Remora cleared her throat. “Just a moment longer!” she called out.

Out of time. What she had would simply have to do.

She turned on the faucet to cover any sounds she might make, then scooped the remains of the crushed leaves into the dustbin. The bottles of ointments, tinctures, powders, perfumes, and lotions, she hurriedly shoved back into the courtesy cupboard without taking the time to arrange them precisely as they’d been when she arrived. With luck, no one would notice or consider it remarkable [...] Continue reading →]]> Someone tapped politely at the bathroom door.

Remora cleared her throat. “Just a moment longer!” she called out.

Out of time. What she had would simply have to do.

She turned on the faucet to cover any sounds she might make, then scooped the remains of the crushed leaves into the dustbin. The bottles of ointments, tinctures, powders, perfumes, and lotions, she hurriedly shoved back into the courtesy cupboard without taking the time to arrange them precisely as they’d been when she arrived. With luck, no one would notice or consider it remarkable until they were long gone.

An entire bottle of rather expensive perfume oil had been sacrificed down the drain. Perfume being what it was, this meant the entire room now suffered an intense miasma of citrus and thick, cloying florals which might have been pretty in a very small dose. Given a choice, she would have preferred to use something less … potent, but unfortunately none of the other bottles had been even remotely the correct size or shape.

She picked up the final, remaining item on the marble counter and mentally compared it to her mental image.

The perfume bottle was imperfect. It would easily pass a casual inspection, but the beveling on the face was entirely the wrong angle, and an artisan had worked a design of flowers and vines upon the bottle’s neck which was clearly visible in the right light.

She had managed to achieve precisely the correct shade of purple on the bottle’s contents, thanks to the plant leaves she’d snatched. The liquid inside the original had been slightly viscous, and she’d had to add too much soap to the mixture. A few bubbles clung to the inside of the glass, stubbornly refusing to deflate, but the oily, silky texture of the liquid fit her memory.

The scraps of cloth or paper inside had been easy. A few bits of petticoat and a sheaf of privacy paper provided a wonderful layer of pale bits, dancing in the purple haze.

She frowned. This would never fool her. After all, it also smelled overwhelmingly of flowers.

The knock sounded again, this time at a less polite pitch.

It would have to do. It wasn’t as if she’d ever conjured up an imitation ticker source before. She was limited to a few leaves and what she could find in a bathroom, for Starbirth’s sake.

She turned off the water, tucked the bottle into her sleeve, and reached for the door, just as the knocking sounded again.

As the door opened, the knocker reeled back, ears pinned flat against his head and eyes first widening with horror, then squinting in pain. His pink nostrils flared, and he hissed, lifting a hand to ward her away.

The smell.

Remora smiled. He wasn’t warding her away, he was cringing from the smell!

It wouldn’t matter that the bottle smelled. After all, she was practically swimming in the odor. No doubt the Seraph would be unable to separate the two scents in time to recognize her deception.

Patting her hair, she frowned at him. “I wish to report an odor problem in that powder room. I do not know what sort of terrible odor the previous tenant was attempting to cover up, but they have clearly gone too far.”

The cat dresl nodded, eyes still watering. It was the same cat who had escorted her from the auction. Poor fellow. He was having quite the adventure today.

He gestured weakly to the dining room, and she nodded at him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this dinner party for the world, dear chap,” she smiled at him, then walked back to the dining hall, the trembling hand holding the false source hidden by the fashionably oversized sleeve of her gown.

This was for Bones. She could do this.

She entered the room, ignoring the rippling gasps of shock and disgust as her scent billowed into the room around her.

Snow had joined the strange Shinra’dor at the table, sitting next to him with her eyes lowered and her hands on her lap. Her thick, fluffy tail drooped to the floor, where it lay listless and unmoving.

Remora’s heart thudded. Poor Snow. All she’d wanted, all this time, was to escape. Yet here she was, in the one place she wanted least to be.

