by Paul Krueger
The others stared. A moment ago the Long Island iced tea had been a dose of aged rum away from glowing and, presumably, granting immortality. Now it was just a dark stain on a concrete floor, garnished with glass shards and a lemon slice.
Looking disappointed but perhaps not surprised that no one joined in on his joke, Sorensen retreated and slapped Garrett heartily on the back.
“Hey, don’t sweat it, old pal. What were you drinking? We’ll get one of the bartenders to—”
“An old fashioned.” Garrett looked up, not at Sorensen but, with cold anger, at Bailey.
“Done,” Sorensen said. “I’ll—”
“Not for me, you imbecile,” Garrett snapped. “The girl. She’s had one.”
“You’re done, Garrett,” Bailey said.
Still in shock, Zane managed to glance between Bailey, his uncle, and the broken glass. “Bailey—you—” he croaked. “That was it.”
“Sorry,” Sorensen said, “but I feel like things have just gotten crazy intense here. What’s—”
“Shut up, Bowen,” Garrett said. “Ms. Chen. I assume, given your financial situation, that a cab from Ravenswood would’ve cost an exorbitant amount, rendering you at the mercy of the Chicago Transit Authority. Assuming further that you came here immediately, which I imagine you didn’t, I would posit that you have less than ten minutes left of psionic potency.”
Bailey said nothing. Technically he was wrong, but he was still right. In fact, thanks to her small body mass and lack of fat, she probably had even less time than that. Already she felt the magical warmth cooling around the edges. “Ten minutes is more than enough to stop you.”
Garrett nodded. “I can’t dispute the veracity of your contention,” he said. “So instead, I proffer this counterquery: is it sufficient time to stop her?”
“Stop wh—”
A blunt object clocked Bailey on the back of the head. She reeled forward, her vision filled with cascading stars. She tried to marshal her psychic powers and catch her fall, but someone caught her first: Zane. The red lining of his cape flared around them as he pushed her upright. His face was pale. Two feet away a figure with bowed head crouched like a tiger, wearing not a costume but a bartender’s outfit: black McNee’s T-shirt and white towel tucked in a belt. Bailey didn’t need to see the face to know that Mona and her thick-soled boots had been the one to kick her down.
“Babe?” Zane said weakly. “What are you—”
But before he could finish, he and Bailey were under attack.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mona bounded forward, but Zane was rooted where he stood. Fortunately, Bailey’s mind was already in high gear.
“Move, you dapper idiot!” She shoved him aside and gave Mona’s bootlaces a telekinetic yank, but it wasn’t enough to topple her. She rolled forward and, with a low sweep of her leg, aimed a kick that Bailey barely jumped over.
With everything she had, Bailey pushed back. This time Mona slammed into one of the four giant stills; a metallic clang rang through the loft like a cathedral bell.
Garrett was already receding into the darkness. Bailey tore after him.
“Bowie, get the other bartenders up here!” she yelled. “I’ll explain later!”
“But—”
“Go!”
Garrett had disappeared. From the quick rattle of footsteps, it sounded as if he’d taken to the catwalk. With shaking hands, Bailey snapped open her purse, gestured, and lauched her projectile—a billiard ball swiped from the abandoned Long & Strong, where she’d fixed her old fashioned. But Bailey’s mind was too frazzled to keep the ball on target, and it caromed off one of the catwalk’s rails.
“Bailey!”
She had barely caught the ball before Zane tackled her to the ground. A whip of water lashed out where they’d stood, and Mona, who’d surrounded each of her arms with a long liquid tendril, wound back for another strike.
“Come on!” Bailey scrambled to her feet, pulling Zane behind a still as a second lash cracked from Mona’s arm.
“What the everloving fuck.” Zane was breathing hard. “What the hell is she doing?”
“I don’t know,” Bailey said.
“This can’t be happening,” he said. “I saw it. The Long Island iced tea. But … Garrett—Mona—she wouldn’t—”
“Newsflash, Zane. It can and she did.” Bailey poked her head out in time to see Mona shoot a shard of ice toward them like a glittering arrow. Mentally she swatted it away. “Do you want to keep sitting here and saying it isn’t?”
