Did curiosity kill the cat? Maybe.
Obilian got off the bike, even though Peaches was telling him in her own certain way to not bother. He pocketed his keys, informing Peaches that he wasn’t going to listen to her, and went back into the bar.
He glanced at the back of the vests that the bikers wore. None were Sidewinders. They were Skulls, famous gangs throughout the country. Maybe they knew where the Sidewinders could be holing up.
Obilian slammed shut the door to the bar, causing the bikers to stop talking and look up at him.
“I’m looking for Sidewinders,” Obilian said. “Any idea where they might be?”
“Left one on the pavement a few miles back,” said one guy, and the rest of the group laughed.
“I’m looking for a girl.” Again, he pulled out the picture. The gang passed it around between them, studying the picture.
“I’ve seen her,” said the woman with the knives. “Over by the Red Cactus. Turning tricks there, I suppose.” The woman handed the picture back to Obilian. Their hands touched. She wasn’t lying.
“Thanks,” said Obilian, and left the bar. He wouldn’t come back there, but go right to the Red Cactus.
First, he needed backup.

#

Fae magick utilized nature. Unfortunately, Obilian couldn’t use the magick here in the American Southwest, because his blood didn’t come from there. It came from the Aztecs and probably another tribe that the Aztecs absorbed when they conquered Mexico.
All the indigenous tribes had stories of the “Little People”. Some were beneficial, some were not. His mother had been of the fae, his father a human in her captivity. So his father said. He didn’t know his mother.
The Red Cactus was a single-floor sprawling motel with a courtyard or pool in the middle. He pulled up to the main entrance and dismounted. Red cacti decorated the front door. He didn’t know there were such things. But then, he was from Texas and they didn’t have much cacti in Houston.
Obilian pushed open the glass door and was immediately assaulted by cool air. No cacti lived in here, but green, brown, and yellow plants that had seen better days and much more water decorated the base of the walls. Beyond the hallway of dead and dying ferns was a large black woman watching soaps.
He walked up to the counter. The woman didn’t look at him while she spoke, “Whatcha want?”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
“You come to the right place, Jack.” She shifted her body to face him. “How long?”
“Pardon?”
“How long you gonna need? Fifteen minutes?”
He certainly hoped not. “Thirty. And a specific girl.”
“That costs extra.”
Obilian shrugged, pulled out his wallet. “How much?”
“Hundred.”
He frowned. That wouldn’t leave him with much. “Seventy-five.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Seriously?”
“Fifty for fifteen.”
He grumbled and counted out two twenties and two fives.
“Got a name of the girl?”
“Leah.”
“That mousey little slut? To each his own.” She handed him a key. “Past the pool, at the end.”
Obilian left through the back door, passing the empty pool, and counting the doors until he reached the one with the key on it.
He knocked. “Leah?”
He unlocked the door and slowly pushed the door open. There was no air conditioning in this room, and he could smell the overpowering scent of old sex and sweat. The room was hot and dim, the heavy curtains cutting out any light.

Obilian is an energy/energy aura brute. Brutes are melee fighters, so they get in up close and personal. His aura is based on Endurance, both using it and getting it. Energy fighting animation is a lot like Super Strength—there’s only so much fun animation you can do for punches.

As of this writing, he’s level 45. He’s boring to play, but I developed this backstory so I haven’t given up on him yet. When he reaches 50, I’ll probably put him away like I did with other 50’s in this book.

#

They took one look at him. The short, stocky man at the bar put away shot after shot, and they knew he was ripe for picking. Four on one. What were the odds?

The man hadn’t taken off his long trench coat even though it was warm in the bar. The four rednecks watched him like jackals watching prey that a lion would soon get around to. Finally, the man put both hands on the edge of the bar and shoved himself away. The bartender took his money while the man waved off change for a tip.

Rox got up first to follow the man out the door, and his three underlings, Josie, Bill and Pike followed at an arm’s length behind their fearless leader. The man in the leather trench left the bar, Rox close behind.

The bar sat on the edge of a lake, with motorcycles parked in front and cars relegated to the side and rear, where it was dangerous to park because of the shifting sands of the lake. More than one car had been swallowed by the marsh.

There were no alleys, no places to hide. So they walked right up to him.

“Hey,” Rox called. The man didnd’t turn. “I’m talkin’ to you!”

The man kept walking to the end of the row of bikes, tucking a hand in his jacket. Rox stiffened as he only pulled out a set of keys. Rox pulled out his .357. “I said, I’m talkin’ to you, asshole.”

Now the man turned. His hair was cut short, his eyes dark in the progressing sunset. His face was a block on a thick, thorny stick.

“What.” It was a statement, not a question.

Rox waved the gun. “Gimme your money or I’ll have the boys rough you up for’t.”

The man rolled his eyes, dropping his keys back in his pocket. He stood with his legs spread evenly with his shoulders, and clenched his fists at his sides.

“Suit yourself,” said Rox, and the three men ran past Rox to tackle the other smaller man to the ground.

But he was fast, faster than they expected a man made out of cinderblocks could be. He caught Josie, who ran at him wildly, and tossed him right into Pike. He dodged Bill, who tripped and slammed face-first into the sandy marsh.

“In the first place,” said the man, “I have very little money.”

Pike got up first, and ran at him.  The man whipped an arm around with a loud “whoosh” of air and clotheslined Pike in the throat. Bill was spitting out sand as he got to his feet.

“Secondly, I really don’t need a fight right now.”

Rox clicked back the safety. It made an absurdly loud noise in the twilight.

“That doesn’t work on me.”

“Gimme your wallet.”

“Fuck you.”

Rox squeezed the trigger.

Nothing. Rox turned the barrel toward his face, and the gun fired.

“Shit!” screamed Bill, running to his friend whose face had just been blown off.

In the commotion, the man in leather rode away.

#

Luck, supposedly, came to the fae in spades. Luck and an aversion to cold iron. As Obilian ran a red light, heading to his fleabag of a motel, he checked his mirrors to make sure that no one followed him from the bar. He really didn’t want the cops around, not right now. He was a stranger in this strange land of Albuquerque, too far south to his liking, and way too hot and dry. The fae didn’t belong here, and he knew it.

He got to the motel without incident. After parking the bike and locking it up, he went to his room on the second floor. If he could, he would carry his bike upstairs and keep it in the room, but there wasn’t enough space. He didn’t like that his iron steed was out alone. Although it was magicked, warded and locked, and had its own sentience, Obilian was not comfortable.

He unlocked the room, glancing inside before taking a long look at the bike outside. “Sorry, Peaches,” he muttered, going into his room.

A bed, a chair, a rickety three-legged table, and a TV on a