“Practitioner, the working is—”
“I know, Wol,” I growled. “Stop jostling me. The train moving is bad enough; you can’t just—I got it—Wol, let me just—”
I must’ve looked crazy, growling at the empty air next to me on the subway like that. But considering how long it had been since I last took a shower, I was probably no different than the other crazies on the subway during rush hour. People gave me one look and edged away from me, too busy listening to their morning podcasts or doom-scrolling to give me more attention than that.
In my hands was a working I’d devised from Craig’s used coffee cup, about an inch of coffee, and a small piece of paper that tugged toward where Craig was supposed to be. I had to dig around in the garbage to get it, but it was the only way to track down the leathery old man short of sprinting after the taxi cab. And given the state of my cardio, I was sure to lose him and never see him ever again.
Craig Richtor did not strike me as the type of man to give people second chances. Especially kids like me.
He already didn’t have a good impression of me. Thought I was some bum, I think. To be fair, I kind of was. Or maybe it was a race thing, though I doubted that. Still, those weren’t good reasons to just up and give up. I didn’t know exactly what would happen if Craig, Ayumi, and Maria gave me less-than-stellar recommendations to the upper echelons of Society, but it didn’t sound good. I didn’t want to take any chances.
Wol and Hwari were counting on me. I could feel the weight of their expectations with every move.
Besides, being out in the cold, chasing someone down, made me feel alive somehow. Excited, and wanting to do something; like those times I spent deadened inside my blankets were a lie. That dead-fish-floating-on-the-river feeling would return once I got home. Not yet, though. Right now, I was drunk on adrenaline and determined to squeeze out every ounce of energy I could.
The piece of sandwich wrapping paper quivered inside the coffee cup, pointing outwards.
“This is our stop,” I said, and bee-lined for the door. The commuters gave me plenty of berth as I made my way.
I sprinted up the stairs out of the subway station and out into a small block in the South Bronx.
“Damn it,” Instinctively, I put my hood up over my head.
“Bad memories?” Wol gave me a questioning glance.
“Sort of,” I mumbled, not wanting to give anyone here a reason to look in my direction. “I, uh, I got jumped around here once.”
‘Someone leapt on you?’ Hwari asked.
I shook my head. “Yeah, but not in a friendly manner.”
I used to live in the Bronx.
The past came to be unbidden, intensified by my Third Eye, which took those memories and projected them into a 4D experience, compressed into a one-second private viewing just for me. A couple of kids a little older than me were walking by, one of them suddenly swerving on purpose to bump into me, hustling up to me, breathing heavily, and threatening to kick my ass. Me, not even a teenager yet, scared out of my mind—being cajoled into the alleyway like some livestock. I came home without shoes and a jacket that day. My dad took one look at me and said, ‘Welcome back. ’
Memories like that leave you with scars. And a bodily reaction that’s more than just a grimace or a rotten taste in your mouth.
I hunched my shoulders, kept my backpack against the walls to try and hide the logo, then looked at the coffee cup for directions. Just my luck. It was pointing towards the less busy and seedier-looking parts of the town.
Some of the adrenaline got tainted with dread and fear. My mouth felt dry, no matter how hard I swallowed. There was the sense that everyone—even though there weren’t that many people about—was watching me, wondering what I was doing here. Some of the kids who were definitely students loitered on the apartment stairs, giving me the look from under their snapbacks and hoods. If I showed any excuse, or shot back a challenging stare… that’d be the only excuse they needed to start something. The bright side of this was that it was still in the morning.
Gluing my eyes to the cup, I kept walking.
The cup led me to a dollar store.
Racks of dingdongs and knickknacks were packed so tightly that the place was defined more by the absence of walkable aisles than the presence of one. Plastic beach buckets, batteries, gum, portable chargers, wigs, stockings, clearance clothing—you name it, and they had it. The overflowing shelves threatened to dislodge the cheap styrofoam-like ceiling tiles. I think they’re called acoustic tiles or something. Rugs and curtains lined the walls.
There was a noise from inside.
Damn it. The shelves were basically giant curtains; I basically had to swim inside.
“Hwari, keep a lookout?” I asked quietly, feeling nervous.
Hwari melted into the aisles, using her ephemeral nature to forge ahead, unbothered by the barriers of the physical plane. But even she could not see through walls.
I waded through clothing and plastic-wrapped toys, feeling pressed in on all sides. Soon, I wasn’t stepping on the floor anymore. I stomped through cloth and junk, feeling like I was inside one of those ball pits. Except this was more like wading through one of those wholesale clothing department stores’ going-out-of-business sales instead of swampy muck.
‘Ahead, Caller.’ Hwari reminded me of her presence. ‘I hear voices.’
