The gun dug into her gut, the dull pressure mixing with a sharp fear that liquidated her innards.
"Gimme your purse," the man said, eyes bloodshot and raving. His breath stunk of beer, and red scabs dotted his bulging veins. Another insistent shove of his gun accompanied his demand, and he bared his rotten teeth in a snarl.
Priscilla shrank back against the wall, breath coming quick, burning. Terror was a garrote, choking off words and reason and the ability to think of anything beyond oh, Elimine, why did I set foot in this part of town? Back in the safety of her posh Etrurian manor, seeking her long-lost brother felt like a storybook quest. It sounded so rational and noble when she spoke of it to Erk, to her adoptive father, to her educated school friends with their cardigan sweaters and liberal politics. Looking at the man's mangy stubble and rabid dog eyes, she realized what a childish idiot she was. She only prayed that she would live to become smarter.
"Perhaps we can discuss this in a rational manner?" she tried, words coming out like the last chirp of a bird in a snake's coils. Erk should have been there, sleek little pistol cradled in his delicate scholar's hands, protecting her as he promised he would. He'd been lost somewhere in the crowds, though, leaving her so terribly alone, a beast of a gun trained on her.
Someone burst out of the shadows like an alley cat, and for one wild second Priscilla thought it was Erk, uptight, quiet, beautiful Erk. But this boy was older, ponytailed and clutching a long-bladed hunting knife, and he tackled her assailant around the middle with a recklessness that Erk would never show. The boy was all elbows and eyes and too-large clothes, but the thug went down hard, trying to bring his gun to bear. The knife's handle came down on his knuckles once-twice-thrice, until the man's grip on the weapon loosened, blood on both of their hands. The boy kicked the gun out of the way without a second thought, sending it skittering off into the corner, his free hand fisted in the man's greasy hair and his knife cutting a thin red line into his throat.
He was thrown off, hitting the ground and rolling up onto all fours as the man drew to his feet, pulling a flick knife out of nowhere. The boy's hand darted out, knife cutting a lightning-arc and splitting open the man's trouser leg in a curve of blood. He collapsed, a rumble of curses on his lips. His blade caught the boy's face, shallow and sloppy and drawing a catscratch of a wound. The kid was on his back again in second, hands wrapped around his neck and bearing him to the ground. Priscilla couldn't run without stepping over the snarling combatants, and she didn't dare intervene for fear of the blades in their hands. She pressed against the wall and willed herself to disappear, silently cheering on the wild boy that struck like savage justice.
He took a punch to the face that would have dropped an ox, and still that little curved hunting knife of his darted like a striking snake. It missed the man's eye by a breath, cutting hard down his cheek and reducing his ear to bloodied tatters, and the boy took a hard kick to the groin in retaliation. He dropped back with a high animal whine, scrambling off to the wall. The man lunged forward, only his cut hamstring slowing him, and his knife caught on the boy's coat, tearing a bloody ragged line. The boy sprang forward and knocked him over, his fingers fish-hooked in the man's mouth and pulling hard enough that skin tore, his knife hand held firmly by his opponent. A fist slammed again and again into his gut, and the boy bit and snarled and kicked out.
They rolled over and over each other, a mess of limbs and howls and stark red blood. They stilled suddenly, the boy's quivering knife buried to the hilt in the mugger's chest, and he withdrew it with a horrible sucking squelch. The man crumpled, hands clutching at his chest. Ghosts of indrawn breaths taunted him, while the boy clawed to his feet, stance low and shaky, a building in an earthquake.
He swore and scrambled into a cluster of trash cans, digging out the forgotten gun. He flicked on the safety and stuffed it into a pocket, moving back to the fresh corpse. The brute's wallet disappeared into his pockets, as did the knife.
"Better split," he said in a rickety voice, and it took Priscilla a startled second to realize he was talking to her.
He spit out a mouthful of blood and wiped his face with the back of one sleeve, doing little more than smearing the dirt and gore. His hunting-knife slid into a leather sheath at his hip and he flashed his teeth in an off-kilter smile.
"Cops won't be around here for a while, but we've got to go. You from around here?" he asked, cocking his head to the side in a childish way that jarred with his animal violence. "No? I didn't think so. Look too well-off for a place like this."
