Acne scars.
Patchy facial hair.
One of them has a cheap engagement ring on his left hand.
These aren’t monsters.
These are kids who signed a contract with the wrong devil.
“Who sent you,” I ask quietly.
They don’t answer.
I grab the one with the ring by the front of his jacket and haul him off his knees until his toes barely touch the ground.
“Who sent you,” I repeat.
“Glimner,” he gasps. “Subcontract. We were told to tag the warehouse and wait for extraction orders.”
“To do what,” I growl.
“Pressure,” he chokes. “Intimidation. Find leverage.”
I drop him back onto his knees.
My hands are shaking.
I don’t like that.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I say, my voice low and flat and surgical. “You are going to leave Novaria. Tonight. You are not going to take another contract from the Nine. You are not going to breathe in the same district as Kimberly Fierson ever again.”
The one with the broken nose laughs weakly.
“Yeah, sure, man. And if we don’t?—”
I lean down until my face is six inches from his.
“You die slower next time.”
His laugh dies in his throat.
“You tell anyone what happened here,” I continue, “and I come back for you. Not fast. Not clean.”
The youngest one nods frantically.
“We—we’ll go,” he whispers. “I swear.”
I stand.
Step back.
“Get out of my city,” I say. “Before I change my mind.”
They scramble.
Trip over each other.
Stagger to their feet and bolt down the alley like their lives actually depend on it.
