alerie

  “Bang.”

  Blue, green, red, and yellow flecks of paper gently fall onto the dusty, sandy earth below. Confetti, and lots of it! Usually, there isn’t so much, so they must’ve just been dense.

  I feel a hard knock on my side, pushing me around and guiding me behind a thick board—big enough to cover my crouching body and then some—as all sorts of nasty spells and projectiles rip through the air above us. Bck, crackling electricity, sharpened and crystallized beams of water—wow, they’re pulling out all the stops! People really never do take kindly to the confetti-treatment.

  My sweet savior shakes me by the shoulder, shouting loud enough to stir me from that awe-filled and appreciative state, “Quit spacin’ out, Luce!”

  “But Kiiing,” I whine, “that guy must’ve been a Viscount at least! Did you see how much he turned into? Praise me a lit—” A sickly green bubble of Decay interrupts my defense, and I stop to watch on with all of my attention as it eats through our little wooden barrier. There’s a tug on the colr of my jacket as King pulls me back, bringing me to my feet with all the suaveness of a samba dancer.

  “Yeah, yeah—you did real good. Now help me with the rest of ‘em!” He yells, smming a pair of gleaming brass knuckles into a swaying shaft made of rainbow. It shatters against him, turning into little more than a fading cloud of light.

  There’s about a dozen of ‘em left, the rats we’re hunting. King never really drags me out to the edges of Old Vegas, but he made an exception this time around—he knows I’ll always be there when the enemies get really tough. And, you know, the enemies really are tough this time around—deluxe stuff.

  When this little scrap started out, they had a whole lot of Barons—at least the twenty-five they’d need to “make up” for the gap in the chain. That kinda stuff is just in-theory, though: in-practice, they were just cocky cannon-fodder. That’s okay, though! I love fshy battles with no real risk involved, unlike some other battle-maniacs.

  Or, you know, no real risk ‘cause I popped their Viscount. He was strong, that one: stuffed to the gills with bright fire and foul nguage—think he was in Glory. After he died his lessers looked about ready to either turn tail or rush me all at once. With that kind of reaction, you just know I took out a high-ranking syndicate member.

  Once King isn’t busy with this stuff, he’s gonna be so happy… And then I’ll get to be ‘stuff’.

  One of those lessers I mentioned before decides to take the initiative, swinging a glowing, weeping hatchet—couldn’t make out whether it was just an entity or an honest-to-goodness conceptual weapon—in the general direction of my head. After stepping back and fshing a grin at this stone-cold-killer, a single index finger of mine pokes at his chest despite the gap between us.

  “Bang.”

  The poor fel’ is stuffed so full of Whimsy that his guts turn to streamers—and then the rest of him joins the party. Just another pile of pretty paper on the ground with his former boss. A real gun is pretty unreliable—especially this high up on the chain—but a finger gun’s never failed me.

  One’s shooting moonbeams, she falls victim to the old anvil-from-the-sky trick (you’re gonna think I’m joking, but she really does look up when I point above her.) Another sics an entity on me—some snarling beast that looks like a wyvern and a tiger had a drunken affair—and it’s quickly discorporated by a needle on the nose. It pops like a balloon, rubbery scraps of it floating through the air once it’s done.

  Its summoner stares me down with raw hate in their eyes, roaring like its entity before being quieted by King’s knuckles—which puts a hole in their head big enough to, well… To kill ‘em, I guess.

  After a while, I wind up losing track of all the poor summoners the two of us take out. None of ‘em are particurly strong, just some bits and pieces sent out to eye King’s territory. The other syndicates are real bastards when it comes to their underlings sometimes—the weak ones, at least.

  I’m only stirred from that dance of mine by the cpping of King’s hands. No way, is he gonna do it?

  I whip around, just in time to see a corona of gold forming on the ground, sucking up all the light around it. Nah, it’d be more accurate to say that it’s ruling all of the light around it. In the center, King’s sitting down like a real-deal monarch, chin on his knuckles. And all around his light, those few that survived our little massacre are kneeling—not by choice, of course—like they’re trying to bury their heads into the dirt.

  It’s always a treat when I get to see his field-spell…

  “Raise your heads.” He commands, hand outstretched like he’s pulling on their strings. And then, they do. Their bodies don’t come up much, but their gaze is fixed up right at him. One looks about ready to break down, and another is red in the face from frustration.

  That indignant guy speaks up, even though his voice is strained. “F-fuck you… You can’t do this, Pussy—you piece of…” He stops, his breath hitching, “P-piece of shit…” He chokes out, “Velvet’s gonna get your ass for this…”

  “Yeah, I was pnning on that.” King says simply, dismissively snapping his fingers. A glittering, spectral halberd swings down from the air, decapitating that unruly subject as if by the work of some invisible soldier. As soon as it disappears, he looks over at the rest of them, “Where’s Velvet keeping the records?”

  “S-she’ll kill us, K.P…” One whimpers, “You know tha-”

  King puts a finger up to his lips, hushing that lost little mb. “Whose hand do you wanna die by: hers or mine?” He doesn’t give them a second to say anything in return, offering another bit of advice, “Bearing in mind, of course, that she isn’t the one with a bde to your throat right now.”

  “Fuck…” That same one groans.

  “Not a fucking word.” The other one—the only other one left—hisses, “You owe the syndicate your damn soul. Who do you think helped you up the chain?”

