The Clan of Outcasts (Seasons 1 and 2)

Part 6: "Prey"

Several Months Ago, At the Harbor...

Black Dahlia—one of the many names they called her, and the name she used for this latest job. She took great pains to ensure that no one ever knew her real name. She sat at her customary stool in the tavern, nursing a mug of ale. Lord Mulberry would likely not miss the cache of gold and jewels from his collection for some weeks—and in the event that an inquiry began, she had several letters in her possession that would induce most of the peacekeepers to look the other way. She grinned and fingered the gold, jewel-encrusted brooch tucked into the leather straps of her glove. Gratuity, she called it.

"What is it with girls and shiny things?"

The question issued from under the dusty hat in a corner behind her. She had dismissed him as a passed-out drunk when she came in, but now she mentally berated herself for not realizing when he woke up. She affected a nonchalance, drawing the hand with the brooch through her cropped, violet hair as she pulled the straps of leather back to their places either fingertips. Meanwhile, she pretended to inspect the empty hand in a similar fashion. "What is it with boys and their great big sticks?" She nodded to the subtle reveal of his waist, decked with a utility belt and near-complete arsenal.

The hat came up. "They say female thieves take their cues from magpies: always after what belongs to others, always hoarding useless trinkets," his eyes twinkled as he spoke, "and prone to making loud screeches just because they enjoy the sound of their own voices."

"That's interesting," she responded, holding his gaze and leaning closer. "I hear the men take their cues from roosters: crowing about their own achievements, strutting about with no purpose except to dominate as many females as possible, obsessed with their peckers, trying to make themselves as big and colorful as possible in a desperate effort to be noticed by these females—and when it comes down to it, they're too stupid to figure out anything taller than a ten-inch fence."

She felt his fingers close around her wrist at the same time she remembered which hand it was. She kept her expression neutral as he twisted her hand palm-up and pulled out the brooch.

"Looks like you're the one who should be worried about a fence here, sweetheart," he teased.

"I've got my network," she pulled her hand away, reaching for the jewel—but he just held it out of her reach.

"Ah-ah!" He chided her like a child. "You want this back, you gotta do something for me."

The Black Dahlia raised dubious eyebrows at the man before her. "You look like someone I'd hire for a job, not the other way around."

He grinned, straight white teeth showing between grungy, scruffy lips. "You, of all people, should know better than to judge a book by its cover."

Dahlia rolled her eyes and pulled away; the man fairly reeked of a trap, and she felt better keeping her autonomy while chalking up the brooch as a loss.

"I've never been much of a reader," she mused, turning her back on him.

"This one will get you lifetime," he called at her back.

The force of the implication stopped her in her tracks.

He noticed. "That's right; you do this one mission and, if you come out the other side, you retire and you'll never have to work again. You'll be paid to just go on living. Heck, they might even call you a hero."

Hero—perhaps she could come out of hiding, start using her real name again; it did sound too good to be safe.

She turned back slowly. "What do you mean, if I come back?" She demanded. "I don't do suicide missions."