by August Li
The cats stopped in front of a dilapidated building, forming a crescent around the path that led to its door.
A facade that I assumed was supposed to mimic bricks or stone but didn’t look like anything close covered the front; metal planks—also gray—covered the sides. Aluminum awnings spread over the narrow windows, flecked with snow and black, crusty soot. The ground floor was dark, but flickering golden light pulsed weakly behind some of the second-floor windows.
The cats looked up at those windows and serenaded them with a discordant chorus just as the demon came huffing up behind me, practically colliding with my back before he skidded to a halt on the slippery path.
“Can you feel it?” I asked.
His breath plumed from his purplish lips, but he nodded. “Magic, garish magic, with no attempt to hide it. Like spray paint right in the eye: so obvious and irrefutable it fucking stings. We should go up.”
As much as I wanted to disagree, I could find no logical reason. I turned to my feline friends. Thank you. Go hunt. May warm flesh quiver between your teeth and hot blood flow down your throats. If I can ever return this favor you have done, think my name and I will come.
A few of them dipped their heads and others murmured or yowled before they ran off, their light little feet silent on the humans’ cold and dirty thoroughfare. Soon I was left alone with Inky, staring up at the small windows of the pitiful dwelling.
“We should go up,” he said again. “It can’t be a coincidence, the cats and everything, but….”
“But what? I am weary of this dull and dirty realm, so if you have something to say, spit it out!”
His eyes flashed. I didn’t know if his kind could feel anger or affront, but his offense was plain in the way he raised himself to his full height and pushed his shoulders back. It was interesting. “I’m weary of you, you daft, annoying, arrogant, self-righteous son of a fucking cunt. I can’t wait to tell you to fuck off and forget I ever saw your pointy little face. But only a fucking imbecile wouldn’t even consider this could be some kind of trap. But you’re so goddamned smart and so fucking precious, you can’t imagine anyone would dare.”
I… couldn’t. What mortal conjurer could equal my abilities? What mortal conjurer with the ability wouldn’t understand the danger? My people had tutored a few prodigies, but magic came hard to the mortals. For them it was like painting when they had to break through three stone walls before they reached the canvas. Few of them could breach those boundaries to consider the colors on the palette. It wasn’t something close to their fingers, something easy for them to smear and swirl into magnificent creations. Those who knew the canvas existed at all were considered grand masters among their people. For us, crafting those masterworks was as simple as extending our arms. Inky had known mages, so he must’ve realized the same thing. But there was something I didn’t understand. “Why are you so angry?”
The demon canted his head toward the sky. Smothered as they were, the stars lit the planes of his face, silvered the ridges of his horns in a way worthy of a statue. He was magnificent in that fleeting moment, all energy waiting to be given form, waiting for the bargain to be struck, gorgeous raw material like virgin marble. When he turned to me, his eyes radiated a rose color to rival the sunrise. But he was incensed, and I still didn’t understand.
“You’re a cunt!” he growled. “I avoid the mages because they’re so damned arrogant it makes me puke, but you’re worse. You want my help, you fucking indenture me, and when I offer anything, all you can do is argue! Offer some fucking insult you think is clever. I don’t like it. I don’t like it because there are real people, real lives involved in this. People who can get hurt. People who don’t deserve to get hurt to fucking entertain you.” He kicked a chunk of ice into the street, where it shattered. “I was only trying to be decent. Those mages back at Hex would have strapped you down and peeled you open like a fucking banana. I never thought I’d regret saving someone from that, but I can’t stand you. All I want is you gone, but you’re too daft to even see the way to your own redemption.”
“Well, don’t let common civility get in the way of you speaking your mind.”
“You fucking asked, fucker!” He looked from side to side, probably for something else to stomp. “What does it matter? I don’t like you; you don’t like me. You’re so bloody sure you know exactly what to do, you might as well let me go.”
“No, it doesn’t work that way,” I told Inky. “A bargain was struck, and it must be followed through.”
“For fuck’s sake, why?”
