rocked her hammock side to side, swigging from a bulbous brown bottle in light, careful gulps, smacking her lips each time. Assorted memories rocked with her, a series of nagging visions that Wyld had earlier spent time staring at.
Trouble didn’t usually follow her. Like everything else she encountered – opportunities, men, and wealth – trouble usually neglected to show its face in her presence and for that she had been thankful.
But the incidents in the Vault greatly disturbed her.
Wyld had been caught up in the break-in, a messy, amateur affair with the theft of contraband under the noses of the law and deaths on both sides. Things had never gone so wrong before. Sure, there had been a handful of tight spots she could recall but not like this. Nothing had been like this. It was a harsh lesson to be taught and definitely one that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.
Trembling fingers gripped the bottle neck as, once more, the sullen look of the policeman she had shot lingered, bearing down on her with all his weight. Damn those eyes of his. Drink, she told herself, and chase the spectre away. It didn’t work. Instead she tried to be rational. One of them was to meet their end and it was only due to the good graces of the Holy Sorceress that it wasn’t her.
Grace. A faster finger. An instinct to stay alive. Wyld couldn’t tell which specifically to attribute her survival to.
Another mouthful was taken. A silent curse was made.
She was living as a vagabond, previously just ruining lives but now she had stepped into the world of taking them. She confessed in her thoughts to being a murderer. No matter how justified her act may have been, it was a line she once promised herself she wouldn’t cross. In her youth she had witnessed folks killed for scraps of food, for unpaid debts and, shockingly, simply for the fun of it. This all predictably made an impression and whilst it was sensible to carry iron for self-defence, it had been to threaten only.
Wyld had never been prepared to pull a trigger, let alone do so with lethal intent. One life, twenty, did the actual body count make any difference? She would be branded a killer either way. It was painfully difficult to justify, forcing her to question whether this journey was even worth it.
On her stomach sat the statue, staring back at her with a frozen expression of judgement. The effigy claimed, or more accurately, stolen, sat proud upon its rounded base.
The poky, squatting gold form of an Angel, with brilliant wings outstretched, was embedded into the face, surrounded with symbols from a language best forgotten and a time now ignored. Years had deposited scratches on the once brilliant metal, no doubt helped by the conflicts it had seen and the hands it had passed through. The finely crafted golden features made her curiously anxious the longer she observed them. The ill-gotten items had been treated as stock and their reverence ignored, though this one was the exception. Unlike many of her acquisitions, it was curiously respected.
Wyld’s fingers lifted the piece to what little light the lamp made.
‘Is it worth it?’ Wyld whispered to the figure, searching the Angel’s gold visage with her eyes. Momentarily she wished for an answer to be given, no matter how implausible it seemed. Oh, how she wished it could speak to her. She pressed the cold metal against her forehead, questioning – among other things – if anybody even cared. Then she set it back down.
A slow striking of the car door diverted these thoughts. Katerina lightly slunk inside when invited, very much respectful of the personal space of the car’s inhabitant. She cooed a hello, waving a bottle of red wine and a glass, watching Wyld’s hammock rock to a stop.
‘Good evening, I don’t mean to impose on what you’re up to.’ Katerina scanned her surroundings, trying to work out what that may have been but obviously came up with nothing. ‘I was wondering if you would like to join us. We’re all playing cards and would welcome another hand.’
‘Sorry. I figure I’m just not your sort of company. No offence and all.’
‘None taken I assure you. I just thought it would be nice to invite our resident ghost. I rarely see you and thought that it must get pretty stuffy in here by your lonesome.’
Wyld cracked a smile in approval. ‘It’s appreciated, thanks. It’s nice to know that I’m not invisible to everyone. I get some disapproving looks from time to time so I just try to stay out of sight and all. I stand out too much among the make-up and –’ she gestured to Katerina who probed for a place to sit ‘– all that flair.’
‘You’re telling me. The dresses can be a bit much. Having to keep up the pretence can be draining.’
‘What pretence?’
‘The boss says we have to keep the image of who we are at all times, especially away from the Den itself. I get it. I really do, but it can be such a chore. We’re on display all the time and that’s fine. It can just be tiring.’
‘Enough to leave?’
‘Heavens no.’ Katerina gave a warm chuckle. ‘The girls here, well, we’re family, you know. You don’t walk out on your family. May I?’
Katerina pointed to a pine trunk strapped with rough iron, finding a lack of a proper chair.
‘Be my guest.’ Wyld wearily sighed and took another gulp from her bottle. You’re right, she thought. You don’t abandon your family. So why did he?
Katerina took a meek drink from a glass and gestured. ‘What about yours?’
‘Some white rum from in town. Local stuff. It’s fancy –’
‘No, I mean your family. Where are they?’
‘That’s pretty much non-existent,’ she said. ‘Orphan of the streets like many others out there. I never got to know my family. If I did nowadays, I would sock them on the jaw.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Wyld snorted. ‘Nobody else is.’
They both drank more, bolder, unsure as to how to continue the conversation.
‘I envy you, you know?’ Katerina eventually stated, refilling her glass, halfway this time.
‘That’s just the drink talking.’
‘No, I’m serious. You live so nomadically. Wind in your hair. You’re free, you know? Nobody to answer to.’ A blaze of red curls hid her features before eventually being moved away with a palm, replaced with an immediate smile that seemed suspiciously one of reflex and illusion.
‘Except Franco,’ Wyld added, swigging once more with a stifled gasp.
‘Except Franco. But you know what I mean.’
‘It’s nothing that couldn’t be fixed. There’s no harm venturing out to find a little purpose.’
‘There are some folks – you are very much included in this – who are well suited to adapting to challenging lifestyles. They thrive in such environments. It’s in their very being I guess one could say. Now, when it comes to me, I’m the opposite. I like my comforts. I am accustomed to them, have been all my days. The Den is my compromise for wanderlust.’
‘What
