Skin Deep by Mark Del Franco

soothing the pounding in her skull, Laura tried not to think, a skill she had mastered to an uncomfortable degree. But despite parking her car, having a drink to unwind, undressing, and showering, her mind would not rest. She had been shot at before with both bullets and essence. She had risked her life more often than she cared to remember. She always separated those things from herself, thought of them as part of the job. If she spent time stressing about it, she shouldn’t be doing the job.
    But tonight, doubt hovered in the corners of her mind. She had almost died and was not sure why. Did all her deeply held beliefs about Faerie and Maeve and justice really have anything to do with almost dying in a drug lab in a run-down building in a run-down neighborhood? Did all that mean anything anymore? she wondered.
    She toweled off, checking herself for bruises and cuts. It was not unusual for her to come off an assignment at the end of the day only to realize she needed a bandage. She parted her hair on the side to examine the area where the bullet had slammed the helmet against her head. The simple act of moving the thick blond strands made her wince from subtle pain. A rich maroon-and-green bruise smeared across her scalp. She combed her hair straight to her shoulders, glad it covered the spot. She wouldn’t have to create a minor glamour to hide it, though someone was bound to comment about the dark circles under her eyes. At least she could pass them off as insomnia.
    She wrapped herself in an oversize white bathrobe. Cinching the robe closed, she took one more look at herself in the mirror, as if hoping her reflection might give her an encouraging nod. It didn’t.
    She cut through the kitchen to turn off the living-room lights and check that the security alarms were on. She trailed her free hand along the back of the tan sofa as she walked past it, its nubbed fabric tickling her fingertips. The maid had unwrapped and fanned magazines beside a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. Every couple of weeks new magazines arrived, the old ones vanished, but Laura never read them. She had subscribed to them long ago to give the illusion that she had interests in decorating and cooking. Every time she used the apartment, she messed up the layout so it would look like she read them. She wondered if the maid took the old ones home.
    Without conscious thought, she retrieved the glass from the drainboard and had the vodka bottle in her hand. She stared at it, startled to see her own hand through the glass and clear fluid, as if someone else was holding this thing she had not meant to hold. She placed the bottle next to the empty glass on the counter.
    Enough, she thought. The drink, the shower, the maid. She knew enough about her work and her life to know the dangers of the long, slow slide into a bottle. She had seen it happen time and again to others, but she wasn’t going to let it happen to her. Flipping through the bills again, she glanced at the bottle and decided to make one more drink after all. One more, then, one more than usual, and that would be it. Getting shot in the head and almost run off a bridge warranted a little leeway.
    She took the glass to bed with her and turned on the television. The news recycled the story about the failed raid. If an officer hadn’t died, the coverage would have been a blip of a mention and on to the weather. Laura preferred when that happened. It meant an operation had gone off without a hitch, so much so that the media didn’t think it was newsworthy.
    Despite the exhaustion, the headache, and the bruises, she would step up and do what InterSec required her to do. It was important. Too important to risk failure. Maintaining multiple glamours was taxing, but she would manage it. That didn’t mean she wanted to. It meant she knew what she was in for.
    Tomorrow she would pretend she was plain Laura Blackstone, public-relations director for the Guild. She would get up in front of a