First draft’s done!

Hey guys,

For those who missed the Facebook post the first draft to Hollow’s Heist is finished! I typed “The End,” at 11:27pm last Saturday the 22nd. Tuesday was the deadline to turn the manuscript in.

So know that the book’s done, (although needs heavy revising) I’d like to talk about it, and maybe give a snippet of the first chapter to whet your appetite.

The Plot

In a steampunk city, Narcopolis, the greatest assassin, Psyche Bates, must steal an ice phoenix to escape her thieves’ guild, bent on her eternal undeath and power over life and death.

Welcome to Narcopolis

Narcopolis is city ravaged by undeath, ancient Machina technology and Myst, mysterious living magic cursing the land after centuries of war.

The biggest draw to the city is its escapism. Wealth, pleasure, drugs, the city promises it all. And those lucky enough or perhaps unlucky escape death. They become hollows.

The magic of undeath is the worst kept secret of Narcopolis and its biggest obscene lure.

How can anyone live again? Come and see. What happens to those who come back? Come inside. Just mind the Slip-rot and ghouls. The Restless Watch doesn’t care for trouble. They have too much on their hands.

Crime holds the city to its knees and shackles her. Luckily for the crime, she’s kinky like that. Six districts climb fortify the haven from the Bush. Each has a drop of poison brewing.

The Guilds

The regal seraphs are proud feyra elves. They run a respectable business with ties to Senate. None would dare cross the Feyra Godmother.

Mechanical tech rats and Diggers (scalpers of bones and parts) known as the 38’s can’t let the past stay buried. Whether it’s excavation below the grand prison arena, Broken Arrow, or protecting prehistoric cathedrals, they don’t take their gears ground lightly.

Not to mention the Pride, a loose weave of mutant animal hybrids feeding on carnal desires of tourists. The pride runs the wharf and travelers must be wary to lose more than their wallets. Pride brew numbs the mind and soul of all its troubles. They toss logs to the fire, keeping the never-ending party going. After all, the city never rests, even in death. What’s a little fun without risk?

This is only a taste. Many others plot the fall of the common man. One must be careful to watch their back, or you might even find you’re losing yourself. Greater evils reign here than even guilds. Don’t mention Krocutas and Succubae after dark.

The Bush

Outside the neon myst lights and skyscrapers lies the Bush. A barren landscape cursed by Myst, the wild untamed magic that rises from the ground like fog. Strange creatures roam this land and fewer brave it alone.

Krocuta- Red eyed-Hyena men from the Devil steppes beyond the Bush. They roam as tribal scavengers and feed on the bones of men. Their brutish strength is legendary. Some even have intermarried Succubae for Shapeshifting powers. 

Tigrocs- Aquatic crocodile-Tigers lurk beneath the oil spilled creek bed. Any Krocuta or Bush-walker worth his salt can tell you they are not to be trifled with. Tigrocs lurk be the murky iridescent streams and strike without warning. A single bite from their iron jaws and there is no escape.

Scowls- stuffy birds favored by elves. These owls have bred with skunks and have explosive personalities. Their musk changes as their mood. Watch they don’t lose their temper or it may blow up in your face. Rumor has it their happiness can cure even the deadliest diseases. It’s too bad they never smile.

Bovinids- Eight-legged- Cattle spiders prized by demons for their milk. The females are harmless. It’s the bulls you need to fear. Bounties on bulls nearly wiped out the species, but a few elf tamers and Bush walkers relearned the art of bull riding.

Would you risk death for treasure and safety elsewhere? It may not be as real as carnival magic. Or would you run to the gleaming lights hoping to better your luck—this time? This is the citizen’s plight.

But Narcopolis ain’t all bad. Despite the wrecked land, despite the crime and bloodshed, citizens are content. Shelter together beats wandering alone by far. Other cities of the country may not be so welcoming.

The Belladonna

Legends are eternal in Narcopolis. One such is legend is of the Lady Belladonna Bates, a master assassin and poisoner. She’s a changeling, mutant animal hybrid, without a name. Even her wanted alias is not spoken lightly.

The posters list her height, weight, eye color, etc. All but her weight, she was proud of.

But even these are shaky on the deeds. The girl’s a ghost.

Little does the city know her next biggest secret. The Past never stays dead. Can she escape it?

