Diabolical Sword: The Charm Collector, #1

CHAPTER ONE

Three buzzes sounded from the countertop. Quick, quick, slow. I snatched up Dad’s pocket mirror and expectantly flipped open the lid. It would take a couple of moments for the message to form, so I grabbed the last piece of toast off my plate, nibbling on a corner of my meager dinner.

C’mon, I muttered, my foot tapping a restless rhythm on the bottom rung of the stool I was perched on. Give me something good …

Words finally materialized on the glass, like a fingertip carving letters out of steam.

Warehouse District. Haskins. Code 154.

I nearly choked on my toast.

I unceremoniously dumped the pocket mirror onto the counter, smooth convex bottom spinning on the faux marble, and scrambled off the stool so fast it clattered to the ground. Leaving it, I bolted across my tiny apartment to my bedroom. Off went the sweatpants and on went a rumpled—possibly dirty—pair of jeans. I swapped my pajama top for a probably clean T-shirt unearthed from under the bed. I pulled it on as I ran back into the dining room, searching for my boots. Yanking them on, I left them untied. No time for that.

A bulky, mostly empty backpack lay discarded by the door and I scooped that up, checking the front pockets to make sure I had my essentials—namely a couple of handheld fae lights, my wallet, and lock picks. Strapping it on, I darted out of my apartment, only to double back for the pocket mirror. I stuffed the remaining toast wedge in my mouth and slipped out into the hallway.

I pulled my necklace free from where it rested under my shirt and squeezed the small talisman at the end between finger and thumb. The inch-long metal pendant was flat on the back with an upraised top, like an egg cut in half. With my other hand, I pressed my thumb to the matching design on the metal where a lock would be on a mundane door. The talisman between my fingers and the mark under my thumb grew warm simultaneously. A mechanism inside the door clicked.

With the door locked, I stuffed my talisman back under my shirt and made sure Dad’s mirror was tucked snugly into the pocket of my jeans. Then I was off. I ran down the dimly lit hallway before slamming the push bar on the door to the outdoor staircase that hugged the side of the ten-story complex. The summer air had a slight breeze to it, and the sky was dark save for the blue haze on the horizon. It was late, after ten, so the staircase was deserted, allowing me to take the steps two at a time and ensuring I didn’t knock any unsuspecting neighbors on their asses. Again.

Being on the fourth floor meant I didn’t have that far to go. My backpack flopped around, and my unbound curls whipped about my face as I went. When I reached the bottom floor, I pulled an elastic tie off my wrist and got my unruly mass of hair into a bun as I headed for the telepad station two blocks away. I needed my hair secured during transit—that was a lesson you only needed once. After it was out of my face, and my shoes were tied, I ran the rest of the way.

Even though my neighborhood of Montclaire was only a few miles outside Luma Proper, it was mostly dark and quiet around here at this hour. Luma Proper sat at the center of the city, made of uptown and downtown. Ringing Luma Proper were five districts. The Warehouse District to the north, the Industrial District to the west, the mostly residential neighborhoods of Ardmore and Montclaire to the east, and the Necropolis to the south. The five districts and Luma Proper made up the entirety of Luma as a city—all of it hidden behind a veil. Most of the lesser fae—like goblins and fauns—as well as a large population of humans lived in the neighborhood districts. Downtown and uptown swarmed with witches, shifters, draken, and griffels. Humans and lesser fae lived there, too, but in much smaller numbers.

I eyed the bluish hue that hung on the horizon again, just past the tops of high-rise brick apartment buildings. The ever-present glow of Luma Proper wasn’t a welcome sight so much as a familiar one: the city that never slept, that kept its fae lights burning at all hours. The blue fae light—an even more reliable source of illumination than mundane electricity—was so bright in the heart of the city that it obscured the stars. I’d heard rumors that the mundane city of Los Angeles, about three hours south of Luma, glowed even brighter. I could neither confirm nor deny that; I’d never traveled outside of the city—never traveled outside of California.

The telepad station was the next block up. The steady stream of people heading in and out was the first sign of life I’d seen since leaving my apartment.