“Everything is a bargain, a trade. It’s the foundation of existence. Starlight and soil traded for plants. Plant life traded for flesh. Flesh traded for soil. Soil and starlight traded for plants once again. It’s the basis of all magic. Energy traded for matter. Matter for energy. The bargain is the only true rule. It’s always something for something. Nothing can come from nothing; there is only exchange. Even my kind cannot circumvent that one rule.” I doubted he would grasp the concept, basic though it was, but he surprised me by nodding.
“Right, right. Like if I want to get laid on a regular basis, I have to give up playing the Xbox so much.”
“Ugh. You profane a beautiful concept by comparing it to rubbing genitals and playing with your box.”
He laughed, and though I didn’t understand the source of his mirth, it seemed to relax him. A small, broken squeak sounded, and his face softened even more. A little white snout poked up between his lapels, and I took a step closer.
Inky crossed his arms over the little black-and-white cat. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to keep her, and I’m calling her Charlene.”
“Charlene.” I felt it a suitable name as I stretched a finger toward the kitten’s nose. Her rough pink tongue dragged over my skin. “It’s good to have a cat along. The cats told me my hunt started here. I have always found cats to be wise and perceptive.”
“They told you…? You can speak with them?”
I tilted my head. “Of course.”
Inky’s eyes grew wide and glossy. “Whoa. That must be so cool.”
“It can be insightful,” I said. “They did say this was the start, so I guess we should go up.”
“Been saying that for five minutes now,” he muttered.
It was easy enough to shift the mechanism in the door—a trade of occupied space for empty space was a fair bargain. Inside was a foyer, I suppose, though it was worse than poor. The printed chemical sheet beneath my feet—patterned in hideous shades of yellow and brown—was caked with gritty mud. The walls were crumbling and eaten through with mold; the bright terra-cotta paint couldn’t mask it. Inky went to a row of black metal slots and examined them. After a few moments he waved me over.
“Look at this.” He pointed to a strip of paper above one compartment, which read: SM/DAM/RAM. “Yeah? R-A-M. RAM. RAM Deli. Bet that’s not a coincidence.” He traced his finger across to a label proclaiming 2C.
“2C is a location?” I doubted anything would come of this; I was still sure I had been summoned by a powerful wizard in one of those towering glass buildings. However…. “Can you take me there?”
Inky motioned toward a narrow staircase, and I followed him up it into an equally narrow hall dotted with several flimsy doors. After observing them all, the demon stopped in front of one with a lacy paper heart pinned to it and turned to me. “Do we knock, or—”
I pushed between him and the door. “Of course we do. We’re not savages.”
I rapped my knuckles against the paper-thin wood. A light came on, casting a grainy golden glow under the door. A moment later the door opened and a metal tube poked out.
Inky grabbed my waist and pulled me across the hall, shoving me against the wall and shielding me behind his body. He raised his palms up next to his head and spread his fingers, saying, “Hey, relax, mate. We only want to talk. Put down the gun.”
Chapter Seven
THE FIRST thing I saw was the Colt Defend
er 45 ACP poking out between the door and the frame. Nice gun. Expensive. The next thing I saw was the hand holding it: long fingers, elegant, practiced. Moving my gaze upward, I found the gunman’s face, and whoa…. Damn. A real stunner. Skin like wild honey, almond-shaped obsidian eyes—fucking gems, those eyes—lips the color of raw clay, swollen as if they’d been hit… or kissed into oblivion…. But no desires. Nothing on his mind beyond defending his home. Though surprising, his yearnings were strong: a place to eat dinner at a table, clean bedclothes, report cards signed and assignments completed, metallic star stickers on paper with large text….
“Fuck off,” the gun’s owner said, his one visible eye reflecting the yellowed light from the hall.
“We just want to talk to you.” I held up my hands, hoping he would see I wasn’t a threat.
“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he responded. “Get the hell out of here.”
