Excerpt

1

December held her world with soft cruelty.

Puffy flakes of snow drifted from the black sky, settling over rooftops and the empty parking lot alike. Uruk-Tai's new flat cap was large enough to tug over the tips of his ears and thick enough that his scalp felt as steamy as June, but the gentle, steady wind sucked all warmth from his face and crept through his canvas pants, making his frozen calves itch. He wore his heavily patched wool coat buttoned tight, but December slipped her frozen breath up from the bottom and between the buttons every time he moved. Even in 1927 Detroit, nobody made a good orc coat. The spiked brass knuckles on his hand absorbed the cold, feeding it straight into his blood.

December had spent days cloaking everything with soft death. The tiny parking lot had been sloppily shoveled, making space for six or seven Model T's, but the drifts up against the brick stores on either side rose up to Uruk's waist. At the back of the lot, the speakeasy's sloped roof shed most of the snow, but a good six or eight inches still burdened the shingles. Heavy clouds hid the Moon and the nameless stars. Streetlights reflecting from those same clouds gave the snow sparkle.

Uruk sometimes thought that December was softer to orcs than any other race. Those drifts would trap a man and smother a dwarf, but an orc could break a path through them exactly as he trudged through any other day. If he ever dared speak such a thought, though, December would correct him. An orc could never mistake softness for kindness. Not with December, and not with America.

He needed to stop dreaming and focus on tonight's war. Deliver the Canadian Club, split the money with Sanford, and return to the clan victorious.

Sanford's beat-up, borrowed truck, backed into the lot, grumbled as the engine idled. If they shut it off in this cold, the cantankerous engine might not start again. The stink of exhaust penetrated Uruk's frozen nose. Even through the heavy leather gloves, his talons were beginning to absorb the cold. Uruk kept his talons trimmed short so that he couldn't accidentally claw open a wall or a throat, but they were thick enough to hold the cold and send ice into his blood. When the night's work was over and he could warm himself over a radiator, his talons would be the last bit of him to thaw.

Grandpa said that in the Old Country orcs grew their talons not only for war, but so in winter they could rest the tips against the hot rocks surrounding the fire. The heat would slowly counter the cold. Touch the rocks for too long and your talons would grow too hot, burning your blood. Grandpa's platoon had amused themselves by challenging each other to see who could scorch their talons the longest, all knowing the pain would not arrive until after.

Grandpa's war wasn't bootlegging, though. Bootlegging was a new war, demanding new weapons and new leadership.

And uncomfortable alliances. Like Sanford.

The human stood next to him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his over-coat. More human strangeness. An orc might wear two or three shirts to fend off December. Humans did much the same, but made different shirts for each layer. Uruk knew too much about human clothing, under-shirts and shirts and jackets and, now, over-coats. Uruk could wear his cleanest shirt closest to his hide, but if Sanford's under-shirt was soiled and his buttoned shirt clean, Sanford still had to put the soiled cloth next to his skin. Ridiculous. Not as ridiculous as being a paper man, a human who worked with the writings humans treasured, but an added ridiculousness.

Sanford's clothes did keep him warmer than Uruk. Even in night-sight, only Sanford's face shone. Warmth glimmered around his wrists, and his pants had a dull sheen that would disappear even ten feet away. December swallowed night-sight.

The thought made him glance across the parking lot. The customer had not yet come out of the speakeasy.

Sanford said, "We could demand an extra hundred if you wore the suit."

Sanford had insisted that Uruk own a human-style suit. An orc might wear a jacket over his canvas or denim, but a suit was not merely un-orcish—it was human. Sanford had considered it so important that he had taken Uruk to his own tailor and paid for it. Uruk had gone along for the sake of their alliance.

Owning it did not mean wearing it, though.

The man listened better than most humans, which meant that Uruk needed repeat himself only twenty or thirty times. "It is dark. He cannot admire cut or fit in this cold."

"He would see that you wore an overcoat," Sanford said. "It would be enough."

