by Nazri Noor
Loki laughed again. “Please. I know I run a corporation, but we, gentlemen, are members of the arcane underground. We don’t do checks and apps and bank transfers, not between us supernaturals.” He grinned, and the sight of it sent a chill up my spine. Uh-oh. “No. You have done Loki a fabulous service, and so I will shower you with riches.”
“Oh, shit,” I muttered. Florian blinked at me in confusion as I rushed to him and raised my arm, conjuring the hugest shield I could summon from the Vestments. Box yelped and clattered across the floor to join us as the first of the coins fell from the ceiling.
One tinkled to the ground, then another, and another, and what started as a slow drizzle of currency quickly grew into a hailstorm of metal beating steadily across the surface of my shield. A few gemstones clinked as they fell to the floor to join the coins, a carpet of treasure that could have dealt some serious damage to anyone who wasn’t made out of solid rock.
When the rain of treasure stopped, I dismissed my shield, then pushed myself up off the floor. I raked my fingers through my hair as I studied the little lake of silver and gold that had formed around us. How the hell were we supposed to transport all this shit out of the building, much less across Valero without being mugged? I knew it. I just fucking knew there was going to be a catch.
“You’re an asshole, Loki.”
One last emerald the size of a tangerine fell out of thin air, tinkling as it hit the pile of treasure. Loki’s laughter was hearty, musical, jingling like a pouch full of coins.
“Correction. I’m a wealthy asshole.”
5
I learned something special about Box that day. Turns out that mimics liked to dress up as treasure chests for a reason. He slurped all of Loki’s treasure up right quick, hoovering every last coin into his slobbery gullet in a matter of minutes.
Loki wasn’t laughing much anymore after that. He was especially unhappy about how much saliva Box got on the carpet, which was something I quietly found amusing.
And yes, I made sure to check. Who knows where Box kept it all, but the treasure was definitely inside him, somewhere, maybe in a special treasure-storing organ of some sort. I shook him a little, just to check, and he definitely jangled.
What’s even better was that he shrank again, into the size of a tiny little cube that could fit in my pocket. Super handy. Next time you find a gross, whitish cube of jelly out on the street, take it home. As far as I’m concerned, mimics are the bomb. It was like having one of Beatrice Rex’s dimensional handbags, minus the garish hot pinkness.
Of course, the big problem was actually finding someone who would take the whole load off our hands, which was why Florian and I headed straight to the Black Market, Valero’s biggest and – well, I guess only bazaar dedicated to the trade and exchange of magic and magical goods. You can’t just walk into a supermarket and try to buy a loaf of bread and some apples with a ruby the size of a chicken nugget.
Fortunately, it didn’t take much asking around to find someone we could turn the treasure over to. People at the Black Market were quick to point us towards Abel’s Appraisals, a magical pawnshop of some repute that would offer us fair value for Loki’s reward. Florian and I kept it vague. You don’t go around broadcasting the fact that you’re lugging around a wading pool’s worth of silver and gold, after all.
One less savory type suggested that we could try fencing the goods, which had the added benefit of possibly paying less and the potential bonus of a knife in the belly. Abel’s Appraisals it was, then. The place was easy enough to find. The shop was pretty cool, a little old, but charming, much like Abel himself.
Lit with small magical fires that lurked in various corners, the shop’s dark shelves were filled with a vast assortment of magical knick-knacks in all flavors: wizened hands of glory, black candles, crystal balls, murky wax-sealed bottles of who-knows-what, and of course, your standard selection of dusty and possibly explosively lethal grimoires.
Abel himself was a kind, portly older gentleman who looked like he was permanently dressed in waistcoats, pocket watches, and wire-rimmed glasses, even in bed. He also wore a jeweler’s loupe on a chain, which he used to study the gems and coins that Box methodically horked up from within his biological depths.
I liked Abel. He didn’t even complain about all the slobber he had to wipe off every single coin. Florian was very good about helping out, too, and in under an hour, with the assistance of some rags Abel produced from out of a backroom, we were able to sort all of Loki’s treasure into several stacks of coins that looked vaguely like a small fortress, or a gleaming city of silver and gold.