“Remora, what in the roith’delaten hells is that smell?” Hank, alarmed, had actually risen from his chair and stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

Even Dame Vakaena took a horrified step back.

Hank gasped. “Did you lose a bet? You didn’t … did you try to bake again?”

Remora smiled a tight smile at him, but her eyes shot daggers. Really? Did he think now was an appropriate time for joking? She was a perfectly adequate cook! It wasn’t her fault she lacked experience. He was the one who had banned her from the kitchens!

“There was a spill,” she explained, moving closer to him. “Do stop behaving so childishly, it’s not that bad.”

A few chairs down, the smell finally hit Snow. Her tail fur puffed up until it was three times its normal size, each hair standing on end.

Okay, perhaps it was rather bad.

She lifted her chin. It wasn’t as if she could simply wash it off. It was a perfume oil. She would need baking soda and vinegar.

Besides. This was for Bones.

She could smell like a cheap harlot for Bones, even if it was perfectly galling to do so.

As she approached Hank, he made as if to get up and give her his seat.

“Nonsense!” she said hurriedly, moving to push him back to his chair and giving him a severe look. His brows drew together, and she moved her hand down to his wrist under the table. “That is perfectly darling of you, and very sweet, dear Hank, but you are the captain of the ship and I believe that means you outrank me. This should be your seat.”

His eyebrows climbed, clearly sensing something not quite right. She smiled at him, then loosed the bottle in her hand. “After all, it would be silly to swap,” she pressed the bottle into his hand and emphasized the word, “seats now.”

Finally, understanding. His eyes flicked, just once, to the purple bottle that Vakaena had set at the head of the table … right next to where Hank sat.

She smiled again and gestured for her long-suffering dresl shadow to pull her chair out for her.

He did so without showing any sign of reluctance, though his nostrils twitched and his whiskers threatened to curl.

“What a remarkable odor you have introduced us to.” Vakaena spoke at last. The Seraph held her shoulders oddly, and the tiny fragments of lightning chasing through her wings intensified, both in brightness and speed. “I believe the weather outside tonight is particularly lovely.”

The Seraph snapped her fingers and from nowhere, it seemed, a dozen silent figures emerged and began work. Efficiently and with obvious practice, they pushed aside a thick curtain behind the head of the table, revealing a massive wheel with a hand crank. Taking turns, they spun the great wheel. The sound of well-oiled machinery at work whispered from the walls, then the walls themselves broke away in great sections, moving backward, then sliding smoothly behind the remaining wall sections.

The room was now open to the night air and the perfectly manicured gardens surrounding this section of the building, save for the walls flanking the four hallways leading away from the room.

Fascinating. Simply fascinating. Remora tried to watch everything and take it all in. She’d never seen cogsmithing on this scale before. It had been so silent, too! No sign of gears grinding at all, as if they were regularly oiled and cleaned. Yet the walls themselves had been old stone – worn from time and use. How old must this room, this building … this entire skycity be?

“Please do not take this as an invitation to leave.”

Reluctantly, Remora turned her attention back to the Seraph.

“You are my guests for dinner, and I should be most wrathful should you leave without my permission. Rudeness shall be … punished.”

Stone-faced guards stepped briefly into view from each opening, then stepped back away.

Remora frowned at Vakaena, disappointed. “Really, that seemed a bit heavy handed. The initial invitation had been clear enough for a child to understand. You’re behaving like a villainess in an adventure novel.”

Vakaena froze, so still that she might have passed for a bronzed statue, save for the suddenly frenzied movement of the lightning chasing through her wings. Almost everyone else in the room froze as well.

Remora stifled a snort and reached for her water glass and took a sip before continuing. “After all, we are all civilized folk here, even Captain McCoy, despite his ridiculous outfit.”

Hank glared at her, but Vakaena unfroze, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I have heard a great many things about you, Remora Windgates Price. It would seem most of them are true. I have killed a man for less than what you just said.”