After a few more minutes, I popped out of the stuffed toys section and into the only open space (at least to my eyes) of the entire store. Surrounded on three sides by stuffed toys, the last wall was made of a desk with computer screens and a door.
“About time,” Craig said. He snorted. “What’d you use this time?”
“Your coffee cup,” I said, dusting myself off.
“Oh, uh, hehe, you brought friends?”
I looked up at one of the most sickening beings I’d ever laid eyes upon.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
He was a man, or once had been, I think. But that identity had long been abandoned through some story that I’d never heard of. He wore a white polo shirt with the green dollar sign—a $—sewn right into the pocket, and slacks.
And his head was that of a worm.
No, no. I don’t mean that he had the personality of a worm, or that he was a worm in human clothing. Pasty arms stuck out of his sleeves, with five fingers attached to normal hands. But where his neck should have been were the segmented sections I expected of an earthworm, and they continued until they folded slightly forward into the giant visage of a pink-beige worm.
“Fool, does he look like my friend to you?”
“Uh, an acquaintance then?” When he spoke again, the mouth opened up, and I nearly threw up.
Craig shot him an unhappy look, then gestured over to me. “Jain Hallow. This is Worm.”
“He’s Jain Shin Hallow?!” Vermis strode closer, his head coming dangerously close to mine. He shook my hand vigorously. “Sir, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Vermis, Speculator of the Thirteenth Frumentarii. I’ve been eagerly awaiting your visit!”
His maw vibrated, opening up, and thank the gods, there was no scent that came wafting through. Just a slight breeze.
“I’m—” I started, trying to take a step back.
“Enough of that shit,” Craig snapped. “Worm, my request?”
Vermis returned to his deck, taking a seat in the swivel chair. “Oh. Right. Hehe.” He hunched his shoulders and began typing away at his keyboard. There had to be about a dozen monitors in front of him. “Uh, what kind of contracts were you looking for again?”
“Easy ones,” Craig said with a look at me.
Vermis typed some more. I leaned forward, curious. Multiple screens flashed by each screen, too fast for me to make sense of them. It was all just words.
“Risk classifications can range from Green to Void,” Vermis said. “I’m assuming you want Green?”
“What are risk classifications?” I blurted out.
Craig opened his mouth to say something, grunted, and motioned to Vermis.
Vermis, who had been literally shaking in his seat, burst out in excitement. “The colors represent the contract scope! From individuals, to local neighborhoods, cities to—” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “—possibly the world.”
“The world?” I asked.
“The worms have their own network, Boy. No use in trying to understand it all,” Craig muttered. He tapped his walking stick against the floor. “Tell me some of the local or city jobs.”
“There’s some requests from the locals about abductions? Would that be something you’re interested in?”
“Mortals or Supers?” Craig asked.
“Preternatural locals,” Vermis said with a nervous smile. “But I can assure you, they’re all on the up-and-up! All legit folk! We’re not talking big bad scaries here, but—”
Craig dismissed it. “Don’t care.”
“That… leaves us with a few options,” Vermis said dejectedly, going back to his keyboard. “Hmm, how about this one?”
The printer whirred to life. Vermis took the paper and slapped it down in front of us.
CONTRACT 7-441
TYPE: RETRIEVAL
RISK CLASSIFICATION: BLUE
REWARD: $2,500~$12,500
CLIENT: WITHHELD
OBJECTIVE
Retrieve a sample of the new street drug, ‘Innocence’. Identify the distributor and source.
MINIMUM DELIVERABLE: Sample of ‘Innocence’.
“What is this client-withheld bullshit?” Craig said. He put a finger on the line. “I want to know who.”
“Uh… drugs?” But my eyes lingered on the reward section and how many zeroes it held.
“The client specifically requested—”
Craig growled and took a step towards Vermis. Vermis held up both hands, backpedaling away from Craig.
“Whoa, whoa! Okay!” He cleared his throat. “All I know is that, uh, this new drug,” Vermis pointed at the word ‘Innocence’. “Is like, the new drug. Like, it’s better than ecstasy, fent, angel dust. We’re talking number one market share right now.” He sounded like one of those phone salesmen. “And it’s starting to eat away at the existing drug market share.”
Craig thought for a moment. “Fool, that’s obvious shit. I’m asking if it’s mob, triad, yakuza, or the jopok.”
“What? The mob?” I shared a look with Wol. “Why are we talking about the mob?” But my eyes returned to the dollars again.
“I, uh, can’t share that.”
Craig growled, but he glanced at me quickly. I think. It was hard to tell because of the sunglasses. “Fine. We’ll take it, worm.”
“Okay. If you can fill out your information right here…”
“Cash,” Craig said.
“That can be arranged.”
Craig muttered some curses. “C’mon, Boy. We’re leaving this way.” Then he slammed open the door, which led out into the back alley of buildings, and made his way out with me on his heels.
