Genevieve returned to the back of the cart. The black-haired man was taking a closer look at his musket, turning the thing over in his hands like a fine wine swirled around the tongue. “Honestly, it’s impressive work for somethin’ she slapped together with whatever scrap Lenn had lying around. Can’t knock her on craftsmanship, even if she is out of her damn mind.”

“If there’s one thing the demon knows better than anyone, it’s gunpowder,” said the redhead, sitting down against the side of the cart with her own musket laid out across her legs. “S’posedly she’s related to some famous gunsmith out west. That’s where she got those weird-ass revolvers from.”

“She did actually say something about that,” Genevieve said. She was a little surprised when she realized it was out loud. “Uh, the other day. She told me the, uh, the chambers…” She pantomimed rotating the cylinder the way she had seen Marcie do. “Apparently that whole thing was her father’s design. She said.”

“Well there you go, Baron.” The woman shrugged nonchalantly. “Mystery solved.” She looked over at Genevieve. “You can call him Baron, by the way,” she said. “Know we didn’t have time for introductions, with the fleeing and all that. And I’ll go by Queen, so don’t get all fussed about it.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Genevieve said. “I realize we’re throwing titles around, but I’ll just be Jen, if that pleases you.”

“Oh, that suits me just grand,” Queen said with a husky chuckle. “I don’t need anybody challenging my authority, after all.”

“You don’t gotta feed her ego, girl.” Baron shook his head disapprovingly, though his tone was more mocking than disappointed. “Woman’s built like a brick wall but she’ll still take any chance to feel bigger.”

“Don’t you push me, runt,” Queen responded, and Genevieve couldn’t help feeling there was some inside joke going way over her head.

The two of them made an interesting pair. They both cut tough, muscular figures, with calloused hands and scarred bodies, and they shared a raucous and belligerent demeanor. That was where the similarities ended. Baron was short and stocky with dark, frazzled hair and tanned, tawny skin, while Queen was tall, easily six foot and change, and almost as pale as Genevieve herself. Baron had confidence, but Queen had bravado, and an undeniable, centralizing presence that lived up to her chosen moniker. She was a foghorn, goading you into action all at once with overwhelming bursts of energy, while Baron was stern and gruff, a solid wall who would push you forward inch by inch whether you wanted it or not

Neither of them seemed nice, or particularly kind. But they didn’t seem unkind, either. They simply were, and didn’t seem particularly concerned with how anyone else figured into that. For all their sniping, they clearly had a rapport, and Genevieve got the sense there was some affection there, despite their contentious way of showing it. They were rude to each other, but somehow they didn’t seem mean.

On some level Genevieve knew whatever reason they had for wanting out of the city so badly, it was certainly something… illicit. If not illegal, then at least in some kind of grey area, surely. But that didn’t bother her. In fact, she found herself respecting them. They were here for their own reasons, and they would be going their separate ways at their earliest convenience, but they had gone at least a little bit out of their way to help her. That wasn’t nothing.

While she was having that thought, Genevieve realized she hadn’t heard the constant refrain of gunfire from the city in the last minute or two. She walked herself out to the back of the cart and leaned out to look over at the wall, as though that would somehow grant her any information at all.

Once she had seen the nothing there was to see, Genevieve ducked back into the cart. Queen looked her over quizzically. “Demon girl standing you up, ya think?”

“What–no,” Genevieve said, a little more annoyed than she expected to be. “I mean, if she’s not here it’s probably because something happened to her. That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Hard to think someone could bite off more than they can chew with chompers like those,” Baron said in a deadpan.

“She’s not invincible.”

“She’s not?” Queen prodded.

“No!” Genevieve didn’t know why she was protesting so much. “I mean, I threw her into a lot of danger because I assumed she would be able to handle it. And I know that if anyone could it would be her but, still. That is assuming anyone could.”

“Uh huh,” Baron said. “So did that idea not occur to you before, or did you just not care about it?”

“That’s not…” Genevieve began, but then she shook her head. “It hadn’t occurred to me. I admit it. I assumed, based on how I’d seen her handle herself, that it simply wouldn’t be possible for Cornelius to throw something at her she couldn’t overcome. I just took that idea for granted. And now, yes, I am afraid that I made a foolish assumption and got someone hurt for it. That is what you want to hear, isn’t it?”

“Simmer down, Jen,” Queen said, emphasizing the name in a way that made Genevieve realize she probably seemed a lot more like a royal now than she had a few minutes ago. “We ain’t out of this yet. Have your little guilt trip freak-out some other time.”

“Yeah, girl, you gotta cool it.” Baron sat on top of a small crate that had come loose from the pile. “Way too late to start regretting your decisions. Gotta live with ‘em now. And besides, she’s still got time to show.” He looked over his shoulder to the front of the cart. “Ain’t that right, Samara?”

“If she doesn’t show up in sixty seconds I’m getting us the hell out of here,” Samara called back.

“Don’t be like that,” Baron coaxed. “Least give her five. Rather not leave the killer demon high and dry, that’s askin’ for a bad time.”

“Marcie isn’t vengeful like that,” Genevieve insisted. “I mean, I want to give her as much time as we possibly can. But I’m… just saying. You don’t have to fear her.”

“Yeah, well, fear her or not,” Baron said, “if something goes wrong between now an' when we get to ditch this cart and go to ground, I'd rather have her here than not."

"One hell of an insurance policy, that's for sure," Queen agreed.

Baron glanced at her. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"Do what?"

“Nevermind.”