Page 64 of Outfoxed

Thursday, May 14, 2043.

Asylum, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

Sandro hated the idea of cooperating and allowing the people behind my bounty to play their games, but when I pointed out they’d been willing to give him a hundred thousand as a bonus for preventing me from kicking the bucket early and arranging for my treatments, he stopped and thought about it.

That hundred thousand redefined the playing field, and neither one of us understood how I could possibly be worth so much to someone in the East. At my recommendation, Sandro sent a message through the bounty system, and he included the copy of the provisional contract.

The reply consisted of five words: may the best man win.

My fox preened over having caught the interest of two men, and she liked that both were willing to go the extra mile for me. She favored Sandro, but I got the feeling she didn’t particularly care which one won the war. They battled over me, which demonstrated their interest.

They postured in a way she understood, and she liked it.

I needed a bucket of ice water and some time to remind my fox she needed to behave until winter, when I expected her to get rowdy and interested in men.

As she often did, she ignored me.

Damned saucy vixen, making my life even more difficult.

I did sleep in his chair, and after several arguments over it, Sandro agreed to set it up where Anna could sneak into his home, steal me when he wasn’t looking, and earn part of my bounty. His negotiations with those behind my bounty went well enough, and he’d be compensated for making the arrangements under a single condition: they would make it possible for him to find out the location of the auction if he was determined and clever enough.

I thought he was a few cans short of a six pack, as he trusted they would keep their word without knowing a damned thing about them beyond their willingness to fling money around and pay my medical bills. I appreciated their generosity, but I also understood why they did it.

My death lost them something, although I couldn’t quite figure out what.

One possibility haunted me: had they learned I’d mastered the quadrants and could fully transform into a fox? I’d been careful to hide both—or as careful as I could be under the circumstances. If they knew of my secrets, it justified my price tag. If Sandro hadn’t been part of a prominent family, he would be a target of an uncontested courtesan contract, too.

To give Anna the opening she needed to cart me off to the East, several things needed to happen. Sandro opted to go the misinformation route, misguiding the other bounty hunters, except for Anna, to look somewhere else. If all went to plan, Sandro would mention his estate in Asylum where only she might hear.

If she played her cards right and could sneak into the underground sanctuary, she’d walk away with a small fortune, enough for her to leave the Alley or buy her way into Asylum.

There were a lot of ifs involved, something I disliked.

As the painkillers did a good job of making me take unwanted naps, Sandro opted for the safest route for me. He coerced me into taking a dose before going out on an errand, which would give Anna the gap she needed. According to his plan, rather than go run the errand, he’d make use of some back passages he’d helped carve to circle around and observe his property. If anyone other than Anna came calling, he would deal with the problem.

When a mage capable of reciting poetry to create explosions and other forms of destruction said he would deal with the problem, I believed him. I hoped he would deal with the cleanup, too.

A strong poet could reduce a human body to a smear of greasy soot when motivated, and quadrant masters tended to be the best of the best.

I left the hard work to him, and I settled in to wait.

Friday, May 15, 2043.

The Transboundary Railway.

The East.

Everything must have gone to plan, because my drug-induced nap ended with the blare of the train horn warning of an approaching crossroads, which implied I’d completed the first leg of the trip from the Alley to the East without being aware of it—or if I’d been roused, it’d gotten lost in the medicated haze. I cracked open an eye, discovered I had a window seat in a cabin rather than having been stowed as cargo, and decided in my drug-impaired state, I had likely followed after Anna without protest or complaint.

We even had one of the more expensive booths, which were made for two and offered privacy, and Anna sat across from me sipping from a mug.

“You’re a mess,” she observed when she caught me staring at her.

“It wasn’t Sandro or Carlos,” I replied. “And unless you can hide your breasts a lot better than I think you can, it wasn’t you, either. Thanks for not shooting me. I don’t know if I actually miss having a spleen, but I’ve been told it’s not a big deal and it could be a lot worse.”

“I see your strange sense of humor survived.”