“Great things,” Hen snapped at him. “Good things. This is going to do my career absolutely no harm.”
The barista stepped up from behind the counter to block them. His mask was cheap, wood pieces carved together so the dog’s teeth clacked against each other when he talked.
“Is that about you out there?” he asked.
“Get out of the way,” Hen said.
“Is it about him?” The barista pointed.
“It’s not just a patrol,” someone yelled over their shoulder as people jostled for position at the window. “That’s a whole pack. I think there’s a fucking Handler.”
Hen clacked her beak and glared at the barista. “I work for the Company,” she said. “Get out of my way or I’ll—”
The barista grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back. “You’re just one of the birds,” he said and jabbed his finger toward the window. “They’reHounds.I know who I’m more scared of.”
“Maybe she’s a traitor.”
“They’ll give you her muzzle if she is. That’s what I hear.”
Hen made a low clucking noise in her throat as she looked around. The only way out was the door or the back room.
“I thought you said the Company wanted me on their side,” Hill hissed at her in protest. “You said they sent you.”
She swung her head around and glared at him. “They did,” she snapped. “And someone else sent the dogs in after you.”
That…didn’t sound good.
“Fuck fuck fuck.”
She sounded a lot like a chicken in that moment. Inappropriate laughter hitched at the back of Hill’s throat, but he managed to control it.
“I’ve been dead a long time,” the barista said as he tightened his grip on Hen’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s time the Company gets to see what I can do.”
Hen’s grip on Hill’s wrist tightened.
“This is nothing to do with me,” she said in a tight, controlled voice.
“Why don’t we let the Hounds decide that?” the barista said.
His mouth was hidden behind the clacking wooden teeth, but the smirk was in his voice. He shoved them back a step and half-turned to catch the attention of the customers.
“One of you go and tell the Hounds we’ve got them,” he said. Nobody moved. Their enthusiasm for the detainment suddenly dried up as they shifted uncomfortably. “Go on! She’s—”
Hen snapped her head forward and…pecked…at him viciously. The scissor-sharp jab of her beak carved long worms of flesh out of the barista’s face and cracked his muzzle. The tip caught his eyelid and peeled it back until it ripped.
There was no blood, just dribbles of smoky-wetstuffthat clotted as it dripped.
The barista let go of her and fell back with a shriek, hands clapped to his savaged face. His back hit the counter, and he slid down it, his heels kicking the ground in pain. The rest of the customers drew back.
“How do you feel about me being ‘just one of the birds’ now?” Hen spat as she stepped over his legs. She dragged Hill with her. The spilled “blood” was tacky under his feet as he stepped through it.
“You won’t get far!” the other customers warned from behind them. “We’ll tell the Hounds what you did.”
None of them managed to work up the courage to actually try and stop them.
Hill staggered along behind Hen as they cut through the narrow galley kitchen at the back of the store. It smelled of sour milk and even more sour water. A mop stood in a pail of stagnant-foul water by the back door. Hen shoved Hill out into the alley and then—in a flash of petty that showed she was stillhis Aunt Hen no matter who she remembered—kicked the pail over to flood the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Hill asked again. “Yousaidthe Hounds would move that beggar on soon enough. What made you think they’re here for me instead?”
