Life throws you scraps sometimes, tiny glimmers in the overwhelming dark. Like the fact that this minotaur-like abomination had traits of humanity in it. Such as forward facing eyes. True, it made it nightmare fuel of the highest degree, and if I was going to live through this, that face was going to haunt my waking moments for the next decade. But had the aberrant monstrosity had side-set eyes like normal bovines, the two barrel's worth of buckshot would never had been enough to blind it.

  Small mercies and silver linings. As the saying goes.

  Then the world tilted, and the concrete rose up to meet me with the force of a betrayed heart. It wasn't an impact; it was a brutal, bone-jarring embrace that squeezed the air from my lungs and painted my ribs with fire. For a heartbeat, the only universe that existed was the screaming agony. Yet, through the haze of pain, I clung to the rough, unyielding surface beneath me.

  Because it was there. And I was still here to feel it.

  Instead of feeling a monstrous horn punch through my guts or becoming a greasy stain underfoot, the point-blank kiss of the shotgun had at least sent the bull-thing stumbling. Its granite-hard shoulder, thick as a tree trunk, had connected instead of those lethal spikes, sending me airborne like some forgotten ragdoll. My breath hitched, but yeah, I was still drawing air. Sort of.

  Even better, the beast was blind. The slugs hadn't even dented that skull, tougher than iron. But those eyes… they'd gone like overripe fruit under a heavy boot. Ain't no muscle or bone there. Just soft jelly. Burst in a wet, sickening pop that echoed even over its enraged bellow.

  The only sound that rivaled the hysterical bellows of the blinded Minotaur – its axe, hooves, and fists thrashing wildly against the surrounding vehicles – was the wet, gurgling symphony within my own chest as I fought to rise, blood cascading freely from my lips with each ragged motion. A groan, torn from my perforated lungs, escaped me, and then a dread, all-encompassing silence descended.

  Slowly, agonizingly, I turned. The Minotaur had frozen, a grotesque statue of rage and pain, massive head tilting from side to side, the ruined sockets of its eyes now just smoking craters of raw flesh. Its immense ears twitched and swiveled, straining to pinpoint my location in the sudden stillness. It couldn't see me, but it could still hear. And it was hunting.

  “Shit,” I cursed inwardly, the adrenaline-fueled spite fading with the immediate threat. That's the trouble with hope, it comes with hesitation. When you think you're going to die, it's easy to go all out, but once a chance sets in, your brain starts considering too many variables. What now? The monster’s hearing was acute; it had proven that with brutal efficiency. One clumsy move, one misplaced sound, and it would be on me.

  Then, the scraping started. A low, long drag against the rough concrete, like a monstrous nail across a chalkboard, each pass sending shivers down my spine. It had dropped to all fours with a heavy thud, nostrils flaring, massive axe dragging along the ground in a slow, deliberate arc. Sparks flickered and died in the gloom, the screech of metal on concrete amplifying the oppressive silence. It took a few lumbering steps forward, the scraping ceasing momentarily before beginning anew, closer this time. It was trying to flush me out. Force me to reveal my position through sound.

  And I knew, with a sinking feeling, that I had to move. That monstrous reach would find me, even if it couldn't see, sooner or later. The scraping came again, closer still, the vibrations traveling through the concrete and into my battered body. My eye twitched, teeth grinding as I screwed my jaw shut. Not a sound. Not a motion. The Minotaur was listening. Waiting. Long seconds passed with a snail's pace, and then again. Four lumbering steps, hand the size of a man's torso stretched out blindly before it and...

  Scraaaaape

  Silence.

  “Dammit. Dammit. C’mon, think!” I hissed under my breath, my mind racing, desperately searching for an escape. It was fifteen paces away from me. My chance to escape was growing thinner and thinner with every passing moment. I needed to find something...

  SMASH

  The sharp crack of glass shattering against the concrete almost made me flinch, followed instantly by the thunderous impact of the axe slamming into the exact spot. A near miss that sent shivers down my spine despite the pain. Something had shattered directly opposite of my position, and the Minotaur had been on it like a lightning strike. Even without eyes to see, it was deadly accurate.

  SMASH

  Again, something shattered in a different location, further down the road. Within a heartbeat, the Minotaur had launched itself on it, cratering the asphalt with a furious barrage of fist, axe, and hoof.

  But this time, I'd seen the arc. A dark shape against the pale moonlight. An empty bottle.

  As if to confirm my dawning realization, another bottle arced through the midnight sky from the shadowed rooftop of Mike's Mechanics garage, shattering even further down the road. Someone was guiding the blinded beast, drawing it away. Drawing it far enough for me to make a desperate break for the relative safety of the garage. A lifeline in this concrete hell. Some madlad out there was helping me.

