Page 2 of Beyond the Cottage

She growled at the ceiling without replying.

“Mine’s J,” he continued. “And I know someone who’s in the market for what you’ve got. How would you like to make some easy cash?”

“How would you like to lose a hand?”

“Calm down, I didn’t mean on your back.” He leered and added, “Unless you want to.”

Gretta unsheathed the knife he’d apparently failed to notice and pressed it to his wrist. “Decide how this ends quickly, I’m late for something.”

The man’s grin became a snarl. His meaty fingers tightened…then released her. Gretta shoved out the door, into the damp, gamey-smelling street.

Twilight had fallen, bringing out the city of Antrelle’s wilder crowd. Men sang and catcalled the half-naked women leaning over wrought-iron balconies, while street musicians tried to drown each other out. Two stumbling boys who couldn’t be older than sixteen almost knocked a lamplighter off his stilts.

Deciding she wasn’tquitetoo drunk to fly, Gretta unsteadily took flight, swaying alongside the rooftops. After several blocks, she turned down a quiet, shabbier side street and landed at an establishment with a sun-bleached sign squeaking on its hinges. It read:The Painted Tit—Come For a Fuck, Stay For the Food.

She climbed the rickety steps and went inside.

The place wasn’t much brighter than the dingy pub. Half the mounted gas lamps hung broken from the walls, and most of the tapers in the wagon wheel chandelier had burned to nubs. A barmaid lit candles on the wooden tables, her breasts threatening to spill from her corset when she bent over. True to advertising, they had yellow daisies painted on them.

Gretta checked her pocket watch with a guilty wince, and when she approached the bar, a golden-haired nymph set aside the glass she’d been wiping.

“Rum double,” Gretta said, slapping down a coin. The words made her stomach roll, but if she was going to be hungover anyway, she might as well get good and sauced.

As the nymph poured, Gretta leaned on the bar. “Have you seen a troll come in tonight? I was supposed to meet one here half an hour ago.”

The nymph’s button-nose puckered. “I put him in back. Didn’t want him scaring our girls. He can eat here, but you better let him know he ain’t welcome upstairs.”

Most of the people in this part of town were human and would hardly give Brand a second glance. Nymphs, however, loathed trolls.

Gretta didn’t have time to argue, so she swiped her drink off the bar and headed for the back. She found Brand on the other side of two batwing doors, tearing into a platter of boiled crayfish. Beside him sat a figure under a red hooded cloak.

Gretta stopped short and briefly closed her eyes.

Brand smiled, his smooth green skin glowing in the candlelight. His knees didn’t fit under the table, and the legs of his stool practically creaked under his weight. Gretta sat next to him and helped herself to a crayfish.

“You’re thirty-six minutes late,” Philip said from beneath the hood. “And judging by the fumes coming off you, that isn’t your first cocktail.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Phil?” Gretta asked.

She couldn’t see his face but sensed a glare coming from the hood. When he slid a newspaper across the table, she leaned in to read.

“My god,” she breathed. “The price of coal is expected to rise for the third consecutive winter.”

“The headline beneath it, smartass.”

She closed an eye to keep the tiny print in focus, and one side of her lips curled.

“Area Witch Found Gored to Death in Cottage,” she read dramatically. “The Hag Hacker Strikes Again!” She shoved the paper away, making a mental note to pick up a copy. “It didn’t even make the front page of a small-town rag. No one cares about a few dead witches.”

In fact, most people celebrated their deaths. Witches were evil, sadistic lunatics who existed on the fringes of society. While some species innately possessed magic, witches were the only ones who could wield it via spells, so the government did its bestto keep tabs on them. But people still had a way of disappearing around their hovels. Whenever Gretta found one during her hunt for an illusion witch, she didn’t come bearing registration paperwork.

“This isn’t the first to make the papers,” Philip said. “And theTribuneis working on a feature-length story. I doubt the police will be so lax with national reporters sniffing around.”

“The police have better things to worry about, and I’ve been careful.”

“You’ve been reckless. Hell, you parade around wearing crime scene evidence like it’s a goddamn fashion accessory.”

Gretta ran her fingers over the braided locks of hair hanging from a ring on her belt. Each was a different color and texture, and each meant more to her than the money she’d earned hunting for Nat.

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