She didn't budge from her position against the wall. Priscilla didn't think much better of the half-feral boy than she did of the dead mugger. His nose sat crookedly on his face, like it had been broken a dozen times; the fast-forming black bruises from the fight overlaid faded ones from brawls past, and the shallow cuts along his face and arms crossed white scars and messy scabs. His clothes had been patched more times than she could count, and no matter how careful the sewing, the lines showed between the unsavory stains. He wore the sort of oversized, hooded duffel coat that flipped the bird at cold and rain, with a neckerchief and thick hemp fisherman trousers over boots that looked like they'd been lifted from a construction worker some years past.
"What's the matter? I'm not gonna bite, I promise," he said, taking a step towards her. "I'm Sacaen, so you know I'm tellin' the truth, okay? We've just gotta go, or it'll be trouble, trust me."
She hesitantly took a step, then another, and then she was walking onto the streets at the heels of the strange savage boy with the knife.
"I'm Priscilla," she said quietly. "I…thank you for helping me."
"It's justice," he said, shrugging. His slanted eyes were unnaturally bright against the dirty backdrop of his scratched face. "Hard justice, yeah, painful as hell, but this is Kutolah land and we don't tolerate that kinda guy. You shouldn't be out here alone, anyway. You're gonna get hurt."
"I'm a little lost," she said uncomfortably. She didn't mention that she'd had a companion, a shy boy with glasses and a handgun, or that she'd lost him to Elimine only knows where. Worry for him churned her gut—if she had gotten into trouble, she couldn't imagine how frail, bookish Erk was doing. But instead of watching out for each other, she was walking with a dangerous boy, not dangerous like a smoker in leather, a "bad boy" that Daddy wouldn't approve of, but dangerous like stringy muscle and a bloodied weapon and poverty, raised on laws passed down by curses and gunpowder.
"I figured. It's all right, we'll get you outta here. After all, I'm Guy of the Kutolah," he said, looking left and right and watching every corner of the city with his overlarge green eyes. "Hope I didn't scare you too badly, but I'd really rather you didn't get hurt or anything. This place is kinda a shithole."
Priscilla didn't know if he'd been named Guy or if he'd just been called that by negligent parents, "you guy," unnamed, untended, unloved. His huge coat couldn't hide his excessive skinniness, and he walked the streets like a hunter walked the savannah, knowing every creature and danger there and how to deal with it. A true urban outdoorsman, the sort her adoptive father disdained and pitied, equal parts miserable and vicious. At the very least, he held onto a tattered sort of honor, and until she could find Erk, she was loathe to abandon him. The human vermin melted back away at the sight of Guy, as if he or his fierce warrior-people had reputation enough to convince them to seek easier victims.
"You're hurt," she said, swallowing her questions. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I'm fine. That thug didn't even break anything," he said with an off-center smile of reassurance. "I'm keeping Kutolah land honest and safe, right?"
She didn't mention the stolen wallet and gun in his pocket. There was nothing honest about murdering a man to begin with, dispassionately plunging a knife into his chest and rifling through his belongings like a carrion crow. All the same, Guy clearly believed his own words with a wild vigilantism. He believed them enough to risk his life for Priscilla's sake, and so she choked down her words and nodded, mouth a tight scared line.
"Mind if I ask what the hell you're doing out here anyway?" he questioned, cocking his head to the side, looking past her at the twisted metal fire escapes and the ragged figures that perched upon them. She moved to stuff her hands in her sweater pockets, and his eyes flickered over, tense and wary. His right hand hovered obsessively near his hip—Priscilla had no doubt that his knife would jump into his grasp in the time it would take her to blink.
"I'm looking for my brother," she said simply. She had a tip-off that he was in the area, and a pocket-sized album of faded old photos in her purse. Priscilla had lain awake staring at those photos, memorizing the cut of her brother's jaw and his aristocratic nose until she was sure she would recognize him anywhere, even on the streets haunted with the specters of others' revolutions.
"Is he here?" he asked, earnest and quizzical. "Father Sky, did I leave 'em back there?"
He turned back, posture dipping into that low brawler's stance, a sprinter's stance, hand on his blade.
