by Alex Rivers
My free hand smoked visibly now, thick tendrils rising from it, and the girl eyed them with fear. I tried to clench my hand, to make the heat dissipate, to calm myself. Not now, not now, not now…
It erupted in flames. They licked my skin, up to my elbow, casting a strange orange light on the girl’s face. It didn’t hurt—the flames never burned me—but once they were loose, they could do irreparable damage. They could kill.
I had to end this quickly before someone died. Black Lipstick was distracted. I swung my chain, the metal links shimmering as they arced in the air. I let go, and the chain twisted and buckled like a silvery snake. It hit the girl, coiling around her, getting tighter, slithering around her wrists. The knife dropped from the girl’s hands as she struggled to get away.
Flames licking my fingers, I crouched and turned, searching for Laurel and Hardy. My lungs were bursting, begging for air, but tendrils of the sorrow smoke still circled us. Trying to ignore the pounding in my head, my eyes flickered around, searching. I found Laurel pretty much where I had left him. He was lying on the ground in a fetal position, his eyes staring ahead, his face vacant. The smoke had been thickest near the ground, and he had presumably sucked in lungfuls of it when he gasped in pain. He was completely lost in misery.
But where was Hardy? A man the size of a small moon doesn’t just disap—
Something hard slammed into the back of my head. I tumbled forward, hitting the street, the surprise and pain making me gasp, inhaling the bittersweet smoke. I coughed, taking another breath, as I rolled around. Hardy stood above me, looking down.
Alchemy depended in part on your target. A man the size of Hardy would hardly be affected by my tiny vial. He seemed slightly upset, like a man who’s just realized he’s going to be late for work. Not so much sorrow as mild discomfort.
I wish I could say the same about me.
The sadness started from my lungs, spreading throughout my body. I suddenly felt it, the loneliness that always hovered over my shoulder. The person I loved most in the world had been taken from me five years ago. I hardly had time to meet my friends, had no parents, no family. With Breadknife always in the background, all I could do was scramble to survive. When was the last time I’d had a chance to enjoy myself? To spend some time with people I liked? To fall in love?
Five years ago, that was when. Hugging a tiny human in my arms, kissing her small head, whispering to her that we’d always be together, already knowing it was a lie. I should have kissed her more, held her tighter, smelled her just one more time before they took her away.
I hardly noticed that I was trembling on the street’s cobblestones, sobbing, tears turning everything to a blur. Through a veil of tears, I saw the fuzzy shape of Hardy pick up the backpack that held all my night’s earnings, and walk away into the darkness.
Chapter Five
I finally managed to get up from the road, still heaving deep, choking sobs. The four thugs were gone. My silvery chain was discarded on the ground by my bicycle. I scooped it up, and it coiled around my wrist, looping several times, creating an intricate bracelet. My bicycle seemed unharmed, and I righted it and pushed it to my store door, only a dozen yards away. Luckily, my key was in my pocket, and not my backpack. I took it out, unlocked the store, and shuffled inside, carrying the bicycle with me.
All I wanted to do was curl up on my bed in the back room and weep. The thugs had taken my backpack, and with it my money, some expensive ingredients and products, and my favorite coral red lipstick. I didn’t have the payment for Breadknife. I was lonely and hurt and…
And still under the effect of the sorrow fumes. I dragged my body, still full of self-pity, to the counter, where a few tiny vials containing a dark brown liquid stood. I unstopped one, drinking it in one quick gulp. It was oily, and tasted like pee. It was the most important tincture in my shop.
The first thing every alchemist learns is: Always have an antidote. Alchemy is a delicate process, and prone to accidents. Sometimes you might cook the llama’s saliva too much, sometimes you might spill some virgin’s tears into a vat of acid. Seriously, don’t get me started on what happens when you mix beetle dung with vampire dandruff. And, of course, as was the case now, you could accidentally inhale, swallow, or touch your own concoctions. It could get messy, and occasionally deadly. Always have some quick antidotes at hand.