Vakaena lifted her own glass of water, and Remora nodded to her, unfazed. “And yet here I sit, very much still alive. Clearly, we have something you want. I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to simply tell us what it is and spare us the theatrics? I’d rather not wait for the dessert course, if it’s all the same to you.”

Vakaena laughed. True laughter, borne of actual humor, it flitted through the room like tiny velvet shadows. For the first time, the guards around the room relaxed, just a little. The Shinra’dor’s red eyes surveyed her with avid interest, but Snow still did not look up from her plate. Hank said nothing, but his furrowed brow and incredulous look said enough. She could only imagine the arguments he’d spout at her if they were alone.

Just as well he couldn’t, then.

“Dear, dear Remora.” Vakaena clasped her hands together. “I had no idea tonight would be so much fun. I’m afraid I can’t spoil the surprise just yet. I am still waiting on one of the most important guests.”

A new voice bellowed from one of the hallways. “Vakaena, what is this nonsense about a dinner party? You know I’m busy with the Armethean treaties! I don’t have time for another one of your games.”

Vakaena smiled, reminding Remora of an illustration she’d once seen of a beast called a crocodile. “Ah! And here he is now.” She raised her voice. “Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Vaakano, darling! Come and meet the guests.”

Another Seraph entered the room, all bluster and motion.

Where Vakaena was oil-rubbed bronze and onyx, Vaakano was golds and vanillas. His skin was a creamy yellow, his hair pin-straight gold, shaved in a military cut close to his head. His wings rose behind him, shining even in the soft light of the gaslamps and the moon. Oddly enough, one of his wings had an entire section of black feathers, as if someone had accidentally assembled that portion of him incorrectly. Fat caterpillars of red lightning zoomed through his wings, audibly sparking with his agitation.

Remora stared into his eyes.

His brown eyes.

Brown eyes with gold flecks. Just like hers.

Vakaano’s eyes scanned the room briefly, then immediately shot back to Remora’s face.

He froze.

Vakaena steepled her fingers and smiled.

Please don’t kill me when you find out where I’m halting the story.

<.<

She hoped never to do so again.

A bright white light shone, not just from the hammer, but from Hank, as well. The glow crept up his arms, like moss growing across the face of a stone.

Disturbing as the sight was, it was nothing compared to the look in Hank’s eyes. Most of his expression was hidden behind that leather Paladin mask [...] Continue reading →]]> Remora ignored the bloody mess of the man on the floor. She didn’t know who he was or what he’d done, but she had never seen Hank this way before.

She hoped never to do so again.

A bright white light shone, not just from the hammer, but from Hank, as well. The glow crept up his arms, like moss growing across the face of a stone.

Disturbing as the sight was, it was nothing compared to the look in Hank’s eyes. Most of his expression was hidden behind that leather Paladin mask of his, but the pain and rage in his eyes was so bald she didn’t need his whole face to see it.

“Honestly,” she said, thrusting away the tight knot of confused emotions she was feeling with practiced ease, “you look like some kind of monster. What would Bones say if he saw you now?”

The rage instantly shifted to grief, and the glow intensified, as if she’d thrown oil on a fire.

Her heart froze. The rage, she could handle. Deflect. Understand.

That grief, though. That was something else. Something she did not want to touch.

Her eyes, unable to maintain a lock with his, flicked across the room, cataloguing everything. Something was amiss, here. One of her tutors had called her memory “remarkable.”

She remembered things. Things she’d read, and the page of the book she’d read it on. Formulas. Facts.

There was nothing remarkable about it, not really. Facts were … precious. Like delicious little bits of fruits you were able to store away and pull out whenever you wanted to enjoy them again.

Really, it had been more disappointing to learn that other people didn’t remember facts. What did they do with all that brain capacity, then? It was a mystery.

Still, if her ability was at all extraordinary when reading, she found it sharpened under pressure. Currently, she found herself under a singular amount of pressure, with a corresponding increase in the number of details she noticed.

The guards in the room were as guards always were — businesslike and unimaginative. Armed, frowning, awaiting orders.