We walked ahead of me, then stopped just short of joining the rest of the world outside of the alleys. The streets were emptying out. No more commuters. No more morning people doing their jogs for the day. Just some loiterers here and there.
Craig leaned against the wall. “You have questions, Boy?”
I had hundreds of questions. “What was that?”
“That,” Craig said with a jerk towards the building we just left. “was a remnant of the Roman Empire; a wormhole. But for you, think of it like a job office.”
“A job office?”
“Requests from the dark web. Jobs from other practitioners, people who are in the ‘know’, even dabblers and sometimes preternaturals. In some way or other, those jobs make their way to the wormholes.”
I blinked. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah?” Craig’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “What about it?”
“I…” I rubbed at my head, thinking of the zeroes.
Money. Money meant food. And electricity. A new battery for the RV. Which meant heating. Maybe I could afford some bottled water, so I wasn’t drinking Brooklyn’s finest trailer park hose water. God, it meant hot showers. When did I stop taking showers? Was it because of my fucking parents, or because freezing ice-showers in the morning didn’t help me feel better? Or was it because the water got off?
Twelve. Thousand. Dollars.
…Tuition.
Forget the honors program. If I had money, I just needed to get accepted. And I’d already applied to other schools. One of them was bound to accept me. Holy shit, the whole reason why I gave up on the school idea was that I wouldn’t have money even if I got in. But if I had money…
“Boy, you don’t work. You don’t eat.” Craig picked at his fingernails.
“That’s true,” I trailed off, thinking about school. “You know what they say. Money makes the world go around.”
Craig clicked his tongue. “I ain’t talking about money, Boy,” he snapped. “I’m talking about you—” he jabbed a finger in my direction. “—doing this interview.”
“Wait, what? This is part of the interview?”
Wol shook his head wearily. “This is outside of norms, Practitioner Craig.”
“Was I talking to you, Cat?” Craig shot back. “You don’t have a choice in this matter, Boy. My interview. My rules. Am I making sense here?”
“Is this even allowed? Aren’t you part of freaking Society?”
“Boy, what them suits don’t know don’t hurt them. Them fancy and mighty families got their heads so far up their asses, they don’t know what it’s like to actually work for money. People like us? We do what we can to put food on the table.” Craig leaned on the wall. “Now I’m done talking. We’re moving on this. Now.”
“Now?” I looked at the sky. “It’s freaking broad daylight. What do you mean, move on this now? Like… we’re going to go look for drugs? Now?! What about the police?”
He ignored me. “You handy with the tracking spell. That right?”
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “Lemme guess. Thaumaturgy.”
I nodded.
“So you need a connection then,” Craig said. He sniffed, then placed both hands on his walking stick, and for the first time, I realized the thing was engraved with runes so dark that they were nigh imperceptible. It wasn’t just a walking stick—it doubled as his staff.
The runes lit up, and Craig started muttering to himself under his breath. “No, not that way. Mmhmm. Nope. Not that way either. C’mon, show me something. A word… just a word…” His head jerked, like he was shaking something off. “Nope. Not that. C’mon. C’mon. Gimme a lead.”
After a few minutes, he burst out in a satisfied growl. “Alright. We’re moving.”
“Moving where?”
He didn’t answer, instead speed-walking out of the alley and down the street in the general direction of the subway station that I’d followed him from. For an elderly man with a cane, he was pretty fast. I struggled to keep up.
He halted at a stop sign and pointed with his cane across the street.
It was the bunch from earlier, the ones who had been giving me the ‘look’. High school kids, probably my age or younger. They all had thick hoodies on, with backpacks hanging loose. More of them were joining in by the minute, shaking secret handshakes and smoking blunts in broad daylight.
“You see that boy in the middle?” Craig said, pointing with his stick.
A short guy with long dreads. Even while I was watching, he reached inside his parka and shared a handshake with another kid who had just come. Money exchanged hands.
“He gave him something now,” Wol said, with narrowed eyes. I wondered how good a cat’s eyesight was, and if that fact even applied to Wol.
“Was it wrapped in plastic?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
Craig nodded. “He’s our in, Boy.”
“Our in?”
“The connection,” Craig said, baring teeth. “You’re a practitioner, Boy. Practice.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “This is insane. What do you mean he’s my connection? What do you expect me to do?” I gestured toward them across the street, then stopped immediately, scared they might notice me. “There’re like a dozen kids around him. We can’t do anything now. There are cops. And laws. And people. We should… we should wait for night. Follow him home. That should give us time till night to figure it out.”
“No time, Boy.” Then Craig. “I meant what I said. My interview. My rules. Now show me what you got, or you can kiss that pompous citizenship goodbye, and no name—neither your daddy’s nor mama’s—ain’t going to help you then.”