  Another halberd removes this yipping hound’s head from his shoulders, and in my very best game-show-host voice I call out, “Oooh, I’m sorry! That wasn’t the answer we were looking for~”

  King gnces over at me, and then back to the lone summoner. “You heard the girl.” He says, “I think you know how to get out of this, don’t you?”

  Their head hangs low, and then they fold like a cheap table.

  Ouranapolis was supposed to be a city of the future. A megacity unlike any other—a “city in the sky” that’d make any other society fall to its knees and weep and sob and… Well, then the changeover happened, magic happened. And “city in the sky” doesn’t exactly ring true when you’ve got real cities in the sky rather than just extra tall buildings.

  Some stuck-up bastards call it by its real name, but most people living in this hive of debauchery lovingly call it by its nickname: Ouranofalus. It’s not much of an exaggeration, either—the architects in charge of some of those pre-changeover buildings really must not have thought very deeply about how they looked.

  The artificial stars here are no match for the real deal, but the Court of Night is pretty good at replicating ‘em. Clusters of those twinkling lights are shining up above us, hiding the mass of architecture of the level above. Besides that, the only other light is from shining faux-neon. Countless signs for the seediest establishments you’ve ever been to—no, no, seedier—beckon you at every turn. Someone to warm your bed, drink for your sobbing heart, food for your soul and loose arteries.

  The spot we’re headed to now is on the first yer of this wedding cake of a city—that’s Velvet’s territory. The Red Sheets have a real complex about living on the lowest level, but that’s pretty stupid as far as I’m concerned. At least they actually live in the city proper.

  In the eastern quarter of this yer, there’s a diner with milkshakes that are to die for. But, as sad as it may be, we aren’t here for milkshakes.

  A bouncer eyes the two of us—mostly King—up and down, trying to find some sort of reason to run us off like a loyal dog might. I lean to the side, getting an earful of booming music and bad decisions fueled by alcohol. The lights inside fsh through even to the entrance in all sorts of inviting colors. This is the Maze, Velvet’s little nest egg.

  And, as it turns out, the target for two intrepid gangsters. Errr… No, no, what does King always say? “Firebrands?” Right, right—that one. Two intrepid firebrands.

  “K.P.” She says with a nod, a simple acknowledgement. I can tell she’s frothing at the mouth, aching for a fight—those handwraps aren’t for nothing. But as much as she might want it, she can’t bar the King of Old Vegas from coming in. We’re just a cute couple going out clubbing, no mischief here at all.

  Step one of the pn: complete. Bet that bouncer’s ringing up the inside security, maybe even one of the bosses—but I’ve got express permission to go wild!

  I rush down the stairs, even ahead of King, passing through a sea of swaying bodies and beams of light. The music’s loud enough to mask just about any sound, you’d have to scream to be heard. It’s gonna be killer on my precious little eardrums, but that’s the cost of doing business, I guess.

  The scenery’s wrought-iron bars and lounge chairs barely visible through the people mashed on top of them. Floor’s made out of real nice tile, reflects the lights from above just little enough to avoid irritating your eyes. And the smell? Man, don’t get me started on that—just take a wild guess.

  The DJ is up in her booth, hand pressed to one ear to keep a single side of her headphones in pce. Think she’s probably got an amplifier up there, something to get her voice across the floor. Though, for whatever reason, one of the few Sheets goons guarding the pce doesn’t take very kindly to my wordless intrusion. A pair of firm hands push me back from the stairs up into the booth, and a rough voice scolds me.

  “You got business up there?”

  “Sure do!” I say, “Got a message for the club, so if you would just-”

  I push my way forward again, only to be rejected and shoved away again. Maybe my reason wasn’t good enough?

  “Look, dy, how about you go back out there and get yourself a drink or something? Quit giving me trouble.”

  “No can do! I’m in a tough spot, too, you know?” Speaking from experience here, these things take a real gentle touch. Trust me. A hand on this loyal, overzealous guard’s chest is enough to open the way for me—and as a real gesture of kindness, they even celebrate my entry with a cloud of confetti.

  I just love being appreciated.

  And so, as a girl often does, I take the stairs up and into the prized booth of this exceptional DJ. She looks a bit confused about my sudden arrival, but that’s okay. I pull her aside, away from her vast repertoire of magical equipment, and expin the situation in a way that anyone would understand.

  “I need to use your microphone real quick~”

  The DJ cocks her head to the side, blinking a few times over the raw noise, “What?”

  “Your microphone!” I shout a little louder, “Need to use it, pretty please.”

  She seems a bit annoyed, but otherwise acquiesces to her guest’s request, leading me over to those formation-den cubes and prisms. Glyphs from all sorts of different Courts cover their surfaces, phonemes all written to aid in this dizzying performance—must’ve cost a fortune. I stare at it for a second, totally clueless, before she presses something with a huff.

  “You talk into this.” She says, pointing at a knob on a shaft of some kind. Looks sort of like a microphone, I guess?

  “Oh, thanks.”

  I take the mic into a single hand, the phonemes spiraling down its handle sparking to life as it’s activated. The music cuts, the partying stops, and all those eyes peer up at the booth as if the sun just went out.

  “Goooood evening everyone!” I fsh a grin to the club floor, catching a glimpse of King smirking up at me, “This is Lucia Cruz speaking~ I’m here tonight to inform you all that this establishment is now under new management!” A few figures below start to make their move, rushing to the stairs to come and put a stop to my little scene. Then, I lose sight of King—he’s probably raiding their back-room by now.

  Footsteps sound out behind me, and I offer them my very best, “My advice is nice and simple: fuck off and everything’ll be okay!”