hand for thedifficult cases no longer felt like it would burn my fingers, it still felt like what it was: a murder weapon. I’d never been comfortable carrying it, never mind the legal trouble I could get into for the modifications I’d had made (concealed weapons permits were very picky about things like unconventional ammunition). But somehow knowing how not to use it had made a difference. Now, though, I couldn’t make that distinction. I’d used that gun to kill a man, and that would always be part of the weapon.
“The reverend is a gunsmith,” Elizabeth explained. She nodded to the case, and I took a step closer to see that it was a display case, fronted with glass. Six niches each held an old-fashioned revolver, although one of them was melted down to a lump with charred grips and another looked like it had been dipped in ink. I craned my neck to see past the glare off the glass, but could only make out the writing below one of the intact guns: Skelling . “I promised you I’d find someone to fill in for my father,” Elizabeth added. “For the armaments, at least.”
“Don’t throw that away,” Woodfin said, catching the flyer before it could hit the trash. “If this lady’s going to be there, then I can meet her there. I can get a look at the in-practice marks on her weapon then.”
“Sorry? You want me to carry a gun into a meeting of magicians?”
Woodfin shrugged and settled into one of the chairs behind the counter with a grunt, then nodded to Elizabeth. “Will that work for you?”
“I suppose so. Bring the gun with you tonight, Hound. The reverend will meet you there.” She glanced at the flyer again, and her lip curled. Woodfin muttered something to her in what sounded like Chinese, and she responded in kind. I felt a flare of monolingual jealousy and quickly stifled it. All this weird shit lately had gotten to me: who was I to expect every person in the undercurrent to acknowledge me?
Granted, I thought, that might make it easier to keep track of who was about to do something monumentally stupid.
I pulled up in front of my office and gazed at it blankly. I had maybe two hours before Sarah’s meeting, and originally I’d planned to use the time to take care of the last household tasks for the week (I had a jar of pickles and half a gallon of lumpy milk in the fridge, and the hamper was so full of dirty clothes that they sprang out onto the floor when I opened it). But just now I felt a little too drained—and, somehow, insulted—to put that time to any good use.
“Excuse me?” said a woman’s voice, just over my shoulder.
I jumped—for a moment I’d mistaken her for Mrs. Heppelwhite, the neighborhood scold. Mrs. Heppelwhite’s notice would have been all I needed to turn this day lousy. But the speaker wasn’t her: instead, a dainty, pale woman in her sixties smiled at me from the end of the walk.
Her face was wide and young-looking, but with worry lines at her temples and mouth, and her hair looked as if it had once been an indiscriminate shade between brown and blonde and was now an indiscriminate shade between brown and gray. It was cut short, shorter than mine was these days, and had a simple sweep to it that made me think of pictures from the 1940s. She smiled at me, a little awkwardly. “I’d like to get through, please.”
“Oh…sorry.” I got off my bike and pulled it out of her way.
“Thank you. Oh—one other thing.” She reached into her purse—she was even wearing gloves, I noticed, which just added to her general air of anachronism—and took out a slip of paper. “Could you tell me whether Number Ninety-three is on this side of the street?”
“This is Number Ninety-three.” I was Number Ninety-three, apartment 1B. “Who are you looking for?”
“Someone by the name of G. Scelan. Do you know him?”
I smiled. A client, I thought, and not just that, but a client who despite her old-fashioned dress seemed pretty much normal. Which meant I
“The reverend is a gunsmith,” Elizabeth explained. She nodded to the case, and I took a step closer to see that it was a display case, fronted with glass. Six niches each held an old-fashioned revolver, although one of them was melted down to a lump with charred grips and another looked like it had been dipped in ink. I craned my neck to see past the glare off the glass, but could only make out the writing below one of the intact guns: Skelling . “I promised you I’d find someone to fill in for my father,” Elizabeth added. “For the armaments, at least.”
“Don’t throw that away,” Woodfin said, catching the flyer before it could hit the trash. “If this lady’s going to be there, then I can meet her there. I can get a look at the in-practice marks on her weapon then.”
“Sorry? You want me to carry a gun into a meeting of magicians?”
Woodfin shrugged and settled into one of the chairs behind the counter with a grunt, then nodded to Elizabeth. “Will that work for you?”
“I suppose so. Bring the gun with you tonight, Hound. The reverend will meet you there.” She glanced at the flyer again, and her lip curled. Woodfin muttered something to her in what sounded like Chinese, and she responded in kind. I felt a flare of monolingual jealousy and quickly stifled it. All this weird shit lately had gotten to me: who was I to expect every person in the undercurrent to acknowledge me?
Granted, I thought, that might make it easier to keep track of who was about to do something monumentally stupid.
I pulled up in front of my office and gazed at it blankly. I had maybe two hours before Sarah’s meeting, and originally I’d planned to use the time to take care of the last household tasks for the week (I had a jar of pickles and half a gallon of lumpy milk in the fridge, and the hamper was so full of dirty clothes that they sprang out onto the floor when I opened it). But just now I felt a little too drained—and, somehow, insulted—to put that time to any good use.
“Excuse me?” said a woman’s voice, just over my shoulder.
I jumped—for a moment I’d mistaken her for Mrs. Heppelwhite, the neighborhood scold. Mrs. Heppelwhite’s notice would have been all I needed to turn this day lousy. But the speaker wasn’t her: instead, a dainty, pale woman in her sixties smiled at me from the end of the walk.
Her face was wide and young-looking, but with worry lines at her temples and mouth, and her hair looked as if it had once been an indiscriminate shade between brown and blonde and was now an indiscriminate shade between brown and gray. It was cut short, shorter than mine was these days, and had a simple sweep to it that made me think of pictures from the 1940s. She smiled at me, a little awkwardly. “I’d like to get through, please.”
“Oh…sorry.” I got off my bike and pulled it out of her way.
“Thank you. Oh—one other thing.” She reached into her purse—she was even wearing gloves, I noticed, which just added to her general air of anachronism—and took out a slip of paper. “Could you tell me whether Number Ninety-three is on this side of the street?”
“This is Number Ninety-three.” I was Number Ninety-three, apartment 1B. “Who are you looking for?”
“Someone by the name of G. Scelan. Do you know him?”
I smiled. A client, I thought, and not just that, but a client who despite her old-fashioned dress seemed pretty much normal. Which meant I