The room itself was remarkable enough to warrant a closer look. Skycities dated back to before the Great War, so of course the building was old. Almost alien, really. Back in Westmouth, the oldest buildings shared a … well, a flavor. A shape, or idea behind “how things should be done” that seemed completely different here. The room itself was a single spire, scraping the heavens. She could look up and see forever, it seemed. The walls were lined with statuary, most so far away that they could only be for the amusement of a winged race, like the Seraph themselves. The entire structure seemed designed to make someone without the power of flight feel insignificant, and it worked.

Two of the shadows above were not quite consistent with the angle and brightness of the light. One of them, she was fairly certain she recognized as Mosley, the black and purple shonfra who had gone with Jinn to hunt down Snow and Percy. He perched on the shoulder of one of the stone statues above, and unlike the statue’s shadow, he did not flicker with the motion of the gaslight.

Granted, from this position, she could only guess that it was a very dark shonfra, but something about the way he held himself, the angle of his perch, matched that of Mosley.

The other shadow was much larger, and much better hidden. If she hadn’t seen Mosley, she might not have even spotted it, but there was a too-dark shadow in the alcove behind a particularly splendid statue above.

If the shonfra was Mosley, the other could only be Jinn.

Immediately, she felt more secure. Safer. If Jinn was here, then surely everything would turn out.

She avoided staring at that too-dark shadow, though.

If he were hiding, he would not appreciate the attention.

The seated dinner guest was intriguing. A Shinra’dor, pale of skin and with leathery wings draped to either side of his chair back, the man’s red eyes surveyed her with avid interest. She noted the obvious signs of his beatings without really intending to. Bruising in multiple places, a broken horn, the more-obvious bandage around his throat.

Still, she didn’t recognize him, just catalogued his face away for later.

A million tiny details about the layout of the room and its decorations filed away for future reference. The thread count on the tablecloth appeared to be unusually high, particularly for something whose drape and slight gleam indicated it was made of silk. The silverware was gold alloy, and every place setting was precisely duplicate. No matter how dedicated the staff, one might find at least one fork placed a millimeter or so too far to the left for a true match, but there was no such flaw here.

Everything was pristine. Not even the tiniest bit out of place, out of synch, out of perfection.

The part of her mind that noticed when things were not perfect found it all rather soothing.

The man’s body on the floor, however? That was not soothing, or perfect.

It was unpleasant. Chaotic.

The woman standing a few feet away was a Seraph. Lady Vakaena, no doubt.

Remora had seen Seraph before. This one was darker in complexion than the two she had already seen, but no less imposing.

As it had every time, her heart quickened with a traitorous hope. Her eyes scoured the woman’s beautiful face, seeking any sign of resemblance. The curve of a cheekbone, the tilt of a nose, the angle of a brow — anything, which might make sense of the fact that Remora was half Seraph. That she might in some way be related to these unbelievable creatures.

She saw nothing.

It seemed a joke. An insult, that she might be compared to one of the Seraph.

She turned her morbid curiosity away from the Seraph woman, continuing her scan of the room.

It was then that she noticed it. The thing she had seen from the beginning, but her mind had shied away from, even more strongly than she had avoided the body of the crushed human.

A ticker’s head, lying on the floor, as if it were trying to escape the mess of the body without truly succeeding.

Bones.

It was Bones.

Of course, it was Bones. What else could make Hank react that way? What else could make him lose such control?

Her scan complete, she allowed her eyes to move back to Hank. Almost no time had passed, though her mind had been so busy that it seemed that surely it had been ages.

“Is that what this is about?” she asked the still-pained eyes of Hank.

She strode forward, lifting her skirts if she came too near the growing pool of blood beneath the still-gasping body nearby. Leaning down, she retrieved Bones’s head, tucking it gently beneath her arm. She kissed it gently on the forehead, though she knew there was no way it could possibly feel anything.

Bones had been a ticker. A cogsmithed man. Everything he was, is, or could be had been not in his head, but in his source. That vial of cogsmithed liquid and elements which drove him.

