped a hand on Hellion’s shoulder.

“Why, Niko was openly singing your praises, my dear—so much so my ears are still ringing!” His melodic laugh resounded again, pleased with his joke. “I was just there, you see, and he was going on and on about how a veritable guardian angel materialized out of thin air and saved him from ruin and misery, deservedly booting those miscreants from his establishment before they could impoverish him and burn it down out of spite and malice! Or, God forbid, do something even worse! Fate’s guiding hand has...”

He abruptly snapped out of his monologue and looked around, as if he’d woken up in an unfamiliar place.

“But what are we still doing here? Let us step outside! I feel the walls closing in on us in this stifling room. No offense, doctor, but people would rather medicate their illnesses at my place if you insist on treating them out of a shoebox! Even if the spirits are better!”

He laughed heartily and started pushing Hellion toward the door, leaving the poor doctor perplexed in his own office. His hand absentmindedly reached out to Azazel to do the same, but he pulled it back with a hint of disgust and apprehension. Hellion barely had time to grab her hat before finding herself outside once again.

The man stood before her on the street, energetically melodramatic like an actor on a stage. Hellion affixed her capotain firmly on her head as Azazel joined her on the porch, both expectant for the next part of the man’s performance.

“I must say, young lady, you are a godsend, you are, in our hour of need!” he said, almost tearing up, placing both hands on his heart in an overly exaggerated manner. “I have something to ask of you. There will be a village meeting tonight and, although you’ve helped immensely already, I’d like you to attend and hear our formal plea for assistance.”

“Assistance?” She hesitated. “I, err...”

“Please. We only ask that you hear us out. Out of the goodness of your kindly heart.”

He moved closer, making sure his audience would miss nary a detail of the performance. “Seeing as I’ll already be hosting the meeting in my fine establishment, I’d also be honored if you’d stay the night as my guest.”

He gestured toward the Seven Swigs and looked at her with such a deep plea in his eyes that it almost seemed genuine. Hellion put a hand in her pocket and took a minute to think. A faint smile crossed her face.

“I have to apologize, sir, but I think we’re too poor for your... fine establishment, and too weary from today’s events to stay. We should really be on our way finding another place to spend the night.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense! You’ll do no such thing! Please, you shall have a room free of charge! Why, it is the least—”

“Two rooms?”

“Err... pardon?”

She pointed at herself and Azazel. “For each of us.”

The innkeeper gaped. His eyes shifted toward Azazel with some worry. He attempted to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat. Instead, he swallowed and smiled uneasily.

“Of course! But of course! For both you and... err... of course! I, Fedor Holechek, would truly be... umm... blessed to have both of you stay in my fine establishment, Missus...?”

He bowed politely and raised an eyebrow, eagerly awaiting her answer.

“Hellion. Just Hellion. And this is—”

“Hellion? How unbefitting a heavenly creature such as yourself.”

He grinned, pleased with his sharp wit. Hellion merely smiled politely.

“You’re welcome to your rooms at any time, and we’ll look forward to seeing you tonight, then, Lady Hellion.”

He bowed again and threw a quick, uneasy look at the demon before turning and heading toward the inn, muttering to himself.

Hellion’s eyes followed him as he went. She pondered for a bit, her hand still fidgeting in her pocket.

“Very clever, Master—seizing an opportunity like that without involving us further! I shall strive to learn from your resourcefulness!” Azazel said with some pride in his voice. He glanced over, noticing her deliberating.

His smile gave way to slight concern. “Are we... planning on further involvement?”

The fidgeting stopped. “Not sure just yet... depends on what they have to offer, I suppose.”

Azazel looked at her, befuddled, and briefly weighed something important in his mind before speaking. “Master? Apologies... but I feel I need to ask. After everything so far, are we still ‘keeping our heads and remaining inconspicuous’?”

Hellion’s head dropped. Whether or not intended, the timely remark made her crack a smile. She kept it to herself, merely shook her head, and motioned him to follow.

“C’mon... let’s go see about our rooms.”

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The evening settled over the village with a quiet, pervasive chill. Its streets were empty, silent, and still—but for the distant yowling of belligerent cats.

