risk bleeding myself into a coma.
His office was a basement affair in Chelsea, six steps down. Instantly you felt damp, imagining the sewage seeping up from below. A glass storefront still read OLYPHANT BOOKS | USED | NEW | ESTATE SALES. The door had a yellowed piece of copy paper taped to the glass that read D. A. KETTERLY, INVESTIGATIONS: MIRACLES ACHIEVED .
We pushed our way into the dark, dense interior, the rusty bell attached to the door ringing as we did so, and were immediately enveloped by gloom. A cave. The bookshelves and books were exactly where they’d been decades before, covered in dust, the hand-lettered section signs clinging to the wood: FICTION, REFERENCE, MUSIC . It smelled like paper and dust and cigar smoke.
The whole place was just one room with a tiny washroom in the back that beat at us with the heat of its smell, a terrible green odor that had heft and mass and grabbed on to you as you moved, insistent. The center of the room had been cleared out and a large green metal desk installed. There was one chair, a huge cracked leather one on wheels that creaked and sighed with every move Ketterly made. He leaped up in a cloud of cigarette smoke and threw his arms out.
“Is that Pitr fucking Mags?” he shouted. “Hey, watch this.”
He waved his hands in the air theatrically, and I caught the barest glint of light on his tiny blade. Ketterly liked to use a sharpenedpenknife for his Cantrips—it was unobtrusive. He liked to astound and amaze the rubes; an obvious knife and a bleeding hand ruined the effect. I didn’t notice his lips moving as he spat out the syllables. Ketterly worked public, so he’d taught himself to almost throw his voice, a barely audible whisper, without moving his lips. When he was finished he barked out a nonsense word enthusiastically, making Mags jump as a fiery, glowing bird appeared in the air between us.
“Aw, shit, that’s fucking cool, ” Mags hissed, his eyes locked on the bird as it swooped around the room lazily. “You’ll teach it to me?”
I snorted. Every time Mags learned a new spell, he forgot an old one.
“Sure, sure, if you concentrate this time and not blow up my shop, huh?” Ketterly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it in his hand. His suit was an old, well-cared-for one. Up close, I knew, it would show a million repairs, all done with careful stitches and good thread. From three feet away, all the work was invisible. Ketterly was a miser. He wasn’t making a mint with his detective business, but he salted away every dime he screwed out of idiots who’d never heard of a Seeking Rite. I’d never seen D. A. Ketterly on the street with more than pennies in his pockets.
He sat down in his squeaky chair and crossed his short little legs, fussing with his overlong black and gray hair. He looked at me as he leaned back, dim light glinting on his glasses. He laced his fingers behind his head. “Your boy Mags here is adorable, and I like having him pant around my office. You’re ugly as hell and boring to boot. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
I smiled. Mags was already trying to guess at the Words of Ketterly’s stupid Cantrip, mouthing them in a hushed voice. This was a doomed effort, but Mags’s face was a mask of somber effort, and I didn’t have the heart to mock him. “I need you to find someone for me.”
“Ah,” Ketterly said, nodding. “My specialty.”
I hesitated.
“I’m told spells won’t work well on this one.”
He squinted at me. “Why not?”
I pulled out a wad of cash, already damp from my own sweaty pocket, and tossed it onto his desk. “That’s three zeros. A retainer.”
He looked down his short torso at the money, wrapped up in a rubber band, and then looked back at me. I willed him to take it, to pick it up and accept the job, but he kept his eyes on me.
“You’re pretty eager to grease me off, Vonnegan,” he said. “And I can’t use a spell, huh?”
I shrugged,
His office was a basement affair in Chelsea, six steps down. Instantly you felt damp, imagining the sewage seeping up from below. A glass storefront still read OLYPHANT BOOKS | USED | NEW | ESTATE SALES. The door had a yellowed piece of copy paper taped to the glass that read D. A. KETTERLY, INVESTIGATIONS: MIRACLES ACHIEVED .
We pushed our way into the dark, dense interior, the rusty bell attached to the door ringing as we did so, and were immediately enveloped by gloom. A cave. The bookshelves and books were exactly where they’d been decades before, covered in dust, the hand-lettered section signs clinging to the wood: FICTION, REFERENCE, MUSIC . It smelled like paper and dust and cigar smoke.
The whole place was just one room with a tiny washroom in the back that beat at us with the heat of its smell, a terrible green odor that had heft and mass and grabbed on to you as you moved, insistent. The center of the room had been cleared out and a large green metal desk installed. There was one chair, a huge cracked leather one on wheels that creaked and sighed with every move Ketterly made. He leaped up in a cloud of cigarette smoke and threw his arms out.
“Is that Pitr fucking Mags?” he shouted. “Hey, watch this.”
He waved his hands in the air theatrically, and I caught the barest glint of light on his tiny blade. Ketterly liked to use a sharpenedpenknife for his Cantrips—it was unobtrusive. He liked to astound and amaze the rubes; an obvious knife and a bleeding hand ruined the effect. I didn’t notice his lips moving as he spat out the syllables. Ketterly worked public, so he’d taught himself to almost throw his voice, a barely audible whisper, without moving his lips. When he was finished he barked out a nonsense word enthusiastically, making Mags jump as a fiery, glowing bird appeared in the air between us.
“Aw, shit, that’s fucking cool, ” Mags hissed, his eyes locked on the bird as it swooped around the room lazily. “You’ll teach it to me?”
I snorted. Every time Mags learned a new spell, he forgot an old one.
“Sure, sure, if you concentrate this time and not blow up my shop, huh?” Ketterly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it in his hand. His suit was an old, well-cared-for one. Up close, I knew, it would show a million repairs, all done with careful stitches and good thread. From three feet away, all the work was invisible. Ketterly was a miser. He wasn’t making a mint with his detective business, but he salted away every dime he screwed out of idiots who’d never heard of a Seeking Rite. I’d never seen D. A. Ketterly on the street with more than pennies in his pockets.
He sat down in his squeaky chair and crossed his short little legs, fussing with his overlong black and gray hair. He looked at me as he leaned back, dim light glinting on his glasses. He laced his fingers behind his head. “Your boy Mags here is adorable, and I like having him pant around my office. You’re ugly as hell and boring to boot. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
I smiled. Mags was already trying to guess at the Words of Ketterly’s stupid Cantrip, mouthing them in a hushed voice. This was a doomed effort, but Mags’s face was a mask of somber effort, and I didn’t have the heart to mock him. “I need you to find someone for me.”
“Ah,” Ketterly said, nodding. “My specialty.”
I hesitated.
“I’m told spells won’t work well on this one.”
He squinted at me. “Why not?”
I pulled out a wad of cash, already damp from my own sweaty pocket, and tossed it onto his desk. “That’s three zeros. A retainer.”
He looked down his short torso at the money, wrapped up in a rubber band, and then looked back at me. I willed him to take it, to pick it up and accept the job, but he kept his eyes on me.
“You’re pretty eager to grease me off, Vonnegan,” he said. “And I can’t use a spell, huh?”
I shrugged,
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