Chapter 115: Apex Predator

  Sometimes, taking control of the Boulevard of Saint Trassius felt like a mistake. It had been a couple months since the street war that had killed several gang leaders, including Mr. Cicero and Christophe, and life hadn’t let up since. Every day was a new fight or complaint, a party to throw, shards to handle, or people to manage.

  Quentin thought he knew what he’d taken on, but he clearly hadn’t. He stood in his new ‘War Room’, with a map of the Boulevard painted on the wall, with each individual business marked and noted with what they owed every two weeks. There were also marks for which businesses were delinquent, which meant either sending his men to collect, or going himself.

  “Qala for your thoughts?” said Razia as she came up beside him. She’d let her hair grow out, and now there were rows of short, thick, but trimmed lines. Her smile and playful lilt in her voice, however, would never change.

  Quentin immediately put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I was thinking, no wonder Cicero was such a bastard. There are still a handful of people who aren’t too happy with having to pay money to a filthy Moonkissed. So that leaves me with a dilemma.”

  Razia made an appreciative sound. “You have to either come down on them or risk people thinking you’re soft. The more people who think you’re soft, the more danger we’re all in. But you don’t want to hurt anyone, right?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” Quentin sighed. “And not only are there business owners making a stink, but some of the newer men seem to view this as an endless party and not a job. Was it a mistake to open up recruitment outside the Colosseum?”

  She chuckled and broke apart. “Not at all. It was necessary. We were never going to keep a steady supply of new faces from there. Especially not with Amicus getting in the way. This was inevitable. Got anyone in particular in mind?” Razia sat on the table in front of the map, hands spread out behind her.

  “Yeah. Rodrick’s been getting cocky and handsy with the girls. I might need to knock some sense into him.”

  Despite being one of the bigger bosses in the north side, Quentin kept a hands-on approach. Razia took care of the money and communication, Isa managed their girls, Jonas led the Shades, and Quentin went where he was needed. He was more than happy to go collect taxes, spend time with the girls, or get his hands dirty. Hell, the past two months had been filled with relentless violence, as they fought to regain control and enforce a sense of normalcy in the city.

  They were almost there, but each time they gained ground, it felt like something happened to knock them back a few steps. They’d managed to get a few new allies, while also several more headaches along the way, including the attention of the Watch’s leadership.

  “Now, by ‘knock some sense into him’, do you mean a warning or actually smacking him around?” Razia looked delighted at either option.

  Quentin grimaced. “That depends entirely on him. I also want to go out and talk to a few shopkeepers as well, maybe convince them to stop being so stubborn. Is there anything that requires my immediate attention, or can I go for a walk?”

  She tapped her chin and pretended to think about it. “I think we can spare you for a couple hours. But I want you to bring a couple men with you.” Quentin sighed, and she pointed at him. “You’re important now! Important people don’t go alone unless it’s secret, serious, or desperate. You need a couple of goons at your side.”

  Like usual, it made sense, but Quentin didn’t have to like it. He’d once thought that having money and power meant more freedom, and he supposed to an extent it did. Mostly, it meant having more responsibilities chaining you down. Higher highs, with utter tedium sometimes slowing him down.

  “Fine,” he conceded. “But I’m not letting them do the fighting for me. If trouble happens, I’m probably safer just by virtue of my gift.”

  He’d gotten better and better at healing on command without feeling too weak afterwards, though the hunger afterwards always overwhelmed him. He tried not to think about how using it made the clock tick faster, and he’d already burned up thirty years of life.

  Razia ran a hand over her hair thoughtfully. “I’d never ask otherwise. Go out and have some fun. But first?” She tilted her head up at him.

  Quentin leaned over and kissed her, savoring the moment. It was always good to take a breath and remember to live and not just survive.

  Then he went to their room and got dressed in his most ostentatious clothes. It had become a new weakness of his, dressing in only the finest cottons and silks, usually in bold colors that contrasted with his pale pink skin and off-blonde hair. Today he chose black and red, even though it would draw the blazing sun’s attention.