I pushed open the dingy glass doors of the station, the lobby bustling but the sound subdued. Fae lights were on at all hours of the day in here, unlike in the surrounding apartments and houses, but they were weak. The entire bank of lights on the leftmost side of the room was out, and a pair of maintenance witches were working on getting them back on. This station had three out-going telepads and three incoming. An outbound one had been on the fritz for weeks. The station needed functioning telepads more than functioning lights, but the higher-ups paid the highly skilled maintenance witches and sorcerers handsomely if they lived in Luma Proper so they’d be more readily available. Folks like me, stuck on the edges of the city where things were slightly more affordable, got the short end of the stick. Better for the heart of Luma to look shiny and bright, even if the nonessential limbs where the blue-collar folks lived were starting to atrophy.

Welcome to Luma, where the lights are always on and you’re always home, I muttered to myself in a robotic tone as I got into line.

On the right side of the station, where I stood, a row of people waited in front of either of the two functioning telepads. A pair of young women ahead of me wore skintight leather skirts and high heels, so they must have been out to party tonight. Everyone else was clad in uniforms, waiting for an available pad to take them to their graveyard shifts.

With a whoosh, the eight-foot-tall middle inbound cylinder suddenly held a weary worker, probably from a Luma restaurant, bar, casino, or club. He stood on the telepad’s glowing blue base.

I slipped an arm out of one of the backpack straps and swung the bag around to my front. Rooting around in a side pocket, I found my wallet and pulled out my telepad card. The white plastic edges were rough from so much use. After getting my pack back on and giving the straps a couple of tightening tugs, I tapped the card idly on my open palm, hoping I had enough money on it to get me to the Warehouse District. There was plenty of money in my account, just not in my legal name. I didn’t want to grant the Collective the ability to track my movements, thank you very much. If the telepad card had been tapped dry, I’d need either the fake ID and bank card with my false name on it, or cash—none of which were in my wallet.

Next, the woman beside the telepad droned, waving me forward without looking at me. All her attention was on the tablet she held in her hand. Name.

Deanna Kyle, I said, instead of my actual name: Harlow Fletcher.

Where you going?

Warehouse District.

The woman looked up from her tablet to give me an appraising head-to-toe scan. Her nose twitched a fraction, then she tapped at her tablet. Go ahead.

I approached the scanner, sent up a silent prayer, and swiped the card. I held my breath. A long moment later, I exhaled in a relieved rush when the light on the side of the box flipped to green.

Have a nice trip, the woman said flatly.

I stepped into the cylinder, the air inside near freezing. There were outlines on the floor in the shape of feet, but each was twice the size of a normal human foot, just in case a draken in the area needed to use a telepad. Very few draken ever used telepads in the five smaller neighborhoods that ringed Luma Proper, as the cylinders were usually only seven to eight feet tall—their average height. The cylinders in Luma Proper were closer to fifteen feet. My best friend Kayda hated the telepads out here. They made her claustrophobic.

Even the smaller telepads were expensive, though, and needed constant maintenance from witches to reinforce the teleportation spells. Taking a ride in a pad anywhere was a risk, but even more so in the outer neighborhoods. I’d heard countless horror stories of telepads running out of fae power or the teleportation spell giving out while someone was mid-port—or both—and travelers ending up at their destination missing a limb or vital organ.

I tried not to read the details on the Last Spell Reinforcement Date card posted to the inside of the cylinder. If I was going to end up splattered across the streets of Luma, I’d rather be surprised.

The technician punched in the coordinates and the frigid air spun around the cylinder like a cyclone, the sound almost deafening. Just before the teleportation spell took hold, my feet felt as heavy as lead. It felt as if a giant had hold of my head, yanking it upward like it was trying to detach it from my body. For a split second, my spine was pulled so taut, I was sure my vertebrae had separated.

Just when the urge to scream bloody murder overtook me, I was somewhere else, all pain and unpleasantness gone as if they’d never existed. I blinked warily at my new surroundings beyond the telepad station. On foot, it would have taken me an hour to get from my apartment to the Warehouse District. With a telepad, it took seconds.

Though telepad travel could be dicey, it saved so much time. All forty-three magic-hub cities in the United States had telepads. I couldn’t imagine how long it took to get around mundane cities. The humans there didn’t know what they were missing, though. Hard for them to be jealous of our lightning-fast travel when they didn’t know the hubs existed.

A pinched-faced man poked his head into the cylinder. Move it, lady. A draken is coming through next. You wanna be squashed, or what?

I scurried out of the pad.

