by Tricia Owens
The sound ricocheted off the close confines, startling me with its volume. Something fluttered within the shadows and then it exploded.
I screamed, falling back, as black lava splattered me across the face and chest. It was warm and viscous and I waited for the searing agony of it burning through my flesh down to the bone. I saw the attack happening in my mind’s eye: the surge of the creature within the shadow, tearing into me as I was blinded and burning, spilling my innards to the floor of the alley where they steamed.…
None of it happened.
Panting with terror, I opened my eyes and looked around. I stood alone at the mouth of the alley, near the pouring water. The shadows were still. I looked down at myself and discovered that I was wet, but the liquid on my skin was only water, as though I’d been splashed or had splashed myself. I ran a shaky hand down my wet face and tried to figure out what had happened. An illusion? Magic gone wrong? Too much alcohol?
The honking of a car horn startled me into glancing to the street. A car—my ride—sat waiting for me. When I turned to look back at the alley, the pool of shadow was smaller. Whoever, or whatever, had hidden inside it was gone.
Chapter 3
When I arrived home, I crashed out. I expected to sleep like the dead for at least ten hours, but with the morning came a nagging sense of urgency. Groaning, I opened my eyes and stared blearily at the bright sunlight streaked across the ceiling.
A dull ache behind my eyes reminded me of how many shots I’d inhaled last night. I should have listened to Jasper’s warning about how strong Ted made them. Sobering inhalants were available at Ozium just as they were at every bar in the city, but they were dangerously addicting, so I always avoided them and toughed it out the old-fashioned way. Besides, the pain was manageable. I cared less about my head than about what had occurred in the alley beside Ozium.
Something had been there. Something supernatural. I didn’t have much experience with the unknown, but I definitely recognized it when I encountered it.
What could it have been? Something summoned? If so, by whom and for what purpose? It had been loitering in the alley alone, which made me think it had been waiting for someone. But that was only a guess. It could have been about to leave or it could have been lost.
The magic that I was familiar with was regulated. Cataloged. Taught in school and certified. The supernatural stuff I’d just as soon have no part of. That was a road leading to trouble.
I heard voices outside my room. The slamming of a door. I rented one room of a five bedroom house that I shared with other renters and our landlady, Ginger. My housemates were all magic inclined and Ginger was a cohab—a cat shifter. She slunk around the house at all hours of the day and night, slipping into our rooms to check out the state of things and make sure we weren’t damaging the place or hoarding anything illegal.
I saw the shadow of the cat outside my window now. I rolled onto an elbow and sent a quick look around my room, just in case.
“Oh, no,” I gasped.
A queerly curved, short-bladed dagger lay on the floor beside my dresser. I dove off my futon and swept the strange weapon beneath a pile of dirty clothes. Heart pounding, I watched as the cat’s silhouette paused outside my window for several seconds, ears twitching.
I didn’t breathe again until it had moved on.
“Stupid,” I berated myself.
While keeping a watchful eye on the window, I retrieved the dagger and concentrated on its molecules, willing them to obey me. Within seconds the thing shifted into another form as the molecules realigned at my bidding. I now held a close approximation of the original candelabra that I’d picked up from the charity store days earlier. It wasn’t a flawless replication of the original—one of the candelabra’s arms was noticeably lower than the others—but it would do.
I shoved it into my closet where I kept a bunch of other seemingly random junk. But everything was something I’d meddled into something else at some point. Meddling was more than a hobby to me. I couldn’t help pushing the limits of what I could create or what was allowed. The challenge and its implied defiance appealed to me.
But that challenge was dangerous, especially with a nosy landlady. Magiguards were trained to detect when an object had been meddled, even after it was returned to its original form. This was possible because some molecules remained slightly out of sync, betraying their unnatural state. The growing science of identifying IMT specialists by their work—their signature, as it was being called—had led to recent arrests and charges of corporate espionage as CEOs discovered that the vase on their desk or the chair they sat in was actually a meddled listening device commissioned by a competitor.
I couldn’t leave my experiments lying around, in other words, because everything I’d worked on could be used against me in court. I sat for a moment, sobered by that realization. At any time I could be arrested for a multitude of sins, from illegal IMT to bribing a government employee. Either I cashed in my life insurance or I found a source of income. And I knew of only one viable, if unnerving, option for that.
“I’ll go and ask questions,” I told myself. “I’m not committed just because I show up for an interview.”
With my plan suitably justified, I showered and dressed. Since I didn’t know what the job entailed or if I was interviewing for a legitimate position that served as cover for the illegal one, I dressed as well as I could on my budget. I didn’t view myself as particularly girly, but I went with black heels and a black skirt. For the top I chose a sweater in a shade of blue that matched my eyes and hopefully looked flattering against my light brown hair.
I thought about meddling a weapon, but changed my mind at the last minute. Going in armed might be seen as aggressive. I’d have to cross my fingers that I walked out of this alive. If I didn’t, at least my grandmother would receive the life insurance.
Outside, the skies were completely clear, as if celebrating my new opportunity. Even bare-legged, I zipped along on my scooter in relative comfort, heading back to the part of town where I’d spent the previous evening.