The moon shone bright and full over the dainty cottages that huddled together, a cozy fire giving off a dim, orange glow from each and every one. The moonlight did not hold long, however, as brooding clouds wrapped it in a dark blanket for the coming night. The cold air they brought with them blew through the village, carrying the last sounds and vestiges of life for the day.

In stark contrast, the inn was bubbling with activity. The air inside was stifling, heavy with the smell of sweat, tobacco, and stale beer—the last of which added an almost acerbic quality to it.

"Get rid of them, I say—no other way about it!"

They had brought together most of the tables in the middle of the inn, forming a gathering point for the evening's meeting.

The inn itself looked old but not decrepit. It had a rustic, frontier feel to it—rough-cut, varnished wood adorned the bar, doorframes, and the large staircase next to the bar, leading to the upstairs guest rooms. A large stone fireplace took up most of the wall at the far end, emitting a warm, cozy glow.

Although not spacious, the inn held almost all of the village—and its opinions—without bursting at the seams.

"What a brute you are! Why not take the poor boys in?" a woman's voice rose up.

Someone sneezed and spilled beer on one of his peers, eliciting a stream of curses. Hellion sat quietly, slouched, fixated on a peculiar maroon-colored stain on the hardwood floor, her fingers drumming on the handles of her guns while the arguments raged around her.

"Are you mad, woman? D’ya know what happens then if the army finds out we’re sheltering deserters? We all get hanged on the same oak, that’s what!" blustered one man.

"Or shot!" added another.

"Oh, I’d much prefer the latter..." said a hushed voice from the back.

Azazel sat away from the table, behind his master, actively soaking up the atmosphere and eagerly listening to the verbal exchange, not unlike someone enjoying a game of tennis.

"Send for a constable from Altesburg! Isn’t that what we pay taxes for?" a voice called out, met with murmurs of agreement.

"And how long you think ’till they drag their bloody feet gettin’ down here? A week? Two weeks? Those rowdy knaves could be here on the morn!" snapped another.

The doctor and the sergeant were present as well.

The former was quietly stroking his well-formed beard, an evident look of concern on his face mixed with a tinge of mournful disappointment.

The latter sat across the table, akin to a mangy but well-trained dog that had just wandered in from the street. He was breathing heavily, and his head was bobbing up and down like a toddler’s, trying to keep it from falling off. His eyes were half-closed and bloodshot, gliding over everyone present with overt animosity.

"Just give ’em somethin’ for now! ’Till the army gets here! This is muck of their makin’, as far as I’m concerned!"

An approving murmur rippled through the crowd.

"If the bloody army weren’t so lax, we wouldn’ta—"

"Aaaaaah! He was right!" the sergeant roared, slapping the table forcefully with his palm as he stood up.

The sound startled a few of the villagers, who jumped from their seats. Hellion snapped out of her trance, and Azazel’s ears perked forward, alarmed. The room fell silent.

"You ARE piss-drinking cowards! All of you!" the sergeant growled, swaying from side to side, using the hand he placed on the table to keep his balance.

"And yet, only one of us seems to be full of piss and vinegar tonight..." Fedor, the innkeeper, said snidely from the other side of the room.

The inn erupted in laughter. One of the men tugged on the pristine sleeve of the sergeant’s spotless coat, inviting him to sit back down.

The old soldier jerked his hand free and fiercely backhanded a mug of beer off the table, sending it and its contents flying across the room.

"Oi!! Me ale..." blurted out his neighbor mournfully.

The force of the effort made him stumble back, but he caught himself and managed to stay upright. The crowd quickly settled under his stern gaze.

"None of you fackin’ know..." His eyes glazed over, barely holding back a wave of suppressed pain and hardship. "None of you lot have ever been in that godforsaken churn of hellish misery and pain," he boomed, seemingly out of breath. "You’ve not seen a cannonball cleave a soldier’s head straight from his body. Or had to watch a friend shit ’emself to death ’cause of one disease or ’nother. Or..."

His voice became shaky and hoarse. "Held a brother in your arms, as he lay dying, screaming for his mother..."

His jaw clenched shut, forming a deep frown like a dam, preventing anything more from spilling out. A tangible silence hung in the air, leaving only the faint rustle of clothing and the occasional cough to punctuate the stillness.

