Jack’s shoulders drop. Not only is the jig up, but Corva doesn’t look to be in fighting shape at all. Has she been drinking? I mean, why not? Seems like everyone else in the room is drunk. Speaking of everyone else—

He cranes his neck to look around Corva, but fails to find his four-handed compatriot. Where in the world is Zeke?

“You? Y—You!” Though her movements are unsteady, Corva’s head loses its wobble. Her attention is focused in Jack’s direction. Why would she be saying that to him? Today’s not a day for guessing. Best to ask.

“Who? Me? You know me. Why are you even here? I thought I was clear when I said—”

Corva’s head turns ever so slightly. Now it’s absolutely clear that she’s talking to Jack now. That means it’s equally clear that she wasn’t talking to him before. “No, not you. Him! Why’s he here? Do you even know who this is? And I had to come back. Zeke said—”

Corva doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. In an instant, she’s lifted from her feet and pinned against the wall by her neck. Gnarled, spindly fingers wrap her throat as the ancient bearded bounty hunter touches noses with her. She chokes. For a moment Jack can’t tell if it’s from the pressure on her windpipe or the heated rot wafting from Wrinkles’s open mouth.

“It’s rude to talk about a person like he’s not even here.” Wrinkles’s voice seems darker, deeper than it was before. There’s still a bit of a slur there, but his tone is a lot more serious than it had been.

He’s also not paying any attention to Jack at all.

Jack takes this opportunity to dive behind the bar. Plan B. With all their after-hours time dedicated to training, there hadn’t been time to give the beat-up old shotgun a proper repair. He did at least get the barrels cleaned out and the firing mechanism mostly functional. He’s also got the less damaged barrel preloaded with his last fixin bead. The gun isn’t fit for loading with real shot, but since going for it is a desperation move anyway, may as well have it ready with something. Should be enough. Hopefully.

As Jack gets Plan B off its mount under the bar, he hears Wrinkles’s voice, still turned away from him, still close to Corva. “Hello, Durga.”

What the fuck is a Durga?

Still frowning, Jack spins to take aim at Wrinkles. If the last time he shot this was any indicator, the blast from the bead is pretty wide. He’s going to need to get Corva clear. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to be closer.

He takes the handful of steps needed to close the distance, trying to keep his feet light as possible. Taking a step to the side, he can see Corva’s face around Wrinkles’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed as weak gasping sounds squeak out of her mouth. She’s clawing at the wiry, bony hand wrapped around her throat, but her struggles are fruitless. She may as well be attacking a statue of the wrinkled jerk. A putrid statue with an eye-watering stench pulsing from his, well, everything. It’s like a rancid mix of hard liquor, garlic, and horse shit.

Corva keeps grappling with the old man’s arm, but Jack can tell her strength is draining; a few more seconds and she’ll probably black out.

Jack raises Plan B and levels it at the old man’s head. “Hey Wrinkles! Ya mind taking your hand off my waitstaff?”

His shout goes unanswered. The aged hunter keeps his attention on Corva. This isn’t going to work if he can’t get Wrinkles’s attention.

“Hey! Who’s bein’ rude now?”

Wrinkles lets out an annoyed sigh and turns to face his young distraction. He’s still got Corva pinned against the wall, though. He stares at Jack over the twin barrels of Plan B as if daring him to shoot.

Keep him distracted. Jack purposefully avoids glancing at Corva to check on her. He keeps his full attention focused on Wrinkles. “Yeah, this woulda been a lot easier if I had a pump-action. More dramatic, too. You’da heard that sweet chunk-chuck sound and turned around immediately … and I could still be behind the bar. Sadly, Old Man V had a preference for the break-action sort. Upside, though, is he taught me how to use this thing. I’m damn good. And I’m pretty sure I can’t miss from here.”

The grizzled old hunter’s eyebrows push up, deepening the creases in his brow. There’s the faintest hint of a smirk growing from the corner of his mouth.

Got his attention. Now what? Amusement isn’t exactly the reaction that Jack was hoping to get, but at least it’s something. Best to keep talking. “I got no want for messin’ my bar again. How ’bout we cut this dance right here?”

“Ha!” It doesn’t even qualify as a full laugh. More like a cough pitifully disguised as a laugh. “Frank, Frank. You don’t seem to understand the situa—”

The lower half of Corva’s body cuts off Jack’s view of Wrinkles. Her feet scissor around his face. There’s not a lot of strength in her movement, but it grants her enough leverage to twist against his thumb and torque her way out from his grasp. She drops to the ground, awkwardly landing on her shoulder as she coughs and wheezes, gulping air into her lungs.

