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“Me? Break the law?” I said lightly. “I’m too good to have to break the law. I can’t help it if she’s the wrong leprechaun, though,” I added, not feeling a bit guilty. The I.S. had made it abundantly clear they didn’t want my services anymore. What was I supposed to do? Roll on my back with my belly in the air and lick someone’s, er, muzzle?
“Paperwork,” the cabbie interjected, his accent abruptly as smooth as the road as he switched to the voice and manners needed to get and keep fares on this side of the river. “Lose the paperwork. Happens all the time. I think I’ve Rynn Cormel’s confession in here somewhere from when my father shuttled lawyers from quarantine to the courts during the Turn.”
“Yeah.” I gave him a nod and smile. “Wrong name on the wrong paper. Q.E.D.”
Ivy’s eyes were unblinking. “Leon Bairn didn’t just spontaneously explode, Rachel.”
My breath puffed out. I wouldn’t believe the stories. They were just that, stories to keep the I.S.’s flock of runners from wanting to break their contracts once they learned all the I.S. had to teach them. “That was over ten years ago,” I said. “And the I.S. had nothing to do with it. They aren’t going to kill me for breaking my contract; they want me to leave.” I frowned. “Besides, being turned inside out would be more fun than what I’m doing now.”
Ivy leaned forward, and I refused to back away. “They say it took three days to find enough of him to fit in a shoe box,” she said. “Scraped the last off the ceiling of his porch.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I said, pulling my arm back. “I haven’t had a decent run in months. Look at this.” I gestured to my take. “A tax-evading leprechaun. It’s an insult.”
The little woman stiffened. “Well, excu-u-u-u-use me.”
Jenks abandoned his new girlfriend to sit on the back rim of the cabbie’s hat. “Yeah,” he said. “Rachel’s gonna be pushing a broom if I have to take time off for workman’s comp.”
He fitfully moved his damaged wing, and I gave him a pained smile. “Maitake?” I said.
“Quarter pound,” he countered, and I mentally upped it to a half. He was okay, for a pixy.
Ivy frowned, fingering her crucifix chain. “There’s a reason no one breaks their contract. The last person to try was sucked through a turbine.”
Jaw clenched, I turned to look out the front window. I remembered. It was almost a year ago. It would have killed him if he hadn’t been dead already. The vamp was due back in the office any day now. “I’m not asking for your permission,” I said. “I’m asking you if you know anyone with a cheap place to rent.” Ivy was silent, and I shifted to see her. “I have a little something tucked away. I can put up a shingle, help people that need it—”
“Oh, for the love of blood,” Ivy interrupted. “Leaving to open up a charm shop, maybe. But your own agency?” She shook her head, her black hair swinging. “I’m not your mother, but if you do this, you’re dead. Jenks? Tell her she’s dead.”
Jenks nodded solemnly, and I flopped around to stare out the window. I felt stupid for having asked for her help. The cabbie was nodding. “Dead,” he said. “Dead, dead, dead.”
This was better and better. Between Jenks and the cab driver, the entire city would know I quit before I gave notice. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I muttered.
Ivy draped an arm over the seat. “Did it occur to you someone may be setting you up? Everyone knows leprechauns try to buy their way out. If you get caught, your butt is buttered.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I thought of that.” I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell her. “My first wish will be to not get caught.”
“Always is,” the leprechaun said slyly. “That your first wish?” In a flash of anger, I nodded, and the leprechaun grinned, dimples showing. She was halfway home.
“Look,” I said to Ivy. “I don’t need your help. Thanks for nothing.” I shuffled in my bag for my wallet. “Drop me here,” I said to the cabbie. “I want a coffee. Jenks? Ivy will get you back to the I.S. Can you do that for me, Ivy? For old times’ sake?”
“Rachel,” she protested, “you’re not listening to me.”
The cabbie carefully signaled, then pulled over. “Watch your back, Hot Stuff.”
I got out, yanked open the rear door, and grabbed my leprechaun by her uniform. My cuffs had completely masked her size spell. She was about the size of a chunky two-year-old. “Here,” I said, tossing a twenty onto the seat. “That should cover my share.”
“It’s still raining!” the leprechaun wailed.
“Shut up.” Drops pattered against me, ruining my topknot and sticking the trailing strands to my neck. I slammed the door as Ivy leaned to say something. I had nothing left to lose. My life was a pile of magic manure, and I couldn’t even make compost out of it.
