Daisy pulled her legs in and sat up straight, suddenly sorry that she had ever shared any information with him at all. She was almost too stunned by his abrupt and hypocritical judgments – Angel did those things, too, and Mr Swarz appeared to respect her well enough – to give a reply. After a brief moment of stammering half-formed words, however, she managed to collect herself.
“I’ve said before, Mr Swarz – whatever I’ve shown you here today, you still don’t know me or my magic. I understand that you’re upset that I’m not orchestrating my life in order to make it how you think it should be, but I will not apologize merely for having different sensibilities than you. I do the things I do because they are the best choice for me. The calculations I run to determine what is best for me are not really any of your damned business, so I’m not going to bother trying to justify those algorithms to you.”
“The entire course of your life is no small thing to consider. It’s not a matter of a difference of sensibilities, Miss Dell,” he replied. The edge to his voice betrayed how emotionally he was responding to the discussion, which she found odd since she was the one being insulted.
“Isn’t it? Didn’t this conversation start as a linguistic debate about ‘trinkets’ versus ‘artifacts’?” Mr Swarz opened his mouth to argue but wisely snapped it shut before any sound could come out. She found herself calming down in light of his restraint – or maybe it was delight over his embarrassment. “You can pretend that your objections to my every life choice are about wanting what’s best for me, but when it boils down to it, what are you claiming about the things in my life that are supposedly such a waste of my potential? That I make reasonable compromises in my work life in order to survive?”
“No, of course n–”
“So, what, you’re upset with me for being poor? You don’t like the partying, either – are you mad that I’m having fun and making friends?” Neither of them mentioned the obvious, recent hang-up in that particular aspect of her life. “You think that I’m selling myself short by working below my education level and doing frivolous, girly things and using folksy terminology, but that begs the question as to why you think any of that is so terrible to begin with.” She paused, wondering if that question was going to receive an answer.
Mr Swarz huffed out a sigh, one of those ones that men tended to make when they decided that a woman had been talking too long or disagreeing too loudly. She was surprised, then, when he said after a moment of thought, “I suppose I don’t know you. You have your reasons for doing what you do, as does anyone, and it is not my place to scold you on your choices. I apologize for my presumptions.”
The anger began to ebb, but there was enough left for a triumphant smirk as she said, “You know, you’ve been saying that to me a lot lately.”
“I have a tendency to put my foot in my mouth, it’s true. Angel says it’s because I have the social graces of a houseplant, though I like to think I’m at least to the level of a goldfish.” His own self-deprecation put her more at ease again, but his gentle chiding of himself wasn’t enough for her to forgive him, and that tense silence from the drive up returned for the rest of the ride home.
Chapter 7
They arrived back at the office to find a dark-haired woman in a red cardigan bent over Daisy’s desk, scribbling something onto a notepad. Daisy didn’t recognize Vicks until she lifted her head and beamed. Her wig was different than the one Daisy had seen her wear before, dark auburn and a little longer than her black bob wig.
“Hey, look. Now I’m covering your job!”
Mr Swarz frowned at the sight of Vicks as he hung up his hat. “Well, I suppose I’d rather have you answering the phones than your half-wit sister. Speaking of, how is she faring?”
“Jonas still hasn’t given her the A-OK on hitting the juice again, so she went out gambling to distract from the withdrawals.” Vicks rose from the desk and went over to the table in the back corner, lifting the coffee carafe with a showy gesture toward it. “Refreshments?”
Daisy probably wouldn’t have minded Vicks’ playing around if Mr Swarz hadn’t earlier scolded her for supposedly belittling herself as a mere secretary, which was an especially unfair criticism considering what she had shared with him that day. Both she and Mr Swarz ignored Vicks’ ill-timed joke. “She left work in the middle of the day?” Daisy asked.
Vicks set down the carafe and gave her a flat stare. “Ever had mana withdrawals, friend? I’m amazed she got outta bed, even.”
“Perhaps someday we’ll have a solid week where both of the Pasternack twins show up for their duties,” Mr Swarz said with a dry wistfulness, heading toward Angel’s office. “Vicks, if you wouldn’t mind maintaining Miss Dell’s position for a bit longer. Miss Dell?” He gestured for her to step into Angel’s office before him.
The room that Angel and Rudolph shared was a bit larger and brighter than Mr Swarz’s, with Angel’s desk near the side wall and Rudolph’s in a corner by the window. In addition to blinds, such as Mr Swarz’s window’s had, Angel had set up white drapes to frame the windows, too.
She was at her desk, browsing through documents when they arrived. Daisy still wasn’t sure how much of the paperwork she and Mr Swarz managed was pretend. Surely all the clients they delivered mana to still needed invoices? Considering that Angel didn’t glance up from her work when they entered, that might have been exactly what it was.
“How was the outing, dears?” she asked.
“Informative, which is about as much as I’ll say about it. It does seem likely that someone may be after Miss Dell, though, either as an individual or for the general brand of her magic. Have you learned anything about the attackers?”