I had more than thirty different cures and antidotes in my shop, but the one I’d just drunk, Margherita’s fix-it-all, was the one that usually worked best. It countered most of the poisons and effects created by alchemy magic. The only real drawback was its abysmal taste. I always carried a vial with me. I’d had one on me earlier, but it had been stolen with the rest of my backpack.
I sat down in the chair behind the small wooden counter, letting the antidote take effect. Slowly, the general weepiness and self-pity I felt dissipated. Tonight had been a shit-show, no doubt about it, but feeling sorry for myself would not help, and was something I preferred to avoid. I tended to ignore all the sadness and anger and guilt I felt, bottling them inside me and never letting them out, like any healthy person does. Let it fester, that’s my motto.
I leaned back into the chair, gazing around me. Tonight’s turbulent events made me look at the shop in a new light. The shop was safety. It was my home.
Quite literally, to be honest. I couldn’t possibly afford to rent two places, so the front room was the shop, and the two rooms in the back were my lab and my bedroom. But the shop was hands-down my favorite of the three.
It was the size of a small grocery store, and I had installed shelves on almost all the walls, going up to the ceiling. These were crowded with bottles, vials, jars, glass tubes, crystals, herbs, and cloth bags of all shapes, sizes, and colors. There was one window, and a shaft of pale moonlight shone on the wooden floorboards. The shop’s electrical light, coming from one dim bulb, wasn’t enough to really shine into the nooks and corners of the room, which gave the entire setting an aura of mystery. Though it hadn’t been intentional, I liked the effect, and had chosen to leave it that way.
My counter was by the wall directly in front of the door. Though the rest of the shop was crowded, the counter itself was always clean and empty except for a small cash register, and a black bound book in which I jotted down any customer orders I didn’t have on hand. My chair had been a gift from Sinead after she’d realized, aghast, that I was using a rusty bar stool. The chair was wooden, with light gray upholstery that already had a slight hollow in the shape of my ass.
Reasonably sure that my fit of misery and sadness had ended, I got up and opened the back door.
A large white shadow dashed at me from the darkness. It barked joyfully, then whined, then barked again, wagged its tail, ran three times around me, and finally, done with the spectrum of canine emotions, sat squarely down, tongue lolling in a permanent delighted grin.
“Magnus!” I said, theatrically raising my hands. “Did you miss me, boy? Did you miss me?”
He wagged his tail, barked, then got up, ears erect. Sniffing, he then ran around me five more times and sat down, which I interpreted as an affirmation that he had, in fact, missed me.
I’d deliberated before taking Magnus in. My list of cons was huge: A dog was a lot of work. I couldn’t afford to take care of him. I’d have to walk him three times a day, which was impossible. My tiny shop didn’t have room. He would ruin all my furniture. Dogs required attention, and I had no time. I was an alchemist, working with dangerous substances, and he might eat them. This would not be a wise decision.
The pro list was much shorter. It was, essentially: OMG, puppy!
This internal debate had taken place in the street as I’d stared down at the only yellow-white puppy in a large cardboard box. He looked up at me with his trusting puppy eyes. He wagged his cute puppy tail. He let out one short, soft whine. I was doomed. Not even Margherita’s fix-it-all could protect me from his wiles.
I named him Magnus, after Albertus Magnus, the famou
s alchemist.
Sinead, who knew a thing or two about dogs, told me he was mostly golden retriever. She also warned me that, taking into consideration the size of his snout and feet, he would grow into the dog equivalent of a rhinoceros. Whatever. He was cute, and he loved me unequivocally.
I crouched and scratched him behind his left ear. He narrowed his eyes, his tail thumping like a toppled metronome on the wooden floor.
“Mommy’s screwed,” I told him, in my high-pitched talk-to-Magnus voice. “Mommy’s payment to a psychopathic gangster is gone. Yes. He will flay Mommy alive. Who’s screwed? It’s Mommy! Yes it is! Mommy’s screwed.”
I’d become one of those women who call themselves “mommy” when talking to their dog. Sixteen-year-old Lou would have been mortified to see her future self.