His heart.

“We can fix him, Hank.”

Remora did not look at the captain. “I can fix him.”

A new voice cut across the room, like oil sliding along a water’s surface. “Oh, I’m afraid not. He was abomination. You won’t be doing anything at all without this, and I have no intention whatsoever of giving it to you.”

Remora looked up, to see the Seraph woman reach into her robes and pull out a fat glass bottle.

The liquid inside was a rich, deep purple color. Something floated inside, like bits of torn fabric, but it was too small for her to truly identify.

Vakaena placed the bottle on the dinner table, and Remora’s eyes followed it hungrily.

She had seen it once before, when Bones had loaned her his trenchcoat. After he’d found out her secret. After he’d become the first person to know everything about her, and not care. To treat her the same both before and after. To find out about her death, and to care.

To regret.

To mourn.

That square-bottomed bottle? That was Bones’s source.

That was the thing which made him Bones.

This woman … this thing … had unmade Bones.

Something small blossomed in Remora’s chest. Something both bright and dark at the same time.

She would find a way to unmake this woman.

Most importantly of all, she would save Bones.

She walked forward, still holding Bones’s head, and placed her hand on Hank’s still-glowing wrist. She looked up into Hank’s green eyes and squeezed his wrist as hard as she could, forcing him to look down at her.

She smiled at him, then pressed Bones’s head into his hands. “It will be okay.” She squeezed his wrist again, making sure her nails pressed into his skin hard enough to make his brows draw together. She brightened her smile, but dare not wink at him. “Do take your seat, Hank. You are making a scene.”

For a moment, she thought he might fight her on that, but he must have caught something in her eyes, because finally he nodded and the glow faded from both his hands and the hammer. She steered him to the seat nearest Vakaena and sat him down, as carefully as if he were an unruly child.

She then turned that same smile on the Seraph, undiminished and unfaltering. “Might I visit the powder room, Dame Vakaena? I hate to impose, but I’m afraid your footman was quite insistent that I come right away.”

The Seraph paused a fraction of a second, but finally nodded. “Naturally, Lady Price.”

A guard snapped to attention, making as if to move forward. Remora lifted an eyebrow to him. “If it would please you, Dame, I propose that I have no need of a guard. I have hardly put forth any sort of struggle to this point. Do you really think I need a nursemaid to ensure my continued good behavior?”

Vakaena smiled, as if she found Remora’s words very amusing indeed. “Truth. Stand down. She’s a useless bastard, a mosquito. She was named well. Swims with sharks, but isn’t one herself. Go. Return with haste, as I have great plans. The way you came, down the hall to the left.”

Remora curtseyed, more to avoid looking at the suddenly avaristic gleam in Vakaena’s eyes than out of courtesy, before she turned and walked away from the gruesome mess on the floor, the strange Shinra’dor, Jinn, Mosley … and worst of all, a grieving Hank, who had very little reason to believe she could deliver what she said.

Silly man.

How often would she need to save him before he would begin truly trusting her?

On the way to the bathroom, she stopped to admire a lovely purple-leafed plant in the hallway. When she continued onward, the plant had five fewer leaves, though the casual observer would likely not have noted the loss.

She would save Bones.

That fact burned in her mind and heart, even more strongly than her need to prove Starbirth.

Instead, I ask that you help me. See, I’m still kind of looking for a good title for Volume 3.

Something about Bespin I think, since the whole installment has been on its way to or happening while in that skycity.

So Volume III could be something like …

By the time he reached the front door, he’d gained four burly, dangerous-looking shadows: two bull-dresl, a tiger-dresl, and a human displaying rather a lot of weaponry. He assumed he had snipers on him, as well. Paladins were not the most beloved of the Seraph, what with their sworn oath to [...] Continue reading →]]> In no mood for subtlety, Hank made his way directly to Bespin’s Seraph Ring. Still in full paladin gear, people gave way without comment, though the gate guard that Hank handed the “invitation” to seemed unhappy about allowing him access.

