Bone Gods

she sighed. “You’ll live.”
    Dreiden swiped at her with one hand, and Pete jumped back, out of reach. She raised her boot to put it into Dreisden’s skull and convince him to stay down. Too late she felt the wind of movement on her back, and something cold and round and utterly too familiar press against the back of her neck.
    A voice like carriage wheels scraping over cobbles said, “That’s enough out of you, miss.”
    Pete stilled, putting her foot down and keeping her hands at her side.
    “Good girl,” the voice told her. To Abbot and Dreisden it snarled, “Get up!”
    The pair got to their feet, Abbot standing bowlegged and wincing when he moved. “You didn’t tell us she’s some kind of fucking kung fu master, did you?” he mumbled.
    “Shut it,” the voice ordered. “A tiny little thing like her taking out the pair of you—you’re a waste of my fucking air. Go back to the car.”
    The owner of the pistol grabbed Pete by the shoulder and turned her around. “I suppose you find this all very funny, Miss Caldecott.”
    Pete took in the new addition to the Git Family, and felt her stomach drop a bit. He had gray hair and matching gray eyes, two bits of polished steel. A face that wasn’t quite craggy enough to be carved from stone, but would definitely put a fright into small children. Huge—not wide but rangy, his hand more than big enough to envelope the grip of the pistol with acres left over.
    “It was a bit,” she admitted, since with a gun in her face, her policy was generally the truth. “When I kneed him in the bollocks and his voice went all wobbly.”
    “Bitch,” Abbot spat. “I should’ve cut you.”
    “Could’ve, should’ve,” Pete snapped back. “Didn’t.”
    “Car!” the man with the pistol bellowed. “Now!”
    Abbot took his leave, grumbling invective that Pete was sure had to do with her heritage and proclivities. The git in charge stepped back, keeping the pistol pointed at her skull. “You going to give me any more trouble, girl?”
    “Depends.” Pete folded her arms. “You going to keep calling me pet names and trying to kidnap me out of pubs?”
    “You’re a lot of things, Miss Caldecott.” The git in charge grinned. His teeth were very white and straight, like a row of standing stones. “But I don’t think you’re bulletproof.”
    “Look, who the fuck are you lot?” Pete demanded. “I was having a nice, quiet drink with a mate. You interrupted me, and you’re rude. I don’t see why I should listen another word you say.”
    The git lowered his pistol—it was a .45, Pete noted, with a nickle barrel and an ivory grip, both etched as his flunkie’s blades were. A small cross in ebony was inlaid into the butt of the grip and it gleamed as the man put his weapon, carefully and lovingly, into a shoulder holster secreted under his black coat. “You’re right, I was rude. Forgive me.” He extended a hand in place of his pistol, encased in a black leather glove tight enough to be second skin. “My name is Ethan Morningstar. And I do need to speak with you, Miss Caldecott.”
    “Was that so hard?” Pete asked him. She felt she had a right to be peeved with the man. He’d had her dragged from a pub and nearly stabbed. “Why all of this needless crap with your hard men, Mr. Morningstar? Just talk.”
    “You’ll excuse my men,” said Ethan. “You have a certain … reputation for combativeness. My men were simply to ensure that the conversation remained civil. Their purpose was not to be lewd and lascivious, I assure you. Mr. Abbot will be disciplined.” The way he said it made the small hairs on Pete’s neck, the ones fine-tuned by years of Catholic schooling, bristle. Morningstar was hard like an old school East End gangster was hard—imposing, expressionless, and possessing roughly the same empathy as a tombstone. Abbot was a cunt and an idiot, but Pete didn’t envy the remainder of his night.
    “Maybe he’s had enough,” she suggested. “A boot to the nethers isn’t something most gents forget with any speed.”
    Morningstar gave a humorless twitch of his mouth. “You are the expert in emasculation, I suppose.” He gestured to a black BMW idling at the end of the alley. “Now, will you come with us of your own accord?”
    Pete considered. It was rare enough to see cars in the Black, still rarer to see modern ones in good working order. Things with complex circuits and chipsets tended to get fouled up by the crossing over from