  As the fourth bottle arced through the air, fragile hope igniting within me, I channeled every drop of stolen blood into my legs. For all that distance, the Minotaur's speed was a thing of terrible potency. I didn't have the luxury of conserving blood. Power surged, muscles corded, and bone felt like reinforced steel. The instant the glass shattered on the asphalt, I moved. Three lunging strides ate the distance to the garage wall, culminating in a desperate, soaring leap that carried me onto the flat roof of the two-story building.

  I landed hard, the impact jarring my already battered body, and found myself face-to-face with a sight that defied all logic.

  One eye was the clear, piercing blue of a winter sky, the other a warm, burnished copper. Fur of the pristine white, save for two stark black tufts at the tips of its pointed ears. Its jaw was slightly upturned, revealing the glint of sharp, curving fangs. The same ghostly husky I’d seen atop the mall's roof, the very one that given me a path towards the scaffolding, now stood before me, all too material, the reek of fresh blood clinging to its snow-white coat, empty glass bottles scattered around its paws like discarded toys.

  Twice over, apparently, it had saved my life.

  I slowly raised a hand in a pitiful gesture of placation. The idea was ludicrous, perplexing, but I couldn't help but ask “Did you throw these, boy?”

  As expected, instead of an answer, the husky’s curled lip relaxed, its gaze steady and intelligent. It simply turned, a slight limp in its gait, and moved towards an open hatch in the roof. Only then did I notice the filthy, blood-crusted bandage wrapped clumsily around its entire midsection. The animal was wounded and someone had done a shoddy attempt at first-aid.

  Far behind and below, the Minotaur had resumed it's scraping of the concrete, trying to draw me out, the blind beast unaware that I was already somewhere else. By sheer dumb luck, it'd been just far enough not hear the rustle of my clothes as I ran.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed hard. Too many inexplicable events colliding at once. The damned monster that neither Mina's scouting nor my own enhanced senses had picked up? Some helpful Husky that I'd only seen twice? It was as if the world itself was conspiring to give me an aneurysm. Only questions, never answers.

  A part of me yearned for the relative safety of that hatch, while another screamed for me to leap off the opposite side of the roof and vanish into the shadowed embrace of the woods. For the modicum of concrete information, rather than the unknown. And, as much as the latter option seemed the wisest, everything was in pain. Everything. The only reason I had been able to move had been because of my Blood Buff.

  I needed time to heal. And out here, on the rooftop, I still ran the slim chance of the Minotaur deciding to make it's search extra thorough and check the rooftops too. No. The animal part of me craved a sanctuary. A place where I could "lick my wounds". The human part of me, however, couldn't help but consider the idiocy of entering an enclosed space while severely wounded.

  The husky hadn't paused, hadn't even looked back to see if I would follow, instead just disappeared down the hatch. A flicker of trust, or perhaps just indifference? It didn't seem inclined to attack. Maybe it was a trap. Or maybe I was just too steeped in paranoia to see a potential reprieve.

  "If you going to follow, than follow. If not, then close hatch and leave." a rich, feminine voice whispered from the gloom. The Husky's owner?

  "We need time to heal" the Animal whimpered in the back of my head.

  "You're telling me to follow that dog? What if it's a...."

  "We know!" the Animal hissed "We know. But we have no alternative. In the open we are exposed and our body is too broken to allow us to outrun that creature before it catches up."

  I ground my teeth and hissed out a slow exhale, trying to think. Glancing back, I could see that the Minotaur was already circling back, expanding its search. The damned thing's hearing was so acute, all it'd take is the wind ruffling my clothes at the worst moment and it would come searching the rooftop. It left me exposed.

  "We did not sense any malice from the hound..."

  This made my decision for me. For what it was worth, the Animal seemed to have a sixth sense in sniffing out danger. If I'd listened to it when it had warned me, I wouldn't have had to meet the Minotaur. Then again, in my defense, the warning had come a bit too late. I was already in the thick of it.

  Regretting the lost weight of my splitting axes and the shotgun, all three weapons flung away as I got shoulder-checked into the air, I pulled the machete from my – miraculously still intact – rucksack, its familiar handle comfortable in my hand. Then, I started limping towards the open hatch. Over-cautious or not, I had no intention of facing whatever lay below unarmed and hoping for the best.