“But I’m getting wet,” the leprechaun complained.
“You want back in the car?” I asked. My voice was calm, but inside I was seething. “We can forget the whole thing if you want. I’m sure Ivy will take care of your paperwork. Two jobs in one night. She’ll get a bonus.”
“No,” came her meek, tiny voice.
Ticked, I looked across the street to the Starbucks catering to uptown snits who needed sixty different ways to brew a bean in order to not be happy with any of them. Being on this side of the river, the coffeehouse would likely be empty at this hour. It was the perfect place to sulk and regroup. I half dragged the leprechaun to the door, trying to guess the cost of a cup of coffee by the number of pre-Turn doodads in the front window.
“Rachel, wait.” Ivy had rolled down her window, and I could hear the cabbie’s music cranked again. Sting’s “A Thousand Years.” I could almost get back in the car.
I yanked the door of the café open, sneering at the chimes’ merry jingle. “Coffee. Black. And a booster seat,” I shouted to the kid behind the counter as I strode to the darkest corner, my leprechaun in tow. Tear it all. The kid was a vision of upright character in his red-and-white-striped apron and perfect hair. Probably a university student. I could have gone to the university instead of the community college. At least for a semester or two. I’d been accepted and everything.
The booth, though, was cushy and soft. There was a real tablecloth. And my feet didn’t stick to the floor, a definite plus. The kid was eyeing me with a superior look, so I pulled off my boots and sat cross-legged to harass him. I was still dressed like a hooker. I think he was trying to decide whether he should call the I.S. or its human counterpart, the FIB. That’d be a laugh.
My ticket out of the I.S. stood on the seat across from me and fidgeted. “Can I have a latte?” she whined.
“No.”
The door chimed, and I looked to see Ivy stride in with her owl on her arm, its talons pinching the thick armband she had. Jenks was perched on her shoulder, as far from the owl as he could get. I stiffened, turning to the picture above the table of babies dressed up as a fruit salad. I think it was supposed to be cute, but it only made me hungry.
“Rachel. I have to talk to you.”
This was apparently too much for Junior. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in his perfect voice. “No pets allowed. The owl must remain outside.”
Ma’am? I thought, trying to keep the hysterical laughter from bubbling up.
He went pale as Ivy glanced at him. Staggering, he almost fell as he sightlessly backed up. She was pulling an aura on him. Not good.
Ivy turned her gaze to me. My air whooshed out as I hit the back of the booth. Black, predator eyes nailed me to the vinyl seat. Raw hunger clutched at my stomach. My fingers convulsed.
Her bound tension was intoxicating. I couldn’t look away. It was nothing like the gentle question the dead vamp had poised to me in The Blood and Brew. This was anger, domination. Thank God she wasn’t angry with me, but at Junior behind the counter.
Sure enough, as soon as she saw the look on my face, the anger in her eyes flickered and went out. Her pupils contracted, setting her eyes back to their usual brown. In a clock-tick the shroud of power had slipped from her, easing back into the depths of hell that it came from. It had to be hell. Such raw domination couldn’t come from an enchantment. My anger flowed back. If I was angry, I couldn’t be afraid, right?
It had been years since Ivy pulled an aura on me. The last time, we had been arguing over how to tag a low-blood vamp under suspicion of enticing underage girls with some asinine, role-playing card game. I had dropped her with a sleep charm, then painted the word “idiot” on her fingernails in red nail polish before tying her in a chair and waking her up. She had been the model friend since then, if a bit cool at times. I think she appreciated that I hadn’t told anyone.
Junior cleared his throat. “You—ah—can’t stay unless you order something, ma’am?” he offered weakly.
Gutsy, I thought. Must be an Inderlander.
“Orange juice,” Ivy said loudly, standing before me. “No pulp.”
Surprise made me look up. “Orange juice?” Then I frowned. “Look,” I said, unclenching my hands and roughly pulling my bag of charms onto my lap. “I don’t care if Leon Bairn did end up as a film on the sidewalk. I’m quitting. And nothing you say is going to change my mind.”
Ivy shifted from foot to foot. It was her disquiet that cooled the last of my anger. Ivy was worried? I’d never seen that.
“I want to go with you,” she finally said.