"No, he's…absent. Erk and I couldn't—oh, Erk," she murmured, shaking her head. "He should be heading back to the public transit station to wait for me. I need to get there and find him…I'm sorry," she stammered. Priscilla took a deep breath, collected herself, and said, "I need to go. He is undoubtedly worried senseless. Thank you for your help."
"You think he's gonna be okay?" he asked, all chivalry and concern, practical and knowing the rules of his concrete wilderness.
"He's armed," Priscilla said, knowing full well that it wasn't an answer. The more she thought about it, the more likely it was that Erk was still scouring the streets, throat hoarse from calling her name. He was only a little taller than she was and weighed a hundred ten pounds with his boots on, much like Guy, but Erk didn't have the benefit of a lifetime's worth of street smarts or the anonymity of rags and scars.
"So was the guy I ganked. You types always have mobiles on you, right? I really don't want to d-dig your friend outta an alley or something."
Only the wobble in his voice broke his perfect tough image. For an instant, he was wide eyes and soft cheeks and she realized he couldn't be very much older than her at all. He should have been in school, although the government didn't keep up with filthy street urchins, and mandatory attendance didn't matter if he wasn't in the books to begin with.
Her phone was in her hand after a momentary battle with her cavernous bag—she had six voicemails and twice that many missed calls, all of them from Erk. It didn't get off more than one ring before his familiar voice answered in a worried, quick, "Hello?"
She didn't manage more than a few words before he cut her off, half-sobbing with relief:
"Priscilla, I was so worried, I didn't know where you'd gone, I looked and looked and thank Elimine you're all right, this is not a good part of town, I don't know what I'd do—"
"Erk! Erk, I'm okay. I'll tell you about it when we get back. We need to get going—you were right, this was a waste of time, let's just get out of here."
"How far are you from the MERT?"
"About five minutes. I didn't go too far. I'll wait for you there, okay?"
"All right," he said, words drawn out long and doubtful. "I'm back on Lorca, but the maps assured me that I can take a side street and get there, likely before you will. I'll be right on the benches by the turnstiles, okay?"
"Okay, that will be fine. I'm glad you're all right."
"I could say the same to you," he replied, his usual sarcastic tone muted by genuine concern.
"I know. I'm sorry, really. I'll be right there. Good bye."
"Farewell."
She slipped the phone securely into her pocket, where she wouldn't miss it if it went off. Guy watched her with a mix of envy and pity, as if wondering how she'd survived as long as she had.
"Thank you so much for your help," she said again.
"Any Kutolah man worthy of the name would," he said, standing a little taller. "We're not the same as those Ganelon dogs out there, right? We're the good guys."
"Right," she murmured, watching the way he loped through the streets, just far enough ahead of her to lead the way. The Sacaens were barbarians; she'd always been taught that, although the schools sugar-coated the lessons and spoke of how sad it was that such a group could exist under the light of Lycia and Etruria's economy and education. For the most part, they couldn't read, and they still killed animals and killed each other and refused to bend to Etrurian law.
Looking at Guy's easy confidence as they turned into the Metro-Elibe Rail Transit building, she wondered if all of his people were like him, or if he was just an anomalous vigilante in the midst of vicious criminals. It struck an uncomfortable chord in her, and she was glad for the distraction provided by the station.
She caught sight of Erk the instant she walked through the doors, his red corduroy sport coat easily the nicest article of clothing the station had seen in days. He didn't rush to her or sweep her into a hug, although she almost wished he would, overwhelmed by the familiarity of his sharp face and dark owl eyes. He ran a hand nervously through his hair and fiddled with his glasses, smiling that stiff photograph-smile that he reserved for when stress nearly crushed his thin frame.
His eyes flickered to Guy, and he visibly started. He fumbled for a moment under his coat, and suddenly his little handgun was in his grasp.
"What do you want?" he asked, clipped and harsh and cool as only Erk could be.
Guy's knife was in his hand in a second, dropping into a fighter's crouch, eyes narrowed and wary. She could see both him and Erk gauging the distance between them, one bound, two, just far enough that Erk could get a shot off. Guy's legs coiled under him, and Erk's finger tightened on the trigger, the barrel lined up with Guy's chest. Heads turned, although they turned away just as quickly; it wouldn't be the first time blood had been shed in the MERT station, and no one wanted to get involved in anyone else's business.
