lined up by the side door were there for beef and rice. Two had some magical blood, my senses told me, and the third had a stronger aura, a purebred something. Not a mongrel, as Zav would have called the others—and me. Probably a shifter of some kind.
The men turned toward us, stepping apart from each other to give themselves elbow room in case of a fight. That wasn’t the usual reaction I got from guys. Maybe Dimitri and his bruiser dwarf blood had them wary.
“Hey, girlie,” one said, ogling my chest, though it couldn’t have been that impressive under two coats. I had to be downwind from him, or he would have been gagging instead of leering. “Why don’t you lose the arm tough and come over here and enjoy our company?”
“You sure you’d enjoy her company?” one of his buddies asked, pointing over my shoulder. “Her sword’s bigger than yours.”
My weapons’ camouflage didn’t work nearly as well on the magical.
The first speaker smirked. “I don’t mind a challenge. And you might be surprised about what I keep in my pants.”
“A sock ball, your mom says.”
“You’re supposed to be my wingman, not my buzzkill.”
I hoped Nin was in the truck and would come out soon. If I had to make conversation with these Einsteins, I’d grind my teeth out of their sockets.
The third man, the shifter, eyed my sword with more than passing interest. “You get that from Nin? In the magical spectrum, it’s lit up like the Space Needle.”
“No.” I stopped a few paces from them, so I would have time to react if needed. “I had to travel to Mordor, past the Dark Tower, up to Mount Doom, and do battle with the Lord of Barad-dûr for it.”
“Sounds epic.”
“I think they’ll make a movie of it.” Keeping my eyes on them, I pulled out Fezzik. “This I got from Nin.”
This elicited a few oohs and ahhs. The gun looked pretty, but for those who could sense magic, its intricate web of integrated auras would be even surer to impress.
I let them step forward to admire it, though I watched them carefully in case anyone tried anything. Dimitri lurked nearby, not looking like he knew if he should threaten them on my behalf or stay out of the way. Fortunately, he opted for the latter.
It was possible the men would give me trouble, especially if I’d killed a friend, distant relative, or childhood schoolmate of theirs, but Nin’s was considered neutral territory by most in the community. I hadn’t seen many fights break out here. Muggings by mundanes, sure, but not battles among the magical. Nin sold guns to normal people who were afraid of the magical, but she also sold weapons to the magical, so they could settle their grudges with each other.
The side door opened, and Nin walked out, her blue hair swept up in two perky pigtails, and a unicorn on her pink T-shirt. A few smudges of grease and weapons-cleaning oil marred the hem, but it didn’t keep her from looking ridiculously cute, especially standing next to the present company. She carried in her slender arms something that looked a lot like a Civil War Gatling gun complete with a crank handle. Everyone turned, their attention riveted to it. Even I, not a weapons enthusiast despite my armament, had to admit it looked awesome. I wanted to find someone to fire it at. A black dragon, perhaps.
The men listened with rapt attention as she described its dimensions and automatic function, demonstrating how to load and fire it. There was something ludicrous about someone who looked so sweet and with such a polite, earnest voice rattling off the morbid details.
“The bullets are in these packages.” Nin grabbed paper wraps off the shelf of the food window that looked exactly like the ones she used to pass out her meals. “These are tipped with a paralysis poison.” She handed the first wrap to the shifter. “These are incendiary and will blow shit up when they hit. And these will just kill the motherfucker.”
“Perfect.” The shifter handed over a wad of cash.
Nin carefully counted it, then slipped it into her jeans pocket, the seam lined with rhinestones. “A pleasure doing business with you gentlemen.”
The shifter handed the big weapon to his sock-ball-owning buddy to carry and headed for the street. Sock Ball winked at me, hefting the machine gun. “Now whose weapon is bigger?”
“You win, buddy. Don’t forget to lube it.”
“Never.” He winked again, and I was