They passed through the watery-looking membrane. When Westie had first crossed paths with the dome on her way to live with Nigel as a child, she’d thought her clothes would get wet with the way it sparkled like water, or that she’d feel somehow changed when entering a place of magic, but it was the same as being on the other side.
The road cut between the parallel storefronts of Rogue City, each painted a different shade of ordinary. Ahead of them on the right was the Tight Ship saloon, a squalid hole in the wall with piano music and cigar smoke rolling out of the open windows. Westie’s horse reared up as an elf and a young man crashed through the swinging doors into the street, a twisting ball of fists and foul language. Westie grabbed the horn of her saddle before she could be dumped off and glared down at the pair.
An ogre and a dwarf (or what Westie thought was a dwarf; she was always getting them confused with the bakhtak—stocky little creatures blamed for causing nightmares) stepped out of the saloon behind them to watch the fisticuffs. As soon as the dwarf saw Westie and Bena, he crossed his arms protectively in front of himself and went back inside.
The elf, nimble and rather beautiful with his long, fair hair and soft features, was fast, avoiding the brunt of the young man’s advances. But the human was quicker with his feet, kicking the elf’s legs out from under him each time he tried to stand.
Each seemed too drunk to get the best of the other until the young man noticed Westie and Bena nearby. His eyes went wide, mouth falling open as he looked at Westie. The distraction allowed the elf to gain the upper hand and pin the human against a hitching post.
“You’re strong for a girl,” the young man said to the elf, a cocky grin moving his lips. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, an aristocrat from the looks of his clothes, with skin that looked as smooth as the petals of a spring magnolia.
The elf’s prominent forehead was even more so when he frowned. “I’m a male.” He spit out another word in a language Westie couldn’t understand.
The young man’s brows rose high on his forehead. “You are?”
With a growl, the elf pushed the young man into the ogre’s waiting arms.
“Hello, beautiful,” the young man said in a strangled voice. The ogre squeezed him in a vise grip around his torso and then flipped him upside down. Coins fell from the young man’s pockets onto the ground.
The ogre, built like the trunk of a redwood with boils and warts covering its greenish skin, released a noxious odor—reminiscent of a polecat—that nearly knocked Westie out of the saddle.
She pulled her kerchief over her nose and laughed as Bena shook her head. Most creatures kept to the wilds, but those who wanted luxuries only humans could provide, and chose to live under the dome, behaved just like any other fool. Though Westie couldn’t say she liked them much, at least they were entertaining.
“That’s enough,” Westie said, her laughter trailing off as the ogre exposed jagged, bloodstained teeth. The boy was no match for a creature. “Put him down.”
When the ogre didn’t let go of the boy right away, what remained of Westie’s smile slid from her face. “Go on now. Let him go before this gets ugly.”
A vein protruded from the young man’s forehead, his face red and swollen from being hung upside down. “I think this got ugly five minutes ago,” he said with a not-so-subtle nod toward the ogre.
Westie rolled her eyes. Clearly he had no idea of the danger he was in. The Wintu might have cast a spell over the town making it impossible for creatures to kill humans without giving up their own lives, but there were things worse than death.
The ogre looked from the young man to Westie’s mechanical arm, then dropped him to the ground.
On the opposite side of the road, at the blood brothel, a group of vampires cheered for the fight to continue, only a glimpse of pale faces and the glint of dark-lensed goggles visible under the awning that protected them from the sun.
The young man stood up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and ran a hand over his dark, oiled hair, never taking his eyes off Westie. The color came back to his face, leaving a beautiful flush in his cheeks.
Frowning, Westie covered her chin with her hand, wondering if there was a blemish worth all his attention. She was used to people staring, but it was usually at her mechanical arm.
“Are you some kind of dummy?” she said.
He blinked up at her. “Pardon me?”
She pointed a metal finger toward the elf and the ogre as they receded back into the saloon. “Picking a fight with creatures like that.” She didn’t like getting mixed up with creatures—not only because of their penchant for violence, but also because they were known for holding grudges.
“I didn’t start that fight. . . .” He tilted his head in thought, a smile spreading across his face. “Actually, I suppose I did. You see, the elf had been killing me at cards all afternoon. I tried flirting to throw her—er, him, I should say—off his game. I don’t think he liked me running my hands through his hair, but how was I supposed to know he was a male? I thought all the hitting was some sort of creature foreplay.”
Bena snorted behind her.