Shadowed Souls

by Jim Butcher

  “Huh,” I said. “I was sure he’d stay for a good monologue. . . .”

  Words slid apart and seemed too much hassle. The ground shivered under my feet. Maybe just a little nap. That would be nice. . . .

  Nicole caught me as I slumped down, blood flowing and the fear that bolstered me abating. She had her mobile pressed to her ear.

  “Don’t worry, V,” she said. “I called nine-one-one. An ambulance is on its way.”

  “Great.” I coughed, which hurt. A lot. I heard voices outside the bar: people drawn back to the noise. Andre tried to stop them from coming inside. Good man. “Because bleeding to death in my own bar would be a lame death.”

  Nicole put pressure on, which made it better. “Is it gone?”

  I nodded. “It’s gone.”

  Nicole sniffed. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  A relieved shiver passed through her. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know what was going on. I could control myself at first, but then it took over and I was just watching. I—”

  “Not your fault,” I said. “I’m the one who should apologize. You didn’t ask for this shit.”

  “But I got it anyway.”

  “Yeah.” Her fear for me bolstered me physically and psychologically. That’s what it was, I realized. Her worst fear was hurting her friends. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  “Later.” Nicole smiled. “We’ve got time.”

  The silence stretched between us, long and soft and easy. Despite the lingering gloom, I felt warm.

  SALES. FORCE.

  by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  He said: Our love is deep and powerful, epic.

  He said: It will last for all time.

  He said: Forever.

  He died on a Thursday afternoon in midwinter, in Kaylee’s arms, in a stupid hospital room with stupid white walls and a stupid brown blanket covering half of him, on a stupid hospital bed with stupid rails that dug into her back, and stupid machines that beep-beep-beeped, then beepbeepbeepbeeped before the stupid alarm sounded and the stupid doctors and nurses ran into the room with the stupid crash cart that did absolutely nothing.

  Because, she knew, long before the doctors and nurses arrived, he had taken his last breath.

  Never even opened his eyes, not after the damn car accident. Never smiled at her again, never said I love you one last time.

  There was nothing pretty about the death, nothing pretty about him at the end.

  Just her. Standing in the corner of the stupid hospital room, watching the pathetic doctors and nurses with their pathetic crash cart do everything they could to resuscitate a corpse.

  “Fine,” she’d say angrily to anyone who asked. “I’m fine.”

  But of course she wasn’t fine. She’d never be fine again.

  She told everyone she moved out of the apartment because she couldn’t live there anymore without him, and everyone took that to mean the memories were too much for her, when really it meant she had to move, as in legally.

  She had to do a bunch of things that she didn’t want to do because, as she learned the hard way, there was a difference between planning to get married and actually being married.

  People even looked at her grief differently. At least, they’d say, you still have a future.

  And she’d glare at them angrily, because what could she say, really? It’s a future I don’t want? Or, Do you really know what the hell you’re talking about? Or, Do you think about the words that come out of your mouth, or do you just let fly with whatever comes to mind?

  Yeah, she was angry, and yeah, she knew anger was step one of the grief wheel or whatever they called the dumb thing, but she also knew that she’d always been just a little angry. She suspected she’d been born angry, coming out of the womb with tiny fists clenched, spoiling for a fight.

  Dex had loved that about her. He’d said he loved everything about her.

  He’d said he would never leave her.

  She should have known better than to believe him.

  Hell, she should have thought it through:

  Every relationship ended. Sometimes it ended voluntarily with a break-up or an affair. Sometimes it ended with death.

  Only the lucky ones died together.

  Everyone else had to suffer through being a survivor.

  And she hated that term most of all.

  She went back to work after a week. Her boss, Nia, maybe the only person who understood how much Kaylee had loved Dex, told her to take more time.

  But she didn’t want more time. She’d moved back to the scruffy one-bedroom she’d had before Dex, which the landlord said he’d been holding for her, but they both knew the place was too tiny and too dark to rent to anyone else.

  Her stuff fit in it just like it used to—the battered table, the mattress on the floor, the thrift-shop dishes. The only things she’d taken from Dex’s place—and yes, taken was the right word, since she had no legal right to anything—were his books. She left a few—the ones she’d read—but his family wouldn’t know what he’d had and what he didn’t have, and they weren’t readers, so they wouldn’t miss the books.

  She’d slunk away, feeling like she was being evicted from the only home she’d ever had, and after she left, after she’d locked the keys inside, she regretted not taking at least one of his shirts or his blanket or something, something that smelled like him.

  Then she squared her shoulders and vowed to move forward. Memories of him would hold her back, not that she could get rid of them.

  Not that she wanted to, deep down.

  But the memories that kept coming up were the memories of his promises: We’re forever, blondie, just you and me. Forever.

  Forever was awfully damn short, and love was grand for an afternoon, and she was right back where she started, in a tiny little apartment with a great kitchen and no real light, and nothing to do but count the stains on the wall.

  So why wouldn’t she go back to work?

