It’s just my luck that the portals are down and out for general maintenance, so that leaves me in the decrepit old subway station. The place is packed full of all kinds of people. Gremlins skitter around legs, looking for loose rings or bracelets they can snatch. Down on their luck Angels smoke heavily and blow nicotine into the air, making an already hot subway even hotter. It’s a pressure cooker just waiting to blow over, now more so than ever with the pushing and shoving and jostling as the shrieking sound of the train gets louder and louder. I keep an old baseball hat low on my brow, just in case someone notices me. But there are plenty of posters all over the walls, fluttering onto the tracks, and even under our feet to pick anything out. Flickering lights, all sickly yellow, light the place.

  If someone does manage to notice me, then that’s just down to some terrible luck.

  And it just sucks big time to be down here. I’m easily one of the shorter people in the station too, and the magic in the air is so pungent it’s making me kinda nauseous. Someone next to me throws up, their vomit a mix of purples and reds and glittering bits and pieces I can’t bear to look at or be around. The Orc he’s just emptied up on spins around, roaring in disgust and lunging at him in a fury. We ignore them as they tousle on the ground. Not your fight, not your blood on someone’s hands. A thin little Pixie even takes her chance to run off with the Orc’s phone that slipped out of his pocket. As for me, my lucky little bunny teddy bear is firmly in my bag, and my sword is where it should be on my back. It’s got a seal on it. Nobody can pull it from its sheath except for a few people.

  None of them are anywhere near New Salem, though, so I’m not afraid of that, anyway.

  And finally, the train arrives, squealing on its old tracks and hissing open. One tide of people hits the next, and I’m smushed up against shoulders and elbows, scales and wings and claws as I wriggle my way inside the train. I find a spot near the window, not that the thing can open that much, anyway. But I’m wet with sweat. Can’t even take off my shirt without accidentally getting stabbed by some Dragonborne’s tail. Put the damn thing away, I think, but I’m not allowed to say that, since it’s their right to flaunt that barbed thing however much they like.

  Doesn’t mean I can’t accidentally step on it, making the guy curse me out and push away from me.

  “Hey,” someone says, then nudges my shoulder. The train slowly picks up speed again, rattling and shuddering underneath our feet, making us sway and shove against one another. I glance over my shoulder, expecting a guy to chew me out for stepping on his tail again. Instead, I found a Vampire. Thin, stained white vest, silver necklace, and a golden canine. His eyes are rimmed with red, the rest of his face gaunt. I discreetly put a hand on my dagger, waiting. Watching. Fucking Bloodsucker. “That head on your hip. You gonna eat it? Need a hit.”

  “Piss of,” I hiss at him. “Get your blood somewhere else, fuckin’ gnat.”

  “Are you sure?” he says, blood-red eyes gleaming. His mouth stinks of meat. His gullet of a throat throbs as he swallows saliva, kinda like those old exhaust vents that spew foul sewage. “I’ll pay you. Whatever you want, kid. Just need a bump. One snag. Heck, even you’d do just fine. Your blood smells weird, but I ain’t that picky.”

  I step toward him, my short black blade pressing against his gut. “Fuck. Off.”

  He licks his lips but shuffles along, sparing one last glance at Jane, then at myself. Second person tonight to tell me my blood is weird. Don’t care. Must be starving. Past the point of being violent for his food, and I’m making that guess because of the amount of scars and bruises underneath his tattoos. The guy’s been beaten like a dog the past few days. Passed that stage where they’re feral, and now he just needs to survive. I watch him move through the train, scratching his skin, more so his neck, where two very faded bite marks are raw from his nails itching them so much. The bastard was gonna die soon. Not my problem. A docile, looney Vampire is better than a Vampire with even an inch worth of strength. Don’t look at me that way. It’s not racist. He’s a godsdamned Vamp.

  You can’t be racist to those things, not in a million years.

  Jane remains silent against my thigh. I know she’s looking up at me, but I ignore her and sheath the blade.