ROUGH Teaser

Please note this in the rough stages and hasn’t been professionally edited, nor does it represent the final product. Reader discretion is advised as it is suited for more mature audiences.

CHAPTER ONE – THE JOB

It was dark inside the mask.

Breathe in. Breathe out. The changeling’s heart raced. She swore if she died it’d be from suffocation first. Her knees shook, and rabbit skin gloves collected sweat. The moisture would ruin them, she thought, but with the cold front moving in, it wouldn’t matter. The grey clouds hovered in thick cobalt anvils. It would be one heck of a storm.

The changeling tucked her overcoat tight. With her corset underneath, her chest squeezed at each breath, but her wings were best hidden. Narcopolis never welcomed Changelings. Not much of anywhere, really. All but the underworld. Yes, the mutant peoples like her thrived there. Sometimes, the girl swore it spoke to her. Other times she wished it didn’t.

The humidity frizzled her fur and fogged her goggles. Her leather boots clacked against the cobblestone at the heel as she ducked into the alleys. Storm winds blew and crashed against posters, flapping them in the wind.

The changeling unscrewed the lens of her plague mask. A poster tore crashing her in the chest. A tiny creature stirred in her jacket and peered its head out of the collar. Its beady eyes blinked with a yawn. Coarse hair steamed down in its back in silky brown and white bands with a fluffy tail.

The rodent chirped, resembling a rat in shrunken nature, but more mink or ferret in appearance. A shrink rat, so to speak.

The shrink rat squeaked, sizing the poster to his changeling master.

Wanted: Lady “Belladonna Bates”

Appearance: Height 5’6’’, Female, scrawny build weight about hundred pounds.

Defining features: Two bat-like wings and face, dark eyes, pointed ears and snout, pasty white hair.

Crimes: Twelves counts of grand theft, six cases of murder and espionage against the crown, and assaulting an officer of the law.

Reward: 6,000 Gold for information leading to an arrest.

For more information, please contact your local Undying Watch.

Together, death is but a memory!

The lady giggled. “Not too shabby. Assaulting an officer, that’s a new one. I’d hardly call a kiss assault, though. Might need more poison in my gloss.”

The shrink rat chimed in.

“Yeah, Filch, the artist caught my good side, didn’t he?” Bates whistled. “I even lost ten pounds.”

Filch rolled his eyes.

“Guess, Ol’ Restless are running scared, added another thousand to my bounty. They’re desperate,” said Bates.

Filch whined, nipping her fingers. Bates crumpled the poster and stuck it away. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be behind us soon.”

Filch climbed onto her shoulder. His narrow body wormed and wriggled like a wet noodle. He squeaked at her, crossing his tiny paws.

Lady Belladonna leaned against the brick wall. “Yes, Filch. Last Job, promise. For real this time, Sugar. I’m tired of living this lie. Too dangerous.”

Filch stood on his hind legs and extended his paw. Belladonna smiled. She pinkie swore.

A trash can clanged and made them jump. From the shadows, a lady tall and thin emerged in a cloak. A rapier fastened to her waist. Peach-petal cheeks contrasted with her silvery skin, a rarity of the savanna. Strands of tawny hair jutted from the edges of her hood. Her eyes narrowed in green slits, whether from scolding her or from feyra descent, Bates could never tell.

“You’re late,” the elf shot.

Bates held her chest. “Don’t do that.” Her heart raced again. “I’m anxious enough as it is.”

“Well, next time don’t keep your Handler waiting. Target’s on the move.”

Bates nodded. “Sorry, Iví. Next time—” She bit her lip, not realizing what she’d said. There’d never be a next time.

Iví pushed a dumpster along the wall. “Save it. If you want your paycheck, Psyche Bates, you’ll climb that ladder and help me scope this hit. You got that?” She gestured to the metal ladder to the roof. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

Psyche tucked her arms behind her back. “I told you. I’m done. The scene’s too hot, and I wanna leave the guild, settle down.”

Iví pointed a finger in her face. “Enough. Second-story work, up the ladder now.”

Psyche stepped to the dumpster, looked up the ladder, and gulped. “Way up there?”

Iví crossed her arms. “Did I stutter, changeling? We’re on the clock. Or is the eligible Lady Belladonna getting cold feet? Lover boy’s waiting. Chop-chop.”

Psyche nodded. The ladder towered, belittling her in an impressive sense of smallest. Her goggles gave her tunnel vision. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, suppressing her fear the best she could.