"It is at home." Reginald the tailor said he had spent more time on that suit than anything else he had sewn. The texture of a man's suit repelled Uruk, so the tailor had unearthed a scratchy wool much more suitable than the delicate horrors men liked. Reginald had cut and sewn over three visits so that the suit even moved like an orc, bending with his hips and shoulders and knees. Uruk had been forced to admit that Reginald had done the impossible, sewn an orcish suit.

Except suits were un-orcish.

Uruk had taken one long look at the thing, stuffed it back in its bag, and crammed the whole thing in the corner behind Grandpa's chair.

"I had a second suit made," Sanford said. "It's in the box in the back of the truck. You could —"

Uruk's indignation swelled. "I said that I would wear it when I needed it."

"I need us to make as much money as we can," Sanford said.

How much more could they need? In five weeks, the clan had made almost two thousand dollars bootlegging. Uruk had pried up a second and then a third floorboard to make enough space to hide their share. Sanford might be correct, but not in a way that mattered. The suit might make him need to pry up a fourth board before the end of the week, but Uruk would rather be a proper orc.

Uruk did not know how to explain any of that to Sanford. The man's need for money had brought the paper man to Uruk, the clan's need for money kept Uruk with Sanford, and now money and marrow feud with the elves bound them together. Even if Uruk wanted to abandon the war, the elves had killed another clan of Tai for bootlegging. Uruk and his brothers had retaliated by hijacking a truckload of mirovar, the elvish holy wine, and exchanged it for the orcish draught taken by the elves. That might seem even, but in that fight Uruk and his brothers had captured an elf-enchanted Tommy gun and used it to kill an elven wizard.

Elves survived for centuries, pallid lives without color or joy or rage. But they treasured all their pointless years. They would balance the death of one elf with thousands of orcish corpses.

The clan needed this stone-headed man.

Perhaps his brother Tara could squeeze the idea into Sanford's head. Tara was almost un-orcishly pensive, but Uruk had learned to trust his thoughts.

Night-sight showed a sudden rectangular glimmer of warmth in the speakeasy's wall. "The door is opening."

"About time," Sanford grumbled. "Making us wait is a silly power game."

Silly power game? All games were silly, but how could you play games with power? Light bulbs shone when you flipped the switch, but no light had come from the speakeasy. Only humans would taunt power.

Three men shuffled forward, barely visible even in night-sight. Their heavy, long coats held warmth almost as well as Sanford's. Maybe Uruk should take some of the money and find someone to make a proper orcish coat.

No, a foolish distraction.

Consider a new coat tomorrow.

The man in front was built almost like an orc. Broad shoulders, a heavy waist, the biggest hands of any man Uruk had ever seen. He had hair on his head, though, and that silly little wart that humans called a nose. His face shone in night-sight, and when he smiled his teeth gleamed. "Mr. Smith! How delightful to see you!"

Sanford had explained the brain-numbing idea of a false name more than once. Uruk understood that the police couldn't easily find you if they didn't have your real name, but how could you build a reputation if nobody knew your real name? Orcs lived under constant threat from the police. Bootlegging was no different. A false name was only for the police, and then only to protect the clan.

Sanford seemed content that Smith carry any reputation he earned. "Jake! A pleasure as always." Happy words and bared teeth, the start of every human respect chant. "Permit me to introduce my partner —" he coughed "—Urka-Tai."

So much wrong there. To orcs, my was a powerful word. It meant that you would fight to the death for what you claimed. Humans spread my like manure in a cattle pen. Sanford claiming to fight for Uruk was like a child fighting the great cannon of President Commander Coolidge's Navy. The man would be swept aside.

And then, Uruk's name. Sanford had struggled to improve his pronunciation, but failed every time. A human throat could not form orcish names. Sanford's greatest efforts could only fail, so Uruk bared only his Lesser Tusks. "Uruk-Tai."

"So it's true," Jake said. "You work with orcs."

"Steady partners," Sanford said. "Completely trustworthy."

Jake rubbed his chin, meeting Uruk's gaze. "And you're with this Thigh clan?"