As I was thinking of words to reassure him, Blossom pushed past me and stood in front of the splinter in the door. Blossom leaned in close to the young man’s face. “I have… valuable items.” The faerie extended his hand, and it filled with gold coins. “Yes, you like the look of those. They’re all yours if you only agree to speak with us for a few moments.”
The door closed, and then it reopened without the chain. The young man still held his gun, held it naturally next to his hip. That told me he knew how to handle it, that it wasn’t just for show. He stepped into the hall and leaned against the wall, his eyes flitting between us and the door that still stood open an inch. Now I could see that he wore tight dark jeans, a decent pair of boots, and a worn black hoodie. Common enough clothes, but everything about this kid screamed thug—everything but a penny-sized photo suspended in glittering resin that he wore like a locket. It rested in the divot between his collarbones. “You’ve got thirty seconds to tell me what the hell you want.”
“I think you know why we’re here,” Blossom said in a reedy hiss.
“If you’re looking to score, Blaker’s not here. Neither is my mom. Go somewhere else.” The kid raised the gun by his hip a couple of inches, but it was enough to make his point.
At least to me.
“I will not go anywhere until my questions are answered.” Though melodic, Blossom’s voice held an echo of thunder, like a storm rolling in fast, making the grass bow down and the leaves shudder. “I offered you a fair trade for the information, but if I must resort to force—”
The kid raised his voice and got up in the faerie’s face. “I offered you thirty seconds to tell me what you wanted, and they’re up. Fuck. Off.”
Down the hall, a door cracked open, then another, strips of light intersecting on the dingy linoleum.
I pushed between Blossom and the kid, smiling, groping desperately for some hint of what motivated him here, something I could use. I saw an image of a birthday cake, a little pink dress in a store window, spaghetti and meatballs served on a folding table, Christmas snowflakes cut from copy paper….
“Look, this is your home,” I told him. “I understand. I understand that all you’re trying to do is make a home here, and I appreciate that. We don’t want to threaten your home, and we don’t want to threaten you. Can we come in? Before somebody calls the cops?”
He laughed. “Like the cops are going to come out here.”
“Still,” I continued. “You don’t need to attract attention. The truth is, we need your help, mate. Rather badly. And we’re willing to pay for it. You could use the money, couldn’t you?”
He narrowed his eyes, but his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. “What kind of help are we talking about?”
“We just want to talk,” I said. “I swear that’s all we want. Just to ask a few questions.”
The kid’s eyes darted to the handful of coins Blossom held; he probably saw a roll of fifty-dollar bills. I could see the internal battle he fought. He didn’t trust us—who would?—but he needed that money. In the end, he needed it enough to heave out a sigh and push the door open with his elbow. He used the .45 to usher us in, used it to point to a dilapidated sofa. When we sat, he came around to stand in front of us, between the scuffed coffee table and a TV playing some late-night variety show. His shadow was stark against the screen. “What the fuck do you want here? Make it quick.”
Now that we were here, I didn’t even know where to begin. I looked around the tiny flat: a single room barely big enough for the couch and TV, separated from the kitchen by a bar with two stools, the stuffing poking out from their blue plastic seats. Across from it was a closed door with a creased poster taped to it: a unicorn standing in front of a waterfall. A lot of books covered the cheap pressboard shelves, sat in piles on the green shag carpet, and filled some cardboard boxes. The place was worse than a dump—amoeba-shaped brown stains covered the ceiling tiles where the roof leaked—but somebody was trying hard to make it a home.
I realized if I didn’t say something, Blossom would, and nothing good could come of that. Manners, I told myself. Filter. “What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know?”
He raked his long fringe out of his eyes. “Dante.”
I shot him the brightest smile I could muster. I wished he had some desires to shape me, to make me pleasing, the thing he most wanted to see. It would’ve been easier to gain his trust, but he just didn’t give a fuck. “Nice to meet you, Dante. I’m called Inky, and this is Blossom.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fucking tweakers.”
Blossom leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Do you know much about magic, Dante? Have you ever seen it done? Have you seen it done by anyone around here?”