By the time he reached the front door, he’d gained four burly, dangerous-looking shadows: two bull-dresl, a tiger-dresl, and a human displaying rather a lot of weaponry. He assumed he had snipers on him, as well. Paladins were not the most beloved of the Seraph, what with their sworn oath to kill the winged bastards on sight and all.

Paladin garb wouldn’t have been his first choice, if he’d known he was going to be knocking on a Seraph’s front door, but he didn’t have time for niceties.

All that mattered was that Bones was somewhere in there, and he needed to get him back out.

The bull-dresl at the front door expected him, accepting his invitation with unsurprised grace and holding the door open for Hank and his shadows.

They didn’t bother to take his hammer. Clearly, they either expected he did not know how to use it, or wasn’t stupid enough to try.

The way he felt right now? He was plenty stupid enough.

In the back of his mind, part of him was screaming. He didn’t have a plan at all. Walking up to the front door and demanding to get his first mate back wasn’t a plan, that was suicide. Did he think the Seraph were just going to say, “Oh, right, sorry about that. Here you go,” and let him on his merry way?

The larger part of him felt like stone. Cold, unforgiving, hard, and terrible as the head of his paladin’s hammer.

Bones was in trouble. He would go to Bones.

The tiny, loud voice in the back of his mind was more than a little bit afraid of that stony, unmoving, uncaring voice. The voice that called himself Gerard.

They approached an ornate archway, Hank and his shadows. Through the arch, a grand table could be seen, set for at least a dozen guests. Only one guest was seated at the table, however—the palest Shinra’dor Hank had ever seen, with a thick cuff of bandage around his neck and a long segment of horn missing on one side. The Shinra’s red eyes widened as he saw Hank, and his bruised lips widened to a curling, sarcastic smile.

Immediately, Hank dismissed him. Not a threat.

Also dismissed were the two human guards leaned against the wall behind the Shinra’s chair. They were less of a threat than the dresl tailing Hank, though both of them stood straight and watched him with wide eyes.

None of them were interesting, because none of them could help him rescue Bones.

In fact, there were only two other people in the room, and both of them were very, very interesting.

The most interesting of the two was a Seraph.

Really though, it would be difficult to have a Seraph in the room and not consider them the most interesting person, regardless of the situation.

Hank had never seen a Seraph before, and now that he had, he hoped that he never needed to again.

She dominated the room. Not because she was overly large, or loud, or anything, but just because she was, as if her very presence reduced the amount of air in the room. She seemed almost to glow, and the rest of the room seemed almost dingy in her light. Her skin was human-dark, a beautiful chocolate color dusted with something shiny, like an oil-rubbed bronze. Her hair was cut short and close to her head, emphasizing the elegant length of her neck. The deep gold robes she wore emphasized that odd bit of glitter against her skin, and brought out the hint of a metallic glint in her almost-black eyes.

And then, of course, there were the wings. Detached, they floated free behind her, massive even when folded behind her into what almost seemed carved golden pillars. Flickers of dark lighting chased through the feathers, periodically sparking off into the air beside her, like tiny fireworks.

Watching her made Hank feel light-headed. Soft. She wasn’t even paying attention to him, and a small part of his mind wanted to do whatever she asked of him.

That was very dangerous thinking. As soon as he thought it, he tore his gaze away from her, to the other interesting person in the room.

Beside her stood a very familiar man holding something beneath his arm, covered in a silk cloth. The human was getting old, black hair now more salt than pepper, cut in a flat, military line across the top of his head. Even without a noxious cigar clamped between the man’s teeth, there was no mistaking him.

Bricktop, leader of the Loggerhead Isle black market racing.

The last time they’d met, Hank, Bones, and Hackwrench had made off with more than a small amount of the man’s racing equipment. Part of a racing bet, creatively interpreted in Hank’s favor.

