***
The next night, I drop enough coins into the haggard old woman's claw— enough to keep from arousing suspicions. I head again to the Rustler. Tonight I'm not disappointed. Just as evening is settling into darkness, the two young men I’ve been waiting for appear and go inside. They will not stay long. They never do. I'm working on a time limit now. I hurry into a nearby alleyway— one with a puddle.
In a frenzy of movement, I peel off the rags that have become my second skin. I scrub myself violently with a rag dipped in the puddle, erasing my painted-on blotches. My face, my hands, my neck, my arms. With my fingers, I comb some hair over my face, then take a piece of glass from my bag and cut off the locks at the level of my eyebrows. It's not exactly straight, but it will cover my mark. Quickly donning the clothing and boots I looted from the dead woman, I stuff my rags into my bag and stash it in the alley. I straighten and adjust myself. The shoes feel strange on my feet. They are a touch too big, and they press on the gash in my foot uncomfortably. The other clothes don't fit well either. The woman who wore them previously was proportioned like a child, and I am not. The pants are snug on my hips, and not long enough, but the boots make up for the missing length. The jacket fits in the shoulders and waist, but the buttons across the chest have to be forced. I would prefer to have a shirt underneath it, but I can't wear the rags, and I dare not wear the shift I woke up in. I double-check that all my coins are safe in my pocket, then I step into the world feeling completely, nakedly exposed.
I stay in the dark parts of the shadows and set my feet down quietly. There's a place under the stoop of the building next to the Rustler, where I think I can stand outside of the light and no one will see me. It is here that I take up my watch.
Every minute drags out endlessly, every small noise making me jump. My nerves are twitching, my foot silently tapping out my anxiety in code. How different I feel in these clothes. How foreign it is to stand up straight. But it also feels right. Liberating. I grind my teeth, and wait. How long could they possibly take? I begin to second guess myself. What if I took too long? What if they came and went quickly? I've missed my chance again. Acid rises in my stomach, burning, eating at me. Maybe I’ll never really do this. Maybe I really am just a street rat.
Two men step out of the Rustler into the crisp night air. I narrow my eyes, peering, trying to focus. My heart skips at least two beats. It is them. I gulp air, try to steady myself. It is them. It is time.
They walk toward me, not seeing me. They're silent except for footsteps on the sidewalk. The scrape of dirt and glass between boots and concrete. The even thud, thud, thud of solid steps placed confidently into the darkness.
When they're a few paces off, I clear my throat and say as calmly as I can, "Want to make some money?"
They stop short and squint into the dark shadow where I stand. There is a long pause, then at the same time they answer.
"Doing what?" asks the blonde.
But the dark-haired one says, "Who are you?"
I swallow, press on before I give away my hesitation. I'm thankful for the darkness that hides my face. "No one," I answer. "I just want to play some cards and I need someone to watch my back. I can pay you fifty each." I want to let this sink in, but I don't trust them. Hastily I add, "I'm not stupid enough to carry it on me, so don't even think about it."
The blonde one makes a noise in his throat. Arms crossed in front of his chest, cocky stance, he looks amused. The other one has not moved. His face is in the shadow, and I can tell nothing of his reaction.
I shift my weight, nervous despite myself. My offer is an absolute lie at the moment, but if all goes according to plan, I will pay them as advertised. I only hope that they will not see through me.
"Sure," the blonde says lightly, surprising me with the ease of his agreement. "Just so long as you don't do anything stupid."
His companion's face turns toward him, but I still cannot make out his expression through the darkness. There’s something in the movement that is not entirely approving. I brace myself for his protest, but he remains silent.
Seizing the opportunity, I say, "Deal then?"
"Deal," Blondie says.
Neither of us make any move to shake on it.
He nods his head toward the Rustler, the corners of his mouth tugging sideways as if it is all very entertaining. "Lead the way."
I step out of the shadows and make a wide circle around him, heading toward the entrance. Glancing back, I see the dark-haired one's head is ducked, hands tucked in his pockets. Blondie is looking at me. His smile has gone, and his eyes are a touch wide. He looks almost startled. My breath catches as I realize I've missed one of my blotches. I force my eyes toward the door and wipe surreptitiously at my face with my sleeve.
Before I can walk inside, he steps in front of me, displacing me. "I'll go first," he says, and he does, before I can answer.
The inside is a wash of lamplight and tobacco smoke. Amber liquid glints in shot glasses and round-bellied bottles. A few patrons slump on stools at the long wooden counter. A man sleeps in the back corner. Arthur Adner, the balding barkeep, wipes water and crumbs from the bar. The action is around a single table. A scatter of silver and gold fills the center, like a pirate's treasure chest spilled open. My eyes fix on it hungrily.
My body guard leads me toward the table, where the cards are thrown down and one man is raking in the pot. The others glare at him murderously. "Gentlemen," my companion says, his hand clamping down on my shoulder, "my friend would like to play. Do you have room for her?"
They eyeball me. It's an unpleasant feeling, being looked over by these men. They're trying to decide whether I'm worth their time. I'm a bug. Should I be eaten, or squashed, or ignored entirely? But they grunt, and move over, and pull up another chair. I'm in.
As I sit down, trying not to shake, Blondie walks away toward the bar where his friend has already taken up a seat, watching. I glance back at them. Blondie pulls off his hat. His companion has already thrown his hood back. My eyes freeze on the marks on their foreheads. The dark-haired one catches me looking and returns my gaze steadily, expressionlessly. His eyes are green, like oak leaves, like alligators. I've never really gotten a look at his face before, and now that I do, I find myself staring. I think I'm drawn by his mark— by this thing that names us kindred in some way— but I am not looking at his forehead. It's his eyes.