It was exactly fifteen thousand dollars. I wanted to be surprised, but Loki was the exact kind of sociopath who would know to dispense just the precise amount of treasure he’d need from his hidden hoard to hit the right number in American dollars, even accounting for whatever exchange rate Abel subscribed to.
Abel sniffed as he placed the last coin onto the final stack, completing his sparkling little city of riches. “I will, of course, be taking a small fee off the top.”
“Naturally.”
I nodded as Abel quoted his price. A couple hundred bucks seemed fair, especially since that meant that we’d still have plenty left over even after paying Beatrice Rex her asking price.
Hell, I’d even have lots to split with Florian, who deserved every damn penny for putting up with my mood swings, helping me out, and even willingly brewing an entire batch of presumably tasty wines for Dionysus before Quilliam appeared to blow the whole lot up.
Ugh. Quilliam. My mouth curled into a sneer, and I didn’t even notice my fist slamming into my open palm until the impact made a smacking sound. Just the thought of the guy made the idea of wringing someone’s neck an incredibly entertaining proposal.
Quilliam J. Abernathy had gotten both me and Florian into trouble enough times, and sure, maybe it was my fault that I kicked his precious book into oncoming traffic and totally destroyed it, but hey. The fucker deserved at least that much.
The door to Abel’s shop swung open just then, the entrance bell tinkling as another customer walked in. I stayed focus on Abel’s hands as he carefully piled Loki’s gold into his own supply of chests and counted out the money he owed us, but they froze in place when footsteps approached from behind me. Abel looked up, staring just past my head, and his mouth broke into a huge grin.
“Why, if it isn’t Master Quilliam himself!”
My blood curdled. Nope. No, no, no. It couldn’t have been that easy. Rather, it was just so unfair that Florian and I could be so unlucky. Granted, the Black Market wasn’t exactly a gigantic shopping complex, but weren’t there other places for Quilliam to visit? Both my hands tightened into fists.
“Abel, it’s been a while,” said that familiar, syrupy voice. Then, in a more mocking tone, it continued: “And well, well. Florian and Mason. Fancy meeting you here.”
My feet were heavy as I turned in place to meet Quilliam’s eyes. I thought of how much gold I would give just for the chance to erase the smirk from his stupid lips. I resisted the urge to reach out to the Vestments for a special present I could deliver right into his face. A mallet, maybe, or every jagged sphere of the morning star I’d learned to love so much.
And there he stood, unharmed, just as I suspected, from the flame spell that backfired on him back at the warehouse. Quilliam greeted me with his infuriating smile and a sweep of his eyes from my head to my toes, the kind of thing meant to remind you of how little you were truly worth.
“Mason Albrecht.” Quilliam’s irises glowed orange for the barest fraction of a second. “It’s so very good to see you again.”
6
“You might want to reach out to the Black Market’s enforcers, Abel.” I pushed my hands into my hips, giving Quilliam a sharp look. “A known criminal has just walked into your shop.”
“Criminal?” Abel laughed. “Oh, perish the thought. Master Quilliam and his family are valued customers here at Abel’s
Appraisals. They’ve been coming for years.”
“Criminal?” Quilliam echoed. He folded his arms. “Humor me, Mason. Exactly what crime am I guilty of?”
I scoffed. “Wow. Do you really want to make this a whole thing? Where do I even begin?”
Florian walked up next to me, folding his own arms, which made his muscles bulge and only highlighted how he was probably twice as thick and strong as Quilliam could ever hope to be. He stood there, stalwart, towering, and smoldering. What a champ.
“You blew up all those wines I made for the Amphora.” Florian’s voice was never that deep or angry, but I could tell that Quilliam detonating his hard work had left its mark on him. “You almost killed us.”
Quilliam pushed a finger under his chin. “Oh, did I? Name the time and the place. Where is the evidence that I attacked you or your alleged wines?” He waved his hand dismissively. “This is all just nonsense. Show me a witness.”