I’d never visited Ozium during the day, partly because Jasper wasn’t there and partly because, up until recently, I’d been busy with school. I hadn’t seen it or the hotel across from it in the sunlight. It was a good thing, because if I’d seen the Sinistera Hotel before my interview this morning I might not have rolled out of bed.
The place loomed like a gray headstone. All I could associate with the place was death and despair. Hardly encouraging. The hotel was so tall it cast a shadow over Ozium and the buildings on either side of it, and it did so in an ominous way, as though the hotel had marked those businesses for failure, or perhaps for something worse. The feeling was so strong that I sidestepped until I was out of its shadow and stood in the cleansing sun.
The rows of rectangular windows that had been inexplicably lit up red last night now were opaque. They appeared smoky brown from one angle and dull charcoal if I leaned far enough left, almost as if the windows were eyes and they blinked. I chalked it up to window tinting that allowed guests to see out while maintaining their privacy. It gave me the impression that the hotel’s guests were currently peering down at me. I didn’t sense that their regard was kind.
The air around the hotel seemed still, a breath held in the lungs. This should have been a busy area, but the sidewalk in front of the hotel was absent of pedestrians save one. Even that was short-lived. I watched the woman jaywalk through the street to reach the Ozium side. It struck me when she gave the Sinistera a nervous look and visibly shuddered, that she’d crossed the street to avoid walking near it. Even the metered parking spaces in front of it were empty despite parking being scarce in this part of town.
Repellant. The word curled into my head like maliciously whispered gossip. It was as though no one wanted to be anywhere near the hotel. Why? Because of the building’s imposing façade? Or were Jasper’s rumors true and people kept their distance for fear of becoming embroiled in whatever d
ark activities occurred inside the place?
I parked my scooter near the hotel’s brass and glass revolving door. Up close, the building was more interesting, even visually pleasing. It boasted a notable Art Deco influence in its curving lines and graduated stone carvings, as well as in the crescent-shaped light fixtures made of polished brass. The signage was difficult to read because the lettering was in script. Even standing ten feet from it, I was convinced that it read Sinister rather than Sinistera. I would have to be vigilant about using the correct name while I worked here.
If I worked here.
As I approached the front door, I felt compelled to look down. I immediately danced back a pace. The concrete square beneath my feet held the impressions of occult symbols. I’d done poorly in Occult Studies because of my Glyph Eye condition, which randomly and temporarily turned letters into indecipherable glyphs. I had no hope of reading what had been imprinted in the concrete.
Turned out I didn’t need to. The symbols melted as though the concrete were still wet. As I watched, the surface smoothed over and then a squiggly line began to carve through the concrete as if drawn by an invisible stick.
I jumped to a solid square of the sidewalk and watched the squiggle turn into cursive words:
Welcome, Arrow St. Marx. Are you a witch? Witches are forbidden entry.
“I’m not a witch,” I said, even though I didn’t know whom or what I was addressing.
Are you honest? There is a penalty for dishonesty…Look up.
Cringingly slightly at what I might find, I tilted my head back.
Three bodies hung in the air above my head.
I ducked reflexively, my widened eyes fixed on the bodies that swayed in a wind I couldn’t feel. I saw bare feet and bare hands, but everything else was covered by black fabric and the fall of long hair. There weren’t any ropes; the bodies hung suspended on their own like black ghouls floating above the front doors.
“Who are they?” I asked, my initial horror giving way to anger. “Why would you do this to them? Display them like this? It’s despicable.”
Witches are forbidden entry.
It was a maddening reply which prompted me to scowl at the sidewalk. “Why?”
Because they are. Are you a witch?
It was a simple question, but I sensed the threat in it. Angered and disgusted though I was, I said very carefully, “I’m not a witch.”
Blood will tell.
Pain stabbed me in the ankle. I looked down in time to see a tendril of silver, no thicker than an embroidery needle but several inches long, withdraw into the grout between the sidewalk squares. Warmth leaked down the back of my ankle and I watched as my own blood slid down the heel of my shoe and onto the concrete. As though it were magnetized, a bead of my blood rolled across the sidewalk square and into the period at the end of “Blood will tell.” The cursive words darkened to black for a few seconds before lightening to the original color of concrete.
Welcome, Arrow St. Marx. Enjoy your stay with us.
I couldn’t respond. What would have happened had my blood proved false? Actually, the answer to that question hung above my head. I tried to picture how I would have met the fate of those dead witches. Would a larger blade have sliced up from the grout, disemboweling me? Would the sidewalk have parted, dropping me into a sinkhole and then crushed me? Or would some strange, supernatural wind have silently strangled the life from me?
Above my head, the three black forms dissolved into nothingness. Below me, the concrete smoothed out and re-hardened. But the memory of both lingered. I thought about climbing onto my scooter and driving away as quickly as I could. A place that paraded dead witches as a warning to others was malicious. If I worked here, that dark eye could be turned upon me at any time.
But if I left, what action was left to me?
I avoided stepping on that particular square, hop-scotching over it to the red mat that stretched beneath the door. I pushed the revolving door inward and, with a deep, worried sigh, stepped inside.