I turn deliberately back to the table and study the faces surrounding it. The men are not really strangers to me. I've been watching them, and others. I know the names of a few, and the faces of all. There's Pete Sumter on my right, who owns the cannibalistic butcher shop. And across the table is Lloyd. He forges metal tools in a stall on the east side of the Outpost. Jacob and Taylor Lane are brothers who sell odds and ends in the marketplace, and supplement their income through gambling. They're probably the best players here. But the man who won the previous hand is definitely to be watched. I've not seen him here often. When I have, he's usually had plenty of coins in front of him. Other than that, he's a mystery. I don't like the unknown, so I'll be watching him closely as we play. The others are nameless. I've seen them come and go. They may be decent players, but nothing to worry about.
The ante is a full silver. I toss mine in quickly, carelessly, because I want to hide the way my hand is shaking. Jacob Lane deals the cards. I scoop mine up and fan them discreetly. They're not what I hoped for. I study the faces around me, place a small bet, and exchange three cards. The replacements are no better than the originals. I toss my cards down rather than call.
The second hand is equally discouraging. I fold right away, after noting the glint in Lloyd's eye. A few moments later, he takes the pot with three bosses.
Parting with another piece of silver makes my stomach turn over, but I keep my face passive and toss it in. My cards are still terrible, and I'm getting desper
ate. I bluff and raise the bet, but apparently everyone got bad cards this time. No one takes the bait. I end up with the pot, but there's not much in it. Enough to fund a few more rounds. I press on.
My luck continues in this manner. Fate must have used up all her goodwill on me already. I'm on my own. For quite some time I manage to just scrape by, only winning enough to stay in the game. I'm worrying that I won't be able to maintain it. And what will I do when my two lovely assistants demand to be paid? The rest of this night could be a fight to stay alive. I'm trying to make an escape plan in the back of my mind. Then the right cards come up.
I almost choke on my own saliva, but somehow manage not to. Not to even make a face. Deadly calm takes over my body. I cast my eyes around the table and feel good about what I see. When I have a chance, I raise the bet, putting the last of my coins in the pot. Sadly it’s not enough to yield a dramatic increase, but it is everything I have. The problem comes when the nameless man— the one I have been keeping my eye on— sees my bet and raises considerably. I’m almost certain he’s bluffing, but it doesn't matter. I don't have any money to stay in the game. The world lurches around me as my heart jerks into a run. I feel the color drain from my face. I feel like I'm going to vomit.
"Did you need the rest of your money?" says a voice from behind me. I take a slow breath, turn, and look at Green-eyes, still perched at the bar. His eyebrows are raised, questioning. But there is something else on his face that I can't read. All I know is that he's seen through me like I'm made of glass.
I manage a curt nod. He gestures to Arthur Adner, who accepts his money and brings it to the table. Nodding to Arthur, I toss the coins into the pot. "Call," I say.
There is one excruciating moment where the cards are descending toward the table in slow motion, where I second-guess myself and imagine what I will do if I lose. Then they're down, and I'm laughing. I'm laughing as I throw my forearm around my money and pull it toward me. No one else is laughing, but I don't care.
The floodgates open. I play two more hands and win them both. I'm about to throw another ante in when my two friends show up at my sides.
"Time to go," Blondie says, tapping my shoulder.
I give him a look of annoyance. He shrugs apologetically at me and grins at the rest of the card players, but there's something else in that look. A warning. Don't do anything stupid.
I climb to my feet, gathering my loot. Before I can scoop it all up, Green-eyes covers my hand with his. "Twenty percent for Matt."
I use my best card-playing skills to not make a face, and count out the twenty percent. Arthur Adner is hovering at my shoulder, waiting for it, so I put the coins in his expectant hands. He nods at me, and goes back to the bar. A glance reveals a string of disgruntled faces around the table. Green-eyes takes my forearm and pulls me toward the exit. I'm still shuffling coins as we go. I pause at the door to give him his loan and the fifty I promised him. I give Blondie fifty as well and put the rest into my pocket. But neither of them are paying attention to the coins. They rush me out the door.
The street is black, lightless. I mean to say a quick thank you and do a runner for my disguise in the alleyway, but both of my companions have my arms and are dragging me along the street.
"Stop," I hiss at them. "I paid you. Let me go." I dig my heels in. It does no good. We're still moving.
Blondie says in a dark voice, "I don't think you want to do that." He glances back over his shoulder as we make the corner. I catch a glimpse of light flashing into the street— the door of the Rustler opening. I quit struggling and go along, but neither of them let go of me. We jog down the street and make another corner, take an alleyway. We keep moving, and turning. Soon, I am completely lost.
"OK," I say, trying to shake them off my arms without making it an actual fight. I have a single piece of glass tucked into my jacket pocket. My fingers twitch as I consider reaching for it, but they still have my arms. The further we go, the more certain I am that I'm going to have to fight my way out of this. Should I attack first, use the advantage of surprise? Which one of them should be my first target? I can make a quick swipe and run for it. Which way will I run? Have we passed any good hiding places? Before I’ve sorted it all out, we go by a short wall of piled debris. Just beyond it is a small, ramshackle building. They push me forward, open the door, and shove me, stumbling, inside. A wash of light blinds me. While I'm blinking, trying to see, I hear the sound of a lock sliding into place behind me.