Page 8 of Failed State

“What brings ye to my lair?” Angus asks as he knocks on the table to call.

“The challenges.”

There’s a variety of grunts and scoffing noises from his fellow players, but Mc Sherry scratches his beard as he studies me. “Worried about the new meat coming in, are ye?”

“Not worried, but I’d like to be prepared.”

“I bet you would, Monroe. You’ve always been weak,” Saleos hisses.

My fists clench at my side and I have to count in my head to keep from wringing his traitorous neck. “A complacent demon is a dead demon, Ignia.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Huckleberry?” He laughs evilly and I have to hold myself back again. “Your kin weren’t prepared when the humans came for them, were they?”

“Saleos,”Angus snarls as he slams his small hand on the table. “You know I don’t allow fights in my bar.”

If I weren’t aware, I might have jumped over the table to strangle this asshole the minute I laid eyes on him. This demon owes me blood and I will eventually collect on that debt.

Saleos Ignia is living on borrowed time and I’m going to be the one to kill him.

PLEASE, SIR, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER

SYDNEY

Leavingthem behind wasn’t my intent, but I had to get away. I’ve made peace with the fact that my dad’s naiveté and faith in other beings got him killed, but that doesn’t mean the trauma of losing him is gone. It wasn’t fair and it shouldn’t have happened, but then my mom shouldn’t have left when I was a baby, either.

Enough feeling sorry for yourself, Syd. This place is full of people who had raw deals.

I look around my small, dingy room, sighing as I acknowledge my inner voice is right. My sponsored flop house is packed with former orphans created by the Sweeps. There are twenty singles on this floor alone, and each one of them has a supe with a sob story of varying levels of tragedy. Mine is pretty low-level in comparison to most, though no one’s grief is the same.

“This place is depressing as hell, but I cannot take the boys up on their offers.” I lay back on my bed, hugging my stuffed Bulbasaur. My dad bought it for me as a kid because I was obsessed with Pokemon because it felt like if humans could accept them, they could accept shifters and such. “And they still can if they fucking enslave them.”

Stop being such a lemon-sucking asshole.

“I need to get out of this room. Otherwise, I’m going to brood all night and by tomorrow, I’ll be an even meaner bitch,” I mutter to myself. “I should go down and see what’s left from communal dinner, if anything.”

Sitting Bulba aside, I slip on my flip-flops—no one should ever go barefoot in a shared living space—and make my way down the quiet, dark hallway to the stairs. Two floors later, I’m entering the main living area. It’s abuzz with people talking about today’s announcement, something I wish I could ignore. A group of six magic users are huddled together in a corner with a bunch of materials I assume have to do with a pact. Several shifter groups are also chatting, and I have to bite my tongue not to sigh.

Trusting someone who you live with but haven’t formed a friends group with is… well, it’s something.

“That something isn’t smart, but whatever,” I mumble as I step around and over people lounging with books.

No one pays me any mind because I don’t hang out with anyone who lives in my tenement. I’m not fond of giving supes who know what room I sleep in access to parts of me. The other residents think I’m anti-social, which is fine with me, but our life in Tempest Seven is precarious. Random supes go missing every day, and who the fuck knows where they go? There’s never an explanation offered unless they’ve joined a group of their own species.

The missing could be dead, trafficked, or even shipped off to other sectors, but we don’t know. I’m not going to die because I was gullible like Dad. With a glance over my shoulder, I head into the large kitchen area to raid the fridge. Nothing here will be very good, even if it’s mostly fresh. These homes are funded by the increasingly stingy government and they think we’re lesserbeings. What gets sent to places like this is no better than what the schools serve.

I open the industrial-sized door, squinting at the various containers suspiciously. There’s one with meat and when I crack it, it smells like it’s still good. Searching quickly, I grab some okay-looking tomatoes and lettuce, then the watery condiments we have to scrape to extend. As long as the bread isn’t moldy, I’ll have a decent sandwich.

“What are you doing, weirdo?”

My spine stiffens as I hear the high-pitched voice of a hybrid wolf shifter girl from the floor below mine. I have no idea what her name is, but she arrived about three weeks ago. Word was they’d caught her living amongst the humans with some exotic collector pervert. The pack here hasn’t taken her in yet, so she was shoved into our home.

Remember, I said I don’t talk to people, not that I don’t listen.

“Making a sandwich. I got home late.” I turn away, heading for the counter to find the bread. That was more than I owed a stranger anyway, so I consider the conversation over.

She huffs, making a sound that makes my fists clench at my sides as I peek into the cabinets. “Why were you late? We got out early. Sounds like you were up to no good.”

I close my eyes, winging an irritated prayer into the aether that she leaves me alone soon. “You aren’t my keeper. Walk away.”

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