Florian gaped, grasping for straws. I raised my hand and pointed it straight in Quilliam’s face. “What about the time you tried to kidnap me? Eh? When you attacked me with a squad of twelve demons?”
“And who was there to see what happened? Who can you call upon to testify that I did, in fact, act in a way that would have violated the arcane underground’s precious laws?” Quilliam smirked in a way that made me want to punch his teeth out. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that the only witness was the demon Prince of Greed.”
I snarled. “You’re so full of shit, Quilliam, I swear to – ”
“But before you continue with your pointless rant – perhaps there has been a spate of magical crime in California lately. Why, just a few weeks back I was attacked by some ruffians on the street. Two men slashed my tires with enchanted swords, and one of them kicked a very rare and very, very expensive grimoire right out of my hands.”
I stood frozen to the spot. Florian glanced at me very briefly. Behind us, Abel breathed heavily as he shuffled through more dollar bills.
“You know, one of the men looked very much like you, Mason. I’d have to check to be sure. Good thing I had a witness on hand. A man by the name of Wyatt Whateley, a collector of artifacts and antiquities who lives over in Silver Lake, down in LA. The incident did occur outside his home, after all.” Quilliam rubbed his chin as he tilted his head, his teeth seeming so sharp and pointed when he grinned. “Does that ring a bell?”
Checkmate, I thought. How was it fair that the jerks of the world had everything stacked so conveniently in their favor? In my mind, I saw a morning star, and Quilliam’s bloodied face, then myself behind bars.
From somewhere behind me, Abel cleared his throat softly. “Mr. Albrecht? If you’re quite finished berating my long-term client, your cash is ready.”
I turned around shakily, taken aback by Abel’s frankness, but he was right. He was just a guy trying to keep his business afloat, after all. “Sorry,” I said. “Right. It’s just, your client and I here have some history.”
Abel smiled again. “As do we, Mr. Albrecht. Young Quilliam here drops by every few weeks or so to peruse the selection of tomes I’ve accrued in the meantime. There’s always one or two witches or wizards in need of some quick cash willing to turn in a few scrolls, a journal, perhaps even a personal book of shadows.” He adjusted his glasses, then shook his head solemnly. “Of course, so very few of them ever find the money to buy back what they’ve pawned off to my business.”
“Wow.” Florian stepped closer, placing his hands on the edge of the counter as he perused the books Abel kept lined up on a shelf behind him. “But these are powerful mages you have to deal with. If they can’t pay to get their books back, haven’t any of these people attempted to reclaim them with magic?”
“Ah. They’ve certainly tried.” Abel frowned, and his glasses seemed to gleam. He pointed towards a wall with a standing lamp leaned against it.
Florian followed Abel’s finger. “Well, that’s a lamp.”
Quilliam scoffed. “No. Not just a lamp. Look closer. Behind it.”
Behind it? All I could see back there was a large, black stain on the wall. Maybe some mold that really should have been contained a long time ago, or – wait. The stain was vaguely in the shape of a man. Ah. That wasn’t a stain at all. Those were burn marks.
“Oh,” Florian cooed as he began understand.
“Indeed,” Abel said gravely. “I don’t keep a very large selection of spells in mind myself, but a well-placed disintegration can end an argument very swiftly and efficiently.”
I cleared my throat. “Duly noted.”
Quilliam stepped up to the counter, placing his hands face down on the wood. “Abel,” he said, in a voice far kinder than anything I’d ever heard out of his mouth. “Do you have anything new for me to look at?”
Abel nodded eagerly. “Quite a few things have come in, in fact. I can close up the shop if you’d like to go into the backroom to peruse them.”
Quilliam’s smile was sweet, and, I hate to say, genuine. “If you would be so kind.”
Again Abel nodded, his jowls and wet black eyes making him look very much like an enthusiastic pug. “Just as soon as I complete this transaction. Mr. Albrecht, here you go. Will you be needing an envelope for that?”
I shook my head and accepted the fattest stack of bills I’d ever held in my life in two hands. “No, this is all right, thanks.”
