City of Broken Magic

by Mirah Bolender

  “Are you eating lasagna?”

  “Lasagna’s mine,” said Laura.

  Peggy set out the plates and quickly retreated. Mrs. Keedler looked down at the food for a moment. She was among the people who threw her money in with Dan, so it was probably in her best interest to leave Clae alone with the lasagna (as for the drapes, she placed a bet that Clae was hiding a cursed spinning wheel); Dan for one was watching them like a hawk.

  “Fine, but try to hurry up. It’s only a matter of time before Mr. Brecht resorts to murder.”

  “Keep him on a leash. I won’t be long.” Clae waved her off.

  Mrs. Keedler left, and Laura turned her attention to the food. The lasagna looked and smelled delicious, not that the flat greenish teccinia pasta didn’t. Laura paused with a forkful halfway to her mouth and said, “Smells good.” Clae eyed her as if daring her, and her own smile grew. “Too bad about that wager, because this is all mine.”

  It didn’t take long for them to finish. After paying Dan at the bar, they picked up the trunk and left.

  Clae set a brisk pace. They made it back to Acis Road within fifteen minutes. By the time they turned the corner, it was obvious something had happened. The entire street was dead silent—the one customer leaving the bakery had her nose in the air like she’d been terribly offended. Eyes watched from store windows as they walked past.

  “This woman must be awful to have this kind of effect,” murmured Laura.

  Clae didn’t reply, probably because he’d spotted her.

  The woman stood across the street from the Sweeper shop, wearing a slightly out-of-date, pale yellow dress that hugged her thin frame nicely though the long sleeves were baggy and the skirt brushed the ground. She had a matching hat with a huge brim and mountain of flowery adornments. Her stance was stick-straight; between the military posture and that god-awful hat, Laura disliked her on sight.

  The woman spotted them and turned, looking severely displeased, the kind of expression that belonged on a stern old nanny, not on someone just older than Laura.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I presume?” she questioned icily.

  “Correct.” Clae looked over her with what Laura judged to be disdain. She entertained the idea that he equally disliked the giant hat.

  “Your door is locked,” the gentlewoman sniffed. “Do you not keep hours?”

  “I tend to work those hours,” Clae retorted, gesturing to the trunk.

  He crossed the street without further ado and unlocked the shop, tugging Laura along inside. He didn’t look back. Laura helped him set the trunk behind the counter, then moved to lean against it while he fussed over the Kin. It took half a minute before the woman came in, her face forced into some semblance of politeness.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” she trilled, sweetly now, “is this office open or not?”

  “Obviously.” He didn’t look at her, though.

  “Then may I make an appointment?”

  “Unnecessary. Take a seat.”

  The woman looked around for a chair, and Laura gestured widely. “Take a stool, any stool.”

  There were three stools, not counting the one Clae was using, but the woman didn’t sit down.

  “I’d prefer to stand.”

  Clae finished twisting one of the parts tighter and finally gave her his attention. He put his elbows on the counter, laced his fingers, and leaned forward to rest his chin on the interlocked digits, eyes wide and probing.

  “My work doesn’t typically come to me. So what’s so important that you sought me out instead of going to the police?”

  “When monsters are involved aren’t we supposed to find a Sweeper?”

  Laura straightened. It was rare for people to know about their actual title, and still rarer for someone to talk so casually about infestations, like they existed. She was impressed, but Clae wasn’t.

  “Regardless, I tend to get my news from police. What makes you so special?”

  The woman giggled humorlessly, then straightened her face. “My name is Mary Sullivan. It’s been about two years since I married into the Sullivan family. They’re very wealthy and influential, if you didn’t know. My father-in-law has run into some troubles, though. During this time I’ve noticed that there have been several attempts made on his life—”

  “Assassination?” Clae’s right eyebrow rose.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not our job. Go to the police.” He turned away.

