Broken Souls by Stephen Blackmoore

my purposes. Men and women with briefcases and shopping bags, bikers with backpacks. Mothers with strollers, kids yakking on cell phones. I push my way past them and get into the back of the final car. An announcer tells me the next stop is Wilshire and Vermont and it should only take a few minutes to get there.
    I start to congratulate myself on giving the driver the slip, figuring that I can get off at the next stop, steal another car and be on my way, when she steps on at the other end of the train car just as the doors are about to close. The train pulls out of the station with a lurch.
    I was hoping I’d get a head start and lose her. Now it looks like my best bet is to keep my distance and take the train all the way to Union where the crowd will be biggest. There are about twenty people in this car. Surveillance cameras, cell phones, maybe even a plainclothes cop or two. She’s not going to try anything until we get out of here.
    And then she goes out of her way to prove me wrong.
    “Eric Carter,” she yells, her voice thick with an Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe? Hard to tell with the chatter of people, the sound of the train on the tracks, the automated announcer telling us to watch our bags.
    It’s clear she’s looking at me standing here at the back of the car and everybody’s attention snaps between us as they try to figure out what’s going on. Crazies on a train are nothing new, and already people are muttering to themselves.
    “Got the wrong guy, lady,” I say. I look at a skater with a Plan B board and a nylon messenger bag standing next to me. “I have no idea who she is.” He edges away from me.
    “I’m going to skin you alive,” she says and pulls a disturbingly familiar-looking obsidian blade out of her jacket pocket. Now she’s really got everyone’s attention. Most people are edging out of the way, though a couple are getting out of their seats. A lot of texting and taking pictures. No doubt somebody’s taking video of her. She glares at the train passengers, sweat beading on her forehead, eyes wide.
    “Stay out of my way and I won’t kill you, too,” she says to them. Her voice is shaking and I get the distinct impression that she’s just bitten off more than she can chew.
    “Calm down, ma’am,” says the guy nearest her. He edges closer to her, not taking his eyes off the knife. “I’m sure we can work out whatever—” She slashes the knife out at him, though he’s too far away for it to hit him. He takes the hint and stops moving.
    The next stop comes up really soon, and I’ve got a full car between me and her. All I really need to do is wait and make sure she doesn’t make a move. At this point the cops will grab her the moment she steps off the train. They’ll ask me some questions, I’ll tell them I don’t know who the fuck she is and not have to worry about her for a little while.
    She must sense this, because a look of panicked desperation crawls across her face like a swarm of cockroaches.
    “You’re all in my way,” she says quietly, sounding more like she’s talking to herself than to any of us. “I don’t want to kill you. But you’re all in my way.”
    A big “uh-oh” goes off in my head and I can tell this is about to get very, very messy. I start to draw in power from the local pool just in case I need it. She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m drawing in power and I can’t feel her doing it. That’s one surefire way to tell if a mage is in the area. We can all feel it when somebody pulls power from the pool. Can she even cast?
    She digs her free hand into a pocket and pulls out a small slip of crumpled paper, smooths it against her pant leg. She’s visibly shaking now. Once she has it straightened out she lets it go. It flutters to the floor.
    Paper charms are some of the easiest to make. You can embed all kinds of spells onto paper. Love charms, alarms, wards. I use them all the time with Sharpies and
Hello, My Name Is
stickers to