The station here was three times the size of the one by my apartment—nine ports in, and nine out. The place reminded me of a massive airplane hangar: polished cement floor, impossibly high ceiling, and metal siding. Half of the ports here were as wide as they were tall—if not more—allowing large equipment like trucks and forklifts to be transported between locations in the blink of an eye. The sheer expanse of the place was intimidating, and as I headed for the imposing bay doors ahead of me, a little voice in the back of my head that sounded suspiciously like Kayda’s said, Are you sure this is a good idea?

Good idea? Probably not. But the pay was good, and the thrill of the chase was even better.

Get where you’re headed quick, yeah? the pinched-faced man called after me. Some weird shit’s been going on around here lately.

I waved a hand in the air, acknowledging that I’d heard his warning. Steeling myself, I stepped out into the evening air of the Warehouse District, hoping the only weird shit I’d find was the kind I’d come looking for.

CHAPTER TWO

The Warehouse District was massive, and it was easy to get lost here—or worse. Situated on the north end of Luma, it was a confusing amalgamation of wealth and poverty, luxury and industry. Every morning, people who provided the labor that kept Luma running twenty-four-seven—like construction workers, telepad engineers, and fae light repairers and installers—piled into the same telepad station with people whose accessories cost more than the laborers’ monthly salaries.

If you knew where to go, you could also find a legendary underground nightclub here—which pulled in a whole other swath of various people. The location rotated, as did the illusionary spell cast on the outside. One day it might look like an abandoned warehouse and the next like an empty lot. Even if you were sent an invite, and could find the place with the aid of a very specific talisman, you had to have the right password to get in, and it changed every few hours.

I’d only been there once with Kayda—her on the right side of buzzed, and me on the wrong one—though she hadn’t realized that until later. When she’d wandered off for a minute to talk to a fellow draken giving her the sexy lizard eye, I’d stupidly accepted a drink from a stupidly hot elf. That was my only defense. I knew better than to take drinks from elves—they were the race most notorious for slipping questionable substances to humans. But, honestly, he’d been the most beautiful man I’d ever seen—aside from Felix. But I hated Felix with every fiber of my being, so he didn’t count.

The drink had been laced with some elfin nonsense that made me believe I was capable of flight thanks to the nonexistent wings sprouting from my back. The elf promised me a night of pleasure I wouldn’t forget, but he wanted to see my wings in action first. I was determined to prove to my beautiful elf companion that I was worthy of whatever world-rocking he was capable of, so I marched off looking for a good place to scale the wall so I could launch myself from the rafters. Kayda—being seven feet tall, strong as an ox, and smarter than me by a mile—had, thankfully, realized what was going on. Abandoning her hot lizard friend, she’d plucked me off the wall, thrown me over her shoulder, and carried me out. She told me later that I’d sobbed the whole way home, ineffectually pounding my fists on her back as I told her in no uncertain terms that she’d ruined my chance to be ravished by the most gorgeous being in existence and I would never know pleasure ever again.

Kayda let me carry on, got me home and into bed, and somehow was still my best friend. She was a saint.

Despite being nearly blackout magic-drunk, I could still picture the smug little smile on the elf’s face. Elves were essentially cats in a human-like body: they possessed an utter disdain for every creature in existence and enjoyed torturing them for entertainment, yet had no actual plans for world domination since they’d rather take a nap. They were even more cat-like than the Collective’s werecat guards.

A car horn blared, and I jumped. I glanced up the street where a line of taxis always waited and watched as a woman in precariously high heels slammed her fists on the yellow hood of the cab in the middle of the road. She shouted something unintelligible, her speech slurred. She’d likely just come from the club—either that or she’d done too much pre-gaming and was now drunk and lost. Something about her was off, though, and not because of the obvious. Unease tingled in the back of my skull.

You almost hit me, you sonofabitch! she screamed, slamming her fists on the hood again.

Stay in your car, I thought to the cabbie. Don’t provoke her.

The cab driver, a faun from the look of him, tossed open his door and shouted at her for getting her grubby hands all over his taxi. The drunk woman insulted his hooves, while he insulted the woman’s breath. She accused him of having fleas. He accused her of having crabs. On and on it went. I shook my head and pulled out my pocket mirror again. A new message was on the reflective surface now.

Haskins apprehended. Bounty to FT97.

Damn, that was quick. Was that some kind of record?