Magnus licked my nose in response and then nuzzled his head closer to the scratching hand. He panted in a manner that would have been incredibly disturbing coming from an adult man, but was the epitome of cuteness in a seven-month-old puppy.
I’d had the foresight to walk and feed him before I’d left for my errands, which meant I could get about two hours of sleep before he would jump on the bed, licking me awake to demand his morning walk.
I stumbled into the shower, in a bathroom the size of a broom closet. Negotiating it meant I had to undress in the bedroom, open the bathroom door, and enter sideways, nudging Magnus out with my foot and closing it. Since the room was too small for an actual shower stall, the shower partly sprayed the toilet, which meant I had to wipe it clean afterward. Or, as was mostly the case, forget, and sit down on a wet toilet an hour later.
Rinsing off the sweat and the dirt from lying in the street, I took stock of my options, of which there was exactly one: beg Breadknife to give me a few more days to pay up. We went back a ways; surely he had a soft spot for me?
I prodded the back of my head, where Hardy the goon had hit me, and winced as I touched the bruise. It was swollen, and the pain made me feel slightly sorry for myself again. But this time it was natural self-pity, the type that is sometimes required and can easily be fixed with a shot of whiskey and a good, solid, two-hour night’s sleep. Which is what I did.
Chapter Six
I’d hardly closed my eyes before the licking began, morning light shining through the shades of my small bedroom window. I shoved Magnus off the bed, groaning, but his snooze button was eternally broken. He jumped right back on the bed and commenced the licking treatment again. I opened an eye and peered at my phone, checking the time.
“Shit!”
Too late. Too damn late. I lunged from the bed, and Magnus cartwheeled off it in confusion. I was already scrambling at the piles of clothing on the floor—my wardrobe—searching for something that could even vaguely be considered clean and presentable. Shirt. Pants. I could do without socks. I put on my boots still standing, hopping on one leg at a time, nearly crashing to the floor. I checked the time again.
“Shit!”
The leash was nowhere to be found. Magnus occasionally hid it, for reasons known only to himself. I tore through the three rooms in a frenzy, finally locating it under a dress I didn’t recall owning. I called Magnus, and he barked with joy and ran over. I tried to fasten the leash to his collar. He kept jumping and barking, his tongue lolling with glee, making it nearly impossible.
“Magnus, sit!” I yelled at him.
Training him was not my strong suit. Presumably, he thought I said, “Magnus, lick my hand and then dribble some pee on the floor in excitement.”
Finally, with the leash latched, we both ran at the door, with me glancing again at the time.
“Oh, shit, shit, shit!”
We dashed outside and down the street. My body began to remind me I had taken quite a beating the day before, and that I hadn’t slept enough since. My head pounded and the wound at my waist burned. I kept running, ignoring the pain. I could handle physical discomfort, but if I missed her… I needed that glimpse. That one glimpse. As long as I got it, I could get through the day, shitty as it was guaranteed to be.
We ran down the street, took a right, and I slowed down, trying to behave as if I were on a normal daily stroll. My eyes searched for her desperately.
Nothing.
The gray Boston sky rumbled, thick dark clouds promising an oncoming rain that matched the state of my morale. I’d missed her. I had slept too late, thinking Magnus would wake me in time, and I had missed her. And it was already Friday, which meant the next time I would see her would be Monday. A tear materialized in my eye, and I let out a small hiccupping sob. Of all the days to have been late…
And then they appeared, coming around the bend, down the street, and I felt a wave of relief. I hadn’t missed her after all.
I strolled casually down the street, just a lady walking her dog. They got closer, and I watched her from the corner of my eye. She chattered incessantly, clutching the woman’s hand, smiling—such a beautiful smile.
My brain drank in the details. The ponytail with the purple headband. The pink boots, white stockings, sky blue skirt, white T-shirt with a kitten. That smile. Those eyes. Her lovely, happy voice as they got closer.
“Good morning.” The woman who held the girl’s hand smiled warmly at me—as she always did, every morning.
“Morning,” I said back, as I always did, hoping she could ignore my bloodshot eyes, my hair, the shirt I had put on inside out.