Sanford opened his mouth to answer, but Uruk cut him off. "Tai." The paper man's pronunciation of the clan name was less awful than how he pronounced Uruk, but cut through by December's breath, one night before the Greatest Dark, the clan's name must be declared correctly.

"I see." Still rubbing his chin, Jake began nodding. "See, that's my worry."

The man was right to worry. Uruk could crush his skull with a slap. He would spend the rest of his life in prison if he killed a human, but Jake would still be dead.

"My orcish partner is our strength," Sanford said. "With him, we have no need to water booze. Every bottle is top-notch Canadian Club, straight from Windsor."

"What about the stories?" Jake said.

Humans always told stories about orcs, so they could justify ignoring them.

"What stories?" Sanford said.

"Up in Mount Clemens," Jake said.

"We don't serve that far yet," Sanford said. "Next year, I'm sure."

"Some folks up there bought hooch from a Thigh orc." The man was not even trying to pronounce Tai correctly. Anger at the insult bubbled in Uruk's gut, but before he could speak Jake said, "It was poisoned. Killed every one of 'em."

2

December. The night before the Greatest Dark.

The longest night of the year was for settling disputes and ending feuds. Violate an agreement forged in the Greatest Dark and December herself would declare marrow feud on you—and persuade January to join in. No orc could stand against that. Actively feuding with another orc clan during the Greatest Dark was not merely a war. December would not allow those feuds to end until all sides joined the frozen dead.

Jake's lie demanded nothing less.

Uruk tasted blood pounding in his throat and his hands instinctively straightened to use his talons. A torrent of righteous rage at the unfair accusation dissolved the cold in his limbs and sharpened his vision.

The parking lot was suitable for a massacre.

The brick stores on either side were dark, as was the speakeasy in the back. The man Jake would have no way to escape except back into the speakeasy, and if he fled Uruk could run him down easily. Uruk's boots would have greater traction on the tamped-down snow and ice than any shoes Jake could be wearing. His talons might be trimmed, but slaughterhouses hired orcs to kill cattle with a punch between the eyes. Humans would die the same. The truck filled the narrow driveway, its canvas-tented bed obscuring the view from the road. This time of night, the road was empty. If anyone glanced into the parking lot as they passed, December's fluffy snowfall would haze the scene.

Uruk bared all his tusks. "The Tai are not poisoners!"

"Just saying what I heard." The man spoke with that wheedling tone that humans used when they wanted to declare innocence even though they knew they were guilty. That might work with other men, but orcs knew better.

"Where did you hear this?" Sanford's tone held as much iron as Uruk had ever heard from the paper man. Good. Sanford might not consider Uruk a true partner, not in the pit of his heart, but the man hadn't missed the implied insult.

"One of the drivers last night." Jake seemed perfectly relaxed, as if he hadn't just stood in full view of December and offered mortal insult. "Then a couple guys from the stockyards said it."

"This is unacceptable," Sanford said. "We provide a top-quality, unadulterated product." His gaze flickered at Uruk. "We need the names of those people."

"I ain't squealing out my customers," Jake said.

"They are liars," Uruk said. Only humans would need to be told that.

"They have impugned our reputation," Sanford said. "I'm not going to turn them over to the police, but I—we must know who is slandering us."

"So you can set your orc on them?" Jake sneered.

"If they're human, a lawsuit for slander should settle the issue." He held a hand towards Uruk. "In the unlikely event that an orc is responsible, my associate would handle the matter appropriately."

Uruk said, "No orc would do this." Poisoning was un-orcish. No clan would feud to defend a poisoner. An orc's own clan, no matter how widely scattered, would gather together to capture the poisoner and present him to the victim's clan.

"We will solve this," Sanford said. "In the meantime, shall we conclude our business?"

Jake scratched his ear. "See, you're pretty steep. What with these rumors, I don't know that I want to pay your prices for what might be no good."