It worked just fine for me, though. That meant the bounty hunters would be gone by the time I got over there. The criminal, Haskins, who had triggered Code 154 was in the custody of hunter FT97. Code 154 meant ownership of contraband.

Illegal items were my favorite kind, and they were why I was here.

I pocketed the mirror and jogged for the cab at the back of the line. I yanked open the back door and slid in. My backpack’s straps bunched up by my ears since I hadn’t bothered to take the bag off. The driver flinched at my arrival, startled; her attention had been focused out the window where the drunken woman and the cab driver were still in a screaming match. My bets were on the drunk lady.

Where you headed? the cab driver asked me, and then her dark eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. I sucked in an involuntary breath. Her eyes weren’t dark as in brown irises. They were dark as in wall-to-wall black. A vampire. There weren’t many of them in Luma. Before the Glitch happened around the turn of the century, vampires had already existed on Earth, dating back to the 1600s. They’d dined on the blood of humans, but they’d done so sparingly, rarely outright killing their victims.

The fae had opened the portals to Earth on purpose for years. They’d been as interested in exploration as humans here were. Humans had trekked across great stretches of land, traveled across expansive oceans, and would eventually go to the moon. The fae opened doors to other worlds. Fae had become a blanket term for anyone magic-touched or able to wield magic—from vampire to sorcerer to goblin—and everything in between. Perhaps the fae had wanted to observe life on a planet nearly devoid of magic.

The Glitch happened when the portal magic had gone wonky on the fae side—it had to have been their glitch, seeing as the humans here couldn’t open portals. Some gateways stayed open for forty-eight hours, some for only a few, and others popped into existence long enough to let some unsuspecting fae into this world before the door closed behind it a moment later. That was how a handful of dragons had ended up on Earth: portals had opened in the sky, below the oceans, and on land. Werewolves and witches had existed on Earth before the Glitch, too. They all experienced mutations after magic unexpectedly swept across the planet.

Forty-eight hours after the event started, every portal slammed shut, marooning hundreds of fae on Earth and probably just as many humans on the fae world. The portals hadn’t opened since. The fae brought magic with them, and an alternative source of warm blood for vampires. But the blood of the fae didn’t sustain vampires as human blood did. The high they got off fae blood was apparently ten times as good as anything they experienced with humans. The fae blood warped the vamps, turning many into highly intelligent, feral animals.

When feral vampire attacks had gotten out of control fifty or so years ago, a pact had been made between the leaders of the magical hubs on Earth and the still-sane vampires that all humans in the hubs were protected, but humans outside were fair game. If a vampire wanted to live in Luma—or any hub, really—they had to go through an extensive vetting process to even get into the city, as the magical veils that kept unsuspecting humans out also kept out vampires.

For this cabbie to be working in Luma, it meant she’d been a feral animal who was now spayed and domesticated. She got her food out of a bag, her weekly rations supplied to her from a government-sanctioned blood bank.

Where you headed? she tried again.

I coughed, trying to look relaxed. How long had I been gaping? 763 Bower Street.

She punched a button on the box on her dash, numbers lighting up red. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, revealing a pale arm lined with two vertical lines of tattooed runes. I wondered how long it had taken the spells and words of power inked onto her skin by a sorcerer to curb her appetite. What had happened to her to make her decide to live this life instead of being surrounded by others of her kind?

Her driver’s side window was down with her bent elbow poking out into the night air. Runes decorated that arm, too. Sounds of the argument floated into the car as she pulled out onto the road and then made a U-turn. A crowd had gathered around the screaming pair.

That’s not going to end well, I muttered, turning in my seat to look out the back window.

"She’s probably drunk on elfin wine. Humans get so stupid on elfin wine," the vampire said, her voice younger and smoother than I expected.

I tried not to be offended, mostly because she was right. I don’t think she’s human—not fully, anyway.

The cabbie huffed, unconvinced. I’m here every night picking up humans from that club. Trust me. Humans always get into trouble down here.

My attention was still on the argument happening in the middle of the street. Even though the pair grew smaller and smaller by the second as we drove away, the uneasy feeling I had continued to grow.

Just then, a burst of orange and yellow flames shot into the air behind us—as did the other cab. It gave an almighty crash as it collided with the pavement. The vibration of the blast lightly rocked me in my seat. I gave the air an instinctive sniff as if I’d be able to detect a hint of burnt goat hair. Hopefully the faun was just maimed, and not dead.