  The train to get down to Dogway East takes nearly thirty minutes, constantly stopping at other platforms to let one horde off and let another one on. I’m squeezed against the window, half my body pressing painfully against the warm metal. I’ve got no other option than to watch the blur of the tunnel lights pass by, and without even knowing it, my free hand drifts toward my necklace, thumbing the pendant. It’s the first time in literal days I’ve been able to gather my thoughts, despite the noise and the heat and the smells filling my nose. I shut my eyes, one arm still clinging to the hold above me, the other on my necklace. Gods, I’m pretty beat. I nearly even fall asleep standing if it wasn’t for the tiny, long-fingered hand I felt tug on my hair. I glance over my shoulder, a flare of annoyance bursting through me. Then I pause. Just some kid on his mother’s back, curious about the human’s hair.

  It's an Elf, pudgy and full of life, easily excitable, too. I give her a wry smile and stick out my tongue, making her giggle. Her face lights up before her mother turns her away from me, shooting me a disgusted look.

  We’re on the same train, princess, I think, watching as she quietly scolds her child for even touching a human that way, then busies herself wiping her kid’s fingers. Doesn’t matter to me. My stop just got called out.

  I make sure to tuck my necklace into my t-shirt before forcing myself out of that boiler of a train. I walk onto the platform and stretch a little, finally free from the packed full prison that’s just shrieked away behind me.

  A sign above the stairwell reads Welcome to Dogway, Home of Steel and Fire, and yeah, no kidding, the place feels like a furnace the moment you leave the air-conditioned station. It’s mostly underground forges, the kind that blow smoke into vents that travel through exhaust shoots and out into the city above. The entire place glows a deep reddish orange, simply from the amount of fire and scolding liquid gold, iron, bronze, and almost any other metal you can find down here. Cars, bikes, watches—hell, you name it, and Dogway will have a cheaper copy of it ready and waiting for half the price. It’s what feeds most of us, as well as the gangs and guilds that own shops or streets. I walk quickly, like you do down here. No hesitation. Don’t look people in the eyes. If some guy comes asking you for change or pretending he knows you, either smack him upside the head or do yourself a favor and run. The thunderous echo of Giants slamming their hammers down, of industrial presses booming through the air, makes the ground shudder. I walk where Jane tells me to, down a street that’s more residential than forge stations.

  There’s a hanging layer of black smoke in the air, making my throat sting. I hate coming down here. I avoid coming down here by any means. But, as always, MageCo have their billboards here, too, along the underground highways and blocking the windows on apartment buildings. I doubt that most of the kids who live in King’s Village even know that this is where their uber special magic weapons come from. But that’s not my problem today.

  “It’s just down here,” she says to me, as I head down one of the quieter streets underneath an overpass. Cars and trucks carrying all kinds of stuff rumble over my head—the kinds that have reinforced windows and grills, and more likely than not have someone at the wheel with a weapon on them. Down here, a lot of homeless people mill about looking for anything they can get their hands on, even if it’s the trash thrown out of car windows that rains down from the rumbling, smoky overpass. Tents galore here, too. Cardboard cities. It stinks of fire and excrement.

  A couple of guys—humans—on motorcycles whistle at me as I pass. I do ‘em a favor and flip them off. They holler and laugh, the liquor in their hands swishing as they keep calling. The overpass above everything here makes everything filthier, fouler, and a lot harder to navigate. Larger piles of trash along the road. The apartments here are worse than the ones next to the forges, which is saying something. It can always be worse, Kace. I watch a group of kids go chasing after one another, ducking into mounds of garbage and putting on whatever pieces of trash they find the coolest so they can keep playing their imaginary games of killing monsters and saving the world.

  It’s mostly humans down here, anyway. The Ogres and Giants and any other thing down here wouldn’t live underneath the overpass. Too noisy. Too much crime. I pass a wanted poster that’s been glued to a brick wall on top of a missing poster. But these aren’t Mages. They’re humans who’ve got nothing better to do than run errands for the Monsters they slave away for, or try and make a quick buck at a gambling joint whilst you slam back shots with your buddies all day long. This place is despair incarnate, and also the same place where if I’m found wandering, I’d very quickly have my head on someone’s platter, or between a vice, or a foot—point being, gotta make this quick.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” I mutter, passing a shop full of guys modding their cars with magic. Weld enough runes and the right kind into the metal, and your car is gonna be something else entirely, too. But I would rather trust a blind Cyclops to do that instead of some drunken guys putting together anything they know.