“I’m going through a lot here, okay?” he said. “My uncle and my girlfriend are trying to, I don’t know, kill us. Why would they even—”
“Because I was right.” Bailey dumped her purse and sent another pool ball—the sixteen—careening off the metal fixtures crisscrossing the huge open space, distracting Mona until Bailey could track down Garrett. “Your uncle’s taking over, and he’s bringing people down with him. First Vincent, then us. If he gets that drink, this place will be swarming with tremens.” She was practically shouting over the clang of flying icicles hitting the stills and the roar of the machinery. “The Long Island will pull them here, and the drunk people downstairs will be a buffet. There aren’t enough bartenders to stop them. And your uncle, the man who made this all happen, will be un-fucking-touchable.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Bailey sensed the sixteen ball wobble. “I’ve only got a few minutes left in me. Get downstairs. Make sure Sorensen evacuates the place. I guess I can hold them off—”
“Mona and Garrett? They’re two of the best bartenders in Chicago.”
“And what would you do about it if you were here?” Bailey snapped. “You’re sober, which is synonymous with useless, so if you want to help, come back with something in your system. I’ll cover you.”
And then, for good measure, she kissed him.
Zane blinked when she pulled away. “Bailey?” he said. “What the hell was that?”
She smiled bittersweetly. “That was for me. Go.”
He nodded.
She nodded back.
Then together they surged out from behind the still.
Icy hail flew at them from every direction. Bailey ducked, gesturing at their point of origin, and her six remaining billiard balls zoomed in that direction. Instantly her temples throbbed. Controlling multiple flight paths felt like her brain was juggling pieces of itself.
Zane turned when she slowed, but Bailey squeezed her eyes shut and plowed on. “Keep going!”
Above them, someone ran in the catwalk; Bailey’s head ached all over again.
Zane threw himself past her and his long legs carried him quickly across the industrial floor. Mona adjusted her angle of fire. Bailey intercepted the shards, but as she sent the ice veering off course, she lost her grip on one of the pool balls, which skittered to the floor. Gritting her teeth, she redoubled her efforts to maintain control, but it was almost impossible while also shielding Zane.
Of course, Bailey realized. That was the whole point. Mona was trying to split her focus.
Well, Bailey thought, two can play that game. She eyed the tiny figure rushing across the catwalk and listened for footsteps beneath the whine of the machines, did some hasty telekinetic math, then let the striped eleven ball fly. As a second round of ice shards flew forward, the ball shot straight through the railings and clocked Garrett with a skull-rattling crack, loud enough to distract Mona.
The shards faltered, then fell like hail.
Bailey had already launched herself at the nearest staircase. She bounded up the steps, risking a glance down as she climbed. Mona sprinted across the floor, her dark eyes locked on Bailey, but behind her a not-magician’s cape flashed just as the elevator doors slid shut.
Hope fluttered in Bailey’s chest. Zane would be back with reinforcements, and maybe even another drink for her. And once the rest of the bartenders showed up to fight, Mona and Garrett would lose. All Bailey had to do was last u
ntil that fight could begin, which …
Easier said than fucking done.
Sprinting onto the catwalk, Bailey called her pool balls and set them orbiting around her like tiny moons, a rotating shield. From this high, she could finally see where Garrett was running. At the other end of the catwalk were more stairs that led down to the collection tanks, where he could dispense a second round and mix again. If he got even a few moments alone, it was game over.
But Garrett had taken a pool ball to the head, and Bailey had a lead on her pursuer.
Mona seemed to read her thoughts. Rather than vault for the stairs, she pulled back one of her water whips, lashed it at a catwalk railing, and swung swashbuckler-style directly into Bailey’s path.
“Chen.” Mona landed softly, the cresting water around her glowing in the light.
“Mona,” Bailey said, because she still had no idea what Mona’s last name was. “You’re … a surprise.”
She tried to shoot the eight ball forward, over Mona’s shoulder and toward Garrett, but Mona smirked, held her arms wide, and summoned the water into an immense, glittering wall. The ball smacked and fell, scattering droplets.