Told you, I said, facing forward again.

It was never a good idea to piss off an elemental witch, and when you did, doubling down on your insults usually got you blown up or drowned or impaled on a building’s chimney. Emotion fueled their magic. The faun had to have known that.

How’d you know she wasn’t full-blooded human? the vampire asked, her black eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror.

I shrugged. A hunch.

The vampire huffed again. You humans are usually clueless. Many of you wander into the Warehouse District looking for a good time and don’t come back out because you’re not paying attention.

I didn’t reply. It wasn’t a good idea to get too caught up in a conversation with a vampire, either. From what I’d heard, though the runes covering a vamp’s body tamed them, the desire for warm human blood was impossible to completely quell. All someone had to do, though, was report a vampire to the authorities, and the Collective would exile the bloodsucker. Violating the Pact was a one-way ticket out of Luma, no questions asked. It was nearly impossible for a vamp to get away with an attack, let alone a murder—the evidence was too clear-cut. Even so, if a vampire was a new arrival to Luma, their bloodlust might be impossible to ignore given the right opportunity. Their seductive charms could get them a quick intoxicating sip while giving the human a little zap of euphoria. Not even casual small talk with a newly tamed vamp was safe; if they turned on the charm, a conversation about the weather could drive a human insane with want. Then, the next thing a human knew, she was waking up in a dingy alley with a sore neck and the worst hangover of her life.

I was absolutely not speaking from experience. Nope.

I stared out the window as we drove down the stretch of road lined by high-end luxury residential buildings. It was where the high-paid workers lived—people like magical code inspectors and spell regulators. Witches, mostly. A smattering of draken lived out here too but most preferred the bustle of Luma Proper.

Within ten minutes, I was outside 763 Bower Street and my cabbie had driven off. The address was for one of the many warehouses that had given the district its name. The warehouses here either held legitimate businesses—like mechanic shops and telepad part manufacturing—or they housed legit-looking businesses that were a front for things like chop shops, off-regulation talisman crafting, and way stations for contraband goods. Haskins’s proclivities wedged him into the gray area in the middle.

I knew the address because I’d dealt with Haskins before. Though he owned this warehouse and the business within, he’d started a side venture about a year ago trying to make a name for himself in the black-market scene. He was squirrelly and too aggressive, so he mostly made potential buyers nervous. What he had, though, was an eye for interesting items. Last month I heard he’d sold a griffin’s egg. I had no idea where he’d gotten something that rare, assuming it wasn’t a bullshit rumor he’d started himself, but if there was a chance it was true and that he had more, I wanted to get my hands on it.

The warehouses on Bower Street were smaller units than the ones used by the telepad and fae lighting mega-companies, but Haskins’s warehouse still boasted eighty thousand square feet. On the surface, it was a legit restoration company that refurbished old slot machines and then sold them to local casinos for a nice chunk of change. I just happened to know that Haskins had other hobbies and that he kept his stash of illegal goods in the basement of his office.

The same night that I’d gotten drunk on elfin wine and had tried to fly, I’d bumped into Haskins. We’d been running in the same circles for long enough by then to recognize each other. I may or may not have flirted with him to get information about his source. He was a round, sweaty man with bulbous eyes, so he didn’t have the best luck with human women. He’d been stoked about the attention, but since I’d been on the wrong side of buzzed even before the elfin wine, my common sense had already fled the scene. I’d only gotten the hiding place of said items out of him before I’d laid eyes on the gorgeous elf behind him. To get to the pointy-eared troublemaker, I’m pretty sure I shoved past Haskins hard enough that he’d glanced off a wall and spilled his drink. Haskins had not been amused.

In the months afterward, I’d swung by his warehouse to try to sweet-talk my way into his office, but he was hip to my ways and sent me packing every time. That, or he’d sic his draken bodyguards on me, who would effectively throw me out the door on my ass.

I eyed the warehouse now. The front had two metal roll-up doors in the middle, a bank of small windows that ran along the top of the building twenty feet up, and an eight-foot-tall mundane wooden door on the left side with an equally mundane lock. Pulling the picks out of my bag, I made quick work of the lock and let myself in. I held my breath as I pushed the door open.

Silence.

Haskins typically wasn’t here at night, but he’d gotten his human hands on some decent protection and alarm wards for the building. I knew this because I’d set them off once. Okay, twice.