  The inside of the garage was the kind of office space where dreams went to die. A particleboard desk sagged under the weight of neglect, a computer coated with the dust of a decade past it's prime, and one entire wall was a monument to dead engines – filing cabinets and cardboard boxes stuffed with electrical and mechanical parts. Typical provincial mechanic shop. The kind that made more money repairing tractors than cars. The windows were sealed tight, a tomb-like darkness swallowing the room whole, but the curse in my blood gave me a weird, monochromic kind of night vision. I could see the husky, curled tight beside a small pile of studded brown leather and a sword the size of a man’s ego leaning against the wall.

  No sign of the woman who had spoken though.

  I took a tentative step forward, and the husky’s snarl ripped through the silence, teeth flashing like bone splinters.

  “Easy, boy, easy…” I murmured, hands held up, trying to project a calm I didn’t feel. I really didn't want to swing my bade at a dog. I love dogs.

  “Shashka is girl, not boy, idiot Soft-Skin.”

  I blinked, thinking the darkness was playing tricks on my eyes. Her mouth had moved. It had definitely moved around the words. But a talking dog? Even in this cracked reality, that still felt like a stretch. Then again, orcs, goblins, the fey… yeah, maybe a talking dog wasn’t that far out.

  “Uh… hello?” The words felt stupid even as they left my lips.

  “Leech stays on that side. If leech comes close, Shashka will gnaw-crack leech’s bones, yes-yes!” she snarled again, the sound a low, guttural warning.

  “Yep… got it… understood.” I backed against the opposite wall, the rough concrete a gritty reminder of my precarious situation. We locked eyes for a long, silent minute. Finally, boredom, pain, or maybe just the satisfaction of making her point, seemed to settle over her and she calmed down, lowering her hackles. Shashka, she’d called herself, began to lick at the crudely wrapped wound, a small whimper escaping with each motion.

  Even from across the room, the stink of it hit me – a cloying sweetness of rot beneath the metallic tang of blood. Pus. Gangrene was setting in, a death sentence whispered on the air. Her licking at the edge of the bandages was a waste of effort.

  “It’s not going to work…” I said, the words flat.

  “Soft-Skin will shut up.” Her voice was a low growl.

  “Listen, I can smell the infection…”

  “Soft-Skin. Will. Shut up.” Her hackles rose again, paws flexing on the concrete. She was a hair trigger away from snapping.

  “You’re going to die,” I stated, the words blunt, crossing my arms with a finality that gave her pause. “I’m no sawbones, but that bandage is too tight, and you didn’t clean the damn thing. You smell like spoiled meat. Fever’s coming, and when it hits, you’ll be too weak to save yourself anymore.”

  I wasn’t playing Florence Nightingale. If she wanted to bleed out and rot, that was her business. The only reason I hadn’t stopped talking was the knot in my gut at the sight of a suffering animal. Dogs… they always got to me.

  Another stretch of silence, punctuated only by her ragged breathing. Then, she seemed to deflate, collapsing against the wall, resuming her grim task.

  “Bandage is wrapped tight because it’s only thing keeping Shashka’s guts inside her. And Shashka does not know how to clean wound. Shashka is Hound-kin, not Doe-Kin. Fighter, not healer. She knows she will meet ancestors soon.”

  The flat resignation in her voice stopped me. No tears, no begging. Just cold, hard acceptance. But at least she was talking.

  “So you’re ready to die, then?” I asked, trying to match her detached tone.

  The dog huffed, a canine scoff in the oppressive darkness. “Shashka is always ready to die. Shashka is just resting, so she can try against Sinborn of Wrath again. It owes Shashka for spitting her on its horn. It will be good death.”

  Hound-kin, Doe-kin… more of her strange lingo. But I was starting to piece things together. The way she spoke, the names she used, the fact that she was a goddamn talking dog – it all pointed to her being a creature from the “other world,” the one that had bled into ours when they'd melded together, as Puck would put it. And the “Sinborn of Wrath”? That had to be the Minotaur still stomping around outside. A correct guesstimation on my part.

  "Why'd you help me?" I asked, deciding to take the discussion a different way.

  Shashka’s mismatched eyes locked on mine, burning with a raw hate, a primal disgust that felt like a gut punch. “Good question. Shashka wonders herself. Soft-Skin is… odd. Confuses Shashka.” Her gaze narrowed, and the next words hung in the air like a death sentence. “Yes-yes. Soft-Skin is odd. Especially for a Sinborn of Pride.”

  Instinct. Pure, unadulterated reflex. I didn't consciously decide to raise the machete, but the naked hostility in her voice, the way she spat the word "Sinborn," it was enough to trigger a primal response.