For a moment, I could only stare. “What?” I finally managed.
She sat down across from me with an affected air of nonchalance, putting her owl to watch the leprechaun. The tearing sound as she undid the fasteners of her armband sounded loud, and she set it on the bench beside her. Jenks half hopped to the table, his eyes wide and his mouth shut for a change. Junior showed up with the booster chair and our drinks. We silently waited as he placed everything with shaking hands and went to hide in the back room.
My mug was chipped and only half full. I toyed with the idea of coming back to stick a charm under the table that would sour any cream that got within four feet of it, but decided I had more important things to contend with. Like why Ivy was going to flush her illustrious career down the proverbial toilet.
“Why?” I asked, floored. “The boss loves you. You get to pick your assignments. You got a paid vacation last year.”
Ivy was studying the picture, avoiding me. “So?”
“It was for four weeks! You went to Alaska for the midnight sun!”
Her thin black eyebrows bunched, and she reached to arrange her owl’s feathers. “Half the rent, half the utilities, half of everything is my responsibility, half is yours. I bring in and do my business, you bring in and handle yours. If need be, we work together. Like before.”
I settled back, my huff not as obvious as I wanted it to be, since there was only the cushy upholstery to fall into. “Why?” I asked again.
Her fingers dropped from her owl. “I’m very good at what I do,” she said, not answering me. A hint of vulnerability had crept into her voice. “I won’t drag you down, Rachel. No vamp will dare move against me. I can extend that to you. I’ll keep the vamp assassins off of you until you come up with the money to pay off your contract. With my connections and your spells, we can stay alive long enough to get the I.S. to drop the price on our heads. But I want a wish.”
“There’s no price on our heads,” I said quickly.
“Rachel …” she cajoled. Her brown eyes were soft in worry, alarming me. “Rachel, there will be.” She leaned forward until I fought not to retreat. I took a shallow breath to look for the smell of blood on her, smelling only the tang of juice. She was wrong. The I.S. wouldn’t put a price on my head. They wanted me to leave. She was the one who should be worried.
“Me, too,” Jenks said suddenly. He vaulted to the rim of my mug. Iridescent dust sifted from his bent wing to make an oily film on my coffee. “I want in. I want a wish. I’ll ditch the I.S. and be both your backups. You’re gonna need one. Rache, you get the four hours before midnight, Ivy the four after, or whatever schedule you want. I get every fourth day off, seven paid holidays, and a wish. You let me and my family live in the office, real quietlike in the walls. Pay me what I’m making now, biweekly.”
Ivy nodded and took a sip of her juice. “Sounds good to me. What do you think?”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I can’t give you my wishes.”
The leprechaun bobbed her head. “Yes, you can.”
“No,” I said impatiently. “I mean, I need them.” A pang of worry had settled into my gut at the thought that maybe Ivy was right. “I already used one to not get caught letting her go,” I said. “I have to wish to get out of my contract, for starters.”
“Uh,” the leprechaun stammered. “I can’t do anything about that if it’s in writing.”
Jenks gave a snort of derision. “Not that good, eh?”
“Shut your mouth—bug!” she snapped, color showing on her cheeks.
“Shut your own, moss wipe!” he snarled back.
This can’t be happening, I thought. All I wanted was out, not to lead a revolt. “You’re not serious,” I said. “Ivy, tell me this is your twisted sense of humor finally showing itself.”
She met my gaze squarely. I never could tell what was going on behind a vamp’s eyes. “For the first time in my career,” she said, “I’m going back empty-handed. I let my take go.” She waved a hand in the air. “Opened the trunk and let them run. I broke regulations.” A closed-lipped smile flickered over her and was gone. “Is that serious enough for you?”
“Go find your own leprechaun,” I said, catching myself as I reached for my cup. Jenks was still sitting on the handle.
She laughed. It was cold, and this time I did shiver. “I pick my runs,” she said. “What do you think would happen if I went after a leprechaun, muffed it, then tried to leave the I.S.?”
Across from me, the leprechaun sighed. “No amount of wishing could make that look good,” she piped up. “It’s going to be hard enough making this look like a coincidence.”
“And you, Jenks?” I said, my voice cracking.
Jenks shrugged. “I want a wish. It can give me something the I.S. can’t. I want sterility so my wife won’t leave me.” He flew a ragged path to the leprechaun. “Or is that too hard for you, greenie weenie?” he mocked, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his hips.