Psyche reassured herself, climbing the ladder. She’d get the money, a new name, meet Logan, and they’d run away together. They’d start that family, he whispered to her in the stillness of the Bush. Then finally, she’d be free to choose her own life. Be who she wanted to be, not some feared cult prodigy. No more lies.

Iví followed beneath her. Thunder rumbled. Mud crumbled from Psyche’s boots.

Her handler groaned. “For heaven’s sake, Psyche. Wipe your feet.

“Sorry.”

“How did you get this much clay from the sewers?”

Psyche pulled at her collar and helped her up. “Working hard, I guess.” She laughed nervously.

Her boss shook her head unamused. “You’ve always been a terrible liar. Mark my words, Psyche. You’re making a mistake. What’s rule number one again?”

Psyche sighed. Here we go again, she thought. “No one leaves the guild.”

“No one leaves the guild,” Iví exclaimed. She cupped her ear. “Tell me, one more time?”

Psyche ignored her and leaned on the balcony of the building. Luckily, the haze dulled the cityscape. Maybe she’d loved the view, but her stomach, on the other hand, begged to differ. Heights never sat well with her. She could never remember why.

Hooves clacked on the streets below. Both women ducked behind the wall on the rooftop.

Iví pulled a spyglass at a carriage. A small band carried wooden crates around the back of a restaurant, Club Kitfo. “Target sighted. The hit’s on the move. Objective one: steal the ruby. Objective two,”

“Ice the boss-man,” said Psyche.

“Good girl, keep your mask on and you’ll do fine.”

Psyche took a deep breath. The goggles of her mask fogged again. Psyche sighed. Iví pulled a handkerchief and wiped the lenses like a caring mother.

“Thank you.”

Iví patted her shoulder. “Good luck, babe.”

Psyche stood up and turned back. She would miss Iví. No handler stood up for her like she had, and she almost hated to leave her behind. What would the guild do to her?

Iví seemed to have a plan. In the past, none of them ever came clear at first. Psyche supposed that was the life of a handler. They gave work and made connections. Sooner or later, they learn how to take care of themselves. But what about Rule number two: never grow attached? Did Iví really believe that?

Psyche exhaled. Either way, she herself never had been one for rules either.

Her corset squeezed her waist as she leapt from roof to roof. Iví had taught her how to tumble, leaving her knees in to avoid hard falls. Even though these were little in comparison, her movements felt stiff, constricted. She botched a couple jumps, earning a few bruises. Not her best work.

Her wings itched against her fur. How she wished she could flair them open, tearing through her disguise. Let them stare, she’d rather die comfortable. Not like her gimp wings did her any good anyway.

She rounded the block. A busboy threw a heavy sack into the dumpster out the back door. Too obvious, she thought. This is a front for the Blood Weevil Syndicate. They’d expect that route from me.

A hefty bouncer guarded the entrance. Red velvet ropes spiraled in a line of patrons out the door. Jazzy overtones hummed even outside the joint.

Her disguise leant itself to a conversative doctor. How was she supposed to sneak in here?

All the windows seemed on the second floor. Too far to jump. The last thing she needed was to pry broken glass from her shoulder… again.

She took a place in line behind the velvet ropes. Iví facepalmed from afar. Psyche shrugged. She’d heard rumors of an escort ring around the district. It was time to put those rumors to the test.

The bouncer addressed her. “Name?”

“Shirley Beatle,” Psyche lied.

The man flipped through his clipboard. “I don’t see you on the list.”

Psyche leaned in. “That’s because I’m auditioning. Heard you boys needed entertainment. Boss wanted a taste in private.”

“Which one?”

Psyche bit her lip. Crap. “Look. I won’t name names. My client’s business is his own.”

The bouncer nodded. His fist knocked twice on the metal door. His eyes never left Psyche. Deep breaths. No way they’re onto you yet.

“Gotta another Changeling for you. Says she has an audition. Escort her to you-know-who.”

The door slid open as Psyche gulped. The man stood muscular, toned, but by no means bulky or bulging. Loose stitches sewed one eye shut. The other squinted in scrutiny. In Narcopolis, one eye signified the mark of a traitor.

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her inside. His nails cut into her wrist. Oh no, what have I said. Psyche did her best to remain calm. Should she breathe too hard, the lenses would fog.