  They’ll be lucky not to cause an explosion, but I’ll be honest, their cars do look freaking cool.

  “It’s the kind of place I’d come to all the time,” Jane says. “Shorter lines than the bigger forges.”

  For some reason, I can’t quite imagine someone like Jane, with a face so cheery and eyes so lively, humming her way down these kinds of streets. The woman is a mystery to me, and she seems a lot more comfortable down here than back in the city. She’s even singing a song under her breath, something that makes my skin warm.

  “Take a right up ahead,” she tells me. “He works in a garage, but he’s legit.”

  Let’s hope so.

  I hear footsteps behind me. Slow at first, but keeping pace. Here we go. I choose to slow down, and so do they. Then they start running, shoving me from behind and sending me crashing into overfilled trash cans. I fall and roll, getting onto my feet the same second they grab my necklace and rip it off my throat, using a blade to cut the chain. They sprint, run hard and fast, and I swear, yell after them and chase. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Steal my dagger but not my fucking necklace. The smoke-tinged air burns my throat. My sneakers smack against the concrete and I follow them around a corner, then get smacked in the face by a bat. The world blurs. Flickers. I stumble and fall and find myself on the filthy ground, moaning as pain ravages my face. I spit blood, shake my head, put one hand to the tarmac and look up, my swollen eye struggling to focus on the figure—no, figures—standing over me. The one with the baseball bat swings it onto her shoulder, looking down at me with a nasty smile. I struggle, but get up.

  ‘Cause nobody’s coming to help me up, and these bastards just stole my shit.

  What else do I expect from some Dogway brats?

  “Uh uh,” she says. She swings the bat. I duck and tackle her to the ground. I scramble on top of her and slam my fist into her face, giving her back what she gave me until her face is a bloodied mess. A hand grabs my collar and rips me off of her, dragging me onto my feet and slamming a fist into my gut. I vomit into my mouth, let it spill onto the tarmac as they let me collapse to my knees. I curse and gasp for air, fighting to keep myself awake.

  “Kacey!” Jane screams. “Y—”

  One of them plants their foot into Jane’s mouth, smashing her jaw and shutting her up. I go for their groin, punching upward and meeting their balls. They scream and collapse. I smack my knee into their nose as I lunge to my feet, because none of these guys have my necklace—they’re the distraction. So I run and I run, my heart against my ribs and my lungs burning for air as I chase down the bitch sprinting toward a parked car. She slips inside and the car screeches away, tail happy and gushing rubbery smoke as it races down the road. I swear, search around the street, and find a guy loitering on a motorbike close enough for me to shoulder check him, swing my leg onto the bike, and gun down the street after them. I’m not thinking. Barely have the time to as I shift upward, gear after gear until the bike is roaring between my legs and my hair is wild in the wind. Down side streets and alleyways, around corners and pulling on the bike’s brakes to swing it on the pavement, skipping onto the curb and nearly battering into several people. Faster, goddammit, go faster. And then comes a straight as we near a parking lot in front of an old run-down forge, its flickering, large neon yellow sign illuminating the tarmac. I squeeze the throttle harder.

  They swing their car around the corner just past the forge, tire smoke gushing off the pavement.

  Fuck! I yank on the front brake, making the bike skip and shudder. I stop, breath hard. Look around. There, the fence into the forge is open, wires split by hoodlums looking for a place to crash. I gun the bike through the gap in the fence, swallowed by the darkness, led by the tiny headlight and the sound of the car’s roaring echo. The forge is a monster of black pipes and sooty air. Run down, decrepit, littered with machinery I rapidly dart past, faster and faster, finally seeing the headlights from the car. I can hear their whooping. Their cheers because they’ve gotten away. That’s what they’re thinking. I can hear it over the sound of the wind screaming in my ears right now, too.

  Then I turn right. Hard. And there we are, face-to-face, the bike’s headlights illuminating their faces down this dark tunnel lost in the machinery. Time slows. I wince as the car’s headlights slam into me, making me grit my teeth. But I don’t slow down. Hell, I twist the throttle even harder, speeding up this hellish race toward calamity.

