What Fate Portends

by Clara Coulson

  It wasn’t exactly a lucrative business, this store, because I tended to undercharge the truly desperate—and there were a lot of truly desperate in Kinsale—but I didn’t need the sales. The store was just a big advertisement for my far more profitable job, which was explained in the big poster I’d stuck in the front window:

  LEAVE SOMETHING PRECIOUS

  IN THE STRETCHES?

  * * *

  I CAN GET IT BACK!

  * * *

  See inside for details.

  A piece of tape on the sign had come unstuck again, I noticed as I wiped my shoes off on the mat. So I reached over and slapped the flapping corner back into place on the glass and made a mental note to add another strip of tape later. Then I navigated through the densely packed shelving units and boxes and bins until I reached the checkout counter, pushed through the little half-door into the “employee-only” space, and swung around to the full door that opened onto the stairs leading to the second floor. But as I was digging around in my pockets for the key that opened said door, I heard a sound.

  Knocking.

  I glanced over my shoulder…and raised an eyebrow. Because a young guy in three-quarters of a suit was standing outside in the rain, getting utterly drenched in the downpour. When he caught me looking his way, he waved at me enthusiastically, despite the fact he was literally standing in front of the sign suction-cupped to the door that said CLOSED in big red letters.

  For a moment, with a hand in my pocket, one finger touching the key that would let me upstairs, where I could settle in for the night with a good book and some fuzzy blankets, I strongly considered leaving the guy out in the rain.

  Lucky for him, I wasn’t that big an asshole.

  It remained to be seen whether that was also lucky for me.

  Chapter Four

  The guy in the suit, who introduced himself as “Tom,” stood in front of my counter, a puddle of water growing around his feet. His tan suit vest and pants were plastered to his body, and the white shirt he had on was totally transparent, revealing even more of his chilled skin. He was covered in goose bumps and shaking like a leaf, and the edge of his lips were a somewhat disconcerting shade of blue. If I had to guess, I’d say he was about twenty-one, going by the baby face and the big hazel eyes that were giving me that pleading look I hated. Oh, and the fact he was naïve enough to run around outside in a magic-powered winter rainstorm. Only dumb kids and dumbasses did that.

  As he tried to compose himself and stop quaking long enough to get a coherent sentence out, I shuffled over to a shelf piled high with towels, snatched one off the top, and tossed it his way. “Dry yourself off, kid. You look like a drowned rat.”

  He unraveled the towel and started rubbing down his face and hair. “T-Thank you, s-sir,” he stammered out.

  “Don’t thank me yet. That towel’s not free. I want it back before you go, unless you want to pay for it.”

  The rain battering the rooftop grew heavier, so much so it sounded more like hail.

  “Though I do have ponchos for two chits,” I added, “if you’d like to refrain from drowning on your way home.”

  Tom gave me a sheepish grin. “S-Sorry for s-showing up at such a bad time. But I have kind of an urgent request.”

  “Request?” I jutted my thumb toward the back of my advertising poster, which had come partially unstuck from the window yet again. “Something you want out in the stretches?”

  “Um, not exactly.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I believe the item I’m looking for is actually here, in Kinsale.”

  I leaned against my counter, arms crossed. “Then why don’t you go get it yourself?”

  “Because”—he worried his lip while he thought how to best phrase a request he knew I was going to loathe—“it was taken by black-market scavengers.”

  Ah. Now I get it.

  There was a thriving black market in Kinsale, largely run by elements of organized crime, some of which had survived the collapse, some of which had cropped up after Kinsale became a protected city. The underground marketplaces and bootleg shops around the city sold a large variety of goods recovered from beyond the boundary, kind of like I did, but there was a significant difference between their wares and mine. The black market prospered from selling luxury goods pilfered from the empty homes of the now dead rich and famous.