Inside, sparse round tables greeted the entrance. Dim candles flickered over maddeningly elegant tablecloths. Not the club she expected.

Silver chandeliers lit the interior proper. Mirrors paralleled the walls. Fine nobles lounged in red leather booths with questionable company and exchanged briefcases of unspoiled secrets. White suited servers juggled cocktails behind the bar. And on the center stage a Lynx Changeling purred lullingly soft, seductive melodies like a running river to a salivating crowd. They gaped around her platform, eating out her paws, the class and crass alike. Fuchsia tinted lanterns and rose petals crowned her piano.

The man yanked Psyche. “Keep moving, trash.” The man’s grip tightened.

“Easy,” said Psyche.

Filch growled beneath her coat. The bouncer eyed her uneasily.

“Stomachache,” Psyche said, feigning a laugh. “Like butterflies before a show.”

The man ignored her, muttering to himself. “They always love to talk.” He opened a door across from the bar and let go of her arm. Psyche saw a staircase but couldn’t make out the bottom.

“In.”

“Don’t you have a light?” She asked.

He shook his head.

Before Psyche could change tactics, he shoved her. She tumbled end over end down the stairs. The splintered steps chewed her flesh—her head crashing against the cinderblock of the basement wall.

Her goggles cracked, and the world spun. The man’s steps thumped after her. She rolled and turned to face him. He held her shoulders, forcing her to sit on the landing. “You’re a fighter. I think I’m gonna like you.

Psyche reached for her knife, and he kneed her in ribs. Filch squeaked and her blade tumbled into the dark.

He lifted her chin. Her vision swayed in a daze. “Tell me, who sent you? The press? The Seraphs? City watch, perhaps? Answer me.”

Psyche shook her head. Her mind clouded. She had to fight, but her own body fought against her. She could hardly think.

He pulled a switchblade. “Let’s loosen that tongue.”

Her muscles tensed. She weakly pushed back against the blade. The man’s breath heaved of spearmint and ale. Her arms buckled, and the knife nicked her collar. Her shirt ripped, revealing her secret weapon. Filch pounced out the overcoat as a striped bullet. He leapt for the throat. The man squealed sharply, and Psyche backed away against the corner. Mid-scream, his voice cut, and body froze stiff. When the room stopped swaying, Psyche staggered to her feet.

The man’s body ceased and fell silent. He lay paralyzed as if encased in ice. Filch sucked back his long tongue. He raised his silky tail in a curl and paced triumphantly to his master’s boots.

That tore it. Psyche doffed her mask. She brushed bits of glass from her cheeks. Sweat matted her curly white fur to her forehead. She caught her breath. Freedom.

Filch whined to be picked up. Psyche smiled. She scooped him up, and he purred. His limp tongue combed her face. Her cheeks tinged numb from his venom.

“Good boy. Whiskey’s on me tonight.”

Filch whistled in delight before burrowing into her breast, satisfied with his work.

“Watch those paws,” Psyche chided.

She rubbed the knot on her forehead. The door shut above them. There went their light. Psyche patted her chest, and Filch groaned. “Psst. Lead the way.”

The Shrink rat stretched and grumbled as if talking back. His eyes shimmered in the dark.

Psyche laughed. “Ha, you’re lucky you’re not in time out again after last time. You’ve got a drinking problem.”

He squeaked and nipped at Psyche’s ear. Psyche playfully poked and tickled his ribs. As Filch purred, the mood lightened. He let go and got to work.

Filch squeaked and scurried back up her leg.

“A lantern?”

The shrink rat nodded, but she couldn’t see him.

“Where?”

Filch scratched his head, unsure how to lead her. Psyche hummed a song, and it echoed off the walls. Her bat-like ears swiveled. “Hmm, wall there,” she muttered. She stepped forward in the dark and the step creaked beneath her. Filch’s claws dug into her shoulder.

Psyche hummed a lullaby to guide her in the dark. She couldn’t recall where she’d learnt it, but it soothed her nerves travelling many missions. She thought to herself how echolocation had helped her in the past. It revealed objects at a small distance. No colors or details. Just faint shapes.

Over the years, her vision worsened. She honestly needed glasses but could never humble herself and spend the money. Nor could she stand the ridicule from Iví. After all, what would the guild think. The world’s greatest assassin, blind as a… anyway. Psyche already struggled with her appearance it was best not to make it worse. She supposed that her new life would change that.