  Her eyes flicked to the blade, then back to me, a sneer twisting her lips. Instead of answering, she opened her maw and a guttural word ripped from her throat. I recoiled, the machete snapping up in front of me, bracing for whatever fresh hell was about to break loose. In the blink of an eye, a thick mist billowed from her fur, swirling around her like a suffocating shroud. Then, an arm – undeniably human, lean and long, the muscles corded, the skin etched with black markings – shot out, snatching the hilt of the flamberge. The monstrous blade whipped around with impossible speed, as if it weighed no more than a twig.

  As quickly as it began, it was over. The mist dissipated, leaving behind not a husky slumped against the wall, but a young woman. Her body was a lean tapestry of muscle and those stark black tattoos. The same mismatched eyes, blue and burnished copper, stared out from behind a cascade of white hair that fell past her waist.

  Impressive was an insultingly weak word. Even seated, propped against the concrete, she radiated a raw, untamed power. Tall, probably eclipsing Mina Miller, maybe even Andreas. For all intents and purposes, she looked human, except for the details that screamed otherwise. Her feet and hands were covered in short, white fur, tipped with sharp claws. A long, white tail curled protectively across the bandaged area at her lower back. As my gaze traveled upwards, more of the canid features emerged. Long, pointed, furred ears, tipped with black, peeked through her white hair, smaller versions of the husky ears I’d seen moments before. Her lips, the color of pitch, not from any lipstick but mimicking a dog’s gums, were thin and sharp, curled over equally sharp teeth. And those eyes… twin points of feral intensity, regarding me with a wariness and hostility that no human gaze could ever truly replicate.

  For a fleeting, bizarre moment, I almost likened her to those cartoonish animal women that lurked in the more degenerate corners of the internet. The thought vanished as the sheer intensity of the woman cascaded against me. There was nothing cute or playful about her. She was a predator, coiled and ready to strike. Power and ferocity emanated from her in waves, an almost tangible force. Even wounded and naked, splayed against the cold concrete, everything about her – the set of her jaw, the roll of her shoulders, the subtle tension in her core – screamed danger. She was dangerous, ferocious, primal. And, against all reason, the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Also, butt naked, save for the blood-caked bandages cinched around her waist, starting just above her navel and ending below a chest that could launch a thousand dark fantasies. An aspect that she seemed to care very little about, more focused on keeping the flamberge's tip pointing my way and curling her upper lip in a very canine snarl.

  "You raise your blade to Shashka, leech? Good. That is more how a leech should act. Shashka will show that even a wounded Hound-kin is too much for you to...."

  “Oh, what the absolute fresh, fuck!” I started, cutting her off, letting my arm drop and running a hand through my close-cropped hair. Exasperation and a weary resignation battled for control. It was a God's honest miracle that my head hadn't exploded yet. Zombies, Goblins, Orcs, Fey, Vampires, a goddamn Minotaur the size of a tank, and now a dog-girl looking like she'd gotten shat out straight out of one of the less-than-wholesome comics I enjoyed "reading" from time to time.

  “Yeah! Yeah, sure. A shape-shifter. Why the hell not?” I snarled, more to myself than to her, and slammed my back against the wall, letting myself slide down. It was fairly obvious she wasn't going to be trouble unless I actually attacked her. Might as well sit down while I heal.

  To her credit, Shashka only tilted her head, watching me as I took my rucksack off, fishing out a pack and lighting a cigarette.

  "Is Leech not going to attack?"

  "Name's Jon. And no, I'm not going to. Not unless you attack first" I answered dryly, exhaling a long plume, my eyes firmly affixing hers.

  The woman audibly sucked at her own teeth and lowered the flamberge.

  "Damn. Leech... Jon.... Leech Jon is still so confusing, Shashka does not know what best choice is. This is Shashka prefers to leave thinking for Doe and Owl-kin. Gives Shashka headache."

  I exhaled another plume of smoke.

  "Know what , lady? Right back at you."

  "Shashka not confusing. Shashka Hound-kin. Our kind, famously straight forward" she huffed, puffing up a chest that I was absolutely struggling not to glance at.

  "Shashka might want to put on some clothes" I added, purposefully staring at the immensely interesting wall to our right.

  "Pfah! Seems Soft-Skins are prudish everywhere. Even Soft-Skins of Shashka's world are same. Insist on covering mother nature's gifts. Shashka never understands."

  I caught it. Soft-Skins of her world. My assumption was correct. She was of the same world as the Fey, the Orcs, so on and so forth. Might as well keep her talking, since I was stuck here healing. Could gleam some useful information.

  "Is that what my kind are? Soft-Skins?"

  Shashka gave a curt nod, still making no move to dress herself, but running a claw against her blade.

