The dark skin and white tribal tattoos marked him one of the Addorhaja, a people with a penchant for collecting skulls and dealing with demons. According to rumors, their demons walked with them, sometimes visible, sometimes not, but dangerous in either case. I wanted no truck with them. They were bad for business. An honest swordsman never wanted to deal with any kind of magic, much less what the ignorant called black magic.

Still, it was past time for me to leave. I thanked the shop keep, a bitter, old man with three teeth left, one of which was holding on by a string, and started out.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

Without looking, I knew it was the Addorhajan.

“I’d move that hand, friend, if it is a favorite of yours.” I growled.

Instead of lifting away, the grip tightened, and a voice that stunk of garlic and decay whispered into my ear. “We have business with you. Come with us peacefully, or not. It don’t matter to us none.”

I shrugged him off. Today was going to be interesting. I hated interesting.