The sun shone bright over slate-tiled roofs and the occasional mansard, from which, every so often, a troupe of pigeons would flap-flutter away. The insistent clang of a tram passing through the backstreets briefly scattered a group of kids rolling hoops, before they regrouped and chased after it in a joyful clamour.

  Azazel’s eyes followed them vicariously as they ran, before flicking to a nearby second-story window that had just been thrown open.

  A stout, sour-faced woman squeezed through it with a tablecloth in hand and began snapping it out, raining all manner of debris onto the street below.

  Most of it landed squarely on the head of an already aggravated gentleman striding along at a brisk pace, attempting to shoo away a kobold beggar — a short and leathery, reddish creature, clutching at his trousers and panhandling in its strange tongue.

  He cursed as he brushed off bits of food and plucked the odd toothpick from his bowler hat, while the demon laughed from the sidelines.

  The man swatted at it with his hat and missed. The kobold yelped, then slunk away, swearing as it retreated.

  "Aah, zail aa, urt kh?ltei!"

  "That's right—bugger off, imp!" he shot back, still fuming, before setting his hat straight again and catching Azazel staring.

  The hellhound turned away, averting his gaze, as the man’s eyes lingered for a spell. Then he grumbled and went on his way.

  Azazel leaned against the building, his back to the cool cut-stone wall, and let his thoughts drift among the tufty clouds overhead.

  Not but a few moments later, the door beside him creaked open. Hellion stepped out, already counting a sizable handful of banknotes with practiced fluidity. She paused, silently mouthing the tally. With an approving tilt of her head, she folded the notes and slung her satchel forward.

  She stuffed them inside and shot her companion a confident, knowing smile.

  "Master?" he beamed, curious.

  "Oh, and then some!" she hooked a hand around the purse's shoulder strap and signaled him to follow, already in motion.

  "We're quids in 'n sorted," she boasted as they walked — then immediately tempered her tone, as though wary of a higher power listening in. "Err, for the time being, at least..."

  They passed a fancy butcher’s shop, Hellion eyeing the delectable delicacies on display; the wine bottles arranged around them serving less to suggest a pairing than to heighten the tease.

  "You know what?" she asked, gaze still fixated on the shop's window. "Who knows when we'll have a bit to spare again. What's one thing you've been craving for a while now?" Her eyes pivoted briefly to him. "Within reason."

  He gave it some thought.

  "Maybe... a book?"

  "A book?" she echoed, surprise easing into a playful note. "Why?"

  Azazel was suddenly flustered. "F—for... practice?"

  Hellion nodded, conceding his point. Something else started brewing in her mind.

  "Here's what we're gonna do—" They stopped in the middle of the street. "We'll decide it over a pint. I think we've earned it." She gave him a questioning look, though the decision was already made.

  His ears perked up. "I'm... not sure there is a tavern willing to accommodate both of us, master."

  "And I'm sure there is." Hellion was confidently on the move already. "Because money talks."

  They found themselves standing before an old building with a flaking white fa?ade, its red brickwork peeking through. In this seedier part of town, incidentally, the tavern looked almost respectable.

  Its old, creaky sign read “The Grog Hog” and the merry boar painted on it swayed unsteadily to the subtlest whisper of wind.

  "Right... Well, probably the last place that would judge a book by its cover. So..."

  Hellion pushed the heavy banded door open and both of them stepped through.

  Inside was humble and poorly lit. Grimy, leaded windows held any sunlight trying to peek through at bay, while sparse oil lamps hung on frayed wooden beams, their flickering flames doing little to push back the gloom.

  The air was dense and musky — an entangled blend of sweat, varnish, and harsh liquor, much of it likely soaked deep into the floorboards.

  A large rat scurried between the patchwork assortment of mismatched furniture and unbussed tables, which were packed tightly together, leaving only a narrow corridor from the bar to the door.

  And next to the door, at about eye-height, hung a shaggy, scarred, and battered boar's head.

  It, along with the group of unsavory individuals at and around the bar, was giving them the proverbial side-eye.

  Hellion cleared her throat and strode toward the bar. The sticky floor clung to their feet with every step, the floorboards moaning underneath.

  They seated themselves at the far end, a polite distance from foreign company, and waved to the barkeeper.

  "Two pints, please."

  The barkeeper scraped something from his teeth, with a wet smacking sound, then sluggishly reached below the bar for two tankards. Without bothering to clean them, he set them down beside a dark-stained beer keg and began to pour the frothing ale.

