Page 10 of Hex and the City
“Don’t call me, gentlemen. I’ll call you.”
5
LEON
Ikicked off my sneakers at the threshold of my apartment, too tired to put them nice and neat by the door. What a night. That Sasha lady made sure to follow us out to the street, just to check that we wouldn’t start slugging it out on Silk’s doorstep. She put herself between me and the other guy, staring grimly until we headed in opposite directions.
Maximilian Drake. Ugh. What kind of a name was that, anyway? As if his parents wanted to be sure he’d be ready for a career as a movie star. Which he was good-looking enough to be, really. An action star, even. Tall, dark, and handsome, muscular enough that the broadness of his shoulders stretched his leather jacket, gave the white shirt he wore underneath ample opportunity to hug the tight lines of his —
“Fuck,” I told the empty room, chucking my keys onto the raggedy dinette set that came with the apartment. I rubbed my temples, raked my fingers through my hair. “Make up your mind, Leon. Do you fucking hate the guy, or do you just wanna hatefuck him?”
I didn’t expect the room to answer. Would have been terrified if it did, in all honesty. I’d had enough experiences with the supernatural to know that humanity didn’t occupy this planet alone, that other intelligent beings lived among us. In the cracks between worlds, in the corners connecting the planes of reality, just out of sight, flitting among the shadows when we weren’t looking.
Which was a really dramatic way to say that this place needed a fucking exorcism. Not because I detected any sort of ghostly or demonic presence, oh no. Just because it was an actual shithole. Even at our poorest, my mom and I never ended up somewhere quite so shabby, so destitute, so very depressing. In most situations, I could make up a reason to smile about anything, shine with my own inner light.
But this place was a kick in the balls, man. A creaky single bed with a rusted frame that was surely days away from crumbling into dust. Water that ran brown and smelled horrific the first half-minute it came out of the faucet. I had no doubt that Dos Lunas had much prettier and far more sanitary places to live, but this was the best I could afford on a shoestring budget.
“We’re just passing through,” I reminded myself. “We’re just passing through.”
Had to keep moving. It was what kept me going. It felt like I’d been moving forever. First when mom finally scored my green card, booked me the one-way ticket that would pluck me out of the Philippines and bring us together in California at last. She’d lucked out in the past, gotten her own green card, which allowed her to work legally and petition me to follow.
It was easiest, we were told, if we started the process while I was a teenager. So she left when I was a teenager. Years apart, her working as a cook, a caregiver, all sorts of odd jobs in the States, me doing what I could to survive back in the Philippines.
We’d lost touch with our roots by then, after my grandma died, leaving the two of us as the final links in the Alcantara chain. Abruhaand abruho, all that remained of a once noble clan of witches. She made me swear not to use my magic, the day she first left for the US, because she was going to stop using hers, too. No demand for hedge witches and small spells out in the big city. Too dangerous. Maybe she was right.
Years later I followed her to California. San Fernando Valley, in fact, where every immigrant seemed to first land, regardless of status. We hugged. We celebrated. We looked forward to our new life together.
We should have been looking out for that bus.
I shut my eyes, kneaded them with the heels of my palms as I stepped toward the squeaky bed, opened them again as I found the framed picture of my mother on the rickety side table. I smiled back at her, that cheeky grin bringing a little of her much-needed radiance into my life, that framed photograph the only constant wherever I went.
Just passing through. I had to keep moving. I knew now why she didn’t want me using my magic out here. Bigger cities, bigger country, which meant that someone was always watching. Peacekeepers, lawmakers, whatever you wanted to call them. They were more well organized, too, keeping a closer watch on those of us who wielded magic and lived in the spaces in between. The arcane underground, we called it.
Had to keep moving, had to avoid the watchful eyes of the arcane authorities. And I had to go and use my magic to become a petty criminal, too. Picking up sketchy gigs, totally illegal odd jobs. And heists, I said at the bar. What was I thinking? Made myself look like a stupid kid in front of Vera, and in front of — ugh — Maximilian Drake.
“Why should I care?” I asked the room, puffing my chest up, feeling better about myself.
Sometimes you had to fake it just to make it. I learned long ago that I could wear a smile and trick my body into a better mood. Vera liked me well enough. She’d warm to me again, give me another job soon. Maybe I’d even get that Sasha lady to crack a non-scary smile.
And hey, my upward spiral was kind of working. I was feeling a little more positive, at least. Feeling peckish, too. I turned toward the kitchen, meaning the noisy refrigerator and faulty microwave not two feet away, when I stepped in something wet.
I raised my head to the ceiling and groaned. Nothing worse than wet socks. But there was no drip coming from up there, either, no awful, slowly-growing spot of damp. I glanced down at the floor. Was there a power outage earlier, melted ice from the crappy fridge? No. Not that, either.
The puddle I was standing in wasn’t the only one. A whole trail of wet on the floor, leading all the way to the window by the pointless wall that cut through half of the apartment for no apparent reason. Oh, did I not mention the half-wall? Probably the only thing holding the ceiling up, too.
I padded carefully around the little puddles, making my way toward the window. Did I leave it open earlier? Why would I even do that? And what the hell had left all these dribbles on the floor? I craned my neck up at the ceiling again, checking for exposed pipe, any sign of a leak.
Oh, crap. Cold. A chilly breeze. I hugged my elbows, shuddering at the sudden draft from the window, cursing myself for forgetting. I rushed forward to shut the window, then froze in place. Water fell to the floor in droplets, a steady drip, drip.
It fell from the hair of the woman standing right in front of me.
I held perfectly still, assessing my options. I could startle her with my magic, or I could run. Or I could start by asking what she wanted, and why she was standing naked and sopping wet in my apartment.
Her unusually long locks of dark hair stuck to her body from the wetness, conveniently offering just enough modesty in all the right places. But even from a casual scan I could see that this person wasn’t quite human. Her skin had an odd tint to it, like I was seeing her through the faint blue of a swimming pool, the clarity of seawater.
Strange jewels adorned her cheeks, scattered over the center of her forehead, down her collarbone, her shoulders. Closer inspection revealed that they were scales, as bluish-green as her eyes. The breeze blowing in from the window brought the smell of saltwater, of the ocean.
We were nowhere near the water. I knew that the scent came from the woman herself.
