Shadowed Souls

by Jim Butcher

  He snapped his fingers, and a young man stepped out of the shadows. His features blurred. She wasn’t sure if that was deliberate or if he wasn’t really human.

  It was not her job to find out. She was to taste the potion, and see if it was real.

  The young man took a flower-shaped glass from a tray she hadn’t seen, and poured just a bit of potion. A pink glow swirled out of it. She had a quick, panicky feeling that she shouldn’t do this, that this was wrong, that she was betraying Dex, and then the glow swirled into her face, going up her nose.

  She felt it, like an ice-cream headache, then it flowed into her, and she, and she—

  Burst into tears.

  Somewhere, in the back of her brain, her real self crossed its arms, and judged. She did not cry. Crying was weak. Crying was an indulgence. Crying was something no one should ever ever do.

  Armand patted her back, clearly alarmed, and the young man—she had been wrong, he had sculptured features, almost vulpine, and dark intense eyes—enveloped her in his arms, comforting, holding, and she let him, dear God, she let him hold her because it felt right.

  Not that she had fallen in love with him, or even that she was attracted to him. She had just needed someone to hold her since that car slammed into Dex, right in front of her, before she could even stop it, while she screamed for help, and then crouching with his broken body, wishing she had healing magic, not violent magic, although some of that leaked out too, because the car careened into a group of parked cars, and the damn driver died, just like he should have, careless son of a fucking bitch—

  “Here, here,” the young man said, handing her a tissue. She took it, but it was useless. He dabbed at her face, then wiped her tears with his thumbs, and she worried about him capturing her essence, even though he had tears on his jacket and she would have to report that to Nia, she would have to report it all—

  Kaylee took a deep breath. And just that quickly, the tears were gone. But so was the ache she had felt since that goddamn hospital bed, on that bleak afternoon.

  “What was that?” she asked, surprised that her voice did not shake.

  “We call it a love potion,” the young man said. “But that isn’t quite true. It restores the heart, makes love possible again. You’ll see.”

  “I didn’t drink it,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “You must buy the bottle to drink. And it is not a onetime potion. It is a treatment, really. It gets you past your grief and into your future. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Had he overheard her conversation with Armand? Or was this part of the sales pitch?

  “So, it won’t make me fall in love?” she asked.

  “It will allow you to love again,” he said. “It is very delicate and very powerful.”

  “And very expensive, I’ll bet.” She sounded more like herself again, even though the anger had gone. She felt hollow without it. Hollow and a bit giddy, as if she were real-people drunk instead of Kaylee-drunk. Kaylee-drunk was usually bar-fight furious, and had gotten her arrested more than once.

  “Ten thousand a bottle,” he said. “But considering that it restores your heart, opening it to love, the price is low.”

  “How many bottles does it take to ‘cure’ someone?” she asked.

  “Only one,” he said. “We are not in the business of addicting someone. Only helping people.”

  It sounded so right, so smooth, so perfect. The real Kaylee, tucked in the back of her brain, arms crossed, knew that was a warning sign, but this Kaylee, still under the spell, nodded.

  “I don’t have ten thousand tonight,” she said. “Can I get this at Armand’s?”

  “Only if you do so within the week,” the young man said. “This batch, which seems to have an affinity for you, is nearly gone. If we do not sell the remaining ten bottles this evening, the rest will go to Armand’s. But I must warn you, we do raise the price when there are fewer than five.”

  She nodded, almost without thinking. She wanted the bottle right now. Thank heavens Nia did not give her money. She would have spent it.

  “I’ll tell Armand to save me one,” she said. Another tear leaked out of her eye. Dammit. She dabbed at it. “Thank you.”

  Then she staggered away from the young man. He had her tears, but she had some of his skin collected on the edges of her glittering dress. An even trade, or so her real self said. Her real self, which was still observing.

  She passed Armand, and waved a hand at her eyes.

  “I need to fix my face,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. Then, softer, “Merci.”

  She almost asked For what? then remembered. Investigation, mission.

  She staggered out of the back room into the restaurant and toward the ladies’ room, which was near the back door. She pushed it open, and stepped into the alley.

  The cool night air did not clear her head, although it made her chapped cheeks sting. She pivoted, almost went back inside—She could find ten thousand dollars. If a whiff of the potion made her feel like this, imagine what the entire bottle would do—but she managed to follow the plan.

  She walked down the alley and turned left on the side street where Nia had parked her battered van. Kaylee climbed inside.

  Her real self wanted to say, Get it out of me. You don’t know what it’s doing to me, but the rest of her looked at Nia, realized just how cute she was, wondered why they hadn’t been closer friends—

  “Tilt your head back,” Nia said. “You drank, right?”

  Kaylee shook her head. “Breathed it,” she managed.

  “Oh, sneaky,” Nia said. She took a pipette, lit a match at the bottom of it, and then tapped the side, muttering a spell that Kaylee didn’t recognize.

  Pink glow streamed out of her nose and mouth, into the pipette. More hovered. Nia took another pipette, and then another, capping them as she trapped the glow inside.

