Free Blood Rules by Christine Cody
Authors: Christine Cody
Text. âNo hrm hre, frnd.â
Mariah didnât repeat that she also meant no harm to their new friend. She was, after all, loaded up with weapons in those holsters and the backpack she was wearing.
Nonetheless, she had her hands up, too. For the moment.
The dog growled weakly. Itâd barely even had the strength to whiz; Gabriel knew as much because heâd connected with the animal and heard the feeble movement of its vital signs. He had an affinity for caninesâChaplin, this dog . . . and werewolves like Abby and Mariah.
The straw-hat man relaxed but kept his hand near his pocket. He wore a long-ass mustache that was waxed to points below his chin. âWht u wnt?â
What did they want? Probably a sight more than this poor man could give them.
Just as Gabriel was about to begin some subtle questioning to hunt down rumors about a cure, a tinny, small, very elderly voice came from the direction of the tents.
âWhich one of you asswipes took my can of beans?â Then, as if that hadnât been good enough, he repeated it in Text.
Mariah was already headed in the voiceâs direction, and Gabriel nodded to the straw-hat guy in the best thanks he could muster.
She whispered over her shoulder to Gabriel. âOld Americanâs a better bet than one of those Text-hawking ignoramuses.â
He knew what she meant. There was someone speaking an upper-level language in this dump, and maybe this person would be halfway educated and tuned in to the bigger world picture.
They circled the tents, seeking the most likely spot where the Old American had come from. Meanwhile, the screeching and yelling theyâd heard from the main street got louder as they approached its source.
A shade fight.
Unbelievable. These tent-dwelling cretins had two gargoylesque, hulking black carrion eaters with ropes tied around their necks and stones strapped to their wings. The hideous shades were lunging at each other, snapping their beaks, leaving tracks of blood on the dirt from their wounds while soil-caked men and women leaned forward, cheering them on.
The sight of blood deeply unsettled Gabriel, and he pressed the cloth against his face, walking away.
âWhereâre my beans !â shouted the small, elderly voice again.
Thinking that Mariah mightâve been affected by the blood, too, Gabriel took her wrist, handling her while navigating the maze of tents until she disengaged from him. His flesh burned where her warm skin had touched his.
âIâve got a hold of myself,â she said under her breath.
âNever can be sure,â he said right back.
She didnât parry, so she mustâve taken his comment to heart. At any rate, there was no time for a lively discussion because they found a bent little old man standing by a campfire outside the only tepee in the copse of tents.
And little was certainly the best way to put it. Even with the high-crowned cowboy hat he was wearing, he couldnât have been more than five feet. He was like a mini general from the handheld screen of a history e-back, with a gray soul patch under his bottom lip and military-style pants with a multitude of pockets. A steel pipe cane kept him standing, as if he were on his last legs. Judging by the lines on his face and the deliberation of his movements, he had to be even more ancient than the oldster back in the Badlands. Maybe even over a century.
Gabriel stayed away from the fire, and Mariah remained at his side as the little old man barked out his bean question in Text again. Then he paused, finally noticing Gabriel and Mariah with a gaze that was more cloudy-white than blue.
âYouâre looking for beans?â Gabriel asked in greeting.
âHave you seen anyone around with a can of âem? If you do, theyâre mine.â
âI suppose they are, but we havenât witnessed hide nor hair of any beans.â Gabriel put on his friendliest expression and proceeded to give the
Mariah didnât repeat that she also meant no harm to their new friend. She was, after all, loaded up with weapons in those holsters and the backpack she was wearing.
Nonetheless, she had her hands up, too. For the moment.
The dog growled weakly. Itâd barely even had the strength to whiz; Gabriel knew as much because heâd connected with the animal and heard the feeble movement of its vital signs. He had an affinity for caninesâChaplin, this dog . . . and werewolves like Abby and Mariah.
The straw-hat man relaxed but kept his hand near his pocket. He wore a long-ass mustache that was waxed to points below his chin. âWht u wnt?â
What did they want? Probably a sight more than this poor man could give them.
Just as Gabriel was about to begin some subtle questioning to hunt down rumors about a cure, a tinny, small, very elderly voice came from the direction of the tents.
âWhich one of you asswipes took my can of beans?â Then, as if that hadnât been good enough, he repeated it in Text.
Mariah was already headed in the voiceâs direction, and Gabriel nodded to the straw-hat guy in the best thanks he could muster.
She whispered over her shoulder to Gabriel. âOld Americanâs a better bet than one of those Text-hawking ignoramuses.â
He knew what she meant. There was someone speaking an upper-level language in this dump, and maybe this person would be halfway educated and tuned in to the bigger world picture.
They circled the tents, seeking the most likely spot where the Old American had come from. Meanwhile, the screeching and yelling theyâd heard from the main street got louder as they approached its source.
A shade fight.
Unbelievable. These tent-dwelling cretins had two gargoylesque, hulking black carrion eaters with ropes tied around their necks and stones strapped to their wings. The hideous shades were lunging at each other, snapping their beaks, leaving tracks of blood on the dirt from their wounds while soil-caked men and women leaned forward, cheering them on.
The sight of blood deeply unsettled Gabriel, and he pressed the cloth against his face, walking away.
âWhereâre my beans !â shouted the small, elderly voice again.
Thinking that Mariah mightâve been affected by the blood, too, Gabriel took her wrist, handling her while navigating the maze of tents until she disengaged from him. His flesh burned where her warm skin had touched his.
âIâve got a hold of myself,â she said under her breath.
âNever can be sure,â he said right back.
She didnât parry, so she mustâve taken his comment to heart. At any rate, there was no time for a lively discussion because they found a bent little old man standing by a campfire outside the only tepee in the copse of tents.
And little was certainly the best way to put it. Even with the high-crowned cowboy hat he was wearing, he couldnât have been more than five feet. He was like a mini general from the handheld screen of a history e-back, with a gray soul patch under his bottom lip and military-style pants with a multitude of pockets. A steel pipe cane kept him standing, as if he were on his last legs. Judging by the lines on his face and the deliberation of his movements, he had to be even more ancient than the oldster back in the Badlands. Maybe even over a century.
Gabriel stayed away from the fire, and Mariah remained at his side as the little old man barked out his bean question in Text again. Then he paused, finally noticing Gabriel and Mariah with a gaze that was more cloudy-white than blue.
âYouâre looking for beans?â Gabriel asked in greeting.
âHave you seen anyone around with a can of âem? If you do, theyâre mine.â
âI suppose they are, but we havenât witnessed hide nor hair of any beans.â Gabriel put on his friendliest expression and proceeded to give the