Inked

that fucking bounty hunter and meet you—all in the same day. My life more than sucks. Sucking would be a step up.”
    “Yeah. So do you see him?” I repeated.
    “See who?”
    “You said there was a wardsmith here,” I reminded him, striving for patience.
    Dieter’s eyes flitted around the bar, or at least as much of it as he could see without actually sitting up. “Guess he’s not here today. He don’t come in all the time.”
    If he’d had any hair left, I’d have pulled it. “Do you know where he is when he’s not here?”
    Dieter gave a horizontal type of shrug. Then he seemed to find an idea worth getting vertical. “You know, if you bought me a drink, it might—” I slammed a knife down, catching his collar and pinning his head back to the bar. “You could have just said no,” he told me irritably.
    “Answer the question!”
    He rolled his eyes up at Tilda. “That ward guy been in here lately?” She made some odd noises that in no way resembled speech, but Dieter seemed to understand. “She said he’s got a shop around the corner, only he likes to drink so he’s usually here. But she hasn’t seen him today.”
    “What’s the name of the shop?”
    “They don’t have names. But you’ll know it.”
    “How?”
    “Well, a little clue would be that it has ‘wards’ over the door,” he said, pretty sarcastically for a guy with a knife millimeters from his jugular. But then, considering his personality, it probably wasn’t all that unusual for him. “Can I get up now?” he whined.
    I pulled out the knife and manhandled him out of the bar. Around the corner, we came across a support column that seemed to serve as a sort of community message board. Up close, it was obviously dwarf-made, smooth and organic-looking, like wind-sculpted rock. Only the wind wasn’t responsible: the minerals needed to form it had been magicked from the surrounding soil.
    We found an ad for “wards and charms” and directions to a shop near the end of the path, in a primo location where three trails merged. It was the usual tent made of army blankets and two-by-fours, but was bigger than most and had a plank with a hand-painted thunderbird above the entrance. It didn’t actually say “wards,” but around here, a pictogram was probably better anyway. I pushed back the blanket serving as the door and we went in.
    The tent appeared to have several rooms, with the outer fixed up as a showroom. A lantern swung overhead, casting golden light over a couple chairs, a tattered Navajo rug, a floor-length mirror and a glass showcase. There didn’t appear to be anybody here.
    I walked over to the showcase. Two glasses stood on the counter, the light through their contents casting a pink stain over the case. I bent over and sniffed the nearest one—and almost passed out.
    “Is this what I think it is?” I held it out to Dieter.
    He snatched it and took a long breath. “Whoa. No wonder he stopped buying from me!”
    “The wardsmith was a customer?” Dieter suddenly looked shifty. “I won’t turn you in,” I told him impatiently. “I’m after a killer, not a drug user.”
    “A killer?” His expression veered into panic.
    “No one you need to worry about. Now answer the question!”
    “He bought pretty regular,” Dieter admitted, his eyes on the bright swirl of ruby liquid. “That’s how I knew him.”
    “But you didn’t sell him this?”
    “Are you kidding? That’s Fey wine!”
    “Isn’t that your stock in trade?”
    He rolled his eyes. “I sell punch, okay?”
    “What’s the difference?”
    He picked up the glass and held it next to the other. “That.” The contents of the second glass were pale pink, the color of rosé. The liquid in the one I’d handed him was a deep bloodred.
    “Punch is cut,” I guessed. A lot, judging by the color.
    “Hell, yeah. Full strength, that shit’ll make a vamp drunk!”
    “What would it do to a human?”
    Dieter shrugged. “Depends how long he’s been using. You build up a tolerance after a while. But I don’t know any human who uses it straight. By the time you get that far in, you’re usually gone.”
    “Gone?”
    He made the circle around his temple that was the universal sign for crazy. Great. The guy I needed to question might be passed out somewhere, or worse.
    I tipped the contents of the uncut glass onto the dirt floor and scraped my boot across it. Dieter’s face fell. “Aw, man! Do you know what that was worth?”
    “About ten