  In the end, six pipettes with vibrating, glowing pink smoke stood in a little case, like an evil drug.

  Nia continued the spell with four more pipettes, then did some kind of heal or reverse. Kaylee didn’t know.

  She was exhausted, battered, and empty.

  And then, deep down, she realized with bitter amusement, she finally felt angry.

  She slept for almost two days, in a bed in the tiny back room of the wharf office, with someone watching her twenty-four/seven. By the time she woke up—really woke up, not stirred enough to eat, roll over, and head back to dreamland—they’d finished testing the spell.

  Nia accompanied Kaylee to her ratty apartment for a change of clothing, a shower, and a surprise pizza (paid for—even bigger surprise—by Nia). As they bonded over pepperoni and sausage in that kitchen too nice to fit into the rest of the apartment (and clean, because Kaylee had hardly been there since she moved back in), Nia proclaimed the spell elegant and powerful.

  Kaylee knew about the powerful. The entire thing had left her shaken, and midway through her marathon sleep session, she had demanded that Nia check to make certain no trace of the spell remained inside Kaylee.

  It hadn’t. The sleep, Nia had said, was probably overdue.

  And now that Kaylee was awake, she figured Nia was right: Kaylee hadn’t slept well since Dex died, and the exhaustion from the spell probably carried into the exhaustion from her grief.

  What she didn’t tell Nia was that the grief wasn’t there anymore, not like it had been. Not overwhelming and ever present. Kaylee didn’t dare confess that it had altered, because, in part, she was afraid she altered it.

  She was a woman without much of a soul. Maybe she could only mourn so long. Maybe she could only love so deep. Maybe—hell, not maybe, actually—she wasn’t like other people, and that probably extended to the way she grieved as well.

  At least the pizza tasted good. Nia had also brought a six-pack of her favorite mic
robrew, and the dark beer seemed appropriate, both to the pizza and Kaylee’s mood.

  “So,” she said, after three pieces. “The spell’s legit. Expensive, but legit. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing,” Nia said. “Armand was happy. He makes a healthy commission off the sales.”

  “We weren’t doing this for Armand, were we?” Kaylee tried to keep the question casual, but she didn’t want to think she had (possibly) sacrificed her grief for Armand. She liked him, but she didn’t like him that much.

  “No,” Nia said. “It’s the investment angle. It still bothers me.”

  Kaylee had forgotten about the investments. They were what had interested Nia in the first place.

  “It’s an expensive commodity,” Kaylee said. “There’s clearly money to be made.”

  “Yeah.” Nia took another piece of pizza. The cheese, still warm, clung to the rest of the pizza. She snapped the piece off with the edges of her fingers. “It’s the method that bothers me. They’re going for small investors. People who can put in a few thousand dollars and get some kind of stock. When you’re selling a bottle for ten thousand dollars, that seems like tiny money.”

  Kaylee didn’t pretend to understand investments. She barely had enough coin for this ratty apartment. She never asked for a raise because money hadn’t meant much. Still didn’t. What did she need besides food, a warm place to lay her head, and something to do every day?

  “Maybe they’re going to expand,” she said.

  Nia raised her head, frowning. “You said the potion was a onetime dose.”

  “That’s not what he told me,” Kaylee said. “You took it a bit at a time until you finished the bottle.”

  “And then, didn’t he tell you, no more bottles?”

  “Yes,” Kaylee said.

  “Onetime use.” Nia said that almost to herself. “So they’re constantly in need of new customers. That’s the flaw in the spell.”

  She got up from the table, leaving half of the last piece she had taken uneaten.

  “You,” she said to Kaylee, “are brilliant.”

  “Sometimes,” Kaylee said. “Apparently.”

  Nia grinned at her and then gathered her things. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be here,” Kaylee said, but she spoke to an empty room. Nia hadn’t even used the door. She had simply disappeared.

  Kaylee hated wasting magic like that. She only used her magic for big things. Well, the big things she could do. She couldn’t make crash carts work or doctors arrive on time or men crushed by the front bumper of a car going forty-five miles per hour in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone come out of comas to say good-bye to their one and only love.

  She shivered at the thought and felt the rag end of loss. It was back. She just hadn’t noticed.

  Maybe because it had become part of her during her long sleep.

  Maybe because it fueled her anger.

  Or maybe both.

  The books she stole from Dex’s apartment were stupid. They were about things she didn’t give a rat’s ass over. The history of baseball. The psychology of golf. Current political bestsellers. A few fantasy novels—heavy on the fantasy and short on the realism.

  She read them, anyway, and felt no closer to him. She was restless all over again and thinking about doing more work. Nia hadn’t called, but that didn’t mean anything.

  Sometimes Kaylee got work just by showing up.

  She showered, then decided she needed something new to wear, something Dex hadn’t commented on. She promised herself a latte and some incredibly rich dessert if she bought two pairs of pants and three shirts.

  She ended up with two shirts and one pair of pants and called it good. The coffee shop three blocks from her place had closed in the past few weeks, so she went to the other place with excellent baked goods, across the street from Armand’s.