  Black-market organizers employed “scavenger packs,” gangs of foolhardy gold seekers, mostly humans packing guns, who ventured out into the stretches way more frequently than me to recover all the once prized possessions of the one percent. Expensive jewelry. Priceless paintings and sculptures. Designer-label clothing, purses, and shoes. I’d heard a rumor that one pack had managed to tow an antique sports car in mint condition a full fifteen miles through the stretches—at which point they got attacked and eaten by ravenous werewolves.

  Scavenger packs had exceedingly high turnover rates.

  The risk was apparently worth the reward though. There were just enough wealthy people in Kinsale to keep the gem chits flowing like honey through those underground rivers.

  Generally, I didn’t give a hoot about the black market, and they didn’t give a hoot about me. To the mobsters of Kinsale, I was just that weirdo who got his jollies off by recovering junk from middle-class homes and making people cry from the power of nostalgia. I wasn’t a threat to their bottom line, so they ignored me. Literally. I’d run into scavenger packs twice during my trips over the past few years, and both times, none of those schmucks even acknowledged my existence.

  Didn’t really bother me though. They stayed in their lane, I stayed in mine, and we all got along just fine. I didn’t go poking dragons that didn’t try to roast me first.

  Which was why my immediate response to the half-drowned kid was, “No.”

  He was taken aback. “But I d-didn’t even say what the item is.”

  “You don’t have to. Your item’s not in the stretches. I advertise item recovery from the stretches, not from criminals running underground trade rings inside Kinsale.”

  Tom pouted. It made him look about twelve. “Please, Mr. Whelan—”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.” I nodded toward the door. “Take your pity party somewhere else. Or better yet, keep it to yourself. If you go running your mouth too loud about the activities of the local mafia, you’re going to vanish off the face of the Earth, until someone finds your half-eaten corpse in the stretches a few months from now.”

  Tom wrung his hands in the towel and closed his eyes. For a second, I thought he was actually going to be smart and listen to me and walk out in defeat. Then, as he released a deep sigh, he slipped his hand inside his vest and pulled out from a hidden interior pocket a stack of long, thin objects wrapped in brown leather and secured with a black spandex tie. He sat the stack on my countertop, undid the knot from the tie, and unwrapped the leather to reveal…twenty thousand-chit bars.

  I gawked at the thin sapphire bars, my jaw stuck so far open I could’ve swallowed a tennis ball. The last time I’d seen so much money in one place, I’d been a rookie detective investigating the death of a bank security guard, who’d been shot dead during a violent heist. He’d grabbed one of the money bags as the robbers were fleeing, and held on to it even though he was shot nine times. After a considerable amount of yanking between the robber and the guard, the bag tore wide open, and hundred-dollar bills went flying everywhere. The poor guard bled to death lying atop more money than he made in his entire career.

  The same off-kilter feeling I had then, standing before a dead man surrounded by bloody Benjamins, overcame me now. What the ever-loving fuck?

  I snapped at Tom, who was obviously more than he appeared, “What kind of scam is this?”

  “No scam, Mr. Whelan,” he replied, still sounding timid and cold. “I swear. I just really want the harp back, and I can’t get it myself. I’ve already tried—and miserably failed.”

  “Harp?”

  He slung the towel over his shoulder
and straightened his posture, trying to project an air of confidence that didn’t come naturally. “It belonged to an aunt. She lived in Adelaide, about twenty miles north of here. She was actually part of an orchestra, though she played the violin, not the harp. The harp was considered an heirloom, having come into the family about five generations prior. It was appraised about ten years ago and found to be worth a substantial sum because it was quite old and had historical value. Shortly before the war, several different museums were vying for it.”

  “Museums that don’t exist anymore,” I threw in.

  “That’s not the point.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t care who wants to buy it or for how much. The harp is of great significance to my family legacy, and I want it back.” He tapped a finger against one of the chit bars. “And as you can see, I’m willing to pay quite a large sum to reclaim it.”

  “That’s a lot of money for a musical instrument, kid. Especially in these times.”

