Itch: Nine Tales of Fantastic Worlds by Kris Austen Radcliffe Page B
Authors: Kris Austen Radcliffe
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campaign. Her talking about the attack and a dead hooker won’t help, either.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
Carl nods and walks back toward the Senator, his stride as worn out as one would expect from a man peripheral to a plaything of gods. Part of me wants to touch my silver ring. Give the man a boon. But I need to focus.
The uniformed officer standing between the cruiser and the techs in their electric blue latex gloves and their black FORENSICS jackets looks more upset about the scene than the woman he holds in custody.
He blinks twice when he sees me walk up, and squints like he forgot his glasses.
Rain sometimes alters a glamour. I suspect he’s a sensitive.
“Officer…?” I offer my hand.
He shakes his head, blinking again, as if trying to clear his eyes of rainwater. “Martins.” He steps back, not offering his hand. Instead, his fingers inch toward his weapon.
It’s unconscious. A learned and automatic response. This cop senses I’m not quite right. Or at least even less right than the politician standing one hundred feet away surrounded by bodyguards and Carl the chief-of-staff.
I pull back my hand and smile, forcing my eyes to brighten as well. Humans like bewitching eyes. I flip out my identification, and flash the smile again. “I’m Ms. Seenly-Santiago’s lawyer. Is she under arrest?”
The officer looks like he wants to sigh. “This is a crime scene, lady.”
“I have the right to speak with my client.” Again, bright eyes and luminescent smile. Bewitching and beguiling.
The officer frowns but opens the cruiser door for me.
“Leave it open,” I say. I don’t want to be locked in the back of a cop car.
It’s cramped. The seats are plastic and it smells like vodka-laced vomit. They might hose it down each night, but some odors never fade.
Mary Seenly-Santiago blinks her round bland eyes as she watches me fold myself into the seat next to her. She’s close enough to physically perfect she fits the mold of a senator’s wife, but far enough away she doesn’t hold attention. Not-quite blonde hair, not-quite large breasts. Well-dressed, if conservative. Smooth but angled enough to not look different. She has, by her human nature, the perfect glamour.
She watches me carefully, blinking again, but this time very much like the officer, and I remember what the senior partners at the firm said: She’s a sensitive. “Use it,” one told me. “Scare her if you need to.”
Sensitivity isn’t an ability that correlates with any mindset, skill, or physical trait. It seems to be evenly distributed among all the versions of humans, regardless of class, creed, or color. We don’t know why.
Most of my kind don’t care, either. But sometimes I wonder if the things living where we dump our trash are more evolved than we give them credit for.
It doesn’t feel right to use fear. I have no interest in being as predatory as what crawled out of the shadows and attacked the hooker.
Mary Seenly-Santiago looks away. She’s sitting up straight when I fold into the back of the cruiser, her hands on her lap, her chin high. Her posture doesn’t change, but she’s taken on a hint of defensiveness, that tightening of the shoulders and arms sensitives do when we come around.
“Do you remember me, Mary?” We’ve met a couple of times, at her husband’s functions. Everyone at the firm knows all the clients, specifically for moments like this.
“You’re one of the… lawyers.” She doesn’t blink. Or look at me. Her shoulders tense more.
“Yes. I was close by when your husband called.” I wiggle enough my clothes rustle against the plastic of the seats.
Mary glances over, as I had hoped. She blinks again. She’s definitely a sensitive. “It looked like you. Fuzzy.” She looks away. “Being lawyers is not enough now? You have to kill us, too?”
I think the firm’s consistent efforts to intimidate might have made her angry enough to talk about what happened tonight. To want to
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
Carl nods and walks back toward the Senator, his stride as worn out as one would expect from a man peripheral to a plaything of gods. Part of me wants to touch my silver ring. Give the man a boon. But I need to focus.
The uniformed officer standing between the cruiser and the techs in their electric blue latex gloves and their black FORENSICS jackets looks more upset about the scene than the woman he holds in custody.
He blinks twice when he sees me walk up, and squints like he forgot his glasses.
Rain sometimes alters a glamour. I suspect he’s a sensitive.
“Officer…?” I offer my hand.
He shakes his head, blinking again, as if trying to clear his eyes of rainwater. “Martins.” He steps back, not offering his hand. Instead, his fingers inch toward his weapon.
It’s unconscious. A learned and automatic response. This cop senses I’m not quite right. Or at least even less right than the politician standing one hundred feet away surrounded by bodyguards and Carl the chief-of-staff.
I pull back my hand and smile, forcing my eyes to brighten as well. Humans like bewitching eyes. I flip out my identification, and flash the smile again. “I’m Ms. Seenly-Santiago’s lawyer. Is she under arrest?”
The officer looks like he wants to sigh. “This is a crime scene, lady.”
“I have the right to speak with my client.” Again, bright eyes and luminescent smile. Bewitching and beguiling.
The officer frowns but opens the cruiser door for me.
“Leave it open,” I say. I don’t want to be locked in the back of a cop car.
It’s cramped. The seats are plastic and it smells like vodka-laced vomit. They might hose it down each night, but some odors never fade.
Mary Seenly-Santiago blinks her round bland eyes as she watches me fold myself into the seat next to her. She’s close enough to physically perfect she fits the mold of a senator’s wife, but far enough away she doesn’t hold attention. Not-quite blonde hair, not-quite large breasts. Well-dressed, if conservative. Smooth but angled enough to not look different. She has, by her human nature, the perfect glamour.
She watches me carefully, blinking again, but this time very much like the officer, and I remember what the senior partners at the firm said: She’s a sensitive. “Use it,” one told me. “Scare her if you need to.”
Sensitivity isn’t an ability that correlates with any mindset, skill, or physical trait. It seems to be evenly distributed among all the versions of humans, regardless of class, creed, or color. We don’t know why.
Most of my kind don’t care, either. But sometimes I wonder if the things living where we dump our trash are more evolved than we give them credit for.
It doesn’t feel right to use fear. I have no interest in being as predatory as what crawled out of the shadows and attacked the hooker.
Mary Seenly-Santiago looks away. She’s sitting up straight when I fold into the back of the cruiser, her hands on her lap, her chin high. Her posture doesn’t change, but she’s taken on a hint of defensiveness, that tightening of the shoulders and arms sensitives do when we come around.
“Do you remember me, Mary?” We’ve met a couple of times, at her husband’s functions. Everyone at the firm knows all the clients, specifically for moments like this.
“You’re one of the… lawyers.” She doesn’t blink. Or look at me. Her shoulders tense more.
“Yes. I was close by when your husband called.” I wiggle enough my clothes rustle against the plastic of the seats.
Mary glances over, as I had hoped. She blinks again. She’s definitely a sensitive. “It looked like you. Fuzzy.” She looks away. “Being lawyers is not enough now? You have to kill us, too?”
I think the firm’s consistent efforts to intimidate might have made her angry enough to talk about what happened tonight. To want to
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