Free Dark Alchemy by Laura Bickle Page A

she’d have to become very familiar with the new toy.
    Stan fiddled with his moustache and grinned. “I’ve got just the thing for you. Stay right there.” He disappeared into the back, leaving Petra to browse.
    She pawed halfheartedly through the racks of military jackets, camo coveralls, and khaki shirts. She found a ­couple of shirts and a pair of fatigue bottoms that looked like they might fit, and heaped them on the counter. Work clothes. She picked up a sturdy-­looking military backpack and a black canvas ammo bag for her tools. It was the closest she would ever come to carrying a purse. It slung comfortably over her shoulder, and had enough loops to hold her picks.
    She bypassed the musical instruments, coins, and sporting equipment. Pausing at the clothing racks, her nostrils flared at the rich scent of leather.
    â€œOh, my,” she breathed, in spite of herself. She pulled out a knee-­length brown leather coat, worn in to buttery softness. Unlike the other clothes she’d chosen, this was clearly a woman’s coat. Probably dating from the 1970s, it was flared with a broad lapel and full skirt, studded with tortoiseshell buttons. She reached inside it, finding a zip-­out lining. She held it at arm’s length, staring at it. Fall would be coming soon, and she had no coat.
    â€œTry it on.” Stan had returned, was fussing behind the counter. “There’s a mirror over there.” He gestured to a corner of the room, where a cheap door mirror had been propped up.
    Self-­consciously, Petra shrugged into the coat. It smelled of leather and tobacco. She peered at her reflection in the cheap glass. It fit her like a glove. She had to admit, she liked the swashbuckling silhouette it gave her.
    After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped out of it, placed it on the counter with the rest. For winter, she told herself.
    Stan had pulled out a wooden box that looked as if it had survived a flood. He opened it, and Petra wrinkled her nose at the smell of moldy velvet.
    Stan lifted two silver pistols to the light. They were tarnished, free of embellishment except for pearl grips. “How about these?”
    Petra lifted one dubiously and peered down the long barrel. She estimated that it weighed about four pounds. Underneath the tarnish, there was no pitting or buckling, so it was unlikely to blow up in her face. “That’s a lot of gun, Stan.”
    â€œThat’s an 1881 Colt Frontier six-­shooter. It’s a .44. Need cleaning, but they’re a nice set.”
    Petra considered the weight of it in her hand. It had a reassuring heft. The long barrel would give her more control over the larger caliber bullet, but still . . .
    â€œI don’t know that I need two guns.” She checked that the barrel was empty and pulled the trigger. The action was a hard pull. It wouldn’t go off accidentally—­no featherlight trigger here.
    â€œI’ll cut you a deal on the set.” Stan rummaged around in the box. “Also comes with the gun belt.” He held up a decrepit piece of leather. “It’s a fine antique.”
    Petra tried on the belt. She had to wrap it exactly twice around her body to get it to fit. The leather needed oiling, and the buckle was tarnished black.
    â€œThat makes you look like a proper cowgirl.” Stan said, approvingly. “Try it with the coat.”
    Petra made a face. She didn’t primp. But she had to admit that the coat with the gun belt made her look like she belonged here . . . like Annie Oakley. Maybe the meth heads would leave her alone.
    â€œHm. How much?”
    Stan rubbed the edge of his moustache. “Two thousand.”
    Petra removed her hands from the belt as if it were hot. “Two thousand?”
    â€œThose pistols are worth good coin. I’m cutting you a deal.”
    Petra frowned and set them back down on the glass case. “I don’t really need an