Being a fixer in the magical community was supposed to be like an action film, explosions and high-octane thrills as I took jobs that pushed my moral boundaries and hardened my soul. Instead, it was like perpetually being the birthday kid’s parent at a Chuck E. Cheese: I had become the unwitting shepherd to an endless flock of whiny disasters.
My first assignment was to “liberate” a ferret from a prolonged stay at a spiteful ex-husband’s house who had agreed to joint pet custody with his equally unpleasant former wife. Fun fact: the Latin name for ferret translates to “stinky weasel thief.” I spent a good half hour chasing the slippery bastard around a spacious penthouse whose design aesthetic was “Russian mobster fucks ESPN” or, as I dubbed it, “Borat Does the Sexy,” finally catching the animal under a black leather bar whose gold countertop was mounted with television screens.
I shoved the ferret in its carrier, musing on how thoughtful it was of the husband to let his hook-ups catch the sports highlight reel during their ten minutes of doggy-style, and drove the pet to our client. The wife took one brief glance at her “beloved, irreplaceable companion animal, without whom life would be a desolation,” handed the carrier to the help, and dashed off to her club. I was glad to be rid of all of them.
The next scintillating gig involved finding and returning a briefcase left behind during negotiations between two gangs. Our Ohrist client, Steele Night, who I suspected pulled his name off a Zoolander name generator, had attempted and failed to retrieve it, so I was dispatched to his rival Rasputin’s HQ.
The place was strewn with bongs, titty magazines, and a blow-up doll propped in a sex swing, all under a layer of dust and questionably sticky surfaces.
“It’s not here, but hey.” Rasputin smirked, and ran a hand over the sex doll like he expected me to clutch my pearls. “Knock yourself out, if you want to check.”
I planted my hands on my hips. “If you’re bringing partners to this shithole, it’s no wonder you need a blow-up doll, because nobody wants to fuck in an STI factory.” I shook my head. “Have you no dignity?”
Or antibacterial wipes?
Rasputin flashed his fangs. Crud. I hadn’t expected a vampire in the mix. “Get the nagging old broad out of here.”
Some dude with an upside-down cross tattooed on his forehead flicked his fingers and my blood turned to ice—literally.
My teeth chattered, every movement a sluggish haul, but I deployed my magic, grabbed Rasputin’s shadow like it had weight and substance, and squeezed, a darkness oozing through my fingers. Normally a vamp’s shadow was freezing cold, but compared to the rest of me, this was quite pleasant.
The vamp was rooted in place, which evened my chances of getting out alive.
I dipped my hand through the darkness behind the sex swing and summoned my shadow scythe. Except nothing happened. No weapon, no nothing, and I couldn’t understand why. The scythe manifested in the presence of dybbuks, and both they and the undead fit into the “aberrations from the natural order of death” category. Even more confusing, my magic tingled up through my feet expectantly.
We lived in a world with over sixteen million online results for how to use a bar of soap, but I had to suss out my powers through tingle interpretation. Having no time for such antics, I went with good old Plan B: threats.
“Dr-drop the m-magic,” I said. “And perhaps I won’t kill you for insulting me.”
At least my shadow still held onto Rasputin’s because that was enough to convince him to call off the man who was icing my blood.
The Ohrist magic left my body in a rush. I bent double, loudly gulping down air as a cover to pull out my new Zippo. Originally, I’d used a lighter taken from the victim of a vampire to avenge his death, but it was too macabre to hang onto, so I’d bought a fancy gold one that was also windproof. No pesky gust would stand between me and my mission of vanquishing evil.
I teased Rasputin’s shadow with the flame.
There was a collective intake of breath from the lackeys and a squeaked “Boss!”
“Let go of me,” Rasputin snarled.
“Admit you got your terminology wrong,” I said. “I’m not a nagging old broad, I’m a badass broad. This handy lighter and your shadow are all I require to take you from trash to ash and porn lord to dust.” I smiled brightly. “Wanna see? Or are you going to apologize?”