Strange. Psyche’s song echoed off something—dangling. For a moment, she considered it a wall or a pillar.

“Filch, what is it?”

The shrink rat sniffed in the dark and lips smacked. He didn’t respond.

Psyche shivered. “How much further? It’s freezing.”

Filch squeaked, and she set him down again. They played hot or cold in the damp basement until Psyche found her prize hidden against some crates.

The lantern illuminated the room, and what she found she could have prepared for.

Mangled corpses lay in disturbing positions. Whips and meat hooks lined the wall. Disembodied limbs hung on bloodied racks pulled from a poor changeling’s sockets. A girl’s. Young, barely of age. And above all, salted meats dangled from the rafters like rows of teeth in ham sacks.

Psyche vomited. All the victims were changeling. That could’ve been me. That could’ve been me! This job ain’t worth it. She made for the staircase. Psyche tripped over the bouncer on her way to the staircase.

The paralyzed thug stared in a state of fear and confusion. She socked him one in rage and his body went limp. She pulled her knife to finish the job and a red spray spit in her face. Psyche wiped her brow and smiled. Nighty night. Now where to put you?

Her lantern had cracked but not broken. Oil dripped on the stone floor. She set it up and hid him under the stairs. It wasn’t the best, but it would have to do.

Static crackled from her pearl earring. Psyche tapped it. “Bad time, Iví.”

Iví exhaled in relief. Her voice called from the pearl. “Thank goodness. I saw him grab you. What happened? You okay?”

Psyche’s eyes scanned the room. “It’s worse than you said. Much worse.”

“Psyche, answer me. Are you okay?”

She wiped the vile from her lips. Filch licked her cheek and yawned before ducking into hiding. “I’m fine. Thanks to Filch. Just a little shaken, that’s all.”

“Don’t scare me like that, Psyche. I need you.”

“Iví, it’s not a whore ring bust. It’s a meat grinder.” She kicked a bucket and flies whizzed out the burlap inside it. A smell lurched and Psyche gagged, holding back another pass churning in the back of her throat. She hated to think what was in the bucket.

“Dear Ancestors, are you certain?”

“Positive. I saw a few faces. All changelings.”

Iví exhaled. “There’s our missing contacts. Look. The job’s changed then. I’m coming in.”

Psyche roamed the basement not looking where she was going and screamed bumping into a racket of ribs.

“Psyche? Psyche?”

“I’m fine. These are beef. Please come in… I’m scared.”

Iví’s line crackled. “Will do, babe. Really quick, if what you say is true, our new priority’s killing this operation. Sources say there’s an office in the basement.”

“What about the money?”

“Forget the Ruby. I want you safe.”

Psyche shook her head. “That’s the whole reason I took this job.”

Silence came on the other line. “Look, Psyche, we’ll think of something. You’re smart; don’t do anything stupid. If things turn too hot, get out. I can’t risk your safety.”

“But the changelings,”

“Don’t worry about them… We’ll make them suffer. Iví out.”

Psyche punched a rack of ribs. “Dammit.” Without this money, Logan and I can’t catch the Ferry. I’ve gotta do both. I can’t stay in this guild anymore.

Psyche quickened her pace. She turned and saw more changelings piled in the corner. She bit her lip. It’s okay Iví’s coming. You’ll get through this. She assured herself.

At the end of the meat locker was a steel door. Psyche tested the handle. Locked.

“Filch.” She whispered. Tiny paws pricked her skin. His ears tucked with a scowl from her collar. “Do your thing.”

Filch looked to the knob and back at her. He squeaked in defiance.

“No? What do you mean, no? We don’t have time for this. Pick the lock,” Filch pouted with a whimper, shaking his head “You saw what they did to the other changelings. Please… For me,” Psyche blinked. Filch winced. He huffed and crawling down her sleeve. “Thanks, buddy. Just think; after this, no more locks.”       

The Shrink rat straddled the knob and flicked his tongue like a lizard. His tiny paws reached into the keyhole and he twitched. His ears tucked and eyes bulged as if they’d pop out his skull. Psyche remarked how he looked constipated. The knob clicked. Filch shook out his wrist and sucked the grease climbing his tiny arm.

“Finished?”

Filch shook his head and counted his tiny fingers. Three tumblers. Not bad considering he’s picked one with eight before.

