Itch: Nine Tales of Fantastic Worlds by Kris Austen Radcliffe

rain.
    Sometimes a member of my firm is close enough to make it to a scene before the press and the detectives. I was ten minutes away with my husband in our little café, the one where I proposed. He laughed at my jokes tonight, his wonderful wavy hair frizzing because of the storm. His finger worked suggestively over the side of his coffee stirrer, and he smiled one of his suggestive smiles. Then he sipped his after-dinner decaf, commenting on how this evening, even in the rain, the café workers still made it taste perfect, with that little hint of chocolate.
    It reminded him of me.
    Now, the rain pelts the top of my new German-engineered behemoth of a sedan, the one I didn’t want, but appearances are appearances. And when Senator Santiago calls hush-hush from his cell phone, appearances matter even if they shouldn’t.
    There’s no police report yet. The second string detectives arrived moments ago and now watch my car, probably wondering why the thin-faced blonde is tapping at her phone instead of chatting up the officers. The device’s screen feels greasy under my fingertip and I think I should clean the case.
    When I glance at the cruiser, I wonder just how deep a cleaning I’ll need to do tonight.
    I read the text transcript of the Senator’s call to my phone again: Tam , listen , I need you . A pause. The phone doesn’t know how to translate the sound of thunder. Mary’s in trouble . The Senator’s wife. Goddamn it Tam she’s in trouble .
    One hundred feet away, in the back of the police cruiser, sits the wife of a senator with more dark money up his ass than all of K Street. She plays her part, does the parties, but she’s not like him. She tries. She works the channels. Does the deals. Tries harder than anyone in this city to get the world to see the whores, pimps, and the dealers as human beings.
    Knowing his good wife might cause him headaches keeps the Senator extra suggestible, something my kind needs if we are to keep the masses calm. Humans don’t need to know about the other things roaming their city.
    I live on a trash heap. This place, here in the “real world,” is where the other realms dump their worn-out televisions and their kids’ dirty diapers. And like any dump, it has its cawing gulls circling above, and its coyotes and rats sulking about.
    It also has its vultures. And monsters.
    Lawyering isn’t my real job. It’s a cover. I deal with the dark things skittering in the shadows and unfortunately, my true work and my glamour sometimes cross.
    I flick over to hearing the Senator’s call.
    “Goddamn it Tam she’s in trouble!” Santiago hisses. There’s heavy breathing. The sounds of shoes dragging.
    When I pause the replay, I feel a hint of heat on my fingertips.
    I understand an omen when I feel one. I’m going to need to seal this breach in the walls around the dump. I’m pretty sure Mary Seenly-Santiago escaped one of my monsters tonight.
    My fist tightens around the plastic and printed metal of my phone. Exploitation hums off the damned thing, adding an acidic undertone to the storm’s ionic flavor.
    I don’t care if the Senator needs this kept quiet. I don’t care if the tabloids want the sleaze. I know only that the woman in the back of that cruiser is a canary. A little bird capable of singing about the monsters. She could expose my kind and what we deposit here.
    And when I tap my fingers along my silver arm ring, my tattoo, my entire hand feels as if I touched the sun.
    I allow myself one brief moment of stillness. One second to breathe and to hear the storm dance on the roof of my homo sapien-built chariot before I lunge into what needs doing.
    I’m out of the sedan, swinging my sensible shoes into the rain, and pulling up my collar around my ears. The coat is one they’d all expect me to wear, as is the jewelry and the hairstyle. I blend in well with the locals. It’s my job.
    The Senator wags his sausage finger in my direction as I walk up. Carl, his