  He trundled over and served them half-heartedly, measuring Azazel up and down with an unbothered look.

  Just as the lass reached in her coat pocket to pay, a few coins clattered onto the bar counter.

  She followed the wobbling coins back to their owner and was met with a mischievous glimmer behind a pair of warm hazel eyes.

  Leaning with one arm on the counter was a tall, well-built man. A knowing smile hid behind big, neatly trimmed beard framed his sharp features, tapering into clean-shaven sides and a slicked-back haircut.

  He brushed his unruly, dirty blonde hair back into place and turned to the barkeeper.

  “These ones are on me, Rook. Let me give our new friends a proper welcome at the Hog.” He spoke in a warm, rolling accent, lingering lovingly over each vowel.

  “We… can be friends, aye?” The man raised an eyebrow.

  Hellion glanced toward his fellows on the far side of the bar. There were five of them, lined up like mismatched bottles on a shelf. Some seated at a table, others leaning against the counter. One pig-faced man chewed on a toothpick poking out of his mouth.

  All of them were staring her way.

  "Alright," she said, looking away. "Thank you."

  She placed a tankard in front of Azazel, giving him a quick, assured look, and pulled her own close.

  “Wonderful! Shall we exchange names then?”

  The man slouched at his ease, back against the bar. “The lads here call me Hawk. And what should they call you and your fearsome friend?”

  "Hellion. And this is Azazel."

  “Hellion?” His brows lifted. “Truly?” A grin hid beneath his beard. “Then you’ve come to the right place. Dare I say — you may've been meant to.”

  Hawk leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Because I’m looking for hellions. The sort who want to make a bit of money.”

  Her eyes lifted from her drink almost of their own accord.

  “Ah,” Hawk murmured. “Caught your ear with a word, did I?”

  He languidly reached into the front pocket of his buttoned vest, rummaged briefly, and produced a fistful of thalers. He stacked them neatly into a short tower on the surface between them.

  “Think of it as a signing bonus,” he said. “If you take it.”

  Hellion threw a quick look at the stack of coins — fifteen, maybe twenty thalers worth. She took a measured sip from her ale.

  "What's the job?"

  Hawk shook his head.

  "Oh, I can't tell you that, love. Not yet." He scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “What I can tell you is that it calls for a bit of guile, resourcefulness, and a steady hand.”

  His smile sharpened. “No killing involved. Not unless you fail to meet those first three requirements, anyway.”

  “And the pay would be… substantial. For a rover.”

  A pause.

  He spread his hands placatingly. “No offense.”

  The lass turned to her drink. Her eyes met her own reflection in the tankard’s dark, bitter liquid as she weighed the offer in her mind.

  Azazel watched his master closely, his gaze darting between her and the bearded man. He cradled his own mug, still untouched.

  He noticed the bite of her lip, the faint shift of the stein as she rolled it between her hands.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Thank you for the offer... but no. I think we'll... have to pass. We're good as is." She smiled awkwardly at Hawk, her finger tapping lightly on the lip of the beer mug.

  “Hmm. Shame.”

  Hawk shook his head solemnly and gathered up his little tower of money. “Well. You've still time to reconsider.”

  He pushed himself upright, straightened his vest, and flicked a subtle signal toward his cronies.

  Hellion noticed — and shot him a troubled look.

  “While you’re thinking on it—I hope you won’t mind if we run a quick audition now. Save us a bit of time.”

  He winked and turned toward the entrance, as the men fanned out into a loose half-circle around her and Azazel.

  Hellion slid off her barstool just as he was leaving, moving after him.

  “Wait! I said we don’t want any part — oof!”

  Someone hooked into her collar mid-stride and yanked her back, slamming her against the counter.

  "Where un' you off to, me loveley?" chortled the pig-faced man as he leaned forward, the others closing in.

  Azazel ground his teeth. His eyes flared amber.

  He was on his feet in an instant.

  “The fuck you doin’, mutt?” snarled one of the men nearest him, reaching out.

  Azazel caught the hand before he could blink and twisted.

  The ruffian’s yowl caught in his throat as a punch sent him crashing backward into a table. Before his mate even had a chance to react, Azazel drove his foot into the second man’s torso, hurling him nearly across the room. Chairs and splintered wood flying in his wake.

  With her captor distracted, Hellion made her move.

  She drove her knee into the pig-faced man’s groin. He folded with a wheeze and just in time to take a sharp headbutt that snapped his head back.