  He was there, getting enough coffee for his entire staff. When he saw her, he came over and bussed her cheeks, then put his hands on her shoulders and studied her face.

  “Nia said it was hard for you,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Kaylee shrugged. “I suspect everything’ll be hard for a while.”

  “I would hug you,” he said, “but now that you are dressed as you, I feel I must ask permission.”

  She half smiled. “The sentiment is enough, Armand, thank you.”

  “Let me pay for your order,” he said. “In fact, let me pay for your next month’s worth of orders.”

  “That’s all right,” she said.

  “No, no, you do not understand, my friend. These potions, the commission is superb.”

  “Nia’s worried that they’re onetime and done,” Kaylee said.

  “That concerned me as well,” Armand said. “But one person recommends to a friend who recommends to a friend. I have sold two separate lots since I last saw you.”

  “Lots?” Kaylee asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Ten bottles per lot,” Armand said. “I have sold twenty bottles, and I am halfway through the third lot.”

  Kaylee let out a small whistle. “That’s a lot of people needing a love potion.”

  “A future potion; that is how I am selling it. One that heals the heart.” Armand turned and gave the clerk his credit card. “You will set up an account for my friend, de comprendre?”

  The clerk nodded, ran Armand’s credit card, and then handed Kaylee a gift card.

  “Hah,” he said, shaking his head. “Accounts mean something different here.”

  She barely paid attention (although she did thank him). Instead she was doing the math.

  “It’s been less than a week and you’ve sold twenty-five bottles?” Kaylee asked. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  “No,” he said quietly, scooping up the cardboard container with the coffee drinks shoved into their respective holders. “My customers have had a rough spring. As have you.”

  He kissed her again, wished her well, and then left, before she could thank him a second time.

  To be fair, she hadn’t thought of thanking him, not for at least ten minutes after he left, when the cinnamon roll she’d ordered arrived, dripping frosting on the china plate, a latte steaming beside it.

  She took a bite, then remembered that blurred face of the man selling the potion and how he became clear only after she had breathed in the steam.

  A rough spring.

  The potion did give the person who used it hope for the future, a chance at rebirth, renewal.

  But to have that, the person needed incentive. She needed a sense that the world did not work for her, that her past was too overwhelming to cope with alone.

  She needed a great loss.

  “Son of a bitch,” Kaylee said, and nearly spilled her latte. “Son of a fucking bitch.”

  She didn’t run to the wharf because, first of all, there was no running, not from this neighborhood. She would’ve called, except no one working for Nia had a cell phone—not that Nia had one, either—and the landline probably wasn’t installed yet (if it ever would be).

  She could have taken a cab, but she didn’t have enough cash. Besides, she wanted to get there faster than any traffic could take her. So she had the clerk box the remains of the cinnamon bun and put it in a bag. Then she grabbed that and her latte, and went outside.

  And, for the first time since Dex died, she used her magic.

  She transported herself from the sidewalk to the office.

  Nia did not look surprised to see her, but, then, Nia never looked surprised to see anyone.

  “I want you to tell me I’m wrong,” Kaylee said, her hand shaking. The magic use had made her light-headed.

  “Wrong about what?” Nia asked.

  “Tell me they’re not creating their own clients,” Kaylee said.

  “What do you
mean?” Nia asked.

  “The love-potion makers,” Kaylee said. “Tell me they’re not doing anything wrong.”

  It took Kaylee almost a half an hour to explain the idea that had come to her when she was talking with Armand. It wasn’t what he said so much as what he implied.

  His customers, their rough spring. Like hers.

  Only rough was the wrong word.

  Devastating. She had had a devastating spring.

  Nia promised to investigate, and this time, she didn’t assign Kaylee to the task.

  Nia arrived at Kaylee’s apartment one week later. Only this time, Nia brought a pizza and an address. It was in the West Fifties, a rehabbed brownstone that someone had poured a small fortune into.

  “What am I looking at?” Kaylee asked, staring at the piece of paper.

  “The sales force,” Nia said.

  “For the potion?” Kaylee asked.

  “Yeah,” Nia said.

  “I’m not supposed to investigate this time?” Kaylee asked.

  “That’s a lot of questions for you,” Nia said.

  Kaylee shrugged. “It’s been an odd case.”

  Nia nodded, one hand on the pizza box, as if she couldn’t decide whether to eat or to leave.

  “We investigated already,” she said. “Think of the term. Sales. Force.”

  “They use what? Magical means—”

  “No magic,” Nia said. “The potion is the only magic.”

  “But you tested it. There’s no dark magic in the potion at all.”

  “It’s pure and elegant,” Nia said. “The company is not.”

  Kaylee felt cold. “What are they doing?”

  “Creating customers,” Nia said. “Just like you thought.”

  Kaylee felt a growing frustration. Her brain no longer worked as well as she wanted, since half of it was still processing the loss of Dex. Grief made her slow-witted; she hated that.

  “How?” she asked.

  “However they see fit,” Nia said. “Drug overdoses, muggings gone wrong, car accidents. First they analyze the available money, then they look for a suitable victim, then they take away the most precious thing.”