She didn’t spare me a second glance. Of course she didn’t. I was just another stranger, a woman she saw every morning, walking her dog.
And the five-year-old girl didn’t pay attention to me either. Her attention was focused on Magnus. She smiled at him shyly, and hugged the woman’s leg as they went by us. I wanted to tell her it was okay, he didn’t bite, she could pet him if she wanted, but my voice was gone. Next time. Maybe I could tell her next time.
I drank up her face, her clothes, her smile. Her face became freshly etched in my mind, to remain as it was now, until the next time I saw her.
And then they were gone.
I resisted the desire to glance backward. I couldn’t afford to draw the woman’s attention, or she might notice some strange details.
Like how they met us every morning on their way to the girl’s school. Every single morning.
Like how whenever the girl called her “mommy” as they walked by, I would wince and look away, almost as if I’d been slapped.
Like how her adopted daughter’s eyes looked just like mine—large, round, and chocolatey.
By the time Anthony “Breadknife” Cisternino entered my shop, I was on my third cup of coffee, nursing a raging headache, and feeling as if sleeping with the fishes would be a nice relief.
He instantly dominated the room, as he always did, wherever he was. Breadknife had a sort of charm going for him—intense dark eyes, an expression of some deeper understanding of the universe, and a face that had aged incredibly well. His hair was silvery-white and long, reaching almost to his shoulders. Of course, once you knew him well enough, you realized this charm hid a ruthless, violent, and cold individual. You could put all his compassion and conscience in an envelope, and still have room left for a letter.
I’d heard a joke about him once: “How many Breadknives does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to change the light bulb, and one to kill you for asking dumb questions.”
If gangsters had a good sense of humor, they’d be comedians instead.
Following in his wake were two of his scariest goons. Matteo “Ear” Ricci was about thirty-five, sleek, with an emotionless face. He was called “Ear” not because he listened well, but because he was known to bite the ears off people when enraged. Rumor claimed he either ate them later or pickled them and kept them as souvenirs, but I was not one to believe bullshit. When I was a young girl, living with the rest of Breadknife’s gang, Matteo had a knack for tormenting all the weak kids, stealing our money and cigarettes, occasionally groping or pinching a girl who walked past h
im. Whenever I saw him, a flame of hatred instantly kindled in my heart.
The other, Steve O’Sullivan, was my age, and we had originally joined Breadknife’s gang two days apart. He was a bit short, his head square; someone had once joked that he was the perfect shape to be a coffee table. Ha ha ha, he was dead minutes later. Steve was the perfect soldier. He had no original thoughts in his flat head, followed orders without asking questions, and was good at hurting and killing. Despite our acquaintance, he showed no sign of recognition when he glanced at me. Not because he didn’t know who I was, but because for him, it didn’t matter.
“Lou,” Breadknife greeted me with a warm smile. “You’re looking well! Being a shop owner really agrees with you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Cisternino.” I smiled demurely, my heart thumping hard.
“Lou, please, how long have we known each other? Call me Anthony. And how are Sinead and Isabel these days? I haven’t seen them in so long.”
I shrugged, not wanting to drag my friends into the mud with me. “Would you like something to drink… Anthony?”
His eyes locked with mine for a long second, and the charm seemed to seep away from his fixed smile. “Usually when I come here, there’s an envelope on the counter. The first thing you tell me is ‘Here’s your money.’ As if you can’t wait for me to leave—”
“It’s always a pleasure to have you here.”
“Of course it is. But today, there is no envelope. And you are very polite and hospitable.” He looked around him at the store’s shelves, as if wondering if his money was hiding somewhere in the room. “Where is my money, Lou?”
I swallowed. “I’m short.”
“Are you.” It was not positioned as a question. It was more of a statement, with a veiled threat underlying the two syllables.
“I got robbed yesterday. I had it all, but four assholes jumped me… I have a bruise to show for it. They took my bag with all the money I’d made. I have some money in the safe. It was supposed to be for the rent, but maybe I can work something out with the landlord. So it can be an advance, and then next week—”
