Page 2 of Practical Boots

Two of the remaining five looked surprised, as if they hadn't expected any resistance. They clearly hadn't been briefed, or hadn't believed the briefing.

Cat felt quite strongly that anybody who hadn't believed the briefing on her deserved what was coming to them. But they weren't the real problem. There were two others, farther back in the grey nothingness of the Waste, who were obviously not there tocollecther. They were there to protect the sixth and final member of the team, who stood as far away from the fight as he could, an expression of quiet intensity sharpening his pretty features. Power washed off him, distorting the grey as magic responded to his will. Something glimmered in the grey, soap-bubble-like, and in a heartbeat, Cat understood.

He was obviously an Artificer, like herself. But his Artifact was a privacy bubble, or something of that nature. Something designed to keep things both in and out. That skill would be considered of great value in the Torn, where ‘browsers’ could casually pluck your thoughts out of your mind, or hear a whisper spoken a thousand feet away. Here, in the Waste, its use was in keeping her in. As long as he maintained the bubble, Cat wasn't going anywhere.

Out of curiosity, she pulled the gun from the back of her waistband and shot it at the rippling wall.

The steel-cased bullet slammed through the Artificer's magic, tearing a hole in it as surely as it would tear a hole in flesh. The Artificer's raw scream would have softened Cat's heart toward him, under different circumstances. Iron disrupting magic was never easy, even if she'd spent years adapting to it. This Artificer hadn't, and—watching him collapse, clutching his head and wailing—Cat reckoned he'd be weeks, if not months, in the recovering.

His two bodyguards went through a complicated series of twitches while they decided which was more important: comforting the Artificer, or punishing Cat for her misdeeds. They finally split the difference, one dropping to her knees beside the Artificer and the other running full-bore down on Cat.

Of the two who had been closer to Cat in the first place, one lunged at her with the same intensity the bodyguard was coming at her with. The other one, obviously much, much smarter, backed the hell off, his hands raised and his face pale, even in the weird lightless grey of the Waste.

"You," Cat said to him, with an approving nod as she finally slung her backpack over her shoulders. "You, I like. In so far as I like anything about this situation, I like you. Brains of the outfit, what hey? Right. See, this is what you're avoiding."

His partner reached her right about then, attacking bare-handed, which, all things considered, was a little insulting. Cat stepped under his roundhouse punch, catching his arm on the way past, dragged it a direction it wasn't meant to go, and slammed the butt of her pistol into his temple.

It would have dropped him anyway, but Cat carried steel weaponry for a reason. Blood and bruising bloomed instantly where the butt had struck him, but more alarming was the black ooze that appeared, as if corruption had slipped from the gun straight into his skin.

Which wasn't far from the truth, really. He'd be fine, if he got back to the Torn quickly enough, but iron alloys didn't play well with Torn physiology. Cold iron—which sounded sexy and cool, but really only meant iron that hadn't been worked with another metal—was even harder on the Torn.

Those like Cat, half of the Torn and half of the World, could use magicandiron, without suffering—exactly—for either.

The other Artificer's bodyguard acquired a modicum of wisdom and pulled up, suddenly cautious about Cat's weaponry.

That was all the time she needed. Shestepped.

And came out in the wrong place entirely.

* * *

She knew the man waiting for her. Of course she did. He'd fathered her, although claiming he'd raised her stretched the term beyond its legal limits. He looked as he always had: angular of face, with thick red hair swept back in braids; tall and surprisingly broad of shoulder for his kind, and dressed so immaculately that lint would never dream of forming in his pockets.

He had a speech planned. Cat recognized it in his stance, in the curl of his lip, in the disapproving look down his aquiline nose, and in the way he drew breath like once he began speaking, he would never stop.

She was quite, quite sure that he hadn't intended to begin the lecture with a recoil as his slim-fingered hand rose to his chest in legitimate distress. "What are youwearing?"

Cat glanced down at herself, as if her clothes might have changed in the Waste. They hadn't: she still wore her shit-stomping practical boots that laced up to the knees, the hip-riding leather pants, and the black leather coat that managed a motorcycle jacket vibe while also being long enough to cover her butt.

She thought of the rest of her clothes as accessories. Her shirts varied in cut from day to day, ranging from belly-baring crop-top to 'at least I remembered to put a bra on'. Today was one of the latter. She usually wore heavy-duty biker gloves that saved her wrists a lot of aching when she did courier runs. She still held her gun, and carried other weapons in various places, including the boots. And there was the black leather backpack, of course, carrying its time-sensitive cargo. She didn't know what it was, but she did know that the faster she delivered it, the bigger her bonus would be. That was the only reason to go through the Waste in the first place.

Which meant her father was cutting into her bottom line. Before she could come up with an answer to his self-evident question, he added, "And what have you done to yourhair," which sent a satisfied thrill of glee through Cat's gut. Her father's vanity about his hair, the one trait that marked Cat most obviously his as child, was legendary. Hers was as thick as his, and as darkly red, and if he'd loved anything about her, it had been her hair.

"I cut it," she said, almost happily. "With a knife." That was true, as far as it went. She'd also gotten one of those pairs of weirdly-toothed hairdresser scissors that thinned hair by only cutting some of it, and applied it savagely to the blunt, half-shaved cut she'd given herself.

Her father actually blanched, which was about the best reunion Cat could have imagined. "Nice catching up. See you around." She turned away, virtually certain her magic wouldn't come when called.

At least she wasn't disappointed. Whatever pocket of the Torn he'd brought her to, for the moment, he reigned supreme in it. Her name, spoken in his thin, icy tones, raised the hairs on her arms. Cat made sure to fix an unimpressed sneer on her face as she looked back at him.

"What you carry is rightfully mine."

Cat glanced at the strap of her backpack, as if she could see the package through it. "That seems profoundly unlikely."

"And yet. Give it to me, and I will release you."

"Thatalsosounds profoundly unlikely." One heartbeat. Two. She couldn't stand it. "What am I carrying?"

Irritation flashed over her father's narrow features. As if they had any other resting state.Bitchy Elf Face. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at the thought. The denizens of the Torn came in all kinds of fantastic shapes, sizes, and races, and those of her father's particular heritage did not think of themselves aselfin. Not the way humans thought of them, anyway. They would tolerateaelfen, a word that involved vowels like the Welsh had invented it, as if the extra letters made the same sound superior, but in the modern World's vernacular, Cat didn't have a better word for that half of her heritage. They were tall, thin, immortal, and had pointed ears that she, thankfully, had not inherited. 'Elves' would do, as a name. While she amused herself with that, her father came to a decision that clearly didn't lighten his ill humor any.

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