by Paul Krueger
“Well, no,” Bailey said. “But I believe that if the Court investigates, they’ll find—”
“Ms. Chen,” said Garrett, “Bailey. Kindly describe the distilling equipment Mr. Sorensen showed you.”
“Um.” She didn’t know much about the technical specs of distilling equipment or even what that had to do with anything. “They’re big. Made of steel.”
Garrett nodded. “I see. And how did you know they were made of steel? How did you know specifically which liquors they were manufacturing?”
“Sorry?”
“The machinery used in Apex’s distillery is indeed made of steel,” Garrett said. “But as we all know, the standard material is copper. To my knowledge—and I know quite a lot—you’ve never visited Apex. Nor was the equipment pictured or described in the news article you’ve submitted for our scrutiny.”
Shit, Bailey thought. Apparently someone did still read newspapers. “Sorensen showed me,” she said, which was sort of true.
“How?”
“On his phone,” she said. “He’d taken pictures during a visit to the construction site.”
“I see.” Garrett pulled out his own phone, which seemed surprisingly advanced for a man of his age; she supposed that being partners with a tech kingpin had its benefits. “And would it surprise you to know that shortly after your departure from his office, my esteemed partner sent me a communiqué informing me of your conversation? And that just now I sent him one in return, asking if at any point he had shared pictures with you. Do you know what he said, Bailey?”
“Um …”
“That your assertion was categorically untrue,” Garrett said. “Which leaves unresolved the matter of how you obtained information you should not have.”
“I can explain,” Bailey said.
“Really?” Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Because it seems to me that you came by this information as if by magic.”
He knows. The words sent a chill through her. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’d just have to hope the Tribunes would hear her out.
“Ms. Chen, have you ever ingested the concoction known as a gold rush?”
Before Bailey could answer, Vincent said, “Yeah. She has. I watched her do it.”
Bailey wheeled on him. “Boss—”
“Kiddo, I’m not letting you take the fall for something I put you up to,” he said. “You want the truth? Yeah. This was always about me and the runty little bastard.”
That wasn’t the truth at all. But Vincent wouldn’t let her stop him.
“A guy knows when he’s lost the game, and I got outplayed. You wanna take down the king, there’s no need to drag the pawn with him. It’s not Bailey’s fault.”
Bailey felt a stab of guilt. She’d broken the rules, but Vincent was taking the fall.
“Using a cocktail on a civilian is forbidden.” Garrett couldn’t hide the triumphant gleam in his eye. “And so is utilizing said cocktail outside the parameters of work. Both offenses have been admitted to, and both carry the penalty of erasure and … disbarment.”
No. Bailey’s stomach gave a sickening roll. Not oblivinum.
Vincent nodded. “Yeah. Figured you’d give me the clean slate.”
Bailey clenched her fist; the tingling electrified her fingertips. This was it, her do-or-die moment. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to die.
“Boss,” she said in a low voice, “get ready.”
Before Vincent could ask why, Bailey threw up a hand and, with an ozone-scented crack, shot a blinding blue-white lightning tendril from her palm. The feeling was like sticking her finger in a socket but in reverse, and she stumbled from the recoil.
“Kiddo!”
The bottles behind the bar exploded in a shower of glass and liquid, and the air filled with smoke. No one could see, but one person knew how to move without sight.
“Come on!” Bailey said, placing her small hand in Vincent’s calloused one. “Get us out of here!”
Vincent pulled Bailey and Poppy through the confusion of blasted chair legs and jagged bottle fragments and out to the street.
“Trust no one, huh?” Vincent shouted over the din.
“You taught me well!”
“Well, school’s out!” he said. “You’re in the real world now!”
THE DEVIL’S WATER DICTIONARY.
Planter’s Punch
A libation of lightning
1. In a shaker filled with ice, combine two ounces of dark rum, one and a half ounces apiece of pineapple juice and orange juice, half an ounce of lime juice, and one teaspoon apiece of grenadine and simple syrup.
