“Nah, don’t have the cash for more than twice a week, but I’m hankering right now,” the guy across from him answers.
“Sorcerer’s shine is so damn expensive, I’m gonna need to mortgage my home to feed the habit.” William throws a glance my way as he adds, “You fellas read anything about this new magic product they’re smuggling in from Ireland? Fae dust?”
The guy across from him snorts. “A trippy blue powder they’re claiming they stole from a magic plane?” He shakes his head. “I ain’t that gullible.”
“Don’t know, news is saying it’s real. And somehow, it lasts—you can buy and store it, and get high whenever you want, instead of hitting up some sorcerer like a junkie a few times a week.” William turns to me. “Joan, you hear anything about the dust? It’s all over the papers.”
“Don’t get the papers here,” I answer quietly.
“Guess smugglers are getting smart, since shine’s impossible to transport, what with all its magic fading after a day. Apparently the coast guard’s scrambling to keep up with these dust sweepers.” William throws me a teasing smirk. “The Irish might put you all out of business, if you’re not careful.”
I don’t feel like small-talking with these shiners—I’m short on patience, long on nerves that Ben can’t even wake Jed right now—and besides, these junkies have no idea what they’re talking about. Magic products all go down different, each have their own wild ride and risks, and there’s nothing out there that gives the world a glow like sorcerer’s shine.
But I force my lips to fold into a cardboard smile, to play nice for the clientele. “That’s what they said about obi, sir, the island elixir folks claim is brewed with lost souls and ghosts. That it was going to put us all out on our tails in weeks. And yet we’re still here, serving good old-fashioned sorcerer’s shine.” At least, for now.
At that, the cabin’s dividing door swings open, and Ben reenters, with Uncle Jed in tow. Lord, he’s filthy. Hair matted and sweaty, lips all crusted over from a daily diet of shine. Swear I can smell him from here.
“Ben,” Uncle Jed says, his voice cracking from disuse, “get us ready.” Jed doesn’t look at me, which is a small blessing, since rage starts beating inside me like a dark heart every time we’re this close again. He gives a yellow-toothed smile, thick with saliva, to his three patrons in the corner. “You fellas ready to have your minds blown?”
The trio hoots and hollers, and trails Jed down to the shining room cellar.
Ben joins me behind the bar, and we quickly gather the materials Jed needs for his sorcery performance—a deck of cards, a stack of shot glasses, and a pitcher that Ben fills with twelve ounces of water from the same bucket I use to wipe down the bar. I put everything on a tray and hand it to Ben carefully. “You gonna watch him?”
“Of course.”
“Make sure he gives the crowd a little bit of foreplay this time, all right? A house of cards, or maybe a midair shuffle or something.”
Ben shakes his head. “I don’t think these shiners care about performance magic.”
“Well, Charlie’s keeps getting busier as we keep losing customers, so I’m not sure if I agree with you.” Then I add quietly, “And don’t let Jed drink it.”
Ben sighs. “You know what it’s like trying to stop my pop from doing anything, but I’ll try.” We share a sad smile. “Scream bloody hell if anyone gives you trouble up here, all right?”
I nod. “All right.”
“And send any latecomers down—here’s praying for them.” Ben exits the bar and scurries down the stairs to the shining room, and the door—which Jed didn’t even bother to conceal with a magic manipulation—closes with a snap.
I’m about to sneak away for a second to check on Ruby, but then our entrance door slaps open again. I jump, thinking maybe Ben’s prayers have been answered, and we’ve got a latecomer shiner who wants to throw another dollar our way. When I look up, a stranger with a chiseled face and a suit worth more than the cabin is approaching the bar. He takes a seat across from me.
He’s not from around here, I know in an instant. He’s dressed to the nines, with a butter-soft coat and a hat so white it’s clearly never been touched by a dirty hand. I catch his stare, and then can’t look anywhere else but his white-blue eyes. Cold. Unreadable.
“What can I do you for, sir?”
The stranger doesn’t answer right away, just studies me, then takes in every inch of our tiny bar sham—the water-stained ceiling and blisters in the walls, the smattering of bottles that pockmark our shelves, the closed doors, one of which leads to cleaning supplies, the other to illegal magic. Finally he asks, “This Jed Kendrick’s place?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glances around once more. “Then where is he?”