Hank had planned on avoiding Loggerhead for ten or twenty years, hoping Bricktop’s anger might fade with time.

Clearly, he had underestimated the man, or at least misjudged him. The turtle islands weren’t just on the run from human authorities—they were avoiding Seraph interference as well. What could have brought Bricktop here, to an audience with the Seraph, and at a dinner to which the Miraj crew was invited?

“You promised, Vakaena! Don’t think I won’t—“

“Dame Vakaena,” she corrected, her voice a well-oiled purr. “Do not forget your place, human.”

“Dame or no, we had a deal!”

“I have altered the deal. Pray I do not alter it further,” the Seraph replied. “Once we realized what it was, of course we had to dismantle it. You still get the head as a trophy. Would you prefer I took your head instead?”

Bricktop scowled, then noticed Hank for the first time. “Shoulda known your lot would have dealings with Paladins. Suppose you’re not really enemies, then?”

Dame Vakaena turned to look at Hank. Despite feeling an intense desire to look away, he forced himself to meet her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, as though she were mildly curious about him, then looked away.

Hank felt immediate relief, as if he’d just had a gun pointed away from him. Her eyes had been … wrong. The color had gone all the way through the pupil, and the little flecks of metallic glinting actually moved in that circle of color.

She made the Shinra’s red eyes seem normal and harmless in comparison.

“Him? He is not really a Paladin. Take your reward and scuttle back to your little turtle, human. I shall call on you again, should I find you useful.”

Bricktop looked as if he might argue, then met the Seraph’s eyes. Immediately, he shut his mouth in a tight, petulant line, and bowed to her.

As if in slow motion, Hank watched the scrap of silk cloth slither away from the thing it covered as Bricktop bowed, revealing the thing beneath his arm.

Hank’s heart stopped beating.

A rusty ticker head, wide band of flat metal forming the curve for the bottom of the face, two eye-bulbs dim and unlit.

A scratch marred the jawplate, running from ear to chin, where Bones had taken a blow from a dresl’s sword once, when they were acquiring a load of Shinra statuary for an interested buyer.

Bones.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Hank was in motion, lifting the hammer and running at the man, screaming and roaring all at once as his shock and grief sought an outlet.

Part of him registered that Dame Vakaena simply stepped aside, lifting a hand to stop her guards as she watched with curiosity. Most of him didn’t care about anything except that round piece of metal in Bricktop’s hands.

Bricktop, who had seen Bones and been too interested in him. Bricktop, who had an Ardelan butterfly under glass. Bricktop, who probably knew that he’d been going to Bespin, and who had more than enough reason to want to steal from Hank exactly the sort of thing that Hank had stolen from him.

Betrayer.

Bricktop, who would not live long enough to eat through a straw.

Hank slowed, lifting the heavy hammer to thigh height and twisting at the waist, bringing the hammer to Bricktop’s knees from the side.

Surprise faded to pain as the man collapsed, screaming to Vakaena to help, at Hank to stop, at anyone who would listen.

The ticker head rolled across the tiled floor, rattling. Another wave of fury built up and crashed against him.

Hank lifted the hammer again, forcing the knot of terrible emotions through his hands, along the silver shaft, and into the hammer’s stone head. The hammer shone, glowing white a light so bright and so terrible that he could not look directly at it. Hands aflame, he slammed the hammer’s head in a shining arc, down upon the betrayer.

The screaming changed pitch, and no longer contained words.

Again, and the screaming changed to whimpering.

Bones was gone. Dismantled. Torn apart.

All because of this man. It was his fault.

A lump of emotion rose in his throat, and he forced it aside. No, not now. Later, Hank would grieve.

Right now, Paladin Gerard wanted justice.

The small, emotional part of his psyche stepped aside and allowed the stone wall more room. What did it matter, without Bones? What did anything matter?

He lifted the hammer again, chest heaving.

A small, irritating, sensible, feminine voice interrupted. “Captain Hank Daniel McCoy, you will stop what you are doing this very instant, or I shall never forgive you!”