Hellion looked at the drunken sergeant and, for a fleeting moment, didn’t see the same obnoxious, fervent brute that had accosted them earlier that day. She saw only a broken, nearly empty shell in the form of a man, from which memories and regrets periodically slipped through the cracks. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

"And God as my fackin’ witness, I swear, if any o’ you cunts so much as touches a hair on those boys’ heads..." continued the sergeant in a rumbling, thunderous tone, looking everyone over with a furious, red-hot glow in his eyes—stopping at the newly arrived outsiders, "...Seven Hells won’t be able to hide you!" Azazel narrowed his eyes and held the grizzled veteran’s scalding gaze defiantly.

"Yes, yes, alright, August..." the innkeeper said in a calming manner as he waved his hand about, making his way around the table toward the sergeant. "You’ve made your point, you rusty old cannon, no need to pick a fight with our guests. Again." He put an arm around August and started to guide him out of the inn.

With feet shuffling, mumbling some unfinished thought, and leaning slightly on the innkeeper, the soldier let himself be escorted into the dark, cold, moonless night. Fedor took a few steps on the street with him to make sure the old cannon was on target, and pushed August lightly in the general direction of his home before going back inside.

The gathering had started to resemble a roused beehive at that point. A prevalent droning and clamor of voices clashed in the air as some argued vehemently, while others muttered silently about the futility of the discussion. Most were of one mind, however—the deserters had to be ousted, preferably by force.

Hellion was lost in thought again, albeit purposefully this time. Amidst the tumult, the doctor stood up from his seat and tried to cut through the commotion.

"People, please! I know you’re upset and you’re angry, and you have every right to be so. But don’t let this devolve into a sadder state of affairs by courting bloodshed! August is right! They’re just boys—lost boys. Our boys! We must—"

The ill-measured call to responsibility inflamed a large part of the gathering, who fervently jumped from their seats in ardent disagreement and protest.

"Courting?! Who’s courting, you wanker?! They shot old man Bocker like a dog!" bellowed a villager.

"Yeah! Like a dog!" confirmed another.

"Spare us the flowery talk, Doc, blood has already been spilled! Look at me head!"

Sebastian was at a loss, faced with this tide of animosity—saved only by the innkeeper, who snuck in from behind, picked up a half-empty mug, and started angrily banging it on the table.

"Quiet! Quiet! What the hell is this? Let the man have his say!"

The crowd settled into a low grumble. Grateful, the doctor nodded, but before he could even take a breath to finish his sentence, Fedor stole the initiative.

"However, Doc, if I may interject..." He wiped his hand on his apron. "Perhaps we should hear what our guest has to offer as an outside perspective—or even, if we’re lucky—as a solution."

He gestured toward Hellion. She perked up and noticed she had unwittingly garnered the whole table’s undivided attention.

"Do you even know where they might be?" she asked.

"The old loggin’ camp!" replied one of the villagers enthusiastically. "Well... that’s what Bern said, at least," he added, pointing at one of his peers.

"’Course they are! Saw ’em go up the dirt road a few days ago, headin’ toward the forest. Naught up there but the camp!" said Bern, scratching his head.

"And how many...?"

The villagers stared at each other.

"’Bout six...?" guessed one of them.

"Don’t be stupid, there’s at least seven or eight of ’em! Or maybe... five? Ah, bet the doc knows; I’ve seen ’em talk!" wagered another.

The doctor shifted in his seat uneasily.

"I’m not at liberty to share information on any of my patients. Whatever their standing," he answered coldly.

"Oh, get off it, doctor! You act high ’n mighty ’cause they ain’t given you a thrashing yet! How long ’till that then, d’ya think?"

Sebastian cast him an annoyed glance. "I don’t give out information on my patients in general, Mister Zimmerman—just as I don’t give out information about why you visit my cabinet every Thursday."

Having gotten the point, the man eyed his friends nervously and sank into his chair in silence.

"Ten. There's ten of 'em," said Niko meekly from one of the table corners.

The gathering collectively turned to him, surprised by his certainty.

"I... the sergeant made me give them some food, so... he told me so himself."

Hellion pondered for a bit on what the storekeep had said, picking at her fingernail with her thumb.

"A solution is going to cost you. A lot."

She scanned the faces around her before continuing. Some seemed anxious, others skeptical, and some half-drunk by this point in the evening—but all were curious.

