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“Thirty bucks,” she told Sterling.
“Twenty,” Sterling replied.
“Twenty-five. And you buy a couple pounds of jerky.Cash only.”
“Sold,” I said.
“Winter.”
“It’s good jerky.” We were going to be buying a couple of pounds of jerky either way.
We pretended to snap at each other while Lord Overalls returned with the tiny key that opened the top of the case. He fished the grimy necklace that was so filthy it looked filled with swamp water out and held it by the silver chain. “Here you go.”
Sterling reached for it. I swatted at his hands. “Are younuts?! Don’t touch that!”
Even thesmallestsilver exposure might compromise him, and he needed to be in peak physical condition.
Me, on the other hand…
I snatched the necklace from the guy before he could react.
Ow.
The silverinstantlyburned my fingers and palm, searing into my already damaged left hand. I winced, and my fingers tried to unclench to let it go. I shoved it into my jean pocket..
“I can tolerate some incidental skin contact,” Sterling said mildly.
“So can I,” I replied. “But better safe than sorry.”
The guy looked at us. “Ah—”
Sterling gave him a sharp-edged smile. “We should conclude our transaction.”
Lord Overalls decided it was time to get us weirdos right out of his store. And he was right.
I headed towards the gator jerky. Time to stock up andattemptto process that we’dfound the necklace.
Or at leastanecklace. We hadn’t confirmed it wasthenecklace. Time to wash the swamp off it.
I filled two paper bags and cradled them in the crook of each elbow like delicious, dehydrated, desiccated meat babies while Sterling slid two twenties across the counter. Amazing how he could discreetly peel bills without revealing he was carrying several thousand in cash.
We crunched across the sandy gravel towards the truck. The necklace burned in my pocket against my thigh. The scent of live bait and boiled peanuts mingled with the smell of swamp and diesel fumes.
Some locals had decided our truck needed their asses leaning against it. I shifted my jerky to one hand.
Wolves.
Three males, all about the same general age: somewhere between eighteen and thirty, very loose overalls with flip-flops, no shirts, and probably no shorts. Coarse-cut, short hair in non-specific dirty blonde shades that might have been unwashed blonde or sun-bleached brown, and deep tans that became paler gradients the more their overalls covered. No watches, no rings, no visible scars, sinewy and wiry and tough-looking.
A couple more locals watched from the shadows of doorways. The two shop keepers had been humans, these three local boys were wolves, and the rest of the town was a toss-up. Hadn’t smelled these three through the live bait and boiled peanuts, maybe they’d just showed up. Maybe not.
For a solid eight minutes, nobody moved or spoke.
Time for a jerky snack. Had to keep my strength up. I chewed on a strip, watching the three of them transform from casually debating pissing on the truck to insulted.
This tricycle of champions here had picked a prestige fight with a mated wolf. Their mistake.
One of them lasted half a piece of jerky before shoving off the truck and sauntering three steps towards Sterling before one of the others caught up and gave him a shoulder-jostle. The first asked, “What are you doing here?”
