Cang barks a yelp and drops the fang. It’s motionless.
“Twitchy,” says Fassn. He stoops with a groan and grabs curved purple tooth. Without pausing, he slips it into a ragged pouch he’s sewn into his coat. As far as anyone can tell, it doesn’t move of its own accord. He pats it. “Whaddaya think it’s worth?”
“Worth?” Shyan asks. “Who would buy it?”
“I do perhaps have a contact who may be interested,” Cang says. He’s shaking his hand as though he’s burnt the fingers. “He and I have not made our acquaintance in some time, however. ‘Tis entirely possible his passion for occult obscurities has been snuffed out, replaced by something equally peculiar.”
“Well, we could use the money,” Shyan says.
“We shall have to hire a boat,” Cang says. “This fellow, Richmond, lives up the coast. I surmise a journey on foot would be most disagreeable.”
“Then we’re gonna need money,” Fassn shouts. “Maybe someone here in town would buy it?”
“Who, like Horton?” Shyan says. “No way. Let’s see who’s renting down at the harbour.”
Logan Bright — Works 