  "Hoo-mans, if Shashka remembers correct, is what they call selves. Once numerous, but a dwindling race nowadays."

  The cascade of questions running through my head was a flood, threatening to drown me. Before I could even form the next question, she cut me off.

  "Two questions. Two answers. Shashka gets to ask two questions now, yes-yes?"

  The quiet stretched between us, suddenly tense again, as my eyes narrowed into slits.

  "Shashka is fighter, not wise. Not like Doe-kin. Not like Owl-kin" she carried on, still stroking her blade, meeting the intensity of my gaze with her own. "But she listen to Doe and Owl lessons, yes-yes. Enough to understand circumstance. Fey have told Shashka two worlds have melded. Shashka is from one, assumes Leech Jon is from the other. Right now, we are both like blind pups from fresh litter. Lack knowledge. So we exchange. Question for question. Answer for answer."

  I gave a slow sigh, more out of reflex than need, and nodded. She smiled back, a surprisingly genuine grin.

  "What are metal boxes on wheels that litter everywhere?"

  The question caught me by surprise. It was so... innocent. Almost juvenile. Then again, considering her weapon and the leather armor bundled up to her side, it wasn't a stretch to assume that this "other world" was a lot more technologically stunted. Sword and sorcery, more like.

  "Cars. Vehicles... carriages" I answered.

  "Carriages? But where are horses?"

  "They..." I began, trying to figure out a way I could explain the concept of an internal combustion engine to her. Screw it. ".... they run on magic. Not horses. We just call our magic technology."

  "Ah. Magic. Shashka sees. It makes sense." she said, nodding sagely at the concept. Whether she did actually understand or not, I couldn't tell. At least she'd accepted the answer. It was good enough.

  "Second question." I deadpanned, already planning out the best options to ask Shashka when it got to be my turn again.

  She tapped her claws against the blade, seeming to consider her words carefully.

  "Did Leech Jon meet Fey yet? Have they told Jon what's happened?"

  "That's two questions in one" I said, crossing my arms.

  "Shashka knows. Leech Jon tells Shashka what Fey told him, Shaska will do same, yes-yes?"

  Taking another drag off my cigarette, I shrugged. Good enough.

  "I've met and bartered with two Pucks already. All they've told me regarding what happened, is that our two worlds have melded. Become one. Won't say anything more than that."

  The dog-woman sighed and smacked her knuckles against the flamberge, frustration obvious in her expression.

  "Same for Shashka. Does not understand. No matter how many Stones Shashka offers, the Fey will say no more than that."

  She drew a hand, flicking it aggressively against her ears, in that way dogs do when they're antsy or itchy.

  "Shashka knows this Domain. She knows the hill, the ravine. She's hunted her for years. But brick buildings, metal buildings... cars... Hoo-Mans with strange clothes and stranger smells. Not here before earthquake. Is not make sense..."

  "Hold on" I interrupted her rant, not wanting to lose grip on this thread I'd just caught.

  "You said you know the hill, the ravine. Is the landscape exactly the same now as it was before this... melding of worlds?"

  Shashka blinked. "Yes. Is identical. Only change is buildings and cars and odd-smelling Soft-Skins."

  "Then I think I can explain it. Oil and water."

  The woman tilted her head, ears flicking adorably, confusion written on her face.

  "Ever put oil and water in the same glass? It's base property doesn't change, it's still a liquid, but it doesn't mix, not really. There's spots of oil in water and vice-versa. I think this is what it means. Both our worlds had the same general layout... landscape, mountains, hills, continents. But now, the different parts of both worlds exist simultaneously in a singular world. Elements of my world in yours. Water in oil. Elements your world in mine. Oil in water. Except... it's all one world now... does this make sense?"

  Shashka just stared at me for the longest time, ears flicking intermittently. Finally when she spoke, her words carried no more scorn. Just... admiration.

  "Oil and water. Shashka understands now. Perfectly. Is Leech Jon certain he has no Owl-kin blood in him? That was wise!"

  I almost guffawed. Wise wasn't a word I'd ever use to describe myself.

  "My turn. You used the term Domain. What does it mean?"

  Shashka rubbed at her chin, once again considering how to explain.

  "My world was as large as it was small. The Rot Mist coated everything. It is a sickness, a blanket of plague in which life cannot exist. Only the Rot, the Swarms and the infected. To enter the Mist is to die. Painfully. Corruption of the flesh. Infection. Bad way to go."

  She bent slightly, even an action so slight making her grimace, and drew a circle in the sheet of dust that blanketed the floor.

  "But within that blanket of Rot, pockets of purity remained. We called these pockets, Domains. Where life can thrive, for better or worse. Often for worse, since we have to contend with Sinborn to live there."

