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Traven walks away as a stream of havoc members come by to pat me on the back, punch my arm, and shake my hand. I smile and nod like it’s the Oscars and I just won Best Supporting Asshole.
The Magistrate is off talking to the rest of the town. In ones and twos, they drift over to the havoc looking miserable. Reluctant new recruits to the cause.
I walk to the truck and drop back into the driver’s seat. I don’t want to let Traven see me feeling the way I feel. Did I just cross a line I can’t uncross? I know the doll man was a bad guy. I know it. This isn’t the first time I’ve executed someone. I murdered a whole houseful of Wormwood bastards just a few weeks ago. Still. This feels different.
The next time the Magistrate tries to rope me into a dog and pony show like this, I’ll kill him, no matter what.
Daja rides up on her Harley. She pulls a couple of Hellion beers out of her saddlebags and hands me one. Clinks hers against mine and takes a long drink.
“We’ll be moving out soon,” she says. “When we get settled I’ll see about getting you better wheels.”
“Don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother. Brother.”
She drives away.
I sit there for a while looking out at the desert, not thinking. Letting my mind go blank for a few minutes.
Then I drink the beer.
That night in Traven’s camper, neither of us has much to say. I hear a motorcycl
e stop outside and go to see who it is.
It’s Daja with another woman as big and bad as she is. Her hair is buzzed almost skinhead short, her face is fine-boned and graceful. Her skin is dark and heavy with Downtown warrior sigils. She almost looks like someone I could have met in the arena. She and Daja are on spidery Hellion Harleys.
I close the camper door and say, “It’s late and we need our beauty sleep. What do you want?”
They get off the bikes.
“Nothing,” says Daja. She throws me a set of keys. The other woman gets on the back of her Harley.
“Leave that piece of shit,” she says, pointing to my burned-out dream car. “This is yours from now on.”
I look the bike over. It’s a beautiful, horrifying machine, screaming power.
“And it’s not even my birthday.”
I look at both women.
“What if I don’t want it?”
Daja shrugs.
“No sweat off my ass, but the Magistrate would take it hard. You don’t want to upset him now that you’re best friends, do you?”
I weigh the keys in my hand. Put them in my pocket. When the time comes, it will be a lot easier getting away on the bike than the burned-out shit box I’ve been driving.
“Anything else?” I say.
“A thank-you wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yes, it would. I’d have bad dreams all night.”
Daja kicks her Harley awake and revs it a couple of times. Before she pushes up the kickstand, she takes something small from a jacket pocket and holds it out.
“Here,” she says. “The bike is from the Magistrate, but these are from the havoc.”