  The lass snatched up her near-full tankard and flung the contents into the gawking hoodlum to her right as he lunged, blinding him.

  The empty mug followed a heartbeat later and backhanded her would-be captor hard.

  “Ah! Me nose!” he howled, staggering back. “You fackin’ cunt!”

  The first of Azazel’s victims wobbled up onto a knee, steadying himself against a chair. Teeth clenched, he grabbed an empty bottle from the clutter around him and hurled it.

  At the same moment, another man shouted madly and leapt onto Azazel’s back, arms trying to lock around his throat.

  The bottle sailed past both of them, as they swirled around erratically — and smashed squarely into the barkeeper's head just as he lunged for Hellion.

  Glass exploded.

  Rook dropped like a sack of tired potatoes.

  Hellion hurled the empty tankard at the ruffian, still trying to wipe out the beer in his eyes, and vaulted the bar.

  The thug roared, rubbing the sore spot where the mug had struck him, then lunged after her, leaning far over the counter.

  He was rewarded with a bottle smashed over his head.

  He collapsed face-first across the bar as Hellion popped up behind it, already gripping another.

  The pudgy man snapped his nose back into place with a crack and turned just in time to see Azazel struggling beneath his mate, the hoodlum yanking on his ear and clawing at his eyes.

  Snarling, the thug wiped blood from his nose and threw his full weight into a wild swing aimed at the demon.

  Azazel finally managed to slam the assailant’s back against one of the beams. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, forcing him to release his grip. Azazel saw the incoming punch just in time to twist aside.

  The blow missed him and landed squarely on the other man’s nose. A dull thud resounded as the man’s head snapped back into the beam, and he crumpled to the floor in a limp heap.

  Surprise flashed across the brute’s features, before Azazel rounded on the pig-faced man and seized him by his considerable neck.

  Before he could do anything, his first victim struck from behind, kicking his leg out from under him. Azazel lost his balance, his grip breaking as he buckled to one knee.

  Hellion let loose a bottle of unknown contents just as the corpulent thug drew back to knee him in the face.

  It shattered above his ear in a splash of sweet, scented rum, staggering him sideways.

  The second bottle hit the same spot.

  He toppled like a collapsing building, hitting the floor hard with a grunt.

  The demon twisted back just in time to parry a boot aimed at his head. He surged upward, driving a brutal elbow across the man’s jaw, knocking him out then and there.

  As Azazel sent the thug for a second flight towards the tables, a bottle clocked him to the back of the head.

  He turned, equal parts aggravated and confused — and found Hellion frozen in place, both hands clamped over her mouth.

  “I’m sorry! I was—” she tried to stifle a laugh. “I was aiming at—”

  She lost the battle and burst out laughing.

  Azazel rubbed the back of his head, annoyed and embarrassed, his gaze drifting toward a nearby empty tankard.

  Hellion noticed and immediately shifted into a serious tone. "Azazel. No." She pointed a finger at him. "I said I was sorry."

  He stared at her for a moment, still massaging the ache. Then he grabbed the mug and hurled it.

  The girl ducked just in time. The tankard smashed into the shelf behind her, shattering several bottles in a crash of glass and liquor.

  They stood rooted in place, staring at one another, both equally stunned by what he’d done.

  Azazel swallowed hard, his anger draining away and leaving behind a tight, familiar knot in his chest.

  A smile spread across his master's face.

  "So that's how it is, huh?"

  She reached behind her, seized a handful of bottles, and started hurling them back at him.

  Azazel dove for cover, laughing as he weaved between the wooden beams and returning fire with whatever he could grab as he ran.

  Glass, mugs, plates, everything not nailed down sailed across the tavern. From one side to the other, the fight turned into a proper exchange of fire: Hellion entrenched behind the bar, Azazel dug in behind a makeshift barricade of overturned furniture.

  They laughed and shouted between near misses, bobbing and weaving, soaked in a sticky cocktail of alcohol that made the tavern’s usual stench seem mild by comparison.

  Pinned down under Hellion’s relentless barrage, Azazel spotted a pristine, unbroken bottle at the far end of the room. He stretched out his arm and focused for a heartbeat.

  It rose in the air and hurtled itself toward the bar.

  Hellion dove to the ground to avoid it, then popped back up clutching an armful of fresh ammunition.

  "Hey! That's cheating, you prat!" she shouted and immediately unleashed a furious volley at Azazel’s position.

  The door burst open with a bang.

  A constable appeared in the entrance, followed by several of his colleagues.