  Work, at least, got rid of the aggression. Work gave her a purpose, made her feel alive. Okay, that last wasn’t true. Work didn’t make her feel alive.

  It justified her numbness.

  Because, really, who could kill something day in and day out and remain one hundred percent in touch with her feelings?

  Maybe, she thought as she drove to the dying wharf where the office was this week, it’s good Dex is gone.

  He’d been making her too sensitive, too touchy-feely.

  Hell, the reason she hadn’t married him yet was because she hadn’t been able to figure out how to tell him what, exactly, she did for a living.

  You see, Dex, there are magic creatures in the world, and most of them are pretty damn evil, just like in those books you read, and all of them—all of them—want a piece of someone’s soul, so it takes someone without much of a soul to make them really and truly dead.

  I’m the person without much of a soul. So don’t love me, Dex. Don’t love me, don’t marry me, don’t stay with me.

  She’d never said those words to him, but apparently he’d heard them. He hadn’t married her.

  And he sure as hell hadn’t stayed.

  The office, in a dilapidated building near a rotting pier, was warded. It also smelled strongly of fish.

  Kaylee made a face as she stepped inside. Nia stood near a long folding table that tilted to the left.

  Nia was tiny, and would’ve been called cute by folks who weren’t paying attention, the folks who didn’t see the daggers in her chocolate brown eyes. Nia kept her black hair shaved close, she said, to control the curls, but Kaylee knew it was to make the work easier. Work took too much think time, time that shouldn’t be wasted on hair care or product or even a shampoo.

  Maybe Kaylee would go for the shaved look too, although her skull wasn’t
as symmetrical as Nia’s. Nor was Kaylee little or cute.

  Kaylee had never been little or cute. Always big, always a bit of a bruiser, and, over the years, she’d developed muscles on her muscles, as Dex used to say with admiration.

  Nia held a clipboard. A dozen others hung on the wall from nails newly placed in the peeling paint. An ancient filing cabinet stood near a door that led to a small bathroom. The bathroom looked even more disreputable than the office did.

  There was no computer equipment because Nia didn’t play well with computers. Besides, computers left an electronic trail, and Nia didn’t like leaving trails. Not for this business.

  She had a pencil behind her ear and a black pen in her hand.

  “Last chance,” she said by way of hello. “I’d beg off if I were you. Don’t want be at home? Take a vacation, see the sites, find a grief-counseling group, volunteer at a charity or something.”

  “Can you see me doing any of that?” Kaylee was a little offended that Nia had suggested it.

  “I don’t care what you do,” Nia said. “I’m just warning you. You’re perfect for this job, and that’s a bad thing.”

  Kaylee stared at her. Nia was tough. She had a heart, although most people never saw it. Kaylee had. When Kaylee fell for Dex, Nia tried to talk Kaylee into leaving the business altogether.

  Love and magic don’t mix, Nia had said. Pick one, K.

  Apparently, Kaylee had picked one. She had picked magic.

  “Who’m I supposed to kill?” she asked, keeping her voice level. She used to debate even asking that question, because often what she was sent to kill wasn’t a who. It was a what. And kill might be a relative term. Sometimes destroy was better.

  “You’re not killing this time,” Nia said.

  “Just because I had to deal with Dex’s death—”

  “No,” Nia said. “That’s not why. You’re investigating this time.”

  Kaylee let out a sigh. She hated investigating. She had given it up long ago. Others went into various parts of the city, investigated reports of dark magic or evil intent, and then reported back to Nia. Nia would assign someone to destroy the magic or the mage or both.

  Kaylee had an affinity for destruction. She did not investigate well. Investigations required subtlety, and she was anything but subtle.

  “I don’t investigate,” Kaylee said.

  “You’re the only one we got,” Nia said.

  “I’m not in the mood to investigate,” Kaylee said.

  “Tough shit,” Nia said. “You stayed. You begged for work. You’re doing this.”

  “I’m leaving,” Kaylee said, feeling at loose ends. She had wanted the work, but not finesse work. She needed to crack some heads.

  She went to the door, but it glowed red.

  “You said I could choose,” she said, without turning around.

  “And then you asked who you were supposed to kill,” Nia said. “That activated the wards. You’re in now.”

  Kaylee felt a flash of irritation. It held back full-blown anger. But she knew, she knew, Nia was right. Once the agreement to take a job was made, it was binding.

  Kaylee just couldn’t believe Nia would give her the wrong kind of work.

  Kaylee took a deep breath before turning around. Nia hadn’t moved. Her pen remained poised over the clipboard.

  “So what’s the job?” Kaylee asked, letting her irritation flow through her voice.

  “You’re going in as a client.”

  “In where?”

  “Armand’s Potions on Fifth.”

  Kaylee sighed, pushing back even more irritation. “You investigated Armand’s when it opened, or don’t you remember? Legit white magic, no whiff of black—at least in the magical potions. Most everything else has too much alcohol and will simply make the client feel good.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Nia said. “We’re not investigating Armand. He’s doing a potion sharing.”