  “It’s my money.” He pursed his lips. “I can spend it how I want. And I want the harp.”

  The negative reaction I’d had to the sight of the chits began to unwind, and I blew out a breath through my teeth. “Why come to me? If you’re one of those rich brats who live over in Rosewood Estates, surely you can afford the best guy in town for this job. Someone more literate with black-market operations than me.”

  “Wrong.” He shook his head. “You’re the best man for the job. Because you’re not involved in the black market. And because you used to be a detective. You’re good at solving mysteries and you’re experienced with managing and subverting criminals. With your skill set, I think you can do exactly what I need you to in a timely manner.”

  “What do you mean?” I shifted my weight. “This have to do with you failing to get the harp back yourself?”

  “That’s exactly it.” He sighed. “I actually located the harp, thanks to a tip from an acquaintance of mine who attends black-market auctions regularly. He saw it listed among the new arrivals to be auctioned in coming weeks. But by the time I managed to get invited to an auction myself—you have to schmooze with the right people—it was too late. Someone had already bought the harp. The problem is, I don’t know who purchased it because the organizers keep all the auction records private.”

  “Wait, so you don’t want me to actually get the harp for you?”

  “The job’s not but so dangerous, Mr. Whelan.” He laughed nervously. “I’m not trying to get you killed. What I want is for you to acquire the information I can’t: the name and address of the person who bought the harp. To do that, you’ll need to temporarily gain access to the auction organizers’ buyer list ledger, which is kept locked in a safe at all times. Except during the auctions. At last Wednesday’s auction, I tried to bribe my way into getting a look at the ledger, but I was rebuffed. The guards were too scared of their bosses to risk retribution. They kicked me out of the building and blacklisted me from future auctions.”

  “I do believe I already said I don’t like kicking hornets’ nests.” I tapped my foot on the tile floor. “If I get caught like you did, I’ll have mobsters giving me the stink eye. I don’t need that kind of attention.”

  He pulled the towel from his shoulder and started to fold it up. “Look, I know it’s asking you to take on more personal risk than you usually do, but I’m willing to pay a decent premium for your services.” He gestured to the gem chits again. “That’s a down payment. I’ll pay you the other half if you manage to track down the harp for me.”

  I actually took a step back. “You’re willing to pay me forty thousand chits, not even to get this harp back but just to tell you where it is?”

  “The harp is worth a great deal more than forty grand, in actual monetary terms and in sentimental ones. So, yes. If you can find the harp for me, I’ll pay you every chit.” He slid the pile of sapphire bars toward me, then gave me his best teary-eyed puppy expression. “Please, Mr. Whelan. The harp is all that’s left of the family, besides a few rotting houses in the stretches. It would mean so much to me if you could find out who bought it.”

  “And what are you going to do with that information?” I asked.

  “I’d like to negotiate a buyout or trade to get the harp back. Nothing crazy. Just a good old-fashioned business arrangement.”

  Huh. That almost sounds reasonable.

  I weighed my options. It was a stupid idea to risk myself by stepping on the toes of the mob, but at the same time, forty thousand chits would go a long way. That much dough would give me a cushy rainy day fund, if something ever happened to my “new” house, or if I ever had to split and run to another protected city because I pissed off the wrong powerful being.

  I usually bled people’s wallets dry running this lost-and-found gig of mine, and I only charged a thousand to fifteen hundred a pop (or occasionally bartered for goods of roughly equal value). I could make almost a year’s worth of income from this one job alone, thanks to Mr. Moneybags here. And I wouldn’t even be tempted to feel guilty about taking so much, because he clearly had more where that came from, if he was planning to buy the harp back.

  God, this was tempting.

  Play it safe or roll the dice?

  I looked from the pile of high-value gem chits to Tom’s pitiful baby face, looked back to the chits, looked back to the baby face, looked back to the chits, took a brief detour through an existential crisis where I questioned the underlying principles of my morality, and then looked back to Tom. “All right,” I said. “I’ll find out who bought your harp.”