Jack takes this opportunity to pull the trigger, but before the hammer drops, Wrinkles wraps his bony fingers around the double barrels and pushes them away from him. The blast from the bead launches across the bar and crashes into the wall.

The sound is deafening, but there’s hardly any change in the old man’s expression. His movements are deft and deliberate, but they’re done with the same casual, almost bored demeanor a person might have while taking out the trash.

Still, there’s power in his moves. Jack remembers that the last time he shot one of these beads, the kick knocked him back a few feet and slammed him into the wall behind the bar. Wrinkles is still holding on to Plan B and Jack didn’t feel any kick at all this time.

Seeing Jack’s eyes widen, Wrinkles gives a full grin and releases Plan B’s barrels. He takes a step back, but not like he’s trying to get away. It’s more like he’s making space, a bigger cage to include Jack.

Don’t matter, space is space. The step back creates just enough room for Jack to slip himself between Wrinkles and Corva. Though the ammunition in Plan B is all spent, he keeps the gun trained on Wrinkles’s face. May as well try to keep playing it brave. “So—”

Jack’s voice cracks. Talk about shit timing. Sure he’s scared out of his wits, but his voice doesn’t have to sound like it right when he’s trying to put up a strong front. Wrinkles is still standing there, though. That amused grin is still stretching his beard wide across his face. Jack clears his throat and tries again. “So, how’s about we start this whole thing over?”

He looks up at the wrinkled hunter. The old man is a lot more imposing at his full height. No longer the slurring vulture craned over a shot glass, he looks down on Jack. Haughty. Superior. It’s a dramatic contrast with the drunkard from mere moments ago.

Unfazed and caught up in his own diatribe, Jack doesn’t flinch. “Since you’re all concerned with rudeness and manners, let’s do this formal-like. Start with introductions. I’m Jack. This is my bar. I’d like to avoid payin’ for repairs … again.”

He cocks his head up, pointing at Corva with the back of his skull. “This is Corva. She’s a pain in my ass. Your turn, Old-Timer.”

Corva, wide-eyed, hisses a whisper up from behind Jack. “You don’t know who this is? I thought you said you survived Death’s Mark.”

“Shut up!” Jack tries to whisper back, but with his cracking voice and the fact that, well … he’s Jack, there’s no subtlety in his delivery. “You’re not even supposed to be here. Where’s Zeke? And what do you mean before when you said that he said something to you? Zeke’s a—”

Something clicks in Jack’s mind. He starts connecting the dots between what Corva just said and the familiarity Wrinkles seemed to have with Death’s Mark.

“Death?” Jack turns, momentarily taking his attention off of Wrinkles. “What? Really? This guy?”

“Yes! Death! You know, Death. The Reaper. Old Beard. The Collector. Death! He’s been collecting recruits for the Karui since the war started. How did you survive his mark without knowing what he looks like?”

“It’s complicated. He doesn’t—” Jack, still skeptical, turns back to the old man.

“Jack!” Corva’s warning is too late.

Before Jack is able to get his eyes back on Wrinkles, the ancient bounty hunter places the palm of his hand at the tip of Plan B’s barrels and shoves downward, stripping the shotgun from Jack’s hands. The gun goes vertical as the barrels drive into the ground near Jack’s feet and embed themselves in the wooden floorboards. Plan B is no longer a gun. It’s not even a club. It’s a signpost. A short signpost. The back of Plan B’s stock only reaches up to Jack’s chest.

Wrinkles places his hand on Plan B’s butt, as if he’s casually waiting for Jack’s slack-jawed surprise to register. “You’re gonna let bugs fly in there if you keep that thing open like that.”

Jack has nothing. No response at all. He snaps his mouth shut like he’s been given an order. Wrinkles treats this almost as a signal. He spreads a gigantic decayed-tooth grin and delivers a hard push forward with the hand that’s resting on Plan B. His fist and Plan B’s stock jam against Jack’s chest. The torque tears up the floorboard, splintering as Jack slams against the wall.

Plan B is as ruined as the floorboards, barrels bent and stock cracked. For a fleeting moment as Wrinkles tosses the remains of the gun to the side, Jack wonders if Harris is going to use those messed up planks as a final excuse to take the bar. He doesn’t dwell on it, though. The giant blooming pain in his chest is a much higher concern.