“Sorry,” the bloodsucker grunted. His expression was strained, his body fully paralyzed. His lack of movement while in my grasp placed him on the younger, weaker end of the Vamp-O-Meter.
“Say it like you mean it.” My magic tingled more insistently, sending prickles along my back. At this point, I would have accepted charades to understand what it wanted from me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Was that so hard? Now, tell your friends to back up.” I waved the lighter.
For a second, I swore the flame looked like a scythe, but it was gone in an instant. Yes, thank you, I did have scythe abilities, but since they were utterly failing to materialize right now, this taunting reminder was unfair. Was it too much to ask my magic to communicate via a quick message on the wall in ghostly letters?
Rasputin cut his eyes to his crew. “Do as the nice lady says.”
“Pussy,” one of the humans coughed.
I unwound my shadow from Rasputin and cracked my knuckles in the direction of his insubordinate underling. “Want me to deal with him next?”
“Nah.” The vampire rolled out his shoulders, hauteur once again returning now that he had freedom of movement. “He’s mine. But you, you’re quite the wild card, lady. Wasn’t expecting someone like you to pack that much of a punch.”
Approving murmurs went up from the minions. Great. All I had to do to ingratiate myself with these weirdos was threaten them with bodily harm, though I had no problem using that to my advantage.
“Thanks, but don’t think that’s going to distract me.” I put on my best mom voice. “Now, did you really check for the briefcase? Because if I start looking and find it immediately, I am going to be very unhappy.”
The gang dropped their eyes to the floor.
It was just as I thought. They hadn’t even bothered searching. Once we’d remedied that and I had the briefcase, I gave them all a stern talking-to, saying that no one would respect them if they didn’t respect themselves, and left them organizing a clean-up. Vamp or human, boys with mommy issues were comically easy to deal with.
I returned the briefcase to Steele and told him to get a day job because if he needed a nanny to make sure he didn’t forget his things, then he clearly wasn’t cut out to be a criminal mastermind.
Shockingly, the younger white man did not take this suggestion to heart. He made several less than complimentary remarks about my age and gender, despite me being the first of his many hires to actually get his briefcase back, and then stormed out in grand fashion. Even so, having embraced my magic and triumphed over dangers much worse than a pissy wannabe, I was disinclined to apologize for being a middle-aged woman expressing opinions born of experience.
Now I was up at the ass crack of dawn on this rainy “Junuary” Wednesday (a Vancouver specialty of solid rain and cold in June) to chauffeur a spoiled Gen Z to his family’s private jet. Apparently, Taroosh “Topher” Sharma always pitched a fit about going back to his Chemical Engineering degree at Caltech and the latest tantrum had been impressive. Two antiques had been gravely injured after his father had kiboshed Topher hanging out at the beach house in Los Angeles, insisting his son devote July and August to an academic research project before starting his senior undergrad year. Boo fucking hoo.
I’d been assured that the jobs wouldn’t all be of this ignoble caliber, but Topher was known to bribe other drivers to help him play hooky, so a trusted professional had been engaged. Mine was not to question why, mine was to do or die trying.
As my employer, Tatiana Cassin, had impressed upon me, failure was not an option. Should I blemish her impeccable reputation, I’d be on my own without her protection for my loved ones and with no help to solve my parents’ decades-old murder. A murder that may well have been intended to be my end, too.
Bleary-eyed, I drove from my duplex off Main Street in East Vancouver to the University of British Columbia, yawning far too often under the hypnotic rhythm of the wipers. There was little traffic on the road, and I made it across town in half an hour to the University Endowment Lands, which housed both the enormous campus and a lot of expensive homes.
The Sharma house was a mid-century modern stunner with clean minimalist lines and an eye-catching asymmetry. Unlike many expensive homes in Vancouver that were hidden away behind tall hedges, the ones in this area tended to floor-to-ceiling windows designed to capture the best light at all times of day, leaving them lax on privacy.