“Bug,” she muttered, my charms jingling as she threatened to squish him. Jenks’s wings went red in anger, and I wondered if the dust sifting from him could catch fire.
“Sterility?” I questioned, struggling to keep to the topic at hand.
He flipped the leprechaun off and strutted across the table to me. “Yeah. You know how many brats I’ve got?”
Even Ivy looked surprised. “You’d risk your life over that?” she asked.
Jenks made a tinkling laugh. “Who said I’m risking my life? The I.S. couldn’t care less if I leave. Pixies don’t sign contracts. They go through us too fast. I’m a free agent. I always have been.” He grinned, looking far too sly for so small a person. “I always will be. I figure my life span will be marginally longer with only you two lunkers to watch out for.”
I turned to Ivy. “I know you signed a contract. They love you. If anyone should be worried about a death threat, it’s you, not me. Why would you risk that for—for—” I hesitated. “For nothing? What wish could be worth that?”
Ivy’s face went still. A hint of black shadow drifted over her. “I don’t have to tell you.”
“I’m not stupid,” I said, trying to hide my disquiet. “How do I know you aren’t going to start practicing again?”
Clearly insulted, Ivy stared at me until I dropped my gaze, chilled to the bone. This, I thought, is definitely not a good idea. “I’m not a practicing vamp,” she finally said. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”
I forced my hand down, realizing I was playing with my damp hair. Her words were only slightly reassuring. Her glass was half empty, and I only remembered her taking the one sip.
“Partners?” Ivy said, extending her hand across the table.
Partners with Ivy? With Jenks? Ivy was the best runner the I.S. had. It was more than a little flattering that she wanted to work with me on a permanent basis, if also a bit worrisome. But it wasn’t as if I had to live with her. Slowly I stretched my hand to meet hers. My perfectly shaped red nails looked garish next to her unpolished ones. All my wishes—gone. But I would’ve probably wasted them anyway. “Partners,” I said, shivering at the coldness of Ivy’s hand as I took it.
“All right!” Jenks crowed, flitting to land on top of our handshake. The dust sifting from him seemed to warm Ivy’s touch. “Partners!”
Three
“Dear God,” I moaned under my breath. “Don’t let me be sick. Not here.” I shut my eyes in a long blink, hoping the light wouldn’t hurt so much when I opened them. I was in my cubicle, twenty-fifth floor of the I.S. tower. The afternoon sun slanted in, but it would never reach me, my desk being toward the middle of the maze. Someone had brought in doughnuts, and the smell of the frosting made my stomach roil. All I wanted was to go back home and sleep.
Tugging open my top drawer, I fumbled for a pain amulet, groaning when I found I’d used them all. My forehead hit the edge of the metal desk, and I stared past my frizzy length of hair to my ankle boots peeping past the hem of my jeans. I had worn something conservative in deference to my quitting: a tuck-in red linen shirt and pants. No more tight leather for a while.
Last night had been a mistake. It had taken far too many drinks for me to get stupid enough to officially give my remaining wishes to Ivy and Jenks. I had really been counting on the last two. Anyone who knows anything about wishes knows you can’t wish for more. The same goes for wishing for wealth. Money doesn’t just appear. It has to come from somewhere, and unless you wish not to get caught, they always get you for theft.
Wishes are tricky things, which was why most Inderlanders had lobbied to get a minimum of three-per-go. In hindsight, I hadn’t done too badly. Having wished to not get caught letting the leprechaun go would at least allow me to leave the I.S. with a clear record. If Ivy was right and they were going to nack me for breaking my contract, they would have to make it look like an accident. But why would they bother? Death threats were expensive, and they wanted me gone.
Ivy had gotten a marker to call her wish in later. It looked like an old coin with a hole in it, and she had laced it on a purple cord and hung it about her neck. Jenks, though, spent his wish right in the bar, buzzing off to give the news to his wife. I should have left when Jenks had, but Ivy didn’t seem to want to leave. It had been a long time since I’d had a girls’ night out, and I thought I might find the courage at the bottom of a glass to tell the boss I was leaving. I hadn’t.
