Wasteland King by Lilith Saintcrow Page A

cared for such things.
    Crenn stepped lightly, his shadow a pool at his feet. High noon buzzed and blurred with insect life among the brambles. There were no gardens, and the houses were shut tight, no mortals visible though he could hear stealthy movement in many of the tin rectangles.
    He followed the tugging to the very edge of the bowl, each corrugated shack turning its back on the empty land beyond. Past the ragged border, sand and sage reclaimed their primacy, but the edges were lined with those blackberry vines, a green wall.
    The tingle-pull became a thrum. He slipped through the nominal idea of front yard this last domicile at the end of the crazy-cracked approximation of a street possessed, and in another moment he would have been gone completely.
    Except the door flung itself open, the ragged screen door pushed wide almost in the same instant, and a lean young mortal, his scent fuming with sicksalt disease and the furious yellow metallic tang of some drug, staggered out into the hammerblow of sunshine. A threadbare flannel shirt fluttered, and he was starred and spangled with crimson.
    â€œLittle giiiiirl,” the mortal crooned, his wide brown eyes glazed with whatever he was high on. “Little
giiiiiiiirl
, your momma wants you!”
    Crenn halted, caught in midstep, all his weight on one foot and the other hovering a few inches above weedy earth, paused like a cat sighting an inattentive bird.
    The mortal inhaled. “
Jeeeeeeennyyyyyyyy!
” he yelled, weaving drunkenly down the steps. “Come heeeeeeere, you little biiiiitch!” The gleam in his left hand was a claspknife, and the crimson on him was fresh mortal blood, reeking of iron and salt.
    Below that, the brassy scent of death. He had been at grim work, this drugged mortal apparition.
    Crenn considered this, and might have gone on his way, following a hunter’s certainty. But the mortal saw him and stopped dead, breathing heavily, nostrils and ribs flaring synchronously. Rail-thin, he moved like a pixie-led traveler, quick jerking movements not quite connected to each other. The drug, whatever it was, smelled powerfully adulterated, his body jittering as it sought to consume whatever its rider had subjected it to.
    â€œWhotha-fuckare
you
?” the mortal spat, waving the claspknife for emphasis.
    Crenn gauged the distance between them. A single mortal, even hopped up on an ugly substance, was very little threat. And yet, Robin had come this way. Had she met this welcome as well?
    He set his booted foot down, carefully, and simply regarded the mortal, who wove unsteadily down rickety porch steps. The screen door banged shut, rebounding and quivering, sending weary darts of bright reflected sunlight dancing across yellow, dying grass, and a lopsided blue car crouched in the almost-driveway.
    â€œI
said,
” Spittle bubbled on the mortal’s lips, and he enunciated with care now. “
Who
the
fuck
are you?”
    Crenn shrugged, a loose liquid movement, and his hand itched for a blade-hilt. “A stranger,” he said finally, measuring each word. Another sidhe might well decide to ill-wish the mortal for his rudeness, or investigate the signs of bloody brutality on him. Alastair, however, had no urge to enter the dark cave of the long rectangular aluminum shanty. “Passing through.”
    The mortal crow-cawed with laughter, weaving another few unsteady steps closer.
Don’t,
Crenn wanted to tell him.
Go on your way, whatever mad way that is, and whatever you’ve done, the punishment will be less than if a sidhe takes notice of you.
    It was already too late. The mortal studied him for a long taffy-stretching moment, head cocked as if he too was listening to faraway music piercing the Veil from some corner of the more-than-real…
    â€œJEEEEENNNNYYYYYY!” he howled as he lunged for Crenn, the knife gleaming, cleaving air with slow sweet sounds.
    Crenn stepped aside, half-pivoting, and his booted