His words had the predictable result. “All right. Time to go. Leave the money on the table. A deal is a deal.”
Blossom’s eyes went wide with surprise. “I always honor my bargains.”
Dante scooped up the wad of cash and shoved it in his pants pocket without ever taking his eyes off us. “Got any more?”
Silly boob that he was, Blossom didn’t recognize the threat. He smiled. “Plenty. As much as you want. I can shower you in treasure if you help me find the one who cast the spell on me. I’m sure it must’ve been someone in this building. You see, the cats led us here.”
“You’re crazy,” Dante said. “I don’t want you junkie assholes coming to my house, and you can tell my mom and Blaker I said so. I’m not putting up with this anymore. Now get the fuck out of here.”
I put my hand on Blossom’s knee. “We might as well go. There’s nothing here.”
“But there has to be!” the faerie insisted. “The cats! Besides, I can feel the enchantment catching against my skin like spider’s silk. And…. What is your surname?”
“Mayfield,” Dante said slowly.
“And your middle? Your middle name?” Blossom practically buzzed with manic energy.
“Ambrose. Why?”
Blossom ticked off the letters on his fingers. “D-A-M.”
“Congratulations,” Dante said. “Now leave. This is the last time I’ll ask nicely.”
As I stood, I grabbed Blossom by the wrist. I’d drag him out of here if I had to. Not only did I not want to find out what would happen if he got shot, this kid didn’t deserve our shite. It was plain as the stain on the rug he hadn’t summoned the faerie.
The door opposite the kitchen opened with a creak, and a small round face peeked out, backlit by a warm golden glow. “Dante? I heard people shouting. I’m scared.” The little girl clutched a stuffed pink pony with a yellow mane and tail tight to her chest. I could see the resemblance between her and Dante in the shape of their cheeks and chins, but her eyes were bigger, her lips fuller, her complexion darker. Where Dante’s hair was straight and black, hers was golden-brown and curly, held back in little braids tipped with bright plastic flowers.
Dante shoved his gun down the back of his pants as he hurried to cross the space. Kneeling, he placed his hand on the little
girl’s shoulder. “Don’t be scared, Rosalind. My, uh, friends were just leaving. Go back to bed, baby.”
“Is Momma here?”
“She—” His voice cracked. “She isn’t back yet.”
Just then, Charlene stirred inside my coat, poked her head out, and yawned out a mewl. Rosalind’s eyes widened. “Is that a kitty?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Is it yours?”
“She is,” I said proudly.
“Can I pet her?”
I looked to Dante, and when he nodded once in permission, I crouched down and opened my coat a little farther. Rosalind touched my cat on the head like she was touching the crown jewels, and she asked, “What’s her name?”
“Charlene.”
“Charlene.” Holding up the stuffed horse, Rosalind said, “Charlene, this is Touchstone. He’s my pony.” She pushed the horse’s plush hoof against Charlene’s paw like they were shaking hands. “He thinks you’re very beautiful.”
Behind me, I could hear Blossom whispering to Dante. “Rosalind. Rosalind Mayfield. And what is her middle name?”
“None of your business.”
“A.” Blossom continued as if Dante hadn’t spoken. “An A name. R-A-M. Like the sheep meat.”
Dante pushed past Blossom and knelt back down, touching his sister’s cheek. “It’s time for Charlene to go home, baby. And you need to go back to bed.”
The girl shook Charlene’s paw again. “Bye, Charlene. I’ll say a prayer for you before I go to sleep. I’ll ask God to send two angels. One to watch over me and one to watch over you.”
“Okay, baby,” Dante urged. “Back into your room.”
“Dante, can I have a glass of water?”
“Yeah. I’ll bring you one. Go back into your room.”
As soon as the girl left and the door to the hall clicked shut, Dante was back in Blossom’s face. Blossom was still whispering to himself, his eyes wide and his lips peeled back in a way that made him look completely off his trolley. “We were meant to come here. R-A-M and the cats! The cats will after Rosalind.”