"Hundred and fifty thaler."

The crowd gasped in unison.

"She's mad!" a cry went out from the back.

"The cheek! We don't mine silver 'ere!" another shouted.

"For that kinda coin, I'll try me luck meself! What's this girl even gonna do?"

The room was abuzz again.

"Utter bollocks! She's a charlatan, she is! Look at 'er! How old are you even, girl?" heckled one older woman, waving her cane threateningly about.

"Nary seventeen summers she has, I'd wager..." mumbled someone else.

Azazel's ears lowered, and he looked at the rowdy villagers with concern. He cocked his head to one side, trying to puzzle out his master's reaction.

Hellion seemed calm, but her thumb was now intently digging into one of her fingernails.

"Come now, my dear, that's a bit... well, a bit too much," said Fedor behind a less-than-sincere smile, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"That's the price," said Hellion, a slight bitterness in her voice. "Come the morrow, we'll be out of your hair, and this problem becomes squarely your own again otherwise."

A hush fell over the tavern. Everyone was looking at each other with anxious uncertainty.

"She did give those hoodlums what-for today..." someone mumbled quietly.

"And that blighter seems ferocious. D'ya figure she's trained 'im?"

Fedor chewed on his lower lip and looked over the other attendees. They were dead silent now but for the occasional cough.

"Fine! Get rid of those ne'er-do-wells, and you shall have your steep fee," he relented.

The outsider shook her head.

"Before we leave for their camp tomorrow."

"Be reasonable—we can't get that coin together so quickly. Settle for half at least?" he pleaded.

Hellion looked down at the maroon-colored stain on the floor again and mulled the proposition over. It seemed as if it had grown bigger in size, creeping outward.

"Two-thirds."

The innkeeper scoffed and nodded slowly at her reply. He stroked his bushy mustache methodically and gave her an appraising look.

"And what assurances will you give us you won't just abscond with the money?" he asked.

Hellion stood up and took a step forward. With her right hand, she brushed her coat aside so it sat tucked behind her holster. Deftly, with a flourish, she took out her gun. She pirouetted it on her index finger masterfully in a display of skill and showmanship, finally setting it down on the table in front of her.

"I won’t need both guns for this. If tomorrow morning you have the coin ready, this"—she put her hand on the exceptionally crafted gun—"stays here, and I get it back once we're done."

She graced them with a friendly smile. "Are we in agreement?"

Some of the attendees nodded. A sly smile beamed across Fedor’s face. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the doctor stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with a screech.

"This is preposterous! Do any of you not feel an inkling of shame? We've sat here the whole evening playing coy when we knew we were about the devil's work!"

The doctor shouted—a picture of dignified anger. "And maybe when it’s done we pretend otherwise, since we’d have washed our hands of the whole affair by having someone else do it! And this is who we send...?" He sounded almost hurt as he gestured toward Hellion with a furious look on his face, his perfectly groomed hair now frazzled.

She looked at him, slighted and confused. Sebastian met her gaze and his eyes dropped. "No offense meant..."

"Some taken," she replied with a furrowed brow, but he continued unabated.

"Is this how we take responsibility for our problems? For our fellow man? I refuse to take any part in this bloody affair! When I resolved myself to come here, I knew this community was in dire need of a healer. Now I know it’s in greater need of a conscience!"

He sat back down and began angrily cleaning his glasses. The whole room sat quietly, sulking like scolded children. Nobody even dared look up.

"If you had presented us with a sensible solution beforehand, Doc, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?" retorted Fedor in a monotone.

The doctor spared him a scalding look in between rubbing his spectacles.

"The dear doctor has cast his vote on the matter, so now the rest of us decide—whoever is against, raise your hand."

None raised their hands.

A man in the back of the crowd meekly started to lift his hand up, but the woman sitting next to him quickly pulled it down and pinned it to his thigh, throwing him an intensely piercing gaze.

"It’s decided then! Lady Hellion and her... creature will deal with the miscreants! Me and Niko will start collecting early tomorrow morning."

The innkeeper banged the mug in front of him twice on the table.

"The meeting is over! Anyone staying for a drink has to pay their tab! No, I won’t hear it, Bern—you can drink piss tonight otherwise."

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