The interior was cavernous. It made me think of a cruise ship with its high ceiling and wraparound veranda that overlooked the lobby. All of the furniture—square chairs and rectangular loveseats arranged in conversation groups—was covered in rich amethyst velvet. A swirl-patterned carpet of chartreuse, black, and purple coiled around the room like an oil spill. Bronze and glass sparkled here and there, but black lacquer dominated. The place smelled cool and anise-like, as though someone had spilled absinthe on the carpet. I thought I heard the sound of bells tinkling faintly, in the distance.
“Checking in?”
The front desk to my left was a long bronze and black lacquer affair. It reminded me of a speedboat, sleek and highly polished. Behind it stood a woman slightly older than me, perhaps late twenties, with straight brown hair and a round, pleasant face. She was dressed in a smart black uniform with a purple rose pinned to the breast pocket. When I drew nearer I read her nametag: Sheridan Roe.
“I’m Arrow St. Marx,” I told her. “I was told to ask for the manager, Mr. Tower. Is he in?”
Sheridan looked briefly startled, her brown eyes sweeping over me in search of something she apparently didn’t find, before she swiftly resumed her pleasant, helpful expression.
“Of course, Miss St. Marx. I’ll just notify him that you’re here. Were you by chance referred by anyone?”
I watched her closely as I said, “Mr. Morrison.”
Disappointingly, she only nodded as if she’d expected as much. She picked up a phone and spoke quietly into it before hanging up. “He’ll be right out. Would you care for a refreshment while you wait?”
I could have used some water but I was too nervous to ask for it. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
I smoothed my hair out, hoping I didn’t have helmet hair. The cool, dark beauty of the hotel made me uneasy. Shadows seemed to exist everywhere, even within the light. Though Sheridan was the only one behind the desk and the only one visible to me, I had the feeling I was being watched by more than one set of eyes. I looked for security cameras but didn’t see any. That didn’t mean they didn’t exist. If this place truly was a haven for criminals, management would want a record of activities for their own protection.
“He’ll be out any moment,” Sheridan told me with what looked to be a sympathetic smile. There was a small mole beneath her left eye that was strangely endearing. Her lipstick was bright coral. “Mr. Tower is a wonderful man. You’re here for a job, yes?”
I nodded warily.
“Well, you don’t need to worry that he’ll be overly tough on you. He treats everyone the way they deserve to be treated.”
Sheridan said this with that same public service smile. Was she playing with me or was the comment genuinely innocent?
“Is it that obvious that I’m nervous?” I asked.
Her smile widened. “Only a little.”
“You’ve had other people interviewing for this job lately?” I asked.
“None. Not since…” She trailed off and fiddled with something on the desk that I couldn’t see. “Excuse me.”
She disappeared through a doorway and out of sight, leaving me alone with my nerves and the mystery of her reply. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait alone for long. A tall, impressive man emerged from the same doorway.
He wasn’t exactly handsome. His nose was too sharp and long, his eyes too close together, but he had the bearing of a majestic eagle. Plus, I was impressed by the silvering at his temples which stood in sharp contrast to his black hair. He wore a dark suit, also sporting a purple rose at its lapel.
“Miss St. Marx, please come with me,” he said without approaching me or smiling at me. He simply came out from behind the front desk and walked through the lobby to a closed door set in the wall. He opened it and entered.
Intimidated, I followed him inside.
It was a spare, neat room that belonged in an office building, not in this crisp, jewel box of a hotel. It was reminiscent of Morrison�
�s boring office at school. I hesitantly took the chair opposite Tower, hoping the ‘wonderful’ part of him that Sheridan had mentioned would surface before I had an anxiety attack.
“So,” he said as he eyed me from the other side of the cheap desk that sat between us. Then he smiled and the bird of prey demeanor softened instantly. “I’m so pleased that Marcus referred you to us. May I call you Arrow?”
Taken aback by his abrupt attitude change, I said, “Is Marcus the Mr. Morrison that I know?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Same one.”
“Okay.” He was unrepentantly cheerful. He and Sheridan were a matched set. “And yes, calling me Arrow is fine.”
“That’s an interesting name. Do you know why your parents chose it for you?”
I crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t be the part of the interview where he began asking questions about my family. “My parents were professional archers. It’s how they met.”
It was also what they were doing when they died but Tower didn’t need to know that.
“How unusual. I like the name. You never forget someone with a name like that.” The twinkle in his eyes told me he meant it in a good way. “You’re here from Filkmore Academy. I’m an alumnus. Graduated with my certificate in Atomization Arts.”
“That’s…extremely specialized,” I said with surprise. While I could transfigure most liquid matter into different states like gaseous, Tower’s specialty focused on aerosolizing any inanimate object and affecting its smell, temperature, and more. Graduates tended to find jobs in the medical, culinary, or fragrance industries. The only other AA specialist I knew of was Ted, who concocted alcoholic inhalant shots for Ozium. “What was your minor?”
“Hotel Management.” His laughter was rich with self-deprecation. “Clearly I had my priorities mixed-up. On the upside, the Sinistera Hotel is the best-smelling hotel in the city.”