"Stop it! Erk, he's fine, really, dear," she said, smiling in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. He nodded, but didn't lower his weapon or lighten up on his scowl. Guy's eyes darted to her as if he expected her to order Erk to shoot at any moment, wild and savage, a cornered animal.
"Guy, thank you very, very much for your help. Truly, I don't know what I would've done without you," she continued, speaking low and soft and slow.
She fished in her purse, digging out a handful of silver coins. Erk's eyes narrowed suspiciously, a pink adrenaline flush painted across his cheeks, chest rising and falling with an avian speed.
"Here…I know this isn't much, but I'd like you to—"
"I don't take charity," Guy said, holstering his knife. "And before you ask, nah, you can't owe me a favor, either. I'm through with favors, the tricky little bastards. Just consider it a bit of good old social justice, all right?"
"Priscilla, what is going on?" Erk demanded.
She waved him off, holding out a hand to shake. Guy took it, palm gummed with dirt and blood, calloused and long-nailed. He still wore that silly crooked smile on his face.
"If you won't take charity, at least allow me to treat your injuries. I've some small knowledge of medicine," she said. In truth, it only amounted to a course she'd taken over the summer, but she still had the compact first aid kit in her purse, and that would be good enough. Guy eyed it suspiciously as she took it out, but he nodded and deigned to stand still, offering no protest.
"Priscilla?" Erk asked.
"Calm down," she said, squeezing a bit of antiseptic onto a cotton swab. "This might sting a little, okay?"
Guy bore the pain without flinching, and in due time he looked a little better for the treatment. Bandages patched his cuts, and he likely wouldn't get infected, which was the most she could offer him.
"Thanks," he said, reverently touching the medical tape on his cheek. "Though it really wasn't important…You're kinda a strange girl, Priscilla."
Erk's eyes dug, silent and insistent, into the both of them. He was too well-bred and too used to taking orders from her to question any further, but his brow furrowed and his posture was combative, five foot six and filled with fierce brotherly protectiveness. She smiled at him again, trying to wordlessly talk him down, her eyes tracing a firefly-dance between the two of them.
Guy melted into the crowd, a lion into savannah grass, disappearing before she could even really say farewell.
Priscilla didn't realize she was shaking until Erk pulled her into a hug. His fingers dug with needy reassurance into her sweater, his skin burning to the touch. She buried her head in the crook between his thin neck and shoulder, adrenaline seeping out of her and leaving her sagging against him. Hugging Erk was like hugging a sawtooth mixer, but he was warm and stroked her hair with one thumb, grip strong and tight. With the dirty tiled station and dusty electric lights, it felt like the two of them stood on the brink of post-apocalyptic desolation, the only familiarity the soft lavender-and-oakmoss smell of Erk's cologne and the way his wire-rimmed glasses slipped down his face.
"Come on," he whispered. "Let's get home."
"Okay," she said, giving him a squeeze of reassurance.
He stubbornly held onto her hand as they pushed through the turnstiles and through the double doors of the old railcar, as if to make up for getting separated in the first place. Erk shepherded her to an empty seat near the end, standing at the rail beside her, like a powerful bodyguard and not her sickly childhood friend. He held the pole with one hand, staring suspiciously at the slender scar-faced man who gripped it several feet above him.
"Erk," Priscilla spoke as the train rumbled into motion. "When we get back home, could you do me a favor?"
"Certainly," he promised.
"…I'd like you to teach me how to fire a gun."
She saw Guy again on the news, one o'clock in the morning and three years later. He still wore the same ratty jacket, and open defiance blazed in his slanted eyes, even if his jaw had grown a little stronger, his shoulders a little broader, his expression a little sadder as he looked over his handcuffed wrists at the cameras pointed at him like an animal at the zoo.
"Six young men were arrested today as alleged members of a gang that killed Araphenian policemen. Video evidence depicts these men—"
She turned the television off and took another burning sip of her cocoa. Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Erk's familiar name and one text message.
Did you see the news tonight?
She didn't reply.