As the gate to the driveway was open, I pulled up to the front door, and took a sip of my lukewarm double espresso before popping the trunk with a sigh. It was a two-hour drive to the Chilliwack Airport where daddy’s private plane was stationed, and Topher Sharma screamed douche canoe from the tips of his platinum-frosted over-gelled hair to his sunglasses worn before the sun had fully risen and his excessively tight V-neck, exposing a small triangle of brown skin under partially zipped hoodie.
I was tempted to ask him if he could make his pecs dance but when I got within ten feet, I tasted the cologne that he’d gone water rafting in and thought better of it. At least he hadn’t been late—as I’d been warned he was prone to be.
Topher grunted good morning, graciously allowed me to load his suitcase into the trunk, and only showed signs of life when I offered to put his leather satchel in with his luggage. He slung the strap over his head as if worried I’d wrestle him for it and got into the car. Given his wealth, I’d expected his suitcase to be embossed with his initials or some luxury brand name logo, but he only had a single banged-up hard plastic case on wheels. The 1 percent, they’re just like us!
The only upside of this assignment was that Tatiana had procured a fully tricked-out luxury SUV by means I chose not to question. It was like steering a silver cloud that warmed my butt and massaged my back at an almost spiritual level.
The silence in the car lasted about three minutes before Topher switched on the radio, tuning in to a hip-hop station without asking me if I minded. Basic car etiquette 101: the driver controls the music.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
And where was my bribe? Not that I’d take it, but according to Tatiana, this kid tossed them out like beads at a Mardi Gras parade. Was I not worthy of one? Frowning, I chalked it up to my Big Mom Energy.
Topher’s leg bounced light-speed fast, and he didn’t stop fiddling with the satchel’s clasp. While he wasn’t constantly sniffing—which was the extent of my knowledge on cocaine side-effects—his shirt was soaking through with sweat, so maybe methamphetamines?
We left the manicured streets and swung onto one of the wider avenues leading off campus, the forest pressing in on either side. The gray sky bathed the trees in a cold light, pine needles spiking out from branches like witches’ fingers.
“Los Angeles, huh?” I’d merely intended to make conversation but given the way Topher jumped and swung his wide-eyed gaze away from the window, you’d have thought I’d forcefully dragged him back into his physical body from the spirit realm. Was this all an elaborate act to guilt the parent figure of the vehicle, also known as me, into taking pity on him and not driving him to the airport? Snorting, I turned off the music. Amateur hour. Nonetheless, I chatted on like the professional I was. “I hear the Getty Museum is outstanding. Have you ever been?”
He pulled the oversized hood of his sweatshirt up, throwing his face into shadow. “No.”
Crushed by his stellar conversation skills, I finished my now-cold beverage and settled in for one hundred and twenty minutes of my life that I would never get back. In my head, I made a new to-do list consisting of one item: get Twitchy safely bundled onto the plane as soon as possible, at which point he’d become the flight staff’s problem.
The sour stench of sweat overwhelmed the car. I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I wanted to be trapped in a small space with bad smells even less.
“Do you need water or medical attention?” I said.
“Picked a bad time to quit smoking,” he muttered. Smoking what, though? He pulled a package of Life Savers out of his pocket and tossed a green one in his mouth—the most disgusting flavor and another strike against him. He offered me the last candy, an orange one. “Want it?”
I subtracted one point off his douchiness and accepted. “Thanks.”
Nodding absently, he dropped the empty packaging in the cup holder. I ground my candy to orange-flavored dust. Why yes, I’d love to clean up after you.
The rain sluiced down under a dark sky and my wipers worked double time in a brisk staccato. I slowed down on account of the weather, so when a speeding car came up behind me, I flicked on my signal and moved into the right-hand lane to allow the driver to blast ahead and roar around the curve.
I shook my head at his reckless driving, then checked on my passenger, still slumped in the seat, staring out the window.
At least my butt was toasty warm.
Suddenly, there was a deafening bang and a blinding flash of light that made me see spots. I couldn’t even tell what side of the car it was on or where we were on the road, just that we were going sixty miles per hour and fishtailing. I yelped and jerked the wheel against the onslaught of g-forces, fighting to avoid a spin.
I was really starting to regret signing up for book club and not upper body toning or Pilates.
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