  “Yes!” Tom threw his hands into the air, and was about to jump up and down like a joyful child when he realized how silly that would be. He awkwardly cleared his throat, dropped his hands, and pretended to smooth out his sopping wet suit as he spoke. “Thank you so much. Here’s my phone number.” He pulled a surprisingly intact scrap of paper from his pocket and sat it next to the pile of chits. There was a number scrawled on it in black ink, still legible despite a few smudges. “Please don’t hesitate to call me. Any time of day. I want to know as soon as you find the harp.”

  “Will do.” I stepped to the side and bent down, pulling a cardboard box out from under a low shelf. The box was full of clear plastic ponchos folded into small squares. I grabbed one and offered it to him. “I think you’ve paid more than enough for this job to get one of these on the house.”

  He produced a squeak of a laugh and took the poncho, handing me the towel in exchange. “Awesome. I will definitely need this.”

  I turned to face the front windows. The rain had lightened somewhat, but it was still coming down in sheets. Two inches of water stood on the road, and rapids rushed through the gutters, spiraling down into the storm drains like whirlpools. “I know it was a joke, but…you don’t really live in Rosewood, do you? That’s a hell of a long walk from here in this weather.”

  “Oh, no worries.” He slid the poncho out of its package and shook it open. “I have a friend who lives about eight blocks from here. I can stop by her place and wait out the storm. Sleep over if it doesn’t let up. She won’t mind.”

  “But you do live in Rosewood?” It was the most expensive, and secure, neighborhood in town, courtesy of being a gated community with a heavily warded fence. It catered to what was left of the wealthy elite from the world before the collapse, and the nouveau riche who had risen at the dawn of the reconstruction. Lots of big business owners, highly skilled professionals, the usual suspects. With the suit and the giant stash of chits, Tom seemed like he fit right in with that crowd.

  But he refused to answer my question, admit to his economic status.

  He did blush though, which was just as telling.

  “Right.” I gestured to the door. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ve had a long day, and I’d really like to settle in for the evening…”

  “Of course! I apologize for disturbing you. I shouldn’t have barged in like I did. Very rude.” He slid the poncho over his head. It fell all t
he way to his ankles. “Have a good night, Mr. Whelan.”

  Tom scuttled off across the store and plunged back into the heart of the storm. He was almost swept away by a big gust of wind, but he managed to keep his footing and trundle on down the road. I walked over to the door and watched him go until he turned a corner two blocks down and vanished into the murk. Then I locked the door yet again, reactivated my wards, and returned to the counter. Where my literal fortune awaited.

  I pinched one of the chit bars between two fingers and held it up. It wasn’t counterfeit. But chit bars of such high value were almost never seen in general circulation, because most people didn’t make a thousand chits in a month. This kid’s family must’ve left behind a lot of critical assets—he probably owned a working factory or something—for him to have amassed so much money under the new currency system in so few years. And he’s willing to blow a huge chunk of it on a harp.

  The things people did in the name of nostalgia never ceased to amaze me.

  Chapter Five

  I woke up with a crick in my neck. I’d fallen asleep in my reclining chair, and my head had tilted sharply to one side. So I spent the first ten minutes of my morning kneading the sore spot before I stood up and shambled over to my bathroom. I’d been working on rigging a complex series of charms to run the water heater and the bathroom lights. But I hadn’t quite worked out all the kinks yet—I’d gotten electrocuted last time I tried to take a shower—so I flicked on my battery-powered lantern, then filled the tub with water and heated it using a simple spell instead.

  I could’ve just weathered the cold water, of course, since I didn’t feel cold temperatures, but I enjoyed a nice, hot bath as much as I did a cup of steaming tea. It was relaxing, and having hot water made the world seem a little less dreary. You know, for like fifteen minutes.