His head burrowed into the keyhole and sniffed. The knob shook and spun. Filch grunted. He hung upside-down, right side up, and then down again. Until in a final TINK, the door swung open.

Psyche petted his back. “Good work, boy.”

Filch purred.

“Let’s go.”

Filch pushed against the door with his hindlegs and squealed, muffled inside the lock.

Psyche bit her tongue not to laugh. “Stuck?”

He squeaked in protest. He pushed and grunted. His body twisted and flailed atop the knob, kicking his feet. Eventually, his arms fell at his side with a huff.

Psyche’s heart melted. “All right, Buddy. Hold tight.”

His fluffy tail tensed. Psyche grabbed his torso, and carefully, so as not to pull too hard, yanked. The shrink came out with a resounding pop.

Filch’s whiskers dripped with grease and soot. He sneezed and wiped the grime from his endless tongue. His lip puckered and eyes pleaded with her not to make him do that again.

The Belladonna smiled. Psyche bent down, cleaned him up with her coat and kissed his forehead. “Muh; All better. Love you, buddy.”

Filch purred, licking keyhole grease on her cheeks and returning to her breast pocket.

Inside the room, the lantern revealed an empty tunnel system. Air grew colder against the concrete floor, and stone support beams held the roof above her. They were the only obstruction in view. This had to be further underneath the club than the kitchen.

A tripwire caught Psyche’s ankle, knocking her to the ground and a body impaled with spikes whizzed by her head. Glass shattered from her lantern and the crash echoed off the walls. Ropes creaked on a pendulum before slowing to a halt. Then silence.

Thunder rumbled outside. The storm grew closer.

Psyche lay catching her breath as her heart race. I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I check for traps? Filch licked her face curiously.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. Psyche stood up and investigated the trap. They made the body look like her. Same species, build, and clothes. Wrong gender, but still. No less rattling.

Something was wrong. Psyche smelled a rat, and for once it wasn’t Filch.

Voices echoed off the empty room. Psyche ducked behind a pillar bringing her lantern and brandishing her dagger. She loaded a vial of datura in the hilt until it nestled snug for easy poisoning.  As the voices approached, she snuffed her light. Other lanterns hovered her way. “I’m telling you, the plan’s foolproof. Our sale will go through,” a voice said gruff in tone.

Another man’s voice spoke in shakes, “Yes, but I don’t know. Changeling meat is one thing, but the Belladonna.”

Psyche caught shadows of their forms. The first man waved him off as if his words seemed trivial. “You worry too much. He said she’ll be here. The puny skank wears her heart on her sleeve. Regardless whether he delivers, the contact dies by daybreak. One traitor’s no threat to me.”

“And the Belladonna?”

The two men stopped at the triggered trap. The gruff man chuckled. “See for yourself,” he said gesturing to the spikes. “We’ll catch her and when we do—I know how to treat a lady

Psyche shuddered. Her knuckles cracked, balling into a fist. We’ll see about that. Who betrayed us? They know we’re here. Who’s this contact? No one would rat on me. At least no one smart. She aimed her dagger above her head. A cough echoed behind her and she stopped dead in her tracks.

More footsteps approached. She cursed under her breath and dropped low. Two more men in cloaks joined the others. Too many for any easy kill.

“Raise the watch around the building. The changeling’s here,” said the uneasy one.

“Relax,” said the gruff one. His bald head glistened with oil and sweat. Gold piercings caught the light and a spider tattoo. Target sighted.  He turned to the others. “The package’s secure. Bring him upstairs; see to it he’s safe. Then we’ll see what color our guest bleeds.”

Psyche bit her tongue not to scream. Iví come quick. We gotta get out here. Why did he have to be the mark?

The men’s footsteps dampened, sauntering off. Psyche stalked low to the ground. She readied her toss again and relented. The men behind him kept breaking a clean shot.

Psyche tapped her pocket. Filch popped and swiveled. “Follow him,” she whispered.

Filch sunk deeper inside.

“Please I’ll give you two shots, whiskey or whatever. Maybe not tonight but we need this, Filch.”

Filch zipped out at the mention of liquor and chased the mark. Psyche took deep breaths, trying to bury her fears of that man. I’m the Belladonna. He can’t hurt me. Can he? How much else did he know?

Psyche tiptoed to the room they came from and supposed the package must be the ruby. Money first, then answers. I’ll kill the rat personally too.