Resting an elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand, Quilliam grinned at me. “My, my, Mr. Albrecht. We’re moving up in the world, are we?”
“He’s just trying to get to you,” Florian mumbled. “Don’t engage.”
Quilliam’s smirk stretched from ear to ear, his eyes trailing up and down my body again, but this time in a way that I could only describe as sticky. He batted his lashes and leaned his head at an even more exaggerated angle when he spoke again.
“Maybe that gigolo gig really is working out for you, then. Or perhaps it’s all those extra hours you’ve taken up working as a go-go boy. How else could you have possibly made all this money?”
The glyphs all across my body lit me up like a lantern as anger boiled in my blood. Florian, being the good friend that he was, took charge at that point. First, he took the wad of bills and stuffed it all into my pocket. Then he picked up Box, coaxed him into shrinking to his diminutive form, and put him in the same pocket. Finally, with me simmering in rage and frothing at the mouth, Florian picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and marched me straight out of Abel’s Appraisals.
Quilliam J. Abernathy cackled, then twiddled his fingers at me as he waved goodbye. I waved goodbye, too, but all I needed was one finger. The middle one.
7
I had nothing against gigolos and go-go boys and all the other flavors of men who worked their bodies for the sake of a paycheck. Actually, that probably got me even more pissed about Quilliam and his bullshit privilege. He was just the kind of asshole who thought it was fine to judge others by how much money they made, or how they made it.
“Damn mama’s boy,” I grumbled. “That man wasn’t raised right. Spoiled brat. Garbage human. I mean, we both know that he’s an asshole, right? Like a grade A asshole.”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Florian patted me on the shoulder, his arm draped across my back. “You’re okay.”
Fortunately I’d cooled down a little by the time we got to Beatrice Rex’s shop, but that didn’t mean that just being within a ten-meter radius of the place didn’t put me on guard. You understand. I guess Florian and I could consider Beatrice an ally of sorts, or at the very least an acquaintance, but she’d never exactly been the friendliest when it came to me.
A certain measure of triumph fluttered in my chest as I pulled the gigantic wad of bills out of my pocket. I watched with relish when Beatrice very carefully contained her eyeballs in their sockets as I took my sweet time counting out the ten grand she’d been asking for so long.
“We’re still on the same page, right?”
I raised
my eyes to meet her gaze, impressed at how quickly she wiped the look of quiet awe off her face. It was a strange feeling, being both vindicated and offended by her fleeting expression at the same time.
“Yes. Ten thousand it is.” Beatrice Rex sniffed and lifted her nose, her palms planted on her counter, to show that she was firm on the number and wouldn’t at all be willing to budge. “Shimmerscales are very rare and very expensive, like I told you.”
They were special scales, as she explained, harvested from merpeople, and not just any mer. They had to be the magical type, even rarer among mer than mages were among humankind. I had to hope that Beatrice’s supply of them was ethically sourced, though. For all her obnoxiousness, I still clung to the belief that she wasn’t fundamentally a terrible person.
“Excellent. I’ll work with the Fuck-Tons on this, and we should have your item ready and fully enchanted within a week.”
“Just so we’re on the same page, it’s going to be a leather bracer, right?” I slapped my wrist lightly, like my body didn’t trust her to remember our past discussions on the matter. “I’m really not into the idea of a leather thong.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course. More convenient for you. There’s a good chance you’ll never have to take it off your body, and that way you’ll always be protected.”
I nodded, then with some satisfaction, reached across the counter to hand her what was owed. We didn’t even bother with matters of paying half upfront, then the remaining balance later. Magical contracts, even seemingly mundane ones for sales and transactions, were very much binding. And as Belphegor proved earlier that day, their terms could apparently be enforced in creatively painful ways.
“Wonderful. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.” Beatrice accepted the stack of bills without even counting them, which probably meant progress in terms of our friendship. She stuffed it all into an ornate filigreed lockbox that appeared to need her fingerprint, a series of complicated gestures, and a barely-whispered passcode to open.
