“Wow,” Howie whispers, “it’s like a little city out here.”
We’ve reached a stretch of safe waters right behind coast guard territory called “Magic Row,” where dust sweepers and obi smugglers from overseas and the islands shuttle in their magic contraband, then wait for street runners like us to come trade and bring their products back to shore. Tonight we’re after fae dust—an addictive, paranoia-inducing, magic blue powder that the Irish boast they stole from another reality. No one knows what the stuff really is, or where it actually comes from, but dust causes a fierce psychedelic trip, and unlike shine, transports across the sea easily. And there’s a steady market for mobile magic, of any sort—even, apparently, if the high drives you crazy. My role in this smuggling venture: throwing distress signal manipulations up and down the coast, giving the coast guard false alarms to chase, as our boat evades their radios.
Win turns the boat engine on low again and we slowly churn through the waves to a two-story ship marked EMERALD JANE. Win turns the wheel, right, left, right, until we’re right next to the large ship like a sidecar.
“HO! What’s your business?” a man on deck calls down to us in a soft Irish lilt.
“It’s Win Matthews, with the Shaws,” Win calls up. “We’re here for the dust.”
There’s a pause, then a muffled discussion as the ship hand confers with his cronies. “All right, come onboard.”
Howie and I follow Win silently, each of us climbing up the rope ladder on the side of the ship. We clamber onto the deck, and we’re immediately surrounded by a five-man crew, all of them cloaked in thick, salty, musty layers. The stench of weeks at sea curls around and suffocates us.
“Been out here long?” Win asks what I’m thinking.
“Near a month,” the man with the lilt answers. “Long journey. Started up in Maine, if you can believe it. Heading to talk with buyers in Virginia Beach tomorrow.”
The Emerald Jane, dust deals up and down the East Coast, I repeat silently, and file it away. I’ve become an expert at taking notes without a pen, at remembering small details. Everything gets stored and saved for the next time I get to talk to Agent Frain: all the ways we might manage to hook the big fish we’re planning to fry.
“You have any trouble with the pigs?” the man adds. The rest of his team pats us down, takes our weapons, and puts them in a box on the boat’s far side for safekeeping.
“No, ride out was smooth. We brought our street sorcerer. He never fails.” Win nods to me in recognition, while Howie shifts uncomfortably at Win’s compliment. “You’ve got the dust?”
“A hundred ounces, like we promised. You got the cash?”
“One thousand.”
The smuggler nods, studies the water. “The sea has eyes and ears. Come, let’s break bread below.”
I swear, I almost follow them, invite myself right into the belly of this ship. My desire to find the beating heart of this underworld, so that I can wrap my hands around and destroy it—it’s become my own sort of addiction. Of course, it’s still about bringing down the types of men who broke apart my family. But there’s something more now too, I can’t deny it. The satisfaction of excelling at something very few people can do. The commitment to something real—something I might one day look back on and be proud of.
“You two stay here,” Win tells Howie and me, and then leaves us to keep watch in the frigid midnight air.
The rest of the crew returns to their nighttime duties—ship hands finish mopping the deck, a few start tying thick knots alongside the ship—as Howie and I turn to face the water.
“You look tired, Danfrey,” Howie whispers beside me.
I fake a laugh. “That’s ’cause I am tired.” I pause. “You’re telling me you’re not?”
“Nah, these runs light me on fire. ’Cause I want it, Danfrey, more than anything.” He turns to study me. “I’ve been thinking, you know. About you. About this.”
“Is that right?”
Howie rests his back against the boat beside me, then stretches out his legs, so he’s at a perfect forty-five-degree angle facing the ship’s interior. “Honestly, brother, I really don’t think this street work is for you. I see how it’s wearing on you.”
I don’t answer.