Five seconds into my rehearsed speech, Denon flipped open a manila envelope, pulled out my contract, and tore it up, telling me to be out of the building in half an hour. My badge and I.S.-issue cuffs were in his desk; the charms that had decorated them were in my pocket.
My seven years with the I.S. had left me with an accumulated clutter of knickknacks and outdated memos. Fingers trembling, I reached for a cheap, thick-walled vase that hadn’t seen a flower for months. It went into the trash, just like the cretin who had given it to me. My dissolution bowl went into the box at my feet. The salt-encrusted blue ceramic grated harshly on the cardboard. It had gone dry last week, and the rime of salt left from evaporation was dusty.
A wooden dowel of redwood clattered in next to it. It was too thick to make a wand out of, but I wasn’t good enough to make a wand anyway. I had bought the dowel to make a set of lie-detecting amulets and never got around to it. It was easier to buy them. Stretching, I grabbed my phone list of past contacts. A quick look to be sure no one was watching, and I shoved it out of sight next to my dissolution bowl, sliding my disc player and headphones to cover it.
I had a few reference books to go back to Joyce across the aisle, but the container of salt propping them up had been my dad’s. I set it in the box, wondering what Dad would think of me leaving. “He would be pleased as punch,” I whispered, gritting my teeth against my hangover.
I glanced up, sending my gaze over the ugly yellow partitions. My eyes narrowed as my coworkers looked the other way. They were standing in huddled groups as they gossiped, pretending to be busy. Their hushed whispers grated on me. Taking a slow breath, I reached for my black-and-white picture of Watson, Crick, and the woman behind it all, Rosalind Franklin. They were standing before their model of DNA, and Rosalind’s smile had the same hidden humor of Mona Lisa. One might think she knew what was going to happen. I wondered if she had been an Inderlander. Lots of people did. I kept the picture to remind myself how the world turns on details others miss.
It had been almost forty years since a quarter of humanity died from a mutated virus, the T4 Angel. And despite the frequent TV evangelists’ claim otherwise, it wasn’t our fault. It started and ended with good old-fashioned human paranoia.
Back in the fifties, Watson, Crick, and Franklin had put their heads together and solved the DNA riddle in six months. Things might have stopped there, but the then-Soviets grabbed the technology. Spurred by a fear of war, money flowed into the developing science. By the early sixties we had bacteria-produced insulin. A wealth of bioengineered drugs followed, flooding the market with offshoots of the U.S.’s darker search for bioengineered weapons. We never made it to the moon, turning science inward instead of outward to kill ourselves.
And then, toward the end of the decade, someone made a mistake. The debate as to whether it was the U.S. or the Soviets is moot. Somewhere up in the cold Arctic labs, a lethal chain of DNA escaped. It left a modest trail of death to Rio that was identified and dealt with, the majority of the public unaware and ignorant. But even as the scientists wrote their conclusionary notes in their lab books and shelved them, the virus mutated.
It attached itself to a bioengineered tomato through a weak spot in its modified DNA that the researchers thought too minuscule to worry about. The tomato was officially known as the T4 Angel tomato—its lab identification—and from there came the virus’s name, Angel.
Unaware that the virus was using the Angel tomato as an intermediate host, it was transported by the airlines. Sixteen hours later it was too late. The third world countries were decimated in a frightening three weeks, and the U.S. shut down in four. Borders were militarized, and a governmental policy of “Sorry, we can’t help you” was instituted. The U.S. suffered and people died, but compared to the charnel pit the rest of the world became, it was a cakewalk.
But the largest reason civilization remained intact was that most Inderland species were resistant to the Angel virus. Witches, the undead, and the smaller species like trolls, pixies, and fairies were completely unaffected. Weres, living vamps, and leprechauns got the flu. The elves, though, died out completely. It was believed their practice of hybridizing with humans to bolster their numbers backfired, making them susceptible to the Angel virus.
When the dust settled and the Angel virus was eradicated, the combined numbers of our various species had neared that of humanity. It was a chance we quickly seized. The Turn, as it came to be called, began at noon with a single pixy. It ended at midnight with humanity huddling under the table, trying to come to grips with the fact that they’d been living beside witches, vampires, and Weres since before the pyramids.
Humanity’s first gut reaction to wipe us off the face of the earth petered out pretty fast when it was shoved under their noses that we had kept the structure of civilization up and running while the world fell apart. If not for us, the death rate would have been far higher.