  He was joined by Mort and Vigo, who he didn’t know too well, but they were quiet and didn’t give him trouble. Most importantly, they were ugly and dangerous looking, though Quentin still felt his severe, hawkish face gave them a run for their money. He told them their stops, and they braved the later afternoon’s oppressive heat.

  The Boulevard was almost fully rebuilt after the skirmishes that had wrecked several businesses and ended in near-riots. Quentin had poured a decent amount of his own shards into making sure people could recover and get back to work. Most of them appreciated the effort, even if they ended up pouring the money right back into his pockets in the end.

  The difference now was that everyone knew who he was. People had started recognizing him when he went out with the girls to inns, and then to functions via beetle carts full of beautiful men and women. Now that they paid him tribute, he couldn’t walk down the street without people of all ages bowing their heads respectfully, or calling out greetings. It wasn’t love or loyalty, like with the Moonlit Garden. It was mostly fear, of a different kind than he grew up with. Quentin still didn’t know how he felt about it.

  The trio made their way east, away from the setting sun. Quentin stopped a few times to hand out some qala pieces to kids playing outside an inn and a few especially skinny beggars. As far as he knew, that was something Mr. Cicero had never done. He handled money and secrets, and kept control by keeping everyone perfectly poised at each other’s throats. A little generosity went a long way towards people not hating you.

  Of course, some people still did. Not every reaction was warm or submissive. One man spat on the ground as they passed and Quentin pretended to not see it. Another stood in front of his bakery and glared right at him. He’d just smiled pleasantly at the man until he was forced to look away.

  The Bartle Beetle Stables were on the eastern outskirts of town, where the Boulevard became the road to Bellamoore and Avarast on the ass-end of the continent. The pens containing several different species of giant beetles stretched out into the desert, but the placid, tamed beasts grazed on garbage dumped into their troughs. This was a critical business to those traveling in and out of the city. Quentin paused before they entered.

  “Don’t do anything aggressive unless they hurt me first,” he said. “Or if they are actively trying to hurt you. I fully intend on giving Mr. Bartle a chance to fix things without hurting him if I don’t have to. Understood?”

  His men grunted in the affirmative, though Mort also snorted derisively. Neither of them seemed to expect danger from the beetle breeders, and it annoyed him. Holding back a sigh, he entered the stable and approached the front desk.

  Mrs. Bartle sat on a stool, chatting with a large young man with long hair and a crooked nose. Their conversation died mid-sentence, and the young man (Bartle the younger, Quentin assumed) turned and sneered at him.

  “Good afternoon,” said Quentin, inclining his head. “Is Bander Bartle in? He and I have some business to discuss.”

  Young Bartle’s sneer only deepened, and he spit on the ground near Quentin’s boots. “It’s not business. You’ve come to squeeze us for shards, the same as the last bastards. Dad will tell you the same thing I will: go fuck yourself, you Moonkissed son of a whore.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  It was strange. So many people, the more power they had, the more fragile they became. Quentin had found himself having the opposite problem. It would take no effort to hurt this kid in any number of ways, so his barking was as much of a threat as a toothless dunewalla. The smart thing to do would be to hit him, or have his men do it.

  “Now, that was rude, don’t you think? How about we try this again, and keep things from getting unpleasant.” Quentin smiled, the very picture of carefree and relaxed.

  “Fuck you,” the youth spit again. “Get out of here before I --”

  “James, go get your father,” Mrs. Bartle said quietly. Unlike her son, she looked aware of the potential consequences of this line of conversation. “Don’t argue with me, just go!”

  James’ scowl only deepened, but he did as he was told. Quentin nodded at the woman. “I appreciate your time and understanding.”

  She said nothing in return, just blanched and looked down. He wished it didn’t have to be that way, but he had a role to play. They remained in silence, other than the occasional guttural bellow of a beetle. The smell of the beasts was strong, but not entirely unpleasant. It was a good, honest profession. He understood why they wanted to keep it theirs.

