"Dancer" by Karen Stevens

She knew something was wrong a moment after she turned into the alley; she could sense an air of vague menace, the scent of predators, even before she spotted the figures crowded around a small fire, hunched half in the shadow of an empty doorway. She briefly considered retreating, but they'd noticed her now, and the surest way to draw predators was to run, she knew.

Bracing herself, she continued walking, staring fixedly at the far end of the alley as the faint drizzle continued to fall. She could see them out of the corner of her eye – four young men – no, five, to judge from the stealthy noises behind her, soles scuffing on cobbles, clothing rasping on bricks. Does the idiot think I'm deaf? She wondered.

“Well, well; take a look at this, boys.” He had to be the leader, wiry and pockmarked, dressed in worn, scuffed leathers. Light winked dully on metal rings and studs as he strolled forward to block her way, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Where ya going to, silverhair?”

She ignored his words, stopping in front of him as the other members of his little band sauntered forward, spreading out in a loose semi-circular line behind him. “Can you move out of my way, please?” Her voice was low, with a faint rough edge.

“No need to rush off, babe. You can spend some time with us.”

She scowled at him. “I'm cold, I'm wet and I'm not in a good mood. Do yourself a favour and get out of my way. Now.”

A couple of the men sniggered, but she ignored them, gaze locked with the leader's. He flushed and raised a hand, metal claws sliding out from underneath his nails and locking in place with a tiny scnick. “You'll give us your time and whatever else we fancy, bitch.”

She snorted with contempt, flicking back a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “Am I supposed to be scared or something?”

His colour deepened to purple. “You're dead, you whore!” He spat.

“Not yet.” She let her cloak drop to the ground, drawing a pair of short, slender swords from her belt. She spun in a quick circle, blades flashing to take the one behind her in throat and stomach, the impossibly sharp edges cutting through skin, muscle and cartilage with ease. And then she was facing the others again, so quickly she not have moved at all, save for the body cooling behind her and the crimson sheen on her blades.

She gave a tiny, feral smile at the thugs, who stared at her in disbelief. “My name's dancer,” she said calmly, a snarl under her words. “Let me show you boys how I earned it.”

***

Ten minutes later she crouched to wipe her blades clean on the remains of the leader's shirt. Sheathing her swords, she grimaced when she caught sight of his claws, blunted and chipped. “If you're going to have those things fitted you really should take care of them,” she remarked to his corpse.

With a faint shrug she picked up her cloak, cursing softly at the filthy damp stains on it and continued on her way.