  She drew another circle, then another, distances varying greatly between them.

  "Some pockets are wild and untamed hunting grounds, like this one used to be. Others hold the fortresses and city-states of other kin. The Domain Shashka comes from holds the Irontree Bastion. Largest Beast-kin city... at least, Shashka thinks it largest. She's seen many Domains. Only the Mountain-kin Hold and Elven Sky-Piercer were greater."

  I wanted to interrupt her, ask about the "Mountain-kin" and "Elves", but I bit those questions back, focusing on something else. Something infinitely more crucial.

  "You said you've seen multiple Domains. How? If the Mist is impassable, then how do you travel from one Domain to another."

  Shashka cut a line between two circles.

  "Distance between one Domain and another can be as short as a few hours trek, or as long as a month's expedition. Is of no matter. Distance means nothing, because only way to travel from one Domain to another is to take the Underpath. The Roaming Dungeons. Survive that, and you reach closest Domain."

  I slowly drew a hand across my shorn scalp. Domains, Dungeons. What kind of screwed-up world had Shashka grown up in? The way she was speaking all of this, as if it was just par for the course and not absolute madness was almost mind-boggling.

  "Has it always been like this? For your world? Before the melding, I mean."

  She shrugged and nodded. "Not even Shashka's great-great-Grandmother can remember time when world did not have Mist. Stories say, once Mist of Rot did not exist but..."

  The sting of burning cut through as the cigarette's burning nub reached my fingers. I'd forgotten to even smoke, every part of me dedicated to listening and absorbing this information. Finally some clarity. I didn't even react, just put out the stump against cold concrete.

  "But...?"

  Shashka sighed and, for what it was worth, she looked genuinely apologetic as she patted the bandage across her stomach.

  "Shashka is sorry, but story is long. many hours long. And Shashka's time is... running out. She won't be able to tell entire story. And if she tries, the fever will set in. Rob Shashka of chance for good death. Hound-kin is to die by sword and claw. Not in their own piss and shit."

  I grimaced but said nothing. The reek of infection wafting from the woman was getting worse and her complexion was getting paler.

  "This Domain, it isn't your home, is it?"

  "No. Shashka is Hound-kin. She does as she is ordered. And her order was to hunt down the Lady Erzebeth de Coutlierre, Ba....."

  ".....Baronette of the Red Woods" I ended her sentence, lip curling into a snarl. "The bitch that made me like this."

  "Yes. Shashka had her scent. By the time she found the She-Leech, it was already dead, throat torn open, and Jon under her corpse, corrupted blood on his lips. Shashka respected that, would have sung a prayer for you as you traveled to your ancestors. But Jon was not dead, and night came. Jon moved. Not Hoo-Man anymore. But Leech. Sinborn of Pride”.

  Once more Shashka began to stroke the edge of her flamberge, eyes growing cold and savage.

  "Shashka considered it. Considered it greatly. Just killing Jon, then and there. Send Leech Jon to afterlife before Curse of Pride had chance to taint you. The ideea of a man tenacious enough to bite a She-Leech to death, being warped by that Curse... " she snarled and spat "...a sin. It would have been a sin, in and of itself, yes-yes-yes!"

  Part of me wanted to grab the machete again, feel it's comforting handle in my grip. But another part knew all to well that there was no need.

  "And why didn't you?"

  Sashka's hand stopped and she held my gaze. Like twin stars those eyes were.

  "Because Jon looked so... desperate... to survive. So ferocious. Uncompromising in his continuance. Humble in his desire. He didn't act like proud, arrogant immortal. He acted like Hound-kin. It was confusing."

  "So even though this is the second time I see you, I'm assuming you've been watching me since I got turned."

  She nodded.

  "Shashka's been watching. Waiting for time when Curse of Pride would warp Jon. Make him monster. Instead... only more confusion for Shaska, yes-yes. Instead of monster, Leech Jon showed only more Hound-kin behaviour. Helped weaker Hoo-Mans. Protected them from Envy's dogs. Carried them on back. Fought the Rot Tide to keep them safe."

  I couldn't help but chuckle.

  "Shit woman, I sure as hell didn't see you."

  The dog-girl's chuckle was a lilting trill that caressed my ears. For all the alien aspects of her, there was no denying that she was superb, in ways that far exceeded the mere physical.

  "Shashka knows how to stick to dark places. Be silent like shadow. Leech Jon is clumsy. Loud. Like newborn litter searching for mother's teat. No offense."

  "None taken." I answered quickly. She was right. Stealth wasn't my strong point.