  Laura was both gleeful and annoyed: gleeful because Mary Sullivan acted way too pompous and it was entertaining to see Clae ignore her, annoyed because obviously the woman had a problem and he couldn’t be bothered to help.

  “But the assassination attempts have been made by the mobs, with amulets!” Mary exclaimed, and Clae paused. “They’ve been planted all around the house. It’s a miracle the maids have found them. Behind the pictures, under chairs, in the fireplaces—”

  “If you’ve found them all, just turn them in and be done with it.”

  “But that’s the thing, they’ve stopped! We haven’t seen any amulets in nearly two weeks! And I know these mobsters aren’t about to give up. My husband and father-in-law refuse to listen, but I know there has to be one hidden somewhere in the mansion. I’ve come here to ask you to remove it.”

  “Look. We’re like terriers,” Clae grumbled, turning back around, “minus the tracking. We’re here to uproot the problem. I’m not about to take an entire day or more out of my schedule for some unfounded paranoia.”

  “Terriers?” Obviously Mary had no clue what he was talking about.

  “Yes, terriers. Dogs.” She still looked baffled, and Clae heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, hell. Terriers, hunting dogs. They were bred to hunt down smaller animals and dig them out of their burrows. But for the terrier to work, there has to be prey. Which there may not be, in your case. I’ll say it again. Work this out with the police.”

  Mary’s mouth twisted. It seemed physically painful, but she said, “I’m sure I can make it worth your while.”

  Laura straightened, interested, but Clae didn’t share her enthusiasm.

  “I doubt you have anything I’d want.”

  “Well, how’s this: If you see anything in the mansion that catches your fancy, you can have it. If you solve the problem, of course. And if you don’t like anything, the Sullivans will personally fund your exploits.”

  “I’m already funded by the city.”

  “But I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a little extra to cover any other expenses?”

  Laura’s eyes flicked from one to the other. She for one would be very happy with a larger paycheck. With a raise she could get out of her aunt’s apartment and away from all the guilt and, more importantly, the neighbors. She sent Clae a pleading look, but he didn’t catch it. He looked at Mary like she was a puzzle.

  “You seriously think there’s an infected amulet hiding in there.”

  “Yes.”

  “You could easily lose a lot of money on this if you’re right. And what if I decide I like Daddy-in-Law’s favorite chair?”

  Mary’s grip tightened on her purse. “I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to give it up. Life’s more important than a chair.”

  Clae leaned back. He didn’t look satisfied with this answer, but relented.

  “Fine. Just know that we’re not overly concerned with the well-being of your house or possessions.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if I need a grenade I’ll use a grenade, whether or not I’m near a china cabinet.”

  Mary looked momentarily scandalized, but drew herself back together quickly. “Very well. You’ll come tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow they didn’t have Pit duty, so the day was open, but Laura still disliked the assumption.

  “Fine. We’ll arrive around eight in the morning.”

  Laura made a strangled sound. “Breakfast!”

  “Yes, provide breakfast,” Clae added.

  That wasn’t what Laura meant, but she’d ro
ll with it.

  “That can be arranged.” Mary nodded.

  “Good. Eight o’clock. See you then.”

  Clae turned and walked back behind the black drapes. Mary took a step as if to follow, then looked back at Laura.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “No directions? No other arrangements?”

  Laura leaned back and called, “Hey, Clae! Do you need directions or anything?” There was no way he couldn’t hear her, but he didn’t reply. She waited a minute before turning to Mary again. “I guess not. If the Sullivans are really that important, I’m sure we’ll find the place easily.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  Laura shrugged. She moved off down the counter and tried to look busy with the Kin. After some hesitation Mary made for the door. She paused halfway out and glanced back. She looked Laura up and down.

  “When you come tomorrow, be sure to dress appropriately.”

  With that, she was gone. Laura looked down at herself, then back up at the door.

  “Does she have something against pants?”

