“Charlie!” He snapped his fingers as though it had been on the very tip of his tongue. “You’ve reconsidered taking on jobs. I knew you would. Welcome back into my good graces.”
Balthazar had wavy black hair and long eyelashes and wore a messy black suit with a messy black tie over a wrinkled shirt. An onyx tiepin was stuck into his lapel. Word was, he used to be an alterationist and had burned up his shadow by using it too hard. He still had the cleaved tongue of a gloom and wore a silver stud at the apex of the split. He came in late, left early, and often forgot to pay the rent to Odette. He was the exact sort of skinny fast-talker that Charlie usually got involved with and then regretted.
Joey Aspirins, by contrast, was small, wiry, and sunken-cheeked in a way that spoke of ill health, maybe addiction, in his past. He wore his gray hair military-short. He had a lot of tattoos, including a few crawling across his throat, combat boots, and a wardrobe that seemed to consist entirely of white t-shirts with short-sleeve button-ups over them. When he looked at Charlie, she knew he didn’t expect her to be smart. Well, she didn’t think he was some kind of genius either.
Charlie put her hand on her hip. “I’m headed off break. I thought I’d ask if I could get you anything from the bar?”
“Aren’t you thoughtful,” Balthazar said, skeptical but not about to turn down a drink. “Perhaps that old-fashioned you make with amaro?”
“Orange peel and a cherry?”
“A couple of cherries,” he said. “I like a lot of sweet with my bitter.”
Nice line. With great force of will, Charlie didn’t roll her eyes. “And I wanted to ask you something.”
“You don’t say.” Balthazar was the picture of innocence.
She sighed. “There was a man I saw the other night on the street. He had shadows for hands. Do you know him?”
“You’ve met the new Hierophant,” he said.
The Hierophant. The magician in a tarot deck and a position among the gloamists. Locally, shadow magicians came together to choose representatives from each discipline to sit in what they—perhaps not incorrectly—called a Cabal.
The representatives were well-known. Vicereine, famous for causing a washed-up actor to win an Oscar with his post-altered-shadow performance and having altered her influencer ex-boyfriend so that his shadow’s head looked like a pig. Her gang of Artists had grown over the years to be highly influential, in part because alterations were so lucrative.
Malik was rumored to have puppeted his shadow to steal an extremely large ruby from the British Museum before they installed onyx, while Bellamy of the masks had no reputation so to speak of, which was a reputation in itself for those of the masked discipline.
Then there was Knight Singh. After his murder, they were going to have to find someone else.
The Cabal oversaw whatever adjudication was needed outside of the law among gloamists, and all of them put in a little money to hunt and trap the one thing that no gloamist wanted the daylight world to know too much about: Blights.
Whatever unlucky fucker crossed the Cabal was given the position of Hierophant.
“He didn’t look very friendly when I saw him,” Charlie said. “But I guess none of them are.”
If the Hierophant was in the alley with the body, it was very likely Paul Ecco had been murdered by a Blight.
“That guy who came in the other night trying to get you to sell something for him,” Charlie said. “How come you tossed him out?”
“You know why they call this guy Joey Aspirins?” Balthazar cut her off, nodding to his companion.
Charlie shrugged.
Balthazar’s easy smile faded and she had a sense of the menace underneath. “Because he makes headaches go away. And you are one. You were good, Charlie. One of the best. Come back to work and we’ll talk. Otherwise, get out.”
As she went back to the bar and made Balthazar his cocktail, Charlie reminded herself Paul Ecco’s murder shouldn’t matter to her. His choice of a drink wasn’t that interesting and his tip sucked. He was dead, sure, but lots of people died. Probably Adam was the one with the book, anyway.
As she got back from delivering the booze, she was flagged down by a guy wearing a neatly trimmed goatee and locs. He wanted to do the whole absinthe thing, with the water and the sugar cube on fire, and wanted five of his friends to do it too. Then there was a scotch drinker on the other side of the bar who wanted to debate the relative smokiness and saltiness of Speysides.
By the time Rapture was closing, Charlie had pulled her hair into two sweaty pigtails and slung a wet towel across her neck. Balthazar and Joey Aspirins were gone. The performers were sitting together in the corner with Odette, drinking pale purple aviations while Charlie pocketed her tips for the night and counted out the till.
“Is this what you thought you’d be doing with your life?” Odette was asking.
“Oh no, honey,” said one. “My mother wanted me to be a doctor.”
The three of them laughed as Charlie loaded the dishwasher. One of the bar-backs, Sam, swept up broken glass.
That’s when the doors opened. A bearded guy in a deep green fisherman’s jacket walked in, his shadow in the shape of wings at his back.
“We’re closed,” Odette called, turning in her chair and making a grand gesture with one hand. “Come back on another night, dear.”
The bearded man’s gaze went to Odette and her table, then over to Charlie. “Ms. Damiano?” he asked, and for a moment, Charlie didn’t understand. Then she did, and felt a flush of horror. This was the man on the other end of the phone, the one who’d pretended to be the late Paul Ecco.
“Charlie Hall,” she said, pointing to herself.
This was a lounge, after all. People passed through. Used phones. She told herself there was no way her voice was so distinct that he could be sure she was the one who’d called.
But as he crossed the room, heading toward the bar, she could tell he’d made his decision. And as he walked, his shadow began to grow, feathers lengthening and then rolling toward Charlie like fog.
On the other side of the room, the performers gasped and Odette stood up so quickly that her chair fell over.
Charlie stopped moving.
The dark reached toward her with suddenly knifelike fingers. She threw herself against the shelves, making the bottles behind her shake dangerously.
And then it slid away, as though they’d all imagined it. As though nothing had happened. The man’s shadow looked utterly normal, unaltered. No longer even in the shape of wings.
“Abracadabra, bitch,” he said with a grin, leaning his arm on the scratched wood of the bar top.
7
THE PAST
Charlie hadn’t thought there was anyone she could like less than Travis, until Rand came along.
He was one of Mom’s crystals-and-tarot friends and had been particularly skeptical when she was channeling Alonso. He hadn’t thought much of her, so she was surprised when one day Mom told her that he was waiting for her in the main room of their apartment.
“What does he want?” Charlie had asked.
“He said that he’d been doing a reading and there was something that concerned you. He wanted to tell you himself.” Mom was boiling green tea in a regular pot with several pieces of quartz at the bottom, for clarity of thought. “Go on in. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Rand was sitting on the couch. His mustache looked even longer than it had before, twisted up with wax on both sides into a style he called “imperial” and everyone else called “hipster.” He had on a tweed jacket and slacks, only slightly worn at the elbows and knees. It all combined to give him an affable look that fell somewhere between professor, old-timey saloon owner, and Rich Uncle Pennybags from Monopoly.
One of his main gambits was convincing older women that he was special and that they were special through their connection to him. Charlie had no idea that Alonso was stepping on his game.
She also didn’t know that Rand was a con artist.
“Sit down,” he said, patting the couch beside him.