  "Shashka supposes the entire idea of question for question has gone away quite quick, yes-yes?"

  "Yeah! Might as well. I'm too tired, too hurt and my head hurts too much for that whole cunning and subterfuge crap anyway."

  Again the trilling laugh sounded out, followed by the clank of her setting the flamberge back against the wall.

  "Good. Because Shashka is horrible at it. She listen to Owl-kin lessons, but it goes in one ear, out other."

  Had it not been for the sound of her heart-rate increasing, I would probably laughed more. Capitalized on the shift in mood. Maybe tried to get more info from the woman. Just because I didn't enjoy cunning, didn't mean I wasn't good at it. The slums teach you how to hustle a person, if nothing else. But the idea of hustling more info out of a dying woman sat like ash on my mouth.

  Plus. I still owed her. Didn't like owing people. Just one last question.

  "Why are you here though?"

  Shashka shrugged nonchalantly. Whether that indifference was real or a mask to keep up appearances, I couldn't tell.

  "Hound-kin are blessed with intuition. Instinct. We smell threat. Smell right and wrong. Shashka smelled something dangerous this way."

  "So... you smelled something dangerous, and came here willingly? Towards the damned danger?" I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

  "Shashka is Hound-kin. Is Hound-kin's duty to drive away threat. Shashka do her duty."

  The bottom dropped out of my jaw, leaving it swinging uselessly. This woman's way of thinking was so far out, it felt like my brain was going to bust a vein. What kind of half-baked...? No. The screw-up was mine, plain and simple. The way she was built, all curves and femininity, it'd tricked my eyes into seeing just another selfish, self-serving human. Just like every other damned human, including myself, despite not being human no more.

  But she was wired different. Hound. And the one thing that always stuck in your gut about dogs was that ride-or-die loyalty. Yeah, Shashka's words might've sounded like they came from another planet, but to her, it was just the simple truth. She sniffed trouble. She came gunning for it. End of story. And bless her heart, I couldn't help but envy such a simple code.

  "What about Leech Jon? Why is he here?"

  I opened the straps to my rucksack and began rummaging through it.

  "Got a deal with some people. Those big metal horseless carriages outside, I'm here to take them. In return I get to keep one." I muttered, finally grabbing hold of the thing I'd been searching. The tiny pouch filled with Aether Stones.

  "What is Leech Jon doing?" she asked, craning her neck to check.

  "Paying off a debt. You saved my life. I save yours. Simple as that. Puck!!!"

  With a silent ripple in the air, the Fey materialized between us. Lanky as a scarecrow in a bespoke suit, he stooped at the waist, the low ceiling no match for his unnatural height. Coins and trinkets shimmered within the fabric of his coat, making him look like some kind of elegant, long-limbed insect playing dress-up.

  “Mmmmyyeeeees?” he crooned, his fingers drumming a soft rapping against each other, that infuriatingly knowing tone dripping from every syllable.

  Ignoring the Fey’s usual theatrics and keeping my gaze locked on Shashka’s still form, I cut the crap. “Health Poultices. You got any?”

  “Ah, but of course, my dear boy. And what vintage of restorative are we seeking?”

  I fought the urge to grind my teeth. Naturally, the merchant bastard tiered his damn healing potions. Pointing a thumb at Shashka, whose wide, surprised eyes flickered between us, I said flatly, “Whatever fixes that.”

  Puck’s head swiveled a full 180 degrees before snapping back to me. “Hmmm, yes, decidedly unpleasant. The damage… far too extensive for a Lesser draught. Even a Greater would languish for hours against such grievous…”

  “Spit it out,” I snarled, my patience wearing thinner than glass.

  A wet chuckle escaped Puck’s lips. “Oh my, aren’t we a prickly pear today. Very well then…” He extended a hand, a flick of his wrist, and a round flask appeared as if conjured from the air. No bigger than a kid’s fist, it sloshed with a cloudy burgundy liquid, sealed tight with wax. For a heartbeat, my gums prickled at the blood-like hue, but the feeling vanished as quickly as it came. Probably just some fermented swamp weed. or whatever eldritch soup Fey cooked up to knit wounds closed. Either way, not blood.

  “A Medium Grade Poultice is the bare minimum I would prescribe. A steal, I assure you, at a mere fifteen Aether Stones.”

  Without a word, I upended the pouch onto the grimy floor, the small, dull gleam of Aether Stones scattering across the concrete. I began to count out fifteen.

  “Ooooh? It appears our young friend has been tangling with Orcs. Those larger specimens are worth three of the smaller variety. Much… purer,” Puck purred, and I could practically taste the avarice on his breath.