  Clae peeked out from behind the drapes, suggested, “Get a bloomer dress,” and vanished again. Laura felt tempted to chuck one of those hissing Kin flasks after him.

  4

  SILVER-COIN EYES

  Laura didn’t own “appropriate” clothing. Her only dress might have been loose like current fashion dictated, but it was loose and baggy in a way that made her look like a child in a flour sack. She passed it up entirely, choosing to wear her cleanest white shirt, vest, and pinstriped pants. They still showed some wear. Clae’s own pinstriped vest frayed along the collar, but he appeared to have made some halfhearted attempt to look decent. His old coat ruined the effect.

  They both looked shabby, lingering by the gates of the Sullivan mansion at 7:54 the next morning.

  Last night Morgan had been happy to share just who the Sullivans were: for three generations they’d reigned as Amicae’s sewage kings, but what the Third Quarter knew them best for was their humanitarian efforts. One of the scholarships Laura had chased in school, the same one that Charlie won, was supplied by this very family. She’d marveled at the amount of money, but she could see now that they could readily afford it. That much was obvious just from their enormous lawn. Half the Cynder building could’ve fit on that lawn. It had been manicured to perfection: uniform green grass, pure white driveway loop with an elegant fountain stuck in the middle, bright flowers and hedges placed strategically. There weren’t many gardens in Amicae to begin with, so this was overwhelming. And the house. It was so big and ornate, Laura thought it could be a modern-day castle.

  “Only one family lives here?” she muttered, leaning to see better through the bars on the gate.

  “And the servants,” said Clae.

  “They can’t possibly have enough servants to fill that thing. What would they all do?”

  “Does it really matter?” Clae took out his pocket watch, checked the time, and scoffed. “She’s late.”

  “Maybe she expects us to be fashionably late?”

  “Then she’s an idiot.”

  Laura peeled her eyes from the house to study him, unimpressed. “You think everyone’s an idiot, don’t you?”

  “The shoe fits.”

  “Excuse me.”

  A middle-aged man with graying hair and a black suit was walking toward them. He looked mildly suspicious.

  “We’re here on business.” Clae held up his briefcase. “Mary Sullivan scheduled an appointment for today, eight o’clock sharp.”

  “An appointment?” The man stopped before the gate. “What kind of appointment?”

  “We’re here to check up on any amulets in the house. Make sure they’re all working properly.”

  If anything, that just made the man even more suspicious. “Would you mind if I consult the lady about this matter? Just to be sure.”

  “We had an agreement, eight o’clock. Put us in the parlor or something,” Clae insisted.

  The man looked highly reluctant but opened the gate. He led them up the driveway and opened the door to let them inside. The lavish interior matched the outside. Outshone it, even. The entrance hall fit two large paintings on either wall, an intricate rug on the floor, a table with a mirror, and an umbrella stand. The décor had warm colors, and despite the amount of dark wood paneling it seemed cozy. The man directed them through the hall to the right and through another door into a parlor.

  “I will alert Mrs. Sullivan to your presence. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  The door clicked shut behind him, and Laura wasted no time sitting on the oddly shaped love seat. It was cushy, but not too much so, and she liked the rosy pink upholstery. Clae took the winged red armchair opposite her and rested the briefcase on his knees; he inspected the wallpaper, which was pale yellow with dark patterned designs reminiscent of pineapples.

  “So what do you think?” she asked.

  Clae reached out and plucked a dog statuette off the table beside him. He turned it over in his hands, shook it next to his ear.

  “That one’s good,” he muttered, setting it back down. “A house this size, this wealthy, probably has a lot of regular amulets around. One of them could be sabotaged or replaced. Maybe a broken one could be hidden again. There’s no way to tell without searching every room.”

  “With the amount they have, do you think it’s just a case of neglect?” said Laura. “It’s not like they know not to let amulets run dry. It may just be an accident.”

  “She did say the amulets were planted,” he pointed out. “That implies she didn’t recognize them, or at least they were infrequently used.”