Rudolph, who had been at his desk busying himself with the task of rearranging pen holders and paperclips, stood up and hurried across the room, clearly waiting for his moment to spring into action. “We have, as a matter of fact. One of the young magicians that was at the scene recognized – if not the exact organization responsible – the type that the attackers most likely belonged to. He reported to us that gangs dressed in similar types of nondescript coats and carrying similar sorts of weapons prowl about in the dingier sections of the Grime District. Apparently, muscle like this hire themselves out for hits regularly.”
“We followed that lead and began sniffing around northeast,” Angel said. “It took quite a few conversations with the right people and a load of doublespeak, but we managed to get a name.” She set aside the documents she was perusing to open her desk and pull out a single slip of paper, handing it to Mr Swarz. “There’s a hitwoman who operates under the alias of ‘Roxana’ up in that neighborhood, though her real name is Ming Wei. According to a young woman who claims to have previously worked for her, Wei was out of her office the night of the attack.”
Mr Swarz glanced over the paper Angel had handed him. “This Wei is just a mercenary, then. In that case, it’s easy enough to assume why she’s doing this. Do you know who might be paying her for her efforts?”
Angel spread her hands. “Sorry, love. No specifics, though we were told that she had a type of clientele. Politicians and bigwigs. She’s got a high price tag but pays out in silence.”
“She can’t be that hush about things,” Daisy said, “if her friend was willing to tell you so much.”
Angel leaned back in her chair, glancing back at her dry paperwork. “Well, it’s not as though we asked nicely.” Rudolph adjusted the collar of his shirt, looking toward the wall in a more obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with anyone. Daisy was a tad alarmed to hear this, and she might have made a comment about them mussing up their pretty white clothes if it weren’t for all the shame and fury from her field trip with Mr Swarz earlier that she still packed around. She already felt like she needed another day to sleep off this whole mess.
Mr Swarz folded the slip of paper and set it back on Angel’s desk. “It could be anyone, then, couldn’t it? Some bitter bureaucrat trying to run down a magician ex-lover, or a potentia
l mayoral candidate looking to stir up a panic for the political capital.” He shook his head. “This could very well be just a random act of violence against our people.”
“Our people,” as though they were a nation. Daisy had not quite realized Mr Swarz's peculiar devotion to his identity as a magician.
Angel frowned, looking almost sorry. “I’m afraid so. There’s not much we can do to protect our own, in that case, other than what we already do every day to survive.”
That was hardly a satisfying conclusion, if everything Mr Swarz feared about the mage-hunters searching for Daisy was true. She supposed there was some relief in the possibility that those hunters were not after her individually, but as Angel pointed out, that gave them fewer leads to prepare against future onslaughts.
“I’ll report to Grey about this Wei person,” Mr Swarz said to Angel, before turning to Daisy. “We will remain vigilant, but I fear there is little else we can do at this point. If politicians are paying mercenaries to harass our kind, we can probably expect more attacks like that one in future.”
“City council elections are coming up in a handful of weeks,” Angel added.
“We have little choice but to return to our normal work until then. Miss Dell, please do let me know if you run into any more trouble or anything suspicious. And, please–” he looked between her and Angel “–no more clubs for a while. I do not wish to stay up another night managing crisis control for my coworkers.” He left it at that, returning to his office, but Angel smirked as he went.
“He means that he doesn’t want to worry about his friends, I’m sure.” Daisy didn’t respond to Angel’s optimism. She had thought she was growing to warm up to her steely employer and earning his respect as an equal until his outburst at her that afternoon. He was a difficult man to care for, and he was certainly not her friend.
Jacobus Johnston sat in a plush chair in his office, watching Ming with an inquisitive gaze that appeared natural to his academic background. He had seemed alarmed to get a call from her, and although she could find no sign among her colleagues that he had a history of dealing with their sort, he had not hesitated at her offer.
Daphne Linden had shortchanged her, and Ming would do whatever she had to in order to secure her home from the bank’s fickle interests. Ming didn’t know how long she had – Linden hadn’t deigned to tell her that much, probably hoping to dangle that information over Ming’s head to bait her into other work – but she didn’t intend to wait around until it was too late. She had to gather enough cash to buy out her lease before anyone else could. A bit of payback against that viper Linden didn’t hurt, either.
Johnston was in his middle ages, heavyset with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair and a short, black beard. His corduroy suit was clean and expensive-looking, but just kitschy enough to give him a sort of jolly old uncle sensibility – approachable, but wise enough to be trusted with authority. A stereotypical look for a politician, and it probably helped him garner votes. He sat with his legs crossed but otherwise appeared relaxed in Ming’s presence.
“I must say, it’s hardly surprising that Linden is building an anti-magic platform again. I had banked on as much.” Nothing in his voice betrayed concern for the lives of the magicians that may have been hurt in the aftermath of Ming’s bungled assassination. “But I’m hoping to draw in the votes of those who see her as a tyrant – anyone even vaguely sympathetic to the magicians, and of course the magicians themselves. Why would I wish to hire your services? If anything, these publicized riots could make the general population more sympathetic to them, if it ever comes to light that the instigators were hired thugs.”