  “We told you before, we want nothing to do with you or your kind,” Bander said, coming in from outside with his son in tow. He had similar dark, long hair, but his face was leathery and lined with age and time spent under the relentless sun. “We don’t want to have to fight, but we will if we have to.”

  Quentin made a show of taking a deep breath and saying, “Good day, Bander. I trust you’re well. I’d rather you not fight me. I would genuinely hate to have to hurt anyone in your family, but if you draw glass on us, we’ll draw steel. Understood? For the love of the gods, I just want to talk.”

  Bander growled out, “Oh yeah, just a talk. That’s why you brought some muscle with you, huh?”

  Quentin made a motion with his hand. “Take a walk, boys. Don’t go far, but let’s give them some breathing room, shall we?”

  Vigo and Mort exchanged an incredulous glance, but shrugged and went outside. Quentin heard rather than saw them slump against the front of the stables on either side of the door. He turned to Bander and spread his hands, as if to say, ‘your move’.

  He looked at his wife and son, silently telling them to relax before he crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Say your piece, then.”

  Quentin didn’t waste time. “You need me more than I need you, Bander. Over the past few months I’ve worked my ass off getting everyone on the same page. You pay me a small portion of your take every fortnite and I make it clear that you’re not to be disturbed by the people who operate on the Boulevard. Anyone who tries will be reprimanded and you will be recompensed.

  “We’ve got mutual interests, you and I. We both want to see you and your family thrive, and we both want the peace and space to provide for our families. Work with me, and you’ll have extra security. Work without me, and I can guarantee you that by the end of summer, you will face hardships you could have avoided.”

  Mrs. Bartle inhaled sharply, and Bander closed the distance and jabbed his finger in Quentin’s chest. “I don’t tolerate threats, Quintius.”

  Quentin looked down, deciding how to handle it. He slowly, deliberately put his hand on Bander’s and pried it off of him. “I’m not in the habit of making threats. I’m making a prediction. Let’s use your beetles as an example.”

  He pointed out the side door, where a massive behemoth beetle grabbed a smaller male charger with its horns and flung it a dozen feet away. “A behemoth beetle may eat our garbage and shit, but it doesn’t have much to fear. It can fight nearly any predator off and protect its mate and children. The only thing that hunts behemoths are manticores and sandsharks. But they aren’t the only ones that eat them.

  “Get enough dunewallas hungry and angry, and they’ll wear a beetle down and devour its guts. Vultures flying overhead will wait for the perfect moment to ambush and carry off their grubs. Even humans will come by with rope or chains and take them as they please, and there’s only so much their strength can do about it.

  “You’re a strong man, Bander, and I respect that. But in this scenario, I’m the manticore. This is my hunting grounds, and no lesser predator or scavenger will take what is rightfully mine.”

  The beetle wrangler was silent for another several seconds. Until he snorted and said, “In this scenario, the price of going uneaten is to feed you my grubs, right? Just give a little of what’s mine and you won’t eat me. And what happens when times are lean, or when you don’t provide protection? Cicero --”

  “I am not Cicero,” Quentin said gently. “I have no intention of being him. A rising river provides for us all. I want us all to get fat and happy, and for the rest of the city to envy us. Pay your share, and it will be returned to you in value three times over.”

  For a second, Quentin thought he may have gotten through to the man. And maybe he had, but before Bander could say anything, something crashed into Quentin from behind.

  “James, no!” Mrs. Bartle cried out.

  They went tumbling to the ground, and he rolled them over and raised a hand in time to block the downward thrust of a knife. Red hot pain pierced his palm as the blade sank straight through, stopping at the hilt. The teenager looked just as surprised as Quentin, but only for a second. Mort and Vigo were on them in a flash, pulling James off of him and slugging him in the face.

  “No!” Mrs. Bartle cried out again.

  Bander let out a snarl and attacked Mort with his fists. Vigo wrenched James’ arm behind his back and continued to apply pressure. Meanwhile, Quentin fought to get to his feet, more annoyed at the stains to his clothes than the knife sticking out of his hand.