I was banking on the wards being down now, since bounty hunter FT97 wouldn’t have reset them after carting Haskins off, even if FT97 knew how. And seeing how the Collective’s elite team of hunters were all human, FT97 probably didn’t have the skill set to know which specific wards had been used. Plus, the next step in the Code 154 protocol was to get the Collective’s guards over here ASAP to collect the contraband that had gotten poor sweaty Haskins arrested.

Which meant time wasn’t on my side. I had to get in and out of here before the Collective’s guards found me and hauled me in, too.

I closed the door behind me. Haskins’s office was straight ahead, but the path was littered with bits and pieces of slot machines, which I more or less navigated successfully in the dark. The door to the office was ajar. This door was only six feet tall, rather than the much taller one in the warehouse entrance—a subtle message from Haskins that his draken goons were welcome in the warehouse, but less so in his private office.

The room wasn’t anything special: a desk in the middle, a couple of potted plants in the corners, a filing cabinet, and a bookshelf full of boring manuals. What I wanted was below the desk. I rounded the side of it and eyed the rug underneath.

I shoved the desk a few inches, grunting with the effort, and flipped back the musty-smelling rug. A trap door. Grinning, I grabbed hold of the embedded circular handle and pulled. I held my breath again as the door lightly creaked open. Bounty hunter FT97 would have used his or her ward-breaking talismans on the building itself, but if FT97 didn’t know about the treasure trove under the warehouse, the wards might still be up here.

No flashing lights or piercing alarms tore through the still evening, and I relaxed a fraction.

The outline of a ladder materialized in the darkness as my vision adjusted. It was made of dark metal and was bolted to the side of the cement wall.

I cast a glance out the office door, waiting for any sign that someone else might be outside—another charm collector, the cops, or members of Haskins’s goon squad. It was as quiet as a courier mouse.

I half slipped off my backpack and poked around in one of the front pockets. I produced one of the handheld fae lights and touched a finger to the rune on the side. A beam of weak blue light shot out. Wedging the light between my teeth, I pulled my bag back on and climbed onto the ladder, then crept below the floor.

CHAPTER THREE

After fifteen steps into the unknown, my booted foot hit cement rather than another blasted rung. Once on solid ground, I plucked the fae light from between my teeth and swung the weak blue beam to the left; cement walls surrounded me on the other three sides. The beam swept over the toes of my boots and the slight drop-off just ahead of them. As I stepped down half a foot, motion-sensor fae lights flicked on. I turned off my light and pocketed it, cautiously walking farther into the room. Thankfully, the space below Haskins’s floor was not as massive as the warehouse; it was the same size as the office above me. Walking to the middle of the cement floor, I turned in a slow circle, letting out a little whistle of appreciation.

I hadn’t given Haskins enough credit. Not only was his collection impressive, but he clearly appreciated his goods. More often than not when I conducted my raids, I spent too much time sifting through the criminal’s belongings, trying to find items of value. Often, it seemed like these idiots didn’t even know what they had. Once, I’d found a golden goblin-made crossbow bolt with fletching made of phoenix feathers … being used as a letter opener! I’d found it sticking out of a gaudy faux-ceramic mug with Luma City Casino printed on it, alongside pencils, pens, and a cheap fae light, also imprinted with the casino’s logo. Bits of dried adhesive had been stuck to the expertly crafted bolt’s tip. I would have taken the bolt anyway, but I’d wanted to free it from its location solely out of irritation at the lowlife who hadn’t treated the item with respect.

I sold it to the perfect buyer—a goblin who appreciated the item so much, he practically broke down and wept at my feet once it was in his small gray hands. Mathias had thanked me profusely for bringing a piece of his lost homeland back to him and tearfully told me, "If you ever need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. You’re family now." He even assured me that he’d mount it in a glass case and hang it over his mantel. His intense gratitude had lessened the sting of how poorly the previous owner had treated the item.

Haskins, much like the goblin, knew the value of what he had. As I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and dropped into a crouch on the smooth cement floor, I almost felt bad about looting the guy. But the guards would be here any minute now and they wouldn’t feel a shred of guilt about cleaning Haskins out. They’d round all this up and cart it off to the Collective’s supposed mega-vault of contraband magical items—like a teacher’s drawer at school full of confiscated invisibility charms and heightened-sight talismans.