December or not, Uruk burned to slash this Jake's face. His mouth had opened to reveal his Greater Tusks, and he had no urge to hide them again. One more insult and he would need them. "Do you seek feud with the Tai clan, man?"

"For tonight," Sanford said, "this is easily settled. Look in the truck. Pick one bottle, any bottle."

Jake studied Sanford, glanced at Uruk, and nodded. "All right."

"Not one right in the back," Sanford said. "Something random, from the middle."

Night-sight made it easy to watch as the man hopped up into the truck bed. His hands fumbled over the open-top boxes, finally pulling out a fifth. His other hand reached for a second bottle, as if he thought the darkness concealed his perfidy.

Uruk gave a tiny growl.

The man hurriedly let go of the second bottle and climbed back out.

"Thank you," Sanford said. How could the paper man be grateful to someone who had insulted them so badly, who even tried to rob them? "You see it's full, don't you? Give it to me, if you please."

Sanford deftly broke the seal and raised the bottle as if to toast. "To successful business dealings." Without a pause he put the bottle to his lips and swigged a shot. The feeble whiskey made him cough, adding a brief sharpness to the air before December blew it away. Paper men couldn't handle even feeble human liquor.

"You ain't a whiskey man, are you?" Jake said.

"I enjoy a shot," Sanford said. "Barkeeps rarely let me go straight from the bottle, though." He held the bottle out to Uruk. "Would you care to finish this?"

Uruk snatched the bottle and tipped it back, pouring it straight down his throat. It had a pleasant burn, like the embers of last night's fire. Maybe it would thaw his legs.

"Clearly," Sanford said, "we would not indulge if we were not absolutely certain of the quality of our product. Perhaps now we can proceed?"

A few drops remained in the bottom. Uruk thrust the bottle at Jake, daring the man to challenge him again.

Jake took the bottle and sniffed, eyebrows raising. The dregs would be a good shot for a human, but the man wouldn't drink after Uruk. Then again, Sanford had been certain to get the first drink as well. Men would rather waste precious liquor than share a bottle with an orc.

Jake lowered the bottle. "Yeah. All right."

The man did not know enough to even offer reparations for his words? After those lies, he expected Uruk to sell him liquor?

"Have your men carry the crates inside," Sanford said, "and you and I will settle up."

"Get your orc to carry them," Jake said.

The thought of prison didn't stop Uruk's hands from trembling with rage. He held himself to another low growl.

"He is not my orc," Sanford said. "He is my partner, and your accusation insulted him and his clan. I don't think he's in the mood to help your men carry your whiskey."

Sanford understood. A little. Good.

"Maybe if you apologized," Sanford said.

December would bring apples before a man apologized to an orc. Uruk let a little more of his Greater Tusks show.

Jake scowled. "Get them, George."

"So let's settle up before we freeze," Sanford said.

The other two men began hauling whiskey crates, while Jake pulled a money clip from his pocket. "As agreed—minus the bottle you drank, of course."

Uruk let his growl grow louder.

Jake glanced at Uruk, but this time shrank a little.

"We drank that bottle at your insistence," Sanford said. "You don't think I habitually drink while conducting business, do you? I had hoped to share a shot around afterwards to celebrate, but the mood has left us." He held out a hand. "The full agreed-upon amount."

Jake scowled and added another bill.

Uruk grunted.

"Thank you, sir," Sanford said. "I trust that you will tell your friends how we provided top-quality whiskey, with no hint of impurities, and how we stood by every detail of our arrangement." His voice lost its cheer. "Every. Detail."

"George!" Jake said. "I'm not paying you to dawdle. Get on with it."

Uruk could contain himself no more. "Who told those lies?"

"Told you," Jake said. "I'm not ratting out my customers."

"I will be making inquiries," Sanford said. "If this rumor has roots, I will find them. If it turns out there is no rumor beyond your establishment, we will return to discuss the matter." He offered Jake a broad human smile. "Or, at least—my partner will."

Even in night-sight, Jake's face grew pale.

Good.

He couldn't have the man's blood. Uruk would have to be satisfied with the man's fear.