Borderland by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Young Adult
ISBN: 9780451141729
Google: axTJAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0451141725
Publisher: Roc
Published: 1986-05-05T23:00:00+00:00

STICK

Charles de Lint

Then to the Maypole hast away For ’tis now our holiday.

—from “Staines Morris,” English traditional

Stick paused by his vintage Harley at the sound of a scuffle. Squinting, he looked for its source. The crumbling blocks of Soho surrounded him. Half-gutted buildings and rubble-strewn lots bordered either side of the street. There could be a hundred pairs of eyes watching him—from the ruined buildings, from the rusted hulks of long abandoned cars—or there could be no one. There were those who claimed that ghosts haunted this part of Soho, and maybe they did, but it wasn’t ghosts that Stick was hearing just now.

Some Bloods out Pack-bashing. Maybe some of the Pack out elf-bashing. But it was most likely some Rats—human or elfin, it didn’t matter which—who’d snagged themselves a runaway and were having a bit of what they thought was fun.

Runaways gravitated to Bordertown from the outside world, particularly to Soho, and most particularly to this quarter, where there were no landlords and no rent. Just the scavengers. The Rats. But they could be the worst of all.

Putting his bike back on its kickstand, Stick pocketed the elfin spell-box that fueled it. Lubin growled softly from her basket strapped to the back of the bike—a quizzical sound.

“Come on,” Stick told the ferret. He started across the street without looking to see if she followed.

Lubin slithered from the basket and crossed the road at Stick’s heels. She was a cross between a polecat and a ferret, larger than either, with sharp pointed features and the lean build of the weasel family. When Stick paused in the doorway of the building from which the sounds of the scuffle were coming, she flowed over the toes of his boots and into its foyer, off to one side. Her hiss was the assailants’ first hint that they were no longer alone.

They were three Bloods, beating up on a small unrecognizable figure that was curled up into a ball of tattered clothes at their feet. Their silver hair was dyed with streaks of orange and black; their elfin faces, when they looked up from their victim to see Stick standing in the doorway, were pale, skin stretched thin over high-boned features, silver eyes gleaming with malicious humor. They were dressed all of a kind—three assembly line Bloods in red leather jackets, frayed jeans, T-shirts and motorcycle boots.

“Take a walk, hero,” one of them said.

Stick reached up over his left shoulder and pulled out a sectional staff from its sheath on his back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the three two-foot sections snapped into a solid staff, six feet long.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“He don’t think so,” the first of the Bloods mocked.

“This here’s our meat,” a second said, giving their victim another kick. He reached inside his jacket, his hand reappearing with a switchblade. Grinning, he thumbed the button to spring it open.

Knives appeared in the hands of the other two—one from a wrist sheath. Stick didn’t bother to talk. While they postured with their blades, he became a sudden blur of motion.

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