Free Dire Straits by Megan Derr

Dire Straits
    Bannick closed his book as the train came to a complete stop, and the whistle finally left off. He fastened the tarnished silver clasp and slid the black leather Book of Prayers into the satchel that carried all his work necessities and went everywhere with him. Waiting until the other passengers had finally filtered out of his box, he then slowly unfolded himself from his seat.
    From the empty seat beside him, he picked up his gun belt and buckled and strapped it back into place until the familiar worn leather hung just so, low on his hips. Then, purely from habit, he checked each gun. They had not been touched since he had taken the belt off after getting to his seat on the train, but he checked them anyway. Silver bullets in the left revolver, rune bullets in the right.
    Guns taken care of, he picked up his black frock coat and shrugged into it, not bothering to shut it. Next, he raked a hand through his thick, dark brown curls then settled his wide-brimmed, black felt hat on his head. Then he picked up his saddlebags and slung them over one shoulder and slung his satchel over the other.
    Slipping out of his box, he nodded politely to the people he passed, pointedly ignoring the stares, the naked curiosity, the not-so-quiet whispering.  Out here in no man's land, he bet they rarely saw more than a Class One, maybe a few Class Twos here and there. He was sure they had never seen a Class Six, the only ones who could be given permission to carry weapons—and much, much more than these folk would ever hear about.
    In bureaucratic speak, he was a PC-6 (LTC)—Priest Class Six, Licensed to Carry. In formal speak, he was an Exorcist. In casual language, he was called a gun priest. In very small, select circles, he was sometimes called a blood priest.
    Hopping down from the train, he looked around for the man who was supposed to meet him.  After a moment, he saw the man standing on the far end of the platform; Bannick spotted him mostly because of the way his eyes went all buggy as they notice first the unmistakable high collar and pin that held it closed and then the guns at his hips.
    Bannick stifled a sigh and strode across the platform to the man. Not bothering to set his bags down, he extended a hand. "Deputy Myre Calloway? I'm Bannick Poore, the Exorcist the Crown sent to look into your little problem."
    Myre's eyes widened a bit further as he heard Bannick's unmistakable drawl, the way every word rolled out like molasses, adding at least two syllables to every word. Strange enough, Bannick knew, for them to see a blood priest.  He was made all the stranger by the fact he spoke with a drawl, rather than the more expected clipped accent of a city slick.
    It had been a lot of years since he had been this close to home. He did not want to get any closer.
    When Myre did not reply, Bannick fought an urge to roll his eyes, and prodded gently, "You are Deputy Calloway, right?"
    "Oh—yes—my apologies," Calloway finally said, shaking his head and doffing his brown wide-brimmed hat. "Only, when I got the telegram couple days ago, that they was sending a priest my way—well, son, ain't gonna lie. I've never seen one like you. Heard of your sort, and I guess that telegram said I was getting you, but I half thought all I'd heard was pure exaggeration."
    Bannick smiled briefly. "Exorcists get that a lot. It's the red collar, I think. So much more startling than white, blue, green—all the others. But the information you sent ... Well, the Crown thought the matter warranted serious attention, and I'm serious as sin on Sunday, Deputy."
    "I can see that," Myre replied, eyeing his collar and guns again. "I seen a lot of colors come through here in my life, but I ain't never seen a priest in a red collar."
    Bannick shrugged, "Exorcism tends to have a flare for the dramatic, that's all." He hoped this conversation would end soon. He lightly touched the pin that held his high collar closed—a bronze square inside a gold