  “What is Leech Jon doing?” Shashka mumbled, her gaze darting from the flask to me, suspicion clouding her features.

  “Being a damned idiot, most likely. But I’m getting used to it,” I deadpanned, ignoring another of Puck’s irritating little laughs.

  I separated the fifteen smaller stones, returning the larger ones to my bag. “Fifteen for the Medium Grade.”

  Puck gave a curt nod. “Fifteen Aether Stones for one Medium Grade Poultice,” he echoed, confirming the transaction. With a flourish of his unnaturally long arm, he swept up the stones. “A pleasure as always, dear boy,” he added, holding out the flask.

  I just jerked my chin towards Shashka.

  With an indifferent shrug, Puck glided over and gently placed the poultice in front of the still bewildered dog-girl.

  “And will there be anything else?” Puck asked, tucking the shards into his breast pocket with a satisfied pat.

  “Nope. That’s it.”

  “Oh? Are you quite certain? No cascade of infuriating inquiries? No tedious soliloquies?” Puck feigned disappointment.

  “Negative,” I replied flatly.

  “Finally. Every transaction with you ‘Other-worlders’ devolves into either philosophical debates or relentless interrogation.”

  “Other-worlders?” I asked, one eyebrow arching.

  Puck waved a dismissive hand. “It’s the moniker we Fey have adopted for your kind. Since the… merging. Simplifies the bookkeeping, you see.”

  “Wouldn’t that make you an Other-worlder in my eyes, then?”

  “Technically correct. But we coined the term first. Toodles!” Puck chirped, and vanished into thin air before I could even formulate a sarcastic retort. I shook my head, a wry chuckle escaping my lips.

  “Ah-uhmm…?” Shashka’s hesitant voice pulled me back. “Is… why?” she stammered, her long, furred ears twitching nervously.

  “Because I owe you one for saving my life. And I hate owing people,” I answered, injecting as much nonchalance as I could muster. Truth was, I didn’t have a clear reason myself. It just felt… right. I pushed myself to my feet, a plan beginning to solidify in my mind, the details clicking into place like tumblers in a lock. Maybe this sliver of good karma could actually work. It could. Probably.

  “What is Leech Jon doing?”

  “Preparing. I’m going to kill that damn Minotaur and take those APCs, just like I said.”

  Shashka shook her head violently, as if trying to dislodge the words from her ears. “But Healing Poultice will take many hours. If Leech Jon wishes to fight together then…”

  “I’m going solo.”

  “Wait, what? No, Leech Jon cannot,” she snapped, the measured tone in her voice finally cracking.

  “Watch me…” I started, only to be cut off by her slightly exasperated tone.

  “No, no, Shashka means Leech Jon cannot physically.” She extended her arms, displaying the intricate black tattoos that snaked across her skin. Other things were also on display, but I pointedly ignored them, even as a flush crept up my neck. “Does Jon see markings? These are Class Markings. Shashka is Rank Seven Warrior Class. A Sinborn of Wrath requires at least three Rank Ten Class-Holders for even a chance of victory.”

  “But I’m a Sinborn too, right?”

  “Yes. And Sinborn of Pride are strong. But their strength grows with age. Leech Jon is fledgeling. Stronger than Soft-Skins, yes, but right now, even a fully healed Shashka could defeat you. Jon is fledgeling and… Jon also has no knowledge of weapon combat. From what Shashka has seen, Jon is amateur, swings axe like splitting logs… Shashka is sorry to say this to Jon’s face.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. You’re not wrong. My melee skills are… enthusiastic. Mostly, I’ve just been relying on being faster, stronger, and more stubborn than the other guy.”

  Shashka nodded emphatically, relief washing over her features. “Then Jon understands? A Sinborn of Wrath is war incarnate. Pure power and innate technique. Jon will not be able to win in a fight…”

  "Little Puck, I need two of those bags" I interrupted, holding a hand out. A pop, a flash of white fur and they were both in the palm of my hand. Two bags. Seemed like a waste, but it'd be enough to put my healing factor into hyper-drive and get me back to one hundred.

  “I’m not going to fight it. I’m going to kill it,” I hissed, the venom in my voice a low snarl as I continued my preparations. “Drink that potion and keep your face near a window. Breathing’s going to get rough soon.”

  Shashka’s mouth snapped shut, her head tilting in confusion. “Shashka… does not understand.”

  “Last time I tangled with that thing, I had to go toe-to-toe. Big mistake. That’s what heroes do. But I’m no hero, Shashka. I’m a goddamn gutter-rat. A bastard. So I’m going to fight like one.”