flames and hope it didn’t ruin the stick’s potential.
I wanted to keep it as a reminder of all we’d lost—and why I needed to look beyond my own troubles.
If I ran into Sandro on neutral ground, I’d make sure to ask him about the storms. While I could do nothing, maybe he could—and if saving Tulsa meant cooperating with the bounty hunter, if saving many cost me my freedom, it was a price I would pay with a grim smile.
It was one thing to have my freedom taken away without my permission, but another to bargain it away.
One was my choice.
After we hit a hundred bodies on the first pyre, the police had us start another, although we all stopped our work to offer a moment of silence to those who’d lost their lives to the storm. I torched my curved stick until all the blood and bark was gone from it, giving it a good shake to put out the flames. I appreciated the charred surface, a solemn reminder of Tulsa’s fate if nothing changed.
The runner returned by the time the flames engulfed the bodies. “The place you sent me to is all but gone, but he’s still kicking, and wants you to come see him. He has news.”
So did I, but I had no idea if I should speak a word of it. I nodded. “Thank you. I’ll go myself to save you the run.” I gave him a dollar despite knowing my boss would’ve paid his fee. “Watch yourself and keep an eye on the sky.”
He took my dollar, flashed me a grin, and bobbed his head. “You, too.”
With a heavy heart, I headed for the ruins of McCoy’s Bar and Grill.
Monday, May 4, 2043.
Tulsa, Oklahoma.
The Alley.
* * *
Not much remained of McCoy’s Bar & Grill, although somehow, a few intact bottles of liquor had survived through the storm. Brent lined those up on a cleared section of sidewalk, and when he caught sight of me, he poured me a Scotch and offered it to me. I tapped my glass against his, and I sipped mine while he knocked his back.
I couldn’t blame him. Everything he’d worked so hard to build had come crashing down.
“Rode it out in the cellar?” I asked, aware the cellar underneath the bar would have made for an uncomfortable ride through a storm.
“Yep.”
I sighed. “At least your latest shipment is safe.” We hadn’t had time to stock the bar yet, and after the incident with Tom, most of the bottles on the wall had been just about empty. Small blessings, but it wouldn’t bring the building back. “Everyone else safe?”
Brent shook his head. “Gertrude, Lora, and you are the only ones I’ve confirmed got out. Most of the rest lived a few blocks down the way. It was wiped out, and they didn’t have cellars. They thought the hill would keep them safe.”
Damnit all. “Confirmed dead or missing?”
“Confirmed dead. I helped put them on the pyre myself. The police are mandating everybody be burned because of the number of deaths. The storms were worse than forecasted.”
Any other day, I would have cursed Mother Nature and called her a bitch, but the truth kept me silent. If I mentioned I thought it wasn’t the working of Mother Nature, but rather some vengeful, awful coven of witches, he’d call me crazy before giving me another drink and ordering me to get it out of my system. Instead of saying anything at all, I joined him in knocking back my shot glass and holding it out for another round.
He poured me a double. “I’ve been invited to set up shop in Asylum, and since you’re the last of my staff confirmed still up and kicking, I can get you in on a limited pass. That’ll let you hide out in my shop during a bad blow, but you’ll need to be escorted anywhere else in Asylum you go, and somebody will take you to the surface when you’re not on shift or riding out a storm in the bar. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best I can do for you.” Brent nodded his head down the street, and when I turned to look, an older man in a pristine black suit with a crisp white shirt strolled our way. “That’s Alastar, and the men behind him are Asylum guards. When they come over, look at their pins. That’s one of the identifying marks of a guard. They always wear them, whether on or off