Sarah watched the hunter leave, still holding his glass. The dregs of kyn were bright at the bottom, clear as starlight back home. She sighed and tried to relax. Four years had passed since she first met Coldhand, and it had never gotten easier to handle the ice-hearted young hunter. He still managed to give her a bad case of the jitters.
Sarah berated her bouncer for letting the clearly armed Coldhand into the bar, threatening to replace the retired pounceball player if he couldn’t handle the job. In spite of all he had done for her, Coldhand was a frightening, dangerous man and she prayed that he would never walk into the Rusty Frigate again.
Had it really been four years? It seemed like so much less. Four years since Coldhand had hunted down her husband’s killer, the man who had knifed her beloved hawk over a drink. Sarah traced her fingers over the polished surface of the bar she and Durwin had built together. She knew every nick and scratch, every dent Durwin had put in the thing. God, how he had loved the Frigate.
But love wasn’t money. Fifty cenmarks was all she could offer as a bounty, not even enough to pay for recharging the power cells of Coldhand’s weapon. The hunter had taken the single orange chip without complaint, informing her in that dead, cold voice that Durwin’s murderer was dead, his body in the custody of the Axis police. Sarah still remembered the tears of gratitude, throwing her arms around Coldhand’s neck and fumbling for the words to thank him. The young man offered no comfort, pulling away from her weeping embrace with his reward in hand and stalking away without a word.