There was something of a threat to his words, which Ming had expected when she came forward to him about her broken deal with Linden. “Precisely. Which is why you may be interested in seeing to it that I and my people continue these attacks. Turn the narrative into one where magicians are innocents – underdogs being harangued by systematic hatred. Those who are on the fence about voting for you now will surely be won over, and those who are losing faith in Linden may begin to look in your direction.”
Johnston waved a hand. “If they are sympathetic.” But he had once been a professor, and most of his connections were still with academics and scientists. He was counting on the vote of the studious and progressive-minded already, and the circles he ran in might have even given him the impression that most people pitied magicians to some degree.
“Yes. And this will be an opportunity to make more people sympathetic.”
He pressed his palms together and leaned forward, apparently convinced. “Mm-hm. Then I suppose this narrative needs a protagonist? The public never rallies around underdogs when they are merely faceless victims – then it’s only someone else’s problem.”
Johnston certainly had a better head for this game than Linden did, and he even seemed a few steps ahead of Ming herself. “Perhaps a martyr?”
He smirked. “Yes, I suppose it would be better to have that than a hero who slays the villain, at least from your perspective.” His grin faded. “Speaking of which – if I may be so forward – what is our villain’s motivation, hm?”
Ming didn’t care for Johnston’s smarm, but she cared less for Linden’s treachery. If she had to play along with Johnston’s quasi-poetic rambling, so be it. “I will expect payment, obviously.”
Johnston tilted his head, a gesture he was entirely too old to pull off with any amount of charm. “That’s it? Money? What do you need money for?”
She could tell him the truth. Even aside the matter with the lease, there were bills, groceries, medicine, a brother with a gambling problem, a grandmother with bad lungs up in a small town in the northern reaches of Ashland, munitions to keep her current in her line of work, people to bribe into silence, other costs that allowed her to keep her business alive, which in turn kept her alive. It was all too mundane to bother listing.
“A girl’s got to eat,” she said instead.
Johnston chuckled and uncrossed his legs to stand. He was a tall man with a big belly, but if he meant to intimidate Ming, well, she had been up against taller and bigger. “I suspect your asking price is well above the cost of a meal, though.” He turned to the wall behind him, where there were several bookshelves filled with orderly rows of tomes. He paced along the wall, looking at the books he passed with only casual interest. His attention was still focused on trying to intimidate Ming. “Well, if you don’t want to tell, it’s not my business. Perhaps that particular narrative thread will unravel itself. Tell me, Miss Roxana, do you drink bourbon?”
“Yes.” Ming didn’t move from where she stood in the center of his office, while Johnston continued his current course along the wall to the far corner where a liquor cabinet was tucked away. As he obtained two glasses and poured an inch of dark gold bourbon into each, he began rambling again.
“You know, I’ve heard a rumor that Linden is interested in courting the temperance vote this time around. Not content enough to criminalize mana, oh, no. Alcohol, tobacco, marijuana. Anything that alters the ‘natural human state,’ as teetotalers like to say. Some say their extremists even condemn sugar.”
“If Linden were advocating the criminalization of sugar, you wouldn’t need to entertain conversations with mercenaries to win this election.”
Johnston laughed as he came toward her and handed her a glass. “No, indeed not. And even if it were true, it’s absurd enough that the moderates could content themselves with muttering, ‘Oh, she would never follow through on that. Not something that would impact me.’” He took a sip and squinted thoughtfully before taking another and returning to his chair.
“Very well, Miss Roxana, I see the advantages in this underdog story you propose. You’ve won me over. Paint my opponent as a tyrant, turn these magicians into victims. Lay a martyr’s corpse at my feet so the public can see me weep in all my empathy over so cruel a fate.”
Ming would readily kill whoever she had to in order to maintain he
r livelihood, now more than ever. What sent a shiver up her spine was that to Johnston and Linden, these lives that they asked her to reap were nothing but a joke.
She tried not to think about it, not to think about the poor sap she would turn into a victim. It was business to her, and considering what she had already started with this task – the bird charm she had found, and where that had led her – she at least had the assurance of knowing where she could start trying to locate such a martyr.
Chapter 8
Daisy was on-edge returning to work the next day. She was still upset at Mr Swarz for his comments toward her on the ride home from the faerie ring, and the thought of what Angel and Rudolph might have done to obtain the information they had found on Ming Wei haunted her. Much to her relief, neither Mr Swarz nor Angel were in the office that morning. “They’re in the brewery,” Rudolph said when he arrived several hours after Daisy had begun her shift.
Free to work without having her head clogged with suspicion and anger toward either of them, Daisy spent most of the morning tidying her desk and trying to fix a jammed key on her typewriter. Shortly after lunch, she got a phone call for Mr Swarz from one of his clients who only identified as “Sanders.” When she asked if she could take a message, Sanders insisted that it was an urgent matter, and that it was vital that she had Mr Swarz call him back as soon as possible. Daisy didn’t want to look Swarz in the eye for a while, but damned if she was just not going to do her job to accomplish that.
Informing Rudolph that she was going to find Mr Swarz in the brewery, she stepped out the front door and around several blocks to the speakeasy front, unable to use the back door in the office without Mr Swarz’s key. Fortunately, Jonas was already at his post, having arrived early that day to unpack a recent shipment of liquor.
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