  Before they get the chance to run me over, I leap off the motorbike, slamming into the car’s windshield, their roof, rolling over and over until I hit the tarmac, skipping and rolling head over heels, skidding my arms and knees and ripping my cheek against the ground, leaving my skin raw and bloody and red until I come to a painfully agonizing stop. I look up, groaning, the pieces of my arms missing already healing from the runes, and watch as the bike smashes right into the front end of the muscle car with a dull metallic bang. Smoke, sparks, and then fire.

  It throws the car off course, making it veer and smash into a lamp post that comes crashing down.

  Bastards. The runes carved into my arms burn as they try to heal me. I get onto my feet, staggering, holding my sides and panting like a beaten dog. Bastards. I limp through the dimly lit forge. Past machines. Into the dark, my arms bleeding, my head pounding and heart racing. I reach the car. Its hood is smashed to bits. The side where the reinforced bike smashed into it is completely crumpled in. I don’t care. I grab the body slumped over the steering wheel and pull them out through the smashed up window, throw them onto the ground and stomp my foot onto the back of their head, smacking their face against the curb the lamp post sat on. Blood splatters onto the pale concrete, mixing with gasoline and grit. I turn, hobbling toward the car and searching through the window, huffing.

  I hear a click behind me, and the cold press of a gun barrel against the back of my head.

  “Ease up,” my missing passenger whispers. “And turn the fuck around.”

  So I do, slowly, and stare into the barrel of their silver hummingbird, and the steady arm behind it. It’s a girl with tanned brown skin and light hazel eyes, a buzz cut to finish the look and piercings in her ears. She’s got my necklace clutched tightly in her free hand, but she waves the gun in my face, making me focus on her alone.

  “Give me,” I snarl, stepping forward, putting the gun to my forehead, “my godsdamned necklace.”

  Her eyes narrow. I don’t wait for her to make a decision.

  I smack her arm away. The gun barks, spitting out a bullet that pings off the giant neon sign. I duck, slam my fist into her side, spin her around and grab the back of her head, then do her a favor and pound her skull hard against the Mustang’s roof over and over until she lets go of the gun. She collapses, groans. I slam my foot into her ribs. She curls up, so I stomp on the back of her head, and then— She vanishes into a puff of wispy black smoke.

  I rear back. Shadow magic.

  Where—

  A forearm wraps around my throat, gagging me. Then cold agony slides between my ribs.

  I gasp, the pain shocking the adrenaline right out of my system. I glance down. See her tattooed hand holding onto my dagger. The same dagger sticking out of my side. She yanks it out and shoves me against the car. I collapse, gasping like a fish, my head woozy as I clamp a hand onto my side. Blood pours through my fingers. She swears and wipes my dagger against her jeans, then slides it into her belt. She dangles my necklace in front of me. It glints in the yellow iridescent light. I reach for it, desperate, the sword and the shield pendant just inches away.

  She scoffs and stuffs it back into her pocket, then crouches in front of me. I can barely focus on her. My head is a pounding mess. I cough up blood whenever I try to move. Fucking heal already. But the runes on my arms aren’t doing anything. They stopped stinging, stopped working. She grabs my jaw painful and looks me in the eyes, and all I can see are pits of honey-colored hatred swimming in hers. “You’ve got a nice couple of bits and pieces on you,” she says quietly, tilting my head side to side. “Both your ears, both your eyes…a Mage like you, that’s good money. Magic must be strong in your blood if you still had it in you to chase us down like that. I mean, fuck, steal a bike and ram us with it? You’re insane!” She lowers her voice. Smiles. Her canines glint as my vision begins to fade. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Don’t you freaking dare pass out on me now. “Your blood will sell good. Enough to feed a couple mouths. We can peel those runes off your skin. Maybe get a couple old world bucks for your organs, too.”

  I spit the blood that’s pooling in my mouth onto her sweat-stained vest.

  She stops smiling and stands, picking up her gun. “Hey, at least it’ll be quick, right?”

  And then her gun goes off.