“You know, I preferred when we used to talk about superhero movies and comic books,” I said.
“I never said I was going to stop,” he replied.
I gave him a side eye, interrupted by another booming voice coming up the block.
“You fools lookin’ for some action on this corner?”
Bullet strode up through the crowd, and I nearly spit my beer on the sidewalk. He was dressed head to toe in Witcher gear. Long white hair down his back, leather armor, sword on hisback. He moved in full swagger, like he had not raided a cosplay shop that afternoon.
“Okay,” Hoax said, deadpan.
Bullet stopped in front of us and spread his arms.
“You told me to dress up,” he said. “Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Hoax grinned and tugged on the old RBMC jacket he wore, the one with worn patches and a familiar scuff on the sleeve.
“I’m Jameson,” he said. “Vintage edition.”
“You’re such a dumbass,” I said, shaking my head.
“Oh yeah?” Bullet looked me over. “What about you, Hoax gave you a once-over already. What’s with the coat?”
I stepped back enough to show my full getup. Long black coat, boots, shirt open enough to show the ink on my chest. Holsters at my sides. Pistols in place. Rosary at my throat. Cross at my belt.
“Easy,” I said. “I’m a cowboy exorcist. Think holy man with guns.”
“You look like this every day,” Bullet muttered.
“Precisely my point,” I said.
Before he could answer, movement at the end of the block caught my eye.
Two women walked toward us through the crowd with the kind of confidence that parted bodies without a word. Seraphine led, her long black cape catching every small stir of air. Her hair was hidden under a white wig that fell in stark waves. White contacts turned her eyes into pale discs against her dark face. She wore a black leather dress that hugged every curve, the neckline low, the hem slashed high. She walked like she owned the street.
Beside her, Grace moved with a different rhythm.
Harley Quinn, but not the bubblegum version. This Harley was darker. Her dark hair was pulled into two high pigtails,streaked with red at the ends. Black and red makeup framed her eyes, smeared just enough to give her a wild edge. A silver collar circled her throat.
She wore a torn crop top, red and black, that flashed glimpses of her stomach. Fishnet tights clung to her legs. The shorts she wore barely counted as clothing. Across her thigh, visible through the fishnets, fresh ink marked her skin.
LITTLE DEMON.
The words rode the curve of muscle, clean and sharp.
In her hand, she carried a “Good Night” bat, the letters painted along the grain. Her boots were heavy, laced high. She chewed on a piece of bright red gum and blew a small bubble as she walked.
“Damn,” Hoax said under his breath.
“Damn is an understatement,” Bullet murmured.
I did not take my eyes off Grace.
“Okay,” I said. “Keep it in your pants, boys. Harley is mine.”
We stepped off the wall and moved toward them. We met halfway in the middle of the sidewalk, under the flicker of a neon sign.
“Looking to get fired up tonight?” I asked.