2. Shake well; then strain into an iced highball glass.
3. Add three dashes of Angostura bitters.
4. Serve garnished with a maraschino cherry and an orange slice.
Planter’s punch, so named for the Planters Inn in Charleston, South Carolina, is alike in procedure (if not in makeup) to the mai tai. But where the former comes from Western appropriation of Polynesian culture, the latter is rooted in Western appropriation of Jamaican culture, which is a different matter entirely.
Though some version of planter’s punch is believed to have existed in the Caribbean during the pre-Blackout era, the modern iteration suddenly and inexplicably emerged in Charleston in the mid-nineteenth century. When local bartenders arrived to contain the situation, they were greeted by a lightning-singed disaster area, an unfortunate side effect of the hotel’s policy to make its signature punch by the bowlful.
GRENADINE.
A sweet and tart syrup made from pomegranate juice, grenadine is known for its distinctive red color. A curious problem unique to modern-day America is that the industrialization of grenadine has led to a product made entirely of artificial ingredients. The average bottle of commercial grenadine, though similar to the genuine article in taste and appearance, is dangerous because of its utter lack of magical utility. Bartenders are encouraged to buy grenadine in international markets, where the original recipe is still in wide use, or to make it themselves.
PINEAPPLE JUICE.
Despite its close association with the Pacific islands, the pineapple is in fact native to South America. Caribbean natives were using it for culinary purposes centuries before Europeans arrived and spread it throughout the globe. The fruit’s flavor is strong and distinct, making it an ideal partner for dark rum; the similarly aggressive nature of the two substances creates a feedback loop, which the New Orleans barmaid Dorothy Deschamps once compared to a shouting match in a glass.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The double doors to the street were bolted shut, but Bailey was ready. Fists up, she sent another snap of lightning barreling outward, shattering the glass.
She hurled another bolt and struck a heavy industrial light. Even with adrenaline and electricity coursing through every limb, she knew a successful escape meant stalling their pursuers. The light wobbled and smashed into bits that skittered across the floor, a minefield for anyone trying to catch them. All they had to do was get to the doors and—
“Boss!”
A burly barback threw a hook straight for Vincent’s face. Vincent jerked out of the way, giving Bailey just enough time to grab the man’s fuzzy forearm. With a sharp blast, she expelled all her energy. The barback lit up with blue electricity before crumpling unconscious to the ground, the smell of singed hair filling the air.
“Door!” Bailey shouted. Without thinking, Vincent ducked and rolled through the opening and out into the night.
The sky was the deep purple of fresh nightfall and Greektown was starting to bustle. Valets were taking car keys in front of the squat, wide restaurant buildings that sat below boxy high-rises. To the east loomed the Sears Tower, its black facade dotted with yellow windows and its twin antennas glowing like burning magnesium.
Bailey grabbed Vincent and ran toward the parking lot, secluded on one side by trees and on the others by tall boxy buildings. If shit was going down, they needed to keep a low profile. Plus, there was no way t
o slip out of sight if they stayed in the open.
“Gavin’s waiting with the car at the park on Adams!” Vincent yelled. “Northwest corner!”
“How did you—”
“You’re not the only one who’s paranoid, kiddo.” He darted between parked cars, Poppy’s leash in one hand and Bailey’s hand in the other. “He’ll get us to the Loop, and I’ll arm up with some booze—”
They were halfway across the lot and no one had come after them yet. It didn’t feel right. Bailey looked over her shoulder just in time. “Boss, duck!”
Ever the unquestioning soldier, Vincent stooped just as a jet of orange flame blasted over their heads. Bailey smelled her own singed hair. Another of Kozlovsky’s staffers was on their tail, and more were pouring out onto the street, no doubt having been served hastily prepared drinks. She couldn’t believe they’d managed to mix them so quickly. “We’re outnumbered,” she said. “They’ll catch us.”
“Like hell!” he said. “Shoot!”
Bailey squeezed her eyes shut as another burst of lightning cracked from her fingertips. The weedy Russian in pursuit threw himself out of its path, but not for long; he soon sped up as he drew more fire around his hands.
“Let her go, Vincent!” someone yelled behind them. Bailey didn’t need to turn around. She recognized the voice and felt a sinking in her gut. It was Zane, and that meant they weren’t just fighting off random strangers; they were up against the Alechemists.
