A Year of Stories (Collection Three)

Till Dead Do Us Part?

"Bring me his head!"

"Xander, we've talked about this, I'm gonna to need you to be a little more clear about your intentions. Do you want me to physically bring you this man's severed head, or are you just using colorful language again?"

"Do we have to do this every time, Semitone?"

"We have to do this exactly one more time Xan, don't forget our deal."

"How could I? I still can't believe you've done nine jobs for me already, time sure does fly."

"Not for me, Xan, not for me."

"You know what Semi, I liked working with your wife a lot better."

"And she was a big fan of yours too, I hear."

"Speaking of which, I've got to ask, are you really gonna go through with this?"

"Head or no head Xan?"

"No head Semi, just take a picture or something."

"Roger that."

"And tell your wife 'hello' for me."

"Will do Xan."

The voice in my mind, Xander's voice, fades to nothing as I step out of the hired car.

2.

The air in the Dust is wet tonight, that sort of sticky heat that clings like a second skin – the kind that drives sane folk back into their hovels – where they might at least avoid dying of heat stroke.

Unfortunately, this is The Dust, and sanity is in short supply.

So here, despite the cloying damp, the streets breath with life.

I pass a man done up in AR to look like a brazen bull, complete with steam pouring out of his nostrils. Elsewhere on the same road, there are jugglers and streets performers, Courtesans and pick pockets, dangerous men and women and all the variants between.

And then there is me, or should I say, us?

I give the thick, silver band around my finger a half-twist to the right.

"Xander says hello." I subvocalize.

"I heard. Tell him I still hate him." The voice in my mind, unmistakably hers.

"Right, I'll send him your love."

"Jerk."