She turned the knob. Locked, and Flich was long gone.

Shouts rang upstairs. Followed by heavy footfalls. Psyche dove for cover. Iví burst open the double doors to her left and held her back against them in relief.

“So much for stealth,” teased Psyche.

Iví shoved a longsword between the door handles. “I panicked. First target’s dead. That’s all that matters. You hurt?”

Psyche rubbed the knot on her head. “Banged up, but still ticking. First target?”

Iví laughed. “Keep up, Babe. Anyone who gets too close to my girls is my mark—Or did you forget who made up the great Belladonna Bates?”

Psyche blushed. “Gotta lock pick? They came from here.”

Iví looked at her wide eyed. “I gave you one before we left.”

“I… left it at home.”

Alarms raised above. Iví shook her head. “Perfect. You pick now to be irresponsible? I thought you were smart.”

“I am.”

“Then use that head of yours; think. I taught more than one way to find a solution.”

Psyche eyed the small metal knob. She doubted her tongue could fit through the door. What was she thinking? Of course, it couldn’t. The blaring sirens made thinking impossible. She bashed against the door.

“For heaven’s sake, Psyche freeze it. Don’t hurt yourself,” said Iví.

Psyche’s ears perked embarrassed. Right magic. She gripped the tiny handle and focused her breathing. She removed her glove, so to remove any friction and the metal pressed already cold against her fur. A small cloud glowed around her fingers as frost crystalized.

Psyche’s fingers went numb and she shook them. “Oh, cold hands. Yikes, that’s cold.”

Iví brought her elbow down and the handle snapped. She kicked the door open. “After you.”

Psyche placed her hands on the back of Iví’s neck on the way in and she shrieked. “You’re a such a child.”

A wooden crate sat on the desk. Portraits hung on the wall and lines on red thread connected articles stabbed in corkboard. Psyche felt uneasy again. “Iví, this seems too easy. Those men mentioned handing me over This feels like a set-up. They know we’re here.”

Iví pulled a crossbow off the mantle. “You worry too much. Save that reading into it for your stories. Grab the ruby and let’s bounce. At least you’ll have your money.”

Psyche nodded and started prying open the crate. “What about our man,” she said with a grunt.

Iví crossed her legs atop the desk, watching the door. “What’s it to you? You’re ditching me, remember?”

Psyche frowned. The wood groaned and creaked. The siren droned over and over like a wailing infant, and she wished it would stop. As she pulled a wedge with her blade, another sound caught her ear. A clock. She pressed her head against the box; the ticking intensified.

Psyche set it down and backed away.

A door slammed across the other room. Iví readied her crossbow and Psyche tackled her as an explosion rocketed them out the room.

Clamors raised from panicked assassins. Crossbow fire rained in a shootout, and the two girls scrambled for cover.

Smoke billowed from the office. The room smelled of charred wood and sulfur.  “I told you,” Psyche shouted.

Iví grumbled returning fire. “Not now.”

Psyche pulled a dagger and spiked it towards the collar of an incoming assailant. Arrows splintered off her stone pillar. “What’s the plan?”

Iví muttered to herself, seeming unsure. Out of ammo, she threw the crossbow on the ground. “We improvise.” She pulled out a sack of seeds and her skin glowed. She tossed them and the popped like firecrackers creating a wall of flame. It rose and fell like a flag in a windstorm but produced little smoke.

One thug charged Psyche to her left. She grabbed his wrist and swept his leg. His elbow released an settling crack. The man shrieked until the Belladonna granted him a quick death.

Iví shouted towards the door behind them. “Fallback. We’ll regroup.”

Psyche nodded but remembered her Shrink rat. He was in the other room. “What about Filch?”

“You didn’t leave him at home?”

Psyche ran towards the flames.

“What are you doing?” Iví roared. She shot another wall, scorching more thugs in the smell of burning flesh.

Psyche ignored her. She couldn’t leave her friend behind. Inside a man charged. She leapt back he slit the edge of her coat.

A rogue crossbow bolt spiked him the back. His throat gargled as friendly fire took him down. Psyche tossed a dagger before he could reload.

The thug yelped and collapsed backwards, clutching his throat.

Psyche scanned. No more yet. But she doubted it would stay this way. She fetched her dagger and crept low in the pitch basement. Hang on Filch. I’m coming.