“Let him drink, Chen,” Mona said.
“No way in hell.”
A gush of water surged forward, but this time Bailey was ready. She knocked a billiard ball straight into Mona’s wrist, and the water fell limply to the floor.
“The first one he made’s probably called a whole delirium on this place. If he makes another, then who knows what—”
“I know,” Mona said, shouting over the machines. “I know what will happen. That’s why it needs to.” Her voice was even, but her arms and hands were tense with the effort of holding the water wall in place.
“What?” Bailey glanced again at Garrett. He was up again and hobbling toward another flight of stairs that led to the valves at the bottom of the stills. “Why?”
It wasn’t a debate. Mona windmilled her legs into an aerial kick, water surging around her. Bailey panicked and fired off two shots, but Mona dodged them, grabbing the railing and swinging out of the way before a crushing torrent smashed Bailey face-first into metal.
Gasping, Bailey struggled to push back against the overwhelming pressure, but the heavy water was everywhere, clogging her eyes and ears and throat as the billiard balls clattered to the ground. She was losing power. Losing air. Losing the fight.
No. Think, Bailey.
Right. She could think her way out.
Telekinetically, she grabbed her own ankles and pulled as hard as she could. The jagged floor tore at her skin and grated her orange dress like cheese. But a moment later she was out from beneath the water, coughing and scrambling to get back on her feet. Her dress clung heavily, and with a little burst of psychic effort she shoved her sopping hair out of her eyes. She needed an advantage, and fast. She’d wasted so much time, and another magical swirly would suffocate her.
Suffocate. That was it.
Mona surged another whip of water, but Bailey hit it with a telekinetic hammer. She was too weak to wrest control from Mona, but she caused a decent backsplash, drenching them both. Bailey blocked her mouth with a forearm, but Mona wasn’t ready and for a second she coughed. That was all Bailey needed.
With a vicious slash, Bailey willed Mona’s towel, now freshly wet, to rip out of its belt loop and plaster itself over Mona’s face. Mona attempted to claw it off but the heavy cloth cut off her air. Bailey clamped down as hard as she could and commanded the towel to knot itself behind Mona’s head. The twin water whips immediately fell inert, splatting through the perforated catwalk floor and onto the concrete below. Barely pausing, Bailey turned, planted a foot, and with a door-breaking kick launched Mona down the nearest flight of stairs.
Ahead, Garrett had reached the floor near the collection tank. He’d produced another glass and started to mix.
It was too far for Bailey to run—and judging by how viciously her scraped-up skin stung, she was almost sober. But not quite powerless. She grabbed the nearest railing and jumped over the edge.
Air whistled past her ears as she directed all her mental power into flinging her body forward like a shot put. Shoot for the moon, she thought, dazed. Even if you miss, you’ll land on concrete and smash into a bunch of bloody, dead bits.
But she didn’t miss. She didn’t stick the landing but kind of hit the ground running. Pain ricocheted up her leg, but she couldn’t give two shits if it was broken. She was alive, and she was already fantasizing about giving Garrett a heroic punch in the jaw and declaring something like “Garrett, I’m cutting you off.”
Ooh, that was pretty good.
“Garrett, I’m cutting you—ah!”
She stumbled on one of the loose pool balls—not enough to lose balance but enough to distract Garrett. It wasn’t a pithy reach-for-the-sky moment, but it worked.
“Oh, Ms. Chen,” Garrett said, lowering his glass. “A victim of your poor education.”
Bailey hobbled forward, wincing. “I was Vincent’s best student.”
He smirked. “I was referring to UPenn.”
Fury twisted Bailey’s stomach, but the pain in her leg kept her from thinking of a rejoinder.
“You thought you’d get out there and change the world.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve held this city together with my own hands for the better part of fifty years. I’ve seen fellow Tribunes come and go, each more idiotic than the last. All enter this office with hopes of changing things, only to become co-opted by it. And I know now what you and your little brat barback friends can never appreciate: it’s not the new blood that makes the best changes. It’s the old guard. And with this cocktail, I’ll devote my endless lifetime to the service of Chicago. Assuming, of course, that it will in turn serve me.”