Vincent skidded to a stop.
“Here. Go.” He released Bailey, slipped Poppy’s leash into her hand, and turned to run blindly toward their pursuers.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Bailey’s voice burned in her throat even as she realized she knew the answer: buying her time.
Poppy didn’t hesitate. Yanking on the leash, she dragged Bailey toward the bus stop. When Bailey didn’t follow, Poppy turned, barked, and yanked again more insistently. Still Bailey wouldn’t go.
When she was twelve, Bailey had stumbled upon her dad’s collection of movies about a blind samurai who wandered into a town that needed him to fend off a small army. She’d loved them, but Zane never bought it. “That was great and all,” he’d told her, “but no way could a blind guy kick that much butt.” When she tried to argue that his hearing was enhanced because of the absence of his sight, Zane waved it off. “No one can hear that well,” he’d said.
But Vincent could.
He moved like a tiger: forceful, precise. Kozlovsky’s flame-throwing bartender jumped out from behind a parked delivery truck, but Vincent dodged the projectile and then slammed a palm into the guy’s chest, knocking him over with nothing but sheer might. With a crack, the bartender bent at the ankle, caught in a storm drain, and Vincent surged toward the Alechemists.
Bailey hurled another lightning bolt, aiming for the ground at the Alechemists’ feet. Bucket was ready, and with the stomp of his boot he summoned a purple bubble-shaped shield of light that absorbed Bailey’s attack amid a crash of sparks. Then, as quickly as it had come, the purple bubble evaporated, and Mona and Zane vaulted forward.
Mona darted in first, moving astonishingly fast.
“No!” Bailey sprinted forward, with Poppy in tow, and shot a bolt in front of her. Not only did Mona dodge it, but her body stretched and distended itself out of harm’s way. She wasn’t moving like liquid; she was liquid. Vincent, who’d been relying on hearing a solid target, couldn’t pin her down. He swung but missed, the momentum throwing him completely off balance. Before he could correct himself, Zane landed a blow that sent Vincent flying.
A screwdriver, Bailey thought. There was no other way Zane’s matchstick frame could put out that kind of power. Bailey was seeing something truly new in Zane. And it was ugly.
As Vincent jumped to his feet, Bailey felt a sharp pain below her ankle. Poppy had nipped her heel. The dog had one instinct—obey—and she strained every fiber of her leash in an effort to carry out Vincent’s order: get Bailey out of the parking-lot battleground.
But unlike the dog, Bailey refused to obey. “Poppy,” she said sharply, “go save Dad.”
The dog seemed to understand. She barely gave Bailey a look before barreling toward her master.
Vincent sprang back not a split second before Zane kicked his leg like an ax. His super strength cracked the concrete, but Vincent was unhurt.
“Playing for keeps, huh?” Vincent said, his head whipping toward the sound.
“You’re done!” Zane shouted. “You’re losing your mind!” He lunged for Vincent, but a growling Poppy jumped up and wrenched her jaws around his outstretched arm. The sudden addition of seventy pounds of dog was enough to throw Zane off course. He ceased his attack, trying to dislodge Poppy. “Ah! Fucking dog!”
“You leave her alone!” Vincent yelled. “Poppy! Down!”
Obedient as ever, Poppy released Zane, and Bailey took her cue. She flung her fist forward, surging with electricity, but Bucket jumped into her path; instead of hitting Zane, her lightning slammed into the purple force field that erupted in its path. Mona bounded over the top of the shield bubble, her form rippling like a summertime mirage, and aimed her booted feet at Vincent’s chest. The kick sent him staggering backward.
“Three of us and one of you!” said Zane. “Give it up, old man!”
Vincent growled and rolled to his feet as Mona landed hard beside his head. She pulled back her fist, but instead of ramming forward, her arm warped into an arc. Bailey understood: Mona couldn’t surpass Vincent’s hitting power, but she could use momentum and her liquid form to turn her arm into a whip.
