Page 18 of Veil of Dust

His lips part, perhaps to protest, but no sound comes before my blade drives home. The tip slices through his jacket, then through flesh. A wet hiss escapes him. His knees buckle, and the platform rattles as he crumples into the shallow puddle at my feet.

I kick the knife out of his loosening grip, twist the blade free of his leg, and step back—no mercy in my posture, no hesitation in my breathing.

His skin blossoms red, water swirling pink around him. I bend, grab the soaked edge of his jacket, and thumb through the pockets. A burner phone, a wad of soggy bills, a matchbook from Roy’s up front. Tokens of whoever sent him, scrambling for scraps of intel.

Footsteps thunder on the wooden stairs inside the bar—Roy finishing his nightly rounds. I don’t wait for him to spot me; I slip through the staff door before the lock can click.

The taste of iron lingers on my tongue. Adrenaline hammers a rhythm through my veins. My heart won’t settle until I’ve left every trace of Alfeo’s men in that rain-choked yard.

Inside, the bar is darker than I expected—lights down and most patrons gone. I cross to the mop bucket by the ice machine, wring out a rag, and head back outside. The attack happened less than a minute ago, but already, the world seems to demand I clean up; chaos won’t endure under my watch.

I crouch by the dying man, who lies on his side, wet hair plastered to his forehead. His shallow breaths fog in the chill night air. I hold the rag to his wound, squeezing until the flowslows, but not stopping entirely. Enough that he thinks he might survive—enough that Alfeo has to send more. I crush the rag in my fist and toss it into the dumpster.

Then, I stand, boots slipping on the ledge, and glance back through the bar’s windows.

Neon letters flicker: SPIRITS, the sign’s last “S” sputtering out like breath leaving someone’s lungs. Inside, Roy leans against the back wall, amber eyes widening at the sight of my silhouette. He doesn’t call out. He never does. He trusts me to handle my own storms.

I slip in without a word, the cold air exchanging for the bar’s warmth and the low hum of the refrigerator. The mop left in my hand turns into a makeshift staff. Patrons crane their necks, watching as I cross the floor. Glasses clink. Vinyl from the record player crackles on.

At the corner where I stash my coat, I pause and examine the edge of my blade. Raindrops cling to the steel’s finish like tears. I flick water from the tip and slip it into its leather sheath. My ribs still sting where a stray piece of scrap wood bit me earlier, but the ache is welcome—proof I’m alive.

Roy sidles up next to me. He’s holding my nightly tea—a stiff shot of rye with a splash of bitters. He nods once, wordlessly offering. I take it down it in a smooth burn that courses through my chest, setting each muscle alight.

“Alfeo’s not done,” I say, not a question. More a statement of fact.

Roy’s lips turn down. “He only backs off when he’s sure you’re broken.”

I set the empty glass on the shelf. My reflection stares back—eyes sharp, shoulder still tensing under my jacket. “Then he’ll have to try harder.”

He gives me a look that says we both know what that means. I head to the back, feeling the weight of every footstep, muscles unclenching only at the threshold. The attack on the loading dock wasn’t random. It was a test—one I passed, but not without marking myself.

Inside the storeroom, I drop the tea tumbler on the concrete and lean against a stack of empty crates. Rain drips from my hair, and I peel my soaked jacket off, wrinkles of mud smudged down the front. I roll the sleeves of my shirt past my elbows, revealing old scars and new ones that sting.

I run my thumbs over the blade accident. It’s shallow, but unclean. I press a handful of antiseptic from the first-aid kit onto a paper towel, treat the cut with methodical precision. Pain radiates in slow waves. Good. Keeps me grounded.

I catch the faint haze of jasmine incense drifting from the bar’s altar—my ritual to clear my mind.

When I step back into the bar’s glow, I’m calm. The remnants of rain fall from my hair like sparks. Patrons resume their chatter. Glasses rise in soft half-toasts. Roy watches from behind the register, hands poised, ready in case trouble slips in again. But it won’t. Not while I’m here.

Under the neon halo, I feel something shift. The yard outside will be claimed by runoff, litter, and the echo of what happened. But the bar—this was always my domain. I smooth my shirt, wipe my blade clean with a cloth, and slip it backinto its sheath. Tonight, there was an attack on foreign ground. Tomorrow, the front door will hold.

I shake off the last of the cold and head for the stairs. The night’s far from over, and Alfeo’s threats are churning in my blood. But whatever he sends next, he’ll find a woman who refuses to cower, who refuses to break. The bayou may breed monsters, but I am its claw, and the next time he crosses my threshold, he’ll wish he’d never sent a single scout.

I push through the dining area, back toward the glow of the streetlamp and the promise of another bottle waiting under the counter. The floodlight outside still glares down, but now, I stand in its beam. My silhouette is unblinking, ready for whatever comes next.

The alley’s still thick with fog. It hasn’t moved, just sits heavy, like it’s waiting for something worse to happen.

I’m back outside. The body’s right where I left it, slumped against the dumpster. There’s more blood now—spreading out beneath him—but he’s breathing.

Good.

Let him drag himself back to wherever he came from. Let him explain what went wrong. Let him tell them I didn’t panic or chicken out.

I light another cigarette and take a drag. My ribs ache where the cut runs shallow and sore. I haven’t changed clothes, haven’t cleaned the blood off my hand. Let them see it.

The night feels colder than it should, but not because of the temperature. It’s because of what’s coming.

I catch movement at the mouth of the alley, a shadow first. Tall. Steady.

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