  Kaylee felt her lips tighten. She hated potion sharings. They were the wine tastings of the magical world.

  “Why would he do that?” she asked.

  “Because I asked him to.” Nia opened the clip on the clipboard and removed a piece of paper. It was a flyer advertising a love potion. The flyer smelled like perfume and made Kaylee a bit light-headed just being near it.

  Nia smiled.

  “Thought so,” she said. “You’re perfect.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Some of our regulars have been asked to invest in the love potion,” Nia said.

  “And you want to know if it’s a scam,” Kaylee said. “Send one of them in. Remove the spell if the potion works.”

  “Read the damn flyer,” Nia said.

  Kaylee didn’t want to touch it. It glowed pink and made her feel happier than she wanted to feel.

  The flyer claimed the potion didn’t make someone fall in love. It took someone who had given up on love or who had lost too much in their life to ever try to love, and repaired their belief in love.

  Kaylee had a slight headache now. “I’m perfect?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Nia said, and let the word hang. The reason she was sending Kaylee in was obvious to both of them.

  “What’s the catch?” Kaylee asked.

  “That’s what you’re going to find out,” Nia said.

  The potion sharing wasn’t being held at Armand’s. Instead, it was in the back room of one of the swankiest restaurants in the city. Even the back room was swanky. Done in black and white with soft yellow lighting falling on the potion bottles scattered on various tables, the room looked elegant.

  The clientele for this thing would be upscale, and even that made Kaylee nervous. She wasn’t upscale. But Nia had dressed her that way. Kaylee had even had to go to a fitting. She wore some slinky, glittery black thing that covered her muscular arms in soft material and made her look fat, not buff.

  She liked buff. Buff made her intimidating. Buff got her in a room. Fat reminded her of high school, before she discovered her singular talents, back when she’d walk in a room and everyone would snicker.

  At least cargo boots with dresses were in style, protecting her from having to wear heels.

  Nia wouldn’t magic her either, no protect spells, nothing. If Kaylee got hit with the wrong potion, well, then the magical medics on hand would have to handle it, and if somehow that goddamn love potion actually worked, Nia promised she’d unspell Kaylee and the victim of her love/lust.

  Kaylee hoped that would happen before there was any damage.

  Armand stood near the door. He was short, black-haired, and spray-tanned. He took her hand in his as she greeted him. Then he leaned forward and kissed her on each cheek, enveloping her in some kind of sandalwood cologne.

  “We shall do this together, oui?” he said in her ear.

  “If you say so, bub,” she said, pulling back. Then she grinned at him so that her words didn’t seem so harsh.

  His eyes twinkled for just a moment, and her heart fluttered. He was aware of the game they were playing. She hadn’t forgotten that, but she hadn’t realized he would be so deeply involved.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your fiancé.” He spoke louder and his accent was softer, weirdly enough. “When the heart hurts . . .”

  He slipped her hand through his arm. Then he nodded at her courteously.

  “For such hurt,” he said, leading her toward one of the nearest tables. “We have remedies.”

  She looked at the bottles scattered along it. Genie bottles, Dex had called them once when he visited the office in its temporary digs on 42nd Street. She had laughed and told him, Yes, genie bottles. Don’t touch.

  “For the pain,” Armand said now.

  Others stood near the table, some holding drinks, the bottom of their glasses wrapped in paper napkins. Waiters
mingled with the guests, carrying silver trays with crudités. Kaylee wondered briefly if anyone had vetted the food: it wouldn’t do to have a guest turn into a frog because they had a potion mixed with wine mixed with the wrong kind of pâté.

  She had to bring herself back to the role. She wasn’t watching the people; she was looking at the potions. She touched the descriptive cards on three bottles. Two cards remained unchanged, but the third released white smoke, which then wrapped around her hand.

  The smoke whispered, I will help you forget.

  She drew back as if it had bitten her, and looked at Armand in very real alarm.

  “I don’t want to forget him,” she said before she could think.

  This, this, was why Nia said she was perfect. The pain, the grief, the loss, it took away a cautious part of her brain. It made her vulnerable to these very spells, the kind that preyed upon the weak.

  “Forgive me, mademoiselle,” Armand said. “Perhaps something a bit less . . . intrusive?”

  She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t accepted this assignment. Beneath the playacting, the anger was rising. She wanted to kill them all just for having a good time.

  She blinked, took a deep breath, said, “I just want a new future.”

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle, don’t we all.” Armand smiled at her and squeezed her hand against his side. Weirdly, the movement was comforting.

  She didn’t want to be comforted. She wanted to hang on to the anger.

  “Maybe this will help you,” he said, and led her to a table farther back. “A warning: It is expensive.”

  “Money is no object,” she murmured, wishing that were true. But she wasn’t buying. The company wasn’t buying. They were sampling.

  The table stood by itself. Extra lights poured down on it, soft lighting, the kind that theaters used on starlets, bathed a single bottle in warmth. The bottle, shaped like a flower about to bloom, glowed pink.

  “Ah, it recognizes you, mademoiselle,” he said. “It will work with you.”