Stolen Soul (Yliaster Crystal #1)
Alex Rivers
To Iftach, whose excitement knows no bounds
Chapter One
The cold October night air blew against my cheeks as I cycled down the street, my backpack full of dreams, potions, and magic-infused crystals. The sky was cloudy and dark, the occasional shimmering star peeking from behind the gray curtain. The moon was a sliver of white, shining down the narrow street. I smiled in exhilaration, the sound of the wind increasing to a tormented shriek. I could hardly hear it: My earphones were playing Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do,” the volume set to the max. My nose and ear tips were frozen stiff but the rest of my body was getting warmer, my heart pumping, my lungs burning.
God, it was awesome to be outside, to move, to breathe fresh air. As much as I adored my lab, it tended to smell of alchemy. And alchemy, when done right, never smelled good.
The breeze carried the distinct scent of the sea. North End has a large wharf in the Boston Main Channel and, cycling through the neighborhood, I could appreciate the salty tinge in the air. I would have to visit the beach soon. Saltwater was an important ingredient in some antidotes, and was also used for making Verna’s glowing crystal. Though for Verna’s recipe, the seawater had to be collected using a copper ladle with seven holes, which was an utter pain in the ass.
I shook my head, dislodging the train of thought as I cycled even faster. It was getting late, really late, and I didn’t want my client going to sleep before my delivery. I needed the cash tonight. Tomorrow morning, Breadknife would be knocking on my door for his monthly payment, and I was still a bit short.
I nearly missed the apartment building, a typical three-story red-brick structure. This one was a bit dirtier and shabbier than the rest, the graffiti on it sprayed in layers, tags and signatures painted over each other, intermingling into an unpleasant dark mess. I hit the brakes, jumping off the bicycle before it stopped completely.
A man in a trench coat leaned against the wall, smoking. The orange tip of his cigarette burned brightly in the shadowy street, casting an eerie light over his face. He gazed at nothing, not even sparing me a glance.
I walked it over to a nearby streetlamp and took out a thin chain from my backpack. Looping it around the lamppost, I attached it to my bike and brought the chain ends together. A silvery light flickered in the darkness and the chain was sealed. I peered back at the smoking man suspiciously. He didn’t seem like a bike thief, but you never could tell. Just to make sure, I leaned closer to the chain and whispered, “Angustus.” The chain tightened, its links shrinking, locking the bicycle even tighter to the metal pole
I texted my client, informing him that I was here. As I waited for his response, I hopped from foot to foot, the adrenaline that pumped through my blood nudging me to move. As I waited, I took a cursory look in a nearby window’s reflection. My wavy dark hair was a mess, set in windblown-to-the-right style. I brushed my fingers through it, fixing it as best as I could. I smiled at the girl in the reflection. Small mouth, eyes I liked to think of as chocolatey. A bit short, angled nose, loose purple shirt, dark blue jeans. And freaking awesome black boots, a gift from my friend, Sinead, for my twenty-third birthday five weeks ago. The backpack with my products was slung on one shoulder, worn from use.
The 21st century had seen a boom in quaint mystical shops. Every aged hippie or goth chick could start selling energy-cleansing crystals and so-called magical herbs. But my shop had a large volume of repeat clients, and I constantly found new ones. Word of mouth was all the advertising I needed, because my potions actually worked. And I let everyone know I delivered my products to their door.
Lou Vitalis—your friendly neighborly alchemist, here to help you out. For a reasonable price.
Still no response from the client. I called him. It took twelve rings before he finally answered, his voice slow and sleepy. At first I thought I had woken him up, but then I remembered that was just the way he talked. He buzzed me in and I headed up, ignoring the subtle aroma of piss in the building’s lobby.
His door was brown, dirty, no nameplate. I knocked several times until I finally heard him say, “Coming, man, I’m coming, hang on.”
A lock clicked, followed by the sound of a bolt sliding. He opened the door—a pale man in his twenties, unshaven, with red-rimmed eyes and stained, drab clothing. Behind him, in a living room decorated in the universally grimy style of stoned bachelors, two men sat on lumpy pillows, sharing a hookah.
“Hi Ronald,” I said, stepping into the living room, circumventing an empty discarded Coke bottle and an ashtray.
“Hey, man. Did you bring the stuff?”
I nodded, breathing shallowly, and only through my mouth. The room’s smell of sweat, smoke, and old cheese mixed together unpleasantly. Opening my backpack, I took out a small nylon packet containing a thin purple powder, which seemed to glimmer as I held it to the light. Ronald held out his hand, his body tensing with urgency. I looked at it, and then at him. I didn’t like the needy desperation in his eyes.
“Ronald, have you been injecting this stuff?” I asked, my voice cold.
“No, man, no way! Only snorting it, like you said!”
I raised an eyebrow doubtfully. Children’s sweet dreams were potent stuff, but they weren’t addictive when inhaled. They just assured a good night’s sleep, accompanied by a measure of nearly unattainable innocence. There was something wonderful in going to sleep without thinking about anything beyond your toys, or the friend you met in the park, or the fire truck you saw that afternoon.
But boiled and injected, those dreams became much more potent. And highly addictive. Innocence and purity-of-heart on steroids.
I wasn’t happy about this. I liked repeat customers, but I didn’t want addicts. For one, addicts were unpredictable and dangerous. And besides, my moral compass, though not the cleanest, felt uncomfortable with it.
Still, I needed the money.
“Cash first.” I folded my arms.
Ronald rummaged in his pocket and retrieved two crumpled bills, handing them to me nervously. I glanced at them, not touching.
“We agreed on five hundred,” I said, my voice becoming even more frosty.
“Bitch, take the money and give us the dope,” one of the hookah-smoking guys barked.
I glanced at him, my expression bored. He was bald, his eyes sunken, his shirt torn, his stomach bulging underneath. But under the flabbiness of his belly there was strength. He was large, and I pegged him at about two hundred pounds. Which was about ninety more than me.
A sudden air of menace filled the room. My hands began pulsing, getting warmer, reacting to the tension.