The old vulture looks down at Jack, tilting his head to the side. “How the fuck have you managed to live this long? You embarrass me. You’d think someone who survived my mark would have more sense.”

Jack opens his mouth a few times, trying to reply. Unfortunately, it’s hard to deliver any kind of snide quip or retort with the wind forced from his lungs. The feeling that his spine has been punched from the front isn’t helping matters, either. The best he can manage is to look up at Wrinkles and glare for a few seconds.

This is Death. The one responsible for the streak in his hair. For the extermination of the Fold. Everyone he and Lyia knew in their previous life. Yeah, it was the last wave of a series of attacks from both the Karui and the Umbrati. But the Mark of Death had been the finishing touch. The thing that ended everything and ultimately sent him to this shithole town.

Repressed bitterness has a way of revealing itself at the most unexpected of times. Jack feels heat raising in his face and his vision blurs from the tears collecting in his eyes. His fists clinch so hard, he can feel his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.

The old hunter gives a single knowing nod. “You’ve finally put it together. Good.” He straightens his back before sweeping to a low bow. His face is level with Jack and Corva as he addresses them. “Thegn Nateusch, here to collect.”

Jack coughs. The sudden flex jolts a wave of renewed pain over his body, forcing him to double over. However, the cough affords him a trickle of air, and he manages to finally choke out a response. “How about I just keep calling you Wrinkles?”

The bearded Reaper ignores Jack’s gibe and, still in his bow, turns his face toward Corva. “The boy doesn’t recognize me because a person doesn’t have to see my face to be administered the mark. Much like”—his face swings around to look at Jack with his crooked-toothed smile on full display—“the Touch.”

Jack’s eyes widen and he risks a glance at Corva. Her face is a strange mixture of fear and confusion. He can’t say anything. Breathing hurts, and all the questions he’s got are jammed somewhere in his throat.

Thegn’s face—no, Wrinkles’s face—lifts knowingly, like the old bag of bones can guess the words that are piling over each other to get out of Jack’s mouth. “Of course I’d recognize my own handiwork. I know exactly where you received that streak in your hair.”

No. No. No! The only people in Bule who know Jack’s from the Shadowfold are Lyia and Maddy Shard. Corva’s from Fareburne. This is not how she should find out that his people were the ones who killed everyone she knew.

Still with that annoying look on his face, the bearded Reaper suddenly rises up from his bow. “But, we’ll have to settle up later. I’m not here for you. Like I said before—”

He looks over to Corva as she raises herself to a knee, pointing at her with his sharpened fingernail. “You’re my target.”

Corva’s voice is tense, a whisper through her teeth. “No way. No way I’ll let you recruit me. I’d rather die than fight your war.”

“Good. This will be quick, then. The Karui want you alive. I never said I do.”

Wrinkles takes that sharp nail on his forefinger and runs it along his opposite scar-covered forearm, slicing deep into his own leathery flesh. Blood drains from the cut quickly, but in a weird, almost controlled way. It’s certainly not spurting like he’d hit an artery, but it’s also not pouring out in a way that Jack expects.

Closing his eyes, Wrinkles swings his arm to the side. Blood continues to drain from his arm and flow to his palm, coalescing and growing into a twisted, contorted shape. In an instant, the shape extends in both directions to form a gnarled pole that’s nearly Wrinkles’s full height. At the bottom, a knotted bloody ball forms; a counterweight. From the top, the blade of the Reaper’s scythe stretches and arcs outward.

When Wrinkles opens his eyes, he turns his attention to Jack. “Close your eyes, kid. Not sure your dainty little stomach can handle what’s coming to her.”

“Sunnuvabitch.” Jack frantically scans the room for something—anything—that could be used for defense. Plan B’s out, but that was kind of a one-trick pony anyway. Really shouldn’t have sold all those merc guns. Way to go, dumbass. They could hide behind the bar, but this is Death. Friggin’ Death! How do you hide from Death?

Apparently he’d done it before. But he was five years old then. It was a fluke. An oversight. It’s not like he’d avoided the mark on purpose back then.

Jack turns to look at Corva. Maybe she has an idea, or—

Nope. Nothing. Corva isn’t there. There’s just an empty spot on the ground and the front door to the bar, still swinging shut.