  “But mobsters? She seemed adamant that they were behind it. Why would they target the Sullivans?”

  “Why do mobsters target anyone with money? The number of attempts worries me, though.”

  The door opened again. Mary Sullivan swept into the room, wearing another of those just-a-little-out-of-fashion dresses, hair done up in a twisted mass atop her head.

  “Mr. Sinclair!” Mary sounded overly sweet and looked much happier than the situation called for, possibly because that man from before lingered just behind her. “You came after all!”

  “You did schedule an appointment.”

  “Yes, but—pardon my saying so—you seemed like the type to show up late,” she lilted, with a high-pitched laugh.

  “That’s unprofessional.”

  “Many professionals would disagree. But enough of that. I need to introduce you to someone.”

  She moved aside and the man, probably a butler, did the same. A third person walked in, a man who could easily be Laura’s grandfather. He stood a few inches shorter than Mary, wrapped in a tailored brown suit fancy enough that it almost canceled out his paunchy stomach, with a watch chain strung across his front. His hair was graying and in need of a trim, windswept in a way that would make him appear amiable if his eyes didn’t have that predator’s glint. His thin lips pursed in a smile under a thick mustache, and he stepped farther into the room, stretching out one hand toward Clae.

  “This is my father-in-law, Frank Sullivan. And this is—”

  “The head Sweeper,” Frank interrupted. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Clae’s eyes narrowed but he stood to greet him, swinging the briefcase out of the way and reaching with his own free hand. “Likewise. Though I was under the impression that you weren’t going to appreciate our visit.” He glanced at Mary, who smiled like she knew this would happen.

  “I didn’t realize you were coming at first. That was all Mary’s doing,” Frank replied as they shook hands. His tone told Laura that this was not a smart move on Mary’s part. “But it’s wonderful timing, all the same. I wanted to talk to you about a problem my men ran into while digging.”

  “Problem?”

  “Yes. I’m sure you know the Sullivan brand? I own the largest of Amicae’s sanitary companies, and as the population increases, the more sewage pipes we need. I h
ad my engineers plan a new route for a main line, but the problem is that there’s something of yours in the way. I believe you call it a Pit?”

  “You think you can convince me to move a Pit?” Clae snorted.

  “Not necessarily.” Frank still smiled, but the sight of it made Laura’s skin crawl. His gestures and appearance would be good-natured in another person, but on him they seemed to serve as the coloring of a poisonous creature: a warning.

  “Then what do you want to talk to me about?”

  “I’d like your opinions on the line. Here, let me show you the plans.” He held out his arm, directing Clae to the other end of the parlor. Clae followed him to a wooden table with papers on top. These turned out to be blueprints, which Frank unrolled and started to explain. “Now you see, here is the Fifth Quarter line, and here is where the paths intersect.”

  Mary sat on the love seat next to Laura. It was less a refined “sit” and more of a “flop,” as if her legs had failed her. She watched the two men with cautious eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Laura asked quietly.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” Mary waved a hand as if to shoo away her worry.

  “Are you sure? You look kind of pale.”

  “Pale is fashionable.”

  Not that level of pale, Laura wanted to say, but Mary had begun fixing the folds of her dress, so she felt dismissed. Over at the table Clae leaned back, partially blocking one of the windows as he regarded the still-explaining Frank Sullivan. The room was just large enough that Laura couldn’t make out his words, though his tone was certainly sardonic. Clae butted in with a snappish response, and Frank looked up from the blueprints to chuckle.

  “No offense, but your father-in-law is kind of creepy,” Laura whispered.

  Mary let out a breathy laugh. “I suppose it gives him an edge in the business world. People know better than to mess with him.”

  Some people would know better, but judging by the irritation subtly growing on Clae’s face Laura’s boss was not one of them. He said something else, which Frank found still more amusing, and soon they were both standing straight and staring at each other as they talked, voices rising toward displeasure.