  “Stop,” Quentin barked, putting his whole chest in it.

  His men, who had immediately gained the upper hand, froze with the family subdued. They looked to him with confused scowls, ready for further instructions.

  Quentin held up his hand for them to see, and ripped the knife out with a hiss of pain. He concentrated, and everything from the wrist up was consumed in an itchy fire. The wound closed itself until not even a scar persisted. Bander paled, and even James looked freaked out.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Quentin sighed. “Hold the father where he is. Stick the boy’s hand out on the counter.”

  James’ eyes widened, and he struggled, but Vigo was bigger even than Quentin and had an iron grip on the teen’s twisted arm. He slammed him against the counter, one hand out. He grinned at his boss, waiting for what he knew was coming.

  “You don’t make a move like that without accepting the consequences…James, was it?”

  “Please,” Mrs. Bartle whimpered. “Please don’t hurt him!”

  Quentin shook his head. “I won’t kill him, but that’s the best I can promise you. I think you all need a reminder that me talking to you politely is a courtesy.”

  A shiver went down his spine. Once upon a time, his courtesies were different, kinder. But this was his life now, and there were certain unpleasant realities he had to face, if Quentin wanted to keep his crown and protect his people. He considered the knife and the outstretched hand. He moved into position and shifted his grip.

  James looked up at him with tears in his eyes now. The false bravery that had driven him to try to defend his family business was gone, and he was helpless and knew it. No one liked the reminder that others could hurt them. Quentin locked his eyes on the teen’s, and drove the knife through the back of his hand, deep into the wood.

  He screamed, hard enough that his voice broke. Bander fought against Mort, but he might as well have been chained up. Mrs. Bartle whimpered and hugged her son, but wisely left the knife alone. She whispered something in James’ ear, but Quentin couldn’t hear it over the howls of pain.

  “When you pull the knife out,” he said, raising his voice, “you’re going to want to boil some water and clean the wound well. You’re probably going to need stitches, and to not use that hand for a while. I want you to take a few days to think about my offer. My patience isn’t endless, Bander. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. And if you and your family continue to insult me, I won’t hold my men back.

  “Am I understood?”

  It was times like this Quentin was grateful at how cold and closed off he sounded if he didn’t make an effort to sound empathetic. He didn’t hide his disappointment or weariness, but more than anything, he hoped he projected power and inevitability.

  Bander nodded vigorously, eyes dropping to the ground. “I-I-I understand, I just…Please don’t hurt him worse. I’ll make sure he never does that again.”

  Quentin smiled again. “I look forward to our next conversation, Bander. If you can promise me that I’ll like what I’ll hear, I might just have to bring you a bottle from my personal collection. To toast our partnership.”

  The beetle wrangler’s lips tightened, until they were just a thin slash in his face, hiding every feeling but fear and submission.

  Pulling out his purse, Quentin counted out a castura in small pieces and set it on the counter next to a still whimpering and crying James. “Get yourself a good meal on me. It’ll take away some of the sting.”

  The three of them left the stable behind. The screams had reached the street, and there were more than a few people watching with interest as they walked back out into the bright summer afternoon. They kept their distance though, including the two copper Watchmen who looked very badly like they wanted to say or do something.

  Quentin smiled at them too. The job wasn’t what he wanted, originally. It would’ve been so much nicer to just stick to the Moonlit Garden, and spend his days and nights with his girls, enjoying and celebrating life and passion. But if the past few months had taught him anything, it was that it was eat or be eaten. It was better to be at the top of the food chain and keep order, than to be at the mercy of others. Once upon a time, it had been his job to end lives so someone worse didn’t make them suffer.

  To him, this was no different. The only thing that had changed was Quentin no longer denied his role. If it took being the apex predator to minimize damage, then he’d sharpen his fangs and sink them into anything that crossed him.

  “C’mon,” said Quentin to his goons, “we have four other friendly conversations to see to.”