The way the girl behind the counter turns white and visibly swallows tells me that she's new. Years ago, I would have inquired about what happened to the previous clerk, but time and circumstances have put me on a different path. All I care about is receiving the proper paperwork and claiming my bounty.

"I ..." the girl stammers, reaching out towards the thick canvas bag with a tremulous hand. "H-how many are there?"

"Three." And each one a pain in the ass to kill.

Her hand retreats. "Okay ..." Instead, she reaches beneath the blood-stained butcher block countertop for the shop's log book.

Jesus, where did Barney get her? It's hard to believe that there are any soft girls left on this side of the country anymore; but one is standing before me, doing her damnedest not to look me in the eye.

I sigh. "You have to count them," I tell her, undoing the thick rope that binds the bag. The bag falls open, displaying its grisly contents: three adult cockatrices. Their throats are slit, but the cuts are nowhere near the venom sacks that go towards part of my pay.

Against all odds, the girl's face pales further until she's nearly transparent. Her throat bobs and she jerks sporadically, clapping both hands over her mouth. Moaning, she spins around and dashes through an open door behind the counter. It's not long before I hear her retching.

God help me. Taking off one glove, I massage the bridge of my nose. It does nothing for me, really, but acts as an outlet for my impatience.

Muttering to himself, Barney Moynihan, the owner, strides through the door. In his former life, Barney was a professional football player; now he runs a shop that butchers monsters and sells their parts to demon-hunters and spell-casters.

People like him keep monster-hunters like me in business.

Barney folds his thick brown arms and stares down at the canvas sack. "The bounty was for two, Raine."

Finally, we're getting somewhere. I casually lean on the countertop, angling my elbow away from a stray trickle of blood. Sometimes it doesn't completely drain out. "Yeah, but when has that bothered you before?"

Barney sighs and shakes his bald, scarred head, but he's smiling. A light shines in his eyes as he mentally tallies which clients he will call first about the bonus cockatrice. "Never," he relents. "Are you done back there?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Do I have to?" the girl answers in a thin, weak voice that barely carries across the butcher block.

"Three more days and you'll have paid off your father's debt."

Well, this is interesting. I've never seen an indentured servant at Barney's shop before. It's not common, but after the Turning people had to make due. And the government still has enough hold on this part of the country to ensure that indenture doesn't turn into outright slavery.

The girl slips through the doorway, thin arms wrapped around herself. Strands of limp, brown hair cling cover her eyes like a shield. But hair can't protect you from the stench of three-day-old carcasses stewing in their own fluids on the back of a battle-elk.

I'm told day-old cockatrices smell like hundred-year-old fermented fish, but I grew nose-blind to all sorts of odors a long time ago.

Thankfully.

Barney hands the girl a thick piece of cloth. "Wrap this around your nose. It won't completely block it, but it'll dampen the worst of it."

She does so swiftly, knotting her hair up in the process.

Barney pulls out the log book and sets it on the countertop. "First, you need to check the open bounties," he instructs the girl, opening a page in the leather-bound ledger.

I shift my weight and get comfortable. This is going to take a while.

"Here." He presses a thick finger on one line. "Two cockatrices, fifty dollars. Now, Raine brought us three, so even though the contract stipulates two, we'll pay her an extra twenty-five. The price for each creature is listed on a card at the back of the ledger. Now, do you remember what you're supposed to do next?"

"Uhm ..."

Barney sighs. "Ask her for her Guild card. We only deal with four Guilds and they're listed in the back, too. If it's not on the list, we never do business with them—ever."

Reaching into the folds of my layered garments, I pull my Guild ID out of its hidden pocket and slide it across the counter.

At Barney's urging, the girl takes it from my gloved hand and does a double-take. Right now, all you can see of my face are my mismatched eyes, tanned, weathered skin, and a lock of blue hair. But the photo on my Guild ID shows the whole picture—minus the layers of wrapping that protect me from the harsh conditions outside.

"Raine Barlow," the girl sounds out, eyes flicking between myself and the ID. "Keres Guild."

Barney gestures for her to give the ID back, which she does while still staring at my cloth-wrapped face. Really, in this day and age, blue hair and heterochromia are the least fantastical things to exist in the world.

"Now, we fill out the bounty slip ..."

Sighing softly, I pivot and lean with my back against the counter. I can see Winston waiting outside through the open front door. God, I wish that I had at least a quarter of that old bull's patience.

At last, Barney's done guiding the girl through the process of writing out slips. I don't know why he's bothering if she's only going to be around for a few more days. Maybe he thinks she'll stay on. Then again, I thought the other girl was a permanent addition, and look how wrong I was.

"She'll take this to the Guild and they'll pay her," Barney tells the girl.

"But keep their forty percent," I remind him. Barney pays the Guild and the Guild pays me. They have to make their money somehow.

Barney smiles wryly and holds out the slip.

I turn around, take it, and pocket it in the same place as my ID. "Got anything coming up?" I ask, eager to move on but always willing to make some extra cash.

I need to if I'm to ever get out of here.

Barney pauses in tying up the bag of dead cockatrices. "Nothing's come in recently. I'll let Guildmaster Kessis know to tell you the minute I need something."

"Fine."

Our business concluded, I exit the shop as Barney drags the bag of cockatrices off the counter and onto the floor. The girl's moans follows me into the street.

Away from the protective walls of the shop, I pause to wind the cloth firmly around my face. It's the windy season, when the altered weather patterns bring layers and layers of dirt and debris from the City of Dust south along the California coastline. Up and down the street, everyone else is doing the same thing. We look like Bedouins in our patchwork garb, but at least it works.

Winston turns his head as I walk toward him. Apart from a few objects from my childhood, this giant battle-elk is the only thing to make me smile.

Magically enhanced after millions of cattle died soon after the Turning, battle-elk were soon repurposed from walking slabs of steak into creatures of war when it became apparent that the demons couldn't be blown away by tanks alone. The opposite was true for Winston. When I found him, the old man was considered past his prime and destined for the slaughterhouse. A crocotta had totaled my motorcycle and I was on the lookout for a replacement. After telling me that I was shit of out luck, the scrapper pointed me to the marketplace.

I fell in love with his liquid eyes and regal posture, even in the face of eminent death, and never looked back.

Winston stands seventeen hands tall at his rounded withers—more than a foot taller than pre-Turning bulls—and weighs close to 1600-pounds. The tines of his broad, branching antlers (which never shed) are each capped with poison-coated steel. This special brand of poison that I brew myself could hurt neither him nor I but is a bitch for monsters.

A dome molded from the repurposed windshield of my motorcycle protects Winston's large, expressive brown eyes from the harsh elements; a similar contraption covers his mouth and nose. Most people assume that it is a muzzle and I let them believe that Winston has a biting problem. The fact that he is covered in lightweight armor from head to cloven hooves doesn't hurt.

"Sorry that took so long, buddy," I tell the elk as I step up to his side. "Barney has a new girl and she puked all over the back."

Winston snorts and rolls his eyes. Battle-elk are more intelligent than their ancestors, but they vary from animal to animal. In our three years together, I discerned that Winston is about as smart as a toddler, but far less prone to temper tantrums and always eats his meals with gusto.

Reaching up, I grab the saddle horn, put my foot in the stirrup, and swing myself into Winston's saddle. Taking up the bull's reins, I gently tap his sides and angle his head down the grimy, dusty lane towards Keres Guild.