“That’s not service!” Bailey yelled. “Even Vincent could see that. Even after he—”
Garrett’s expression flickered, and the revelation hit Bailey like a slap across the face.
“You,” she said, her voice shaking. “You tampered with Vincent’s gin. You blinded him.”
Garrett scowled. “A necessary measure. A fire-breathing anarchist like Vincent Long had no business with a Long Island iced tea. Men like him wish to break things down, but not to build something in the absence their efforts create. He was an old man, but he never grew up. And neither, apparently, have you.”
Vincent’s voice wafted into her head: The grown-up who says they know what they’re doing is a grown-up who’s lying. She smiled, and that was when she knew she wasn’t a grown-up. Not yet.
Because she knew what to do.
Bailey lunged for Garrett’s throat with all her bloodied, banged-up might. She was wounded, woozy, and short, but he was old and, well, even shorter.
Before she could strangle him, a cold, wet tentacle wrapped itself around her wounded ankle. Bailey fell onto her stomach, banging her head on the concrete floor as a heavy boot planted itself between her shoulder blades.
“Stay down, Chen,” Mona said. “Garrett, do it now.”
Bailey thrashed, but orbs of water clamped her hands, instantly hardening into ice. Her arms were pinned, and she began shivering from the cold.
She twisted her head up to see Garrett carving out a perfect lemon slice with a silver pocketknife.
“Garrett!” she yelled as he jammed a straw into the glass and stirred with a flourish. “People will die!”
Like he hasn’t considered that. A dull amber glow blossomed in the glass. Garrett hesitated—barely half a heartbeat—and then brought the Long Island iced tea to his lips and drank.
Bailey cried out, and to her surprise the ice shackling her suddenly melted.
“We have to go.” Mona seized her by the back of her dress and pulled her to her feet. “Up. Now!”
“What—”
A discarded billiard ball rocketed straight at Mona. Bailey whirled just in time to see Zane, hand outstretched, sprinting up from the elevator bay with ninja Bucket be
hind. The ball flew too fast for telekinesis—Zane must have drunk a screwdriver for superstrength—or for Mona to parry it.
But Mona didn’t dodge. Instead, she stomped her foot and held Bailey close while a purple bubble of energy erupted around them. The ball smashed into it and shattered like glass as circular ripples radiated outward along the shield.
Up close, Mona smelled like sweat and tequila, and for a second the eyes of everyone, including Garrett, were on them.
Bailey jerked out of Mona’s arms. “How—”
Manifesting two drinks at once was impossible. But Bailey realized she was the only one still staring at Mona. Everyone else was looking up to where the windows of the Sears Tower’s top floor—tempered to resist every element the upper atmosphere could throw at them—had shattered. And from those jagged holes, tremens—an uncountable number of tremens—bled inside.
THE DEVIL’S WATER DICTIONARY.
The Tequila Slammer
A potable to instill protective properties
1. In an old fashioned glass, pour one and a half ounces of tequila and a quarter lime’s worth of juice.
2. Layer one and a half ounces of ginger ale on top of the tequila.
3. Cover the mouth of the glass, lift it, and slam down the glass to mix the ingredients.
4. Drain the glass before the ginger ale stops foaming.
The tequila slammer is difficult to prepare. The ingredients must be properly layered or the slamming effect will be spoiled. Because tequila slammers are consumed rapidly, like a shot, this ingestion provides further risk for a bartender looking to enter the field; the sudden spike of alcohol in the bloodstream means that, if improperly prepared, a tequila slammer will render the drinker incapable of metabolizing magic for as long as an hour.
Though the tequila slammer was invented in Mexico (where it is known as a muppet or mópet), its creator is unknown. The drink was brought north in the mid-1960s by vacationing American bartenders who had observed locals using it to great effect against the tremens that often haunt resort towns. The shield it projects was—and remains—ideally suited to the defense of drunk and irate tourists, who are usually less inclined to obey lifesaving orders while on vacation.