  “What’s goin’ on ’ere?!” he shouted in a shrill, nasally voice — just as a stray plate smashed against the trophy boar’s head and sent it clattering to the floor.

  The tavern was thrashed.

  The air reeked of alcohol, sweet and stinging, so thick it was a miracle the oil lamps hadn’t already set it ablaze. Glass, wood, teeth, and other debris littered the floor amid sodden heaps of mulch; once ragged but functional pieces of furniture.

  People were strewn everywhere: over tables, slumped against wooden beams, tangled on the floor. Moaning. Groaning. Twitching.

  The only two troublemakers still on their feet were a young woman in soldierly attire, sporting a capotain, and a hound-like demon in a long white coat.

  Both were frozen mid-swing, gaping at the policeman.

  Hellion slapped the satchel closed, a dour expression set on her face. She leaned back against the wall beside the barred counter, arms crossed tight.

  She sighed bitterly as she watched the constable count out a stack of her hard-won banknotes, grimacing, as he licked his thumb between flipping the papers.

  He mouthed out the tally, satisfied, his auburn handlebar moustache wiggling in confirmation.

  "Right. Give 'er back the pistols." He motioned to his colleague behind the counter.

  The man passed her two ornate flintlocks through the narrow slit and said in a hoarse monotone, “Sign here.” He slid a scrap of paper her way and followed it with a chewed-up steel-nibbed pen through the bars.

  Hellion obliged with clear discontent, penning her name beneath the constable’s stern glare.

  "Right. C'mon. 'Aven't got all day."

  She holstered the pistols and followed him out of the room and into the short, straight corridor where the holding cells lined the walls.

  Azazel’s ears perked as they approached. He stood and stepped toward the cell door, too abashed to meet his master’s gaze.

  Hellion stopped at his cell — then frowned perplexed as the constable kept walking.

  “Oi! What about him?” she snapped, jabbing a thumb Azazel’s way.

  The man slowed, then turned his head, answering in a disdainful tone tinged with condescension.

  "What about 'em?"

  Hellion gaped. "What is this? I paid the damn fine! Let him go!"

  “Watch yer tone, lass.” His moustache twitched irritably. “Aye, ye paid yer fine. But dangerous blighters can’t be let back into the public. Yer pet ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Her jaw dropped. "Dangerous? Oh, come off it! You brought us in — you damn well know he's not bloody dangerous!" she fumed.

  Azazel’s unease mounted with every step his master took toward the officer and away from his reach. Entirely for her sake.

  The man regarded her with dismissive amusement. “Aye, but yer a prickly one! Careful, girl, or you two’ll be keepin’ company. Again.”

  That stopped her in her tracks.

  She forced herself to breathe, and glanced back at Azazel, his worry mirrored in her own.

  "Alright. Look — isn’t there a fine, or bail, or something I can pay? Please?”

  “Hm.” The constable puckered his lips, eyes flicking about the corridor before a sly smirk crept across his face.

  "Let's say that there is."

  He stretched out his arm, rubbing two fingers together.

  Azazel sat on the cold, cut-stone stairs that went up to the police station entrance, a step or two above his visibly crestfallen master.

  Passersby entering and leaving the station awkwardly veered around them, casting scalding looks or muttering curses under their breath as they went.

  Hellion sat deathly still, head low, her attention buried in the meager remnants of her once-plump, respectable, red coin pouch. Its bottom, cluttered with lint and stray grains of pocket sand, lay shamefully exposed, with little regard for modesty. Only the stamped faces of a single thaler and a few groschen looked up to her from inside.

  Her companion struggled, searching for words of comfort. Some gesture, anything to ease her. It came to little more than a silent struggle to speak and a hesitant reach that never quite closed the distance. In the end, he could only look at her, sympathy plain on his features.

  Hellion drew in a deep breath and held it for a concerning length of time.

  When she finally exhaled, it was sharp and violent. She snapped the purse shut, cinching the strings tight as though trying to strangle it. In one motion she surged to her feet, took the steps in a single stride, and marched on with a simmering menace in her step.

  Azazel scrambled after her, caught off guard by the sudden burst of movement.

  "Master? Where are we going?" he asked with growing concern.

  Her teeth ground audibly.

  "Back to that shithole." she growled.

  Azazel's ears shot up.

  He pantomimed an entire argument behind her — silent gasps, frantic gestures, hands carving the air in desperate appeals to reason.

  Inevitably, it came to nothing. His shoulders slumped with a quiet sigh, and he fell into step behind her.