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As I head up the hallway, Mav shouts, “That was a Godfather reference, you uneducated child!”
With an uncomfortable pressure in my stomach, I slip outside. So I shouldn’t get involved – but I’m pretty sure I already am.
***
The uneasy feeling that my conversation with Mav has planted only grows with every time I work for Charon’s Veil. The job itself is suspiciously easy: I collect a brown paper bag, which contains syringes filled with clear liquid – I couldn’tnotlook – and deliver them somewhere across the city, usually in one of the worse neighborhoods. In exchange, I receive a parcel – that I haven’t yet figured out how to unwrap without leaving a trace, so I have no clue what’s in it – which I then deliver and get paid for, usually in one of the better neighborhoods. The money is good, and the money I get from Celeste is even better. And, as Alastor reassures me, it’sreallynot drugs, which is ideal – Mav is right, if I’m planning to turn my life around, I better not end up locked up.
The whole thing feels like it’s too good to be true.
The first time I meet with Celeste to tell her all the boring details of carrying a brown paper bag on the bus, I can’t help but wonder about what Mav said.
“Stop staring at me.” She’s holding a smoldering joint in one hand and her phone in the other, taking notes as I talk. The phonescreen illuminates the blue Ghostshade smoke that billows from her lips, wafting through the car. She hasn’t bothered to look at me once.
I cross my arms defensively and look away. “Can I ask you something?”
“That’s not really what I pay you for but sure, go ahead.”
“Someone told me you killed some big important vampires a few years ago. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
So it is her.“Why?”
With a shrug, she says, “I don’t like vampires.” She tilts her head. “No offense.”
“So you don’t work with Alastor? What were you doing at the Myrrh & Adder, then?”
She sighs deeply. “No. And unlike what most vampires seem to believe, the Myrrh & Adder is supposed to be neutral territory.”
“So why are you having me spy on Charon’s Veil?”
She looks up, eyebrows raised. “That’s not how this works, kitten. I pay you enough to not ask questions. Speaking of which.” She reaches into her coat pocket and hands me a roll of cash. “See you next time.”
This sets the tone for every meeting thereafter – she's cold, disinterested and pretty. Not that I’d notice the latter, of course, because I find her obnoxious, though increasingly less so the more time I spend with Alastor. At least she doesn’t try to hassle me into prostitution or make inappropriate remarks about my body. She probably couldn't – I’m not sure she even knows what I look like, considering she mostly just listens without ever looking up from her phone. But being invisible is fine by me.
But like anything else that’s too good to be true, it doesn’t last long. Three weeks into the job and I find myself walking around Rán, an industrial neighborhood not far from Tartarus, searching for the address I’m supposed to deliver the paper bag to. It would help if my button phone had GPS and could actually help get me there.
When I find the entrance, I almost walk past it. It’s a small entryway between an auto repair shop and a grim-looking office building with the words‘Thanatos Logistics’painted in faded letters across the facade. After double checking multiple times that I have the address right, I go up to the glass-brick entryway and ring the bell. The label beside the intercom has been ripped off, leaving only a trace of frayed paper behind. I see no lights in the hallway beyond and I’m not sure the bell actually rang.
With a lump in my throat, I bang on the door. Nothing happens. Straining my ears, I lean against the wood and listen. Somewhere deep inside the building I can hear the muffled sound of voices, laughter and music.
I try the handle and, to my surprise, it’s open. My heart pounds as I enter, unsure what I’ll find on the other side. I clear my throat as I step into the empty hallway. “Hello?”
There is no response. Following the sound of the dampened music, I make my way up the corridor, which is lit only by the emergency exit sign. Each of my steps echoes and with each echo I expect someone to come out of one of the doors along the wall but nobody does. Did I get the wrong address?
After turning the corner at the end of the hallway, I spot a door that is left open a few inches, light and music spilling out. “Hello?” I repeat, louder this time.
When nobody answers, I stick my head through the door. It opens into a short hallway, with a tiny kitchen to the right and what seems like a living space up ahead. The music and laughter is coming from inside. As I enter, a girl no older than twenty steps out of the kitchen. She’s frail, almost emaciated, with deep circles under her eyes, and an apprehensively hunched posture.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is timid, as if she’s expecting to get yelled at in response.
I hold up the bag. “I’m looking for someone named Leslie?”
“Oh.” She gives me a hollow smile and waves at me to follow her. With an uneasy pressure in my stomach I notice an IV catheter in the crook of her arm, though it’s not attached to anything. I watch her bones move under her skin, every vertebra in her neck jutting out sharply. She looks like walking misery.
I wait nervously in the hallway while she leans into the living room. Usually, this takes no longer than five minutes and Alastor has been more than clear about not bothering clients. I’d really prefer to get this over with.
“There’s someone here.”