From my three years on the job and sharing intel with colleagues, it was a so-far-unsubstantiated theory that the Sorcerers Collective took charmed items from low-level criminals so they could then turn around and sell them to high-level criminals—or allies in other magical hubs—at three times the going street rate.

I unzipped my bag on the floor and triple-checked that my charmed bags, carrying cases, and ties were still in there. They ensured I’d be able to properly wrap up the pointy bits on the weapons so they wouldn’t slice through my bag and fall out during my escape. I had a witch friend downtown who maintained protective and magic-dampening spells on my bags and carrying cases in exchange for my giving her first dibs on any interesting items she might like.

Everything was in order, so I stood to full height, scanning the walls. I decided then that I was doing Haskins a favor by re-homing some of this stuff. Better with me than with the Collective, right?

Haskins’s collection was well organized, all of it mounted carefully and hung from hooks wedged into pegboards. Straight ahead, hanging from chains, string, or ribbons, were talismans and other charmed trinkets, like the locking charm that hung around my neck. There were dozens of them, and even if I had all the time in the world, I wouldn’t have known which spells they were infused with. Detecting specific types of magic wasn’t a skill my boring ol’ human self had been blessed with.

To the right and left of me were small weapons fit for goblins, pixies, and brownies—maces, flails, scourges, spears, and crossbows with their bolts. I wanted to take a few of the spears if only because they were cute. Several of them weren’t any longer than my hand, from the base of my palm to the end of my middle finger. Such weapons were less cute when enchanted with magic and in the hands—albeit small ones—of a creature who knew how to use them. The idea of a gang of pixies armed with any of these things made me shudder.

Turning around, I found the larger weapons: longswords, battle-axes, cutlasses, and scimitars. These were the ones that sold the best, as they were usually infused, inlaid, and decorated with things they shouldn’t be—bits of ground-up unicorn horns, the ivory of troll tusks, feathers and beaks of griffins, the spikes off a chimera’s tail. It wasn’t just that all these magical beasts were extremely endangered or outright extinct now—at least on Earth—but because weapons crafted with the parts of these animals tended to take on the magic of the beasts. It was little wonder that crossbow bolts with phoenix feather fletching were outlawed when, after they hit their mark, they burst into flame and incinerated whatever they hit. There had been a report from Oregon’s hub that a large stretch of forest had burned down last year because one such bolt had been shot into a tree by a pair of reckless, pixie-hunting kids with terrible aim.

I went through the space methodically, snatching items off the walls based on my knowledge of the market, my best buyers’ tastes—and the pretty, shiny things that called to me the most. One particularly pretty sword tugged at me, but I vowed to ignore it. When the light hit it just right, I spotted iridescent blue, purple, and green on the cutlass’s hilt. My gut told me they were dragon scales. It was an exquisite piece, and I wanted it if only because it was so shiny, but not even I was stupid enough to grab a dragon sword. If Haskins ever got out of prison—and after seeing his collection, I wasn’t sure that would be any time soon—I would buy him a beer and make him tell me where he got all this stuff. I’d doubted that he’d gotten his meaty paws on a griffin’s egg, but now I didn’t doubt it at all.

My bag was full in a minute flat. I had just strapped my awkwardly bulging pack onto my back and was heading for the exit when that familiar buzz thrummed in the base of my skull. It wasn’t identical to what I’d felt when I’d spotted the drunk elemental witch earlier, but it was close. I call it my sixth sense. Just like a deer could be munching calmly on leaves one minute, and then freeze, body taut and wide ears flicking the next when it senses danger, humans on Earth had quickly adapted to detect magic after the Glitch. Dormant survival instincts had resurfaced once we were no longer at the top of the food chain.

Life was relatively safe in Luma now, but I refused to let that instinct go back into hibernation. Instead, I called on it often, strengthening it like a muscle. This sense had rarely led me astray. In fact, it had saved my ass on countless occasions. I doubled back to the large-weapon wall and eyed the selection.

My sense nudged me in the cutlass’s direction. The hilt was a standard black now, not the beauty it had displayed earlier. Then suddenly, it was something more again. I eyed the colorful hilt. My fingers instinctively twitched, eager to grab it. I balled my hands into fists at my sides. No. No dragon swords. Weapons infused with even the smallest amount of dragon magic were the rarest and the most dangerous. The things were rumored to have minds of their own. It would