“Boss! Duck!” Vincent tensed in surprise but bent down. As the whiplike punch swept over his head, he dived forward, grabbed Mona by the waist, and pivoted her body. “Go, kiddo!”
Mona’s elongated arm struck Bucket with a slosh. No sooner did Bailey see the splash than she fired a jolt of electricity straight into her rival. The blue-white energy trail shot through both Mona and Bucket, knocking them to the ground; for a single terrifying moment Bailey thought she’d killed them. But they were alive, just flattened and shivering from shock.
Bailey leveled a defiant glare at Zane. “He’s not alone.”
Vincent straightened, breathing hard as Poppy took her place beside Bailey, teeth bared. “You lose, Junior. Let us walk.”
Zane glowered past Vincent at Bailey. She’d never seen his face so full of contempt. “So that’s it, huh?” he shouted to her in a ragged voice. “You really believe all this crazy shit? You’re going to just ignore what the Court says is truth?”
“You don’t need to do the whole monologue thing,” Vincent said.
“Zane,” Bailey said, trying to steady her voice even as her body quaked with the effort to contain a lightning storm. “We’re going now, and you’re not going to stop us. Think about what I said. Or if you don’t want to think about me—I get it, you’re mad—think about Chicago. Think about keeping the city safe. And when you realize—”
“I was your best friend!”
“And I’m still yours!” Bailey could see Vincent’s hands tense, but she held him back. “Zane, you have to listen to me—”
“No monologuing for you either, kiddo,” Vincent said. “His ears ain’t open.”
Bailey lowered her arms, a zap traveling up her spine. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“What makes you think I’ll let you do that?” Zane said, stepping forward. Again Poppy bared her teeth.
“It’s us against you, Zane,” Bailey said. “Well, us and Poppy. And I know you won’t hurt a dog.”
“Call her off.” Zane said. “This is between you and me, Bailey.”
“Fat chance,” said Vincent. “The easiest fight to lose is a fair one. You might think you’re a hot-shit bartender, little Whelan, but I know what this girl can do. She’s saved your ass before. I guarantee she won’t hesitate to kick a dent in it this time, either. And she’ll have help.”
Bailey’s first instinct was to protest, bu
t she stopped. Vincent was right. She was ready. She’d worked hard. And she would kick ass, even though it terrified her to think that she could take down her best friend. She steeled herself for the worst.
Zane’s narrow shoulders slumped and Bailey’s heart soared. He’d listen—and they’d stop Garrett and fight off the tremens. Together.
“All right,” Zane said. “I—”
Suddenly a wet crack split the air, followed by an inhuman yelp. Poppy collapsed, dead at Vincent’s feet.
Bailey’s hands flew to her mouth. She screamed, but only for a moment. Zane yelped and darted back, his fury instantly replaced by horror.
Vincent roared. “Poppy? Poppy! You son of a—” But his hands slapped to his sides, as if he had suddenly turned into a marionette. His boot heels forcibly clicked together. And then he stood tall at attention. His square jaw trembled as it tried to resist the force clamping his mouth shut.
Garrett Whelan stepped into view, one hand outstretched. “I believe this matter has been sufficiently argued in a public forum.” He gestured, and two shot glasses levitated into view, each full of a glowing purple liquid. “You’ve become an agent of destruction too great for the Court to allow. It will take all night to properly modify the recollections of every civilian your antics have entertained.”
“Uncle Garrett,” Zane said, breathless, “you killed that dog. She—”
“Was being held at your throat like the tip of a rapier,” Garrett said calmly. “You’re my family, Zane. I would do it again, every time.” He stalked forward deliberately, preceded by the floating shot glass. As he swept his arm upward, Vincent’s chin jerkily copied the movement. When Garrett spread his fingers, Vincent’s mouth opened. The oblivinum drifted closer until it hovered just above his lips.
And then, to Bailey’s surprise, Garrett’s demeanor softened. “My deepest apologies that it ever came to this,” he said quietly. “You were a paragon, Vincent. Even in your deepest doldrums, you perched at a height few could reach—even me. But I fear that with a higher height comes a greater fall. Bibo ergo sum, old friend.”
