The Hill District was as far as you could get from the river and the ocean it flowed to and still be in Slakterquay. Which is the way Layla Rodriguez liked it. The closer you got to the river and, particularly the ocean, the richer and whiter the City got, and Layla had enough tourists wander through her shop. She could always tell newcomers because they pronounced Slakterquay wrong. They almost always made it sound like Slaughter Quaye, which was probably more right than anyone cared to admit. The clay under the city, and all it contained, was proof of that.
The rolling streets that gave the district its name assured the ignorant arrived panting and out of breath, stepping into her front parlor a little more likely to believe whatever half-truths the credulous wanted. Fortunes told, dead relatives spoken to, the lost found, all of the usual things. Then there were clients like the spritely Aggie McPherson.
A small brass bell, an heirloom from her grandmother and only God knows how many mothers before her, hung above the shop’s entrance. It made the usual tinny sounds when a customer entered but, as her grandmother had told her, the volume of the bell always matched the trouble the person brought with them.
That morning, the bell sounded like a gong. Layla looked up from the book she was reading and caught herself in the mirror she had behind the counter. It was positioned so customers had to look themselves in the eye while making a purchase. She could read volumes in how a person examined themselves in the mirror and had, more than once, ceased a transaction or made an alternative suggestion based on what she had seen there.
Whoever had brought trouble to her shop, though, wasn’t in the mirror yet and Layla wondered, not for the first time, what her grandmother would think of her now. She shared the same dark skin as all the women in her family, but her graying hair was put up in a scarf fit for a gypsy, sprouting from its multi-colored silk in the way of the mad and untended homeless. It contrasted strongly with the dark gown she wore, a brown ragged thing with bones knitted into it. They were a flair suggested by a colleague, their clatter able to punctuate important proclamations or frighten the annoying.
Out of boredom this morning, she had put a streak of purple down her right cheek to see what reaction this might elicit from any rubes that walked in. In her shop far from home, in her motley assemblage of carnival wear, she found it felt like the one thing that truly belonged to her. So she led with that side of her face, the eye above it squinting as she slowly turned to examine who had entered her shop.
It didn’t exactly frighten her to see Aggie already standing on the other side of the counter, but it almost caused her to start. For Aggie to move quickly and subtly wasn’t unusual in Layla’s experience, but to be accompanied by the bell was. To verify this was her long-time customer and not some phantasm, she said the other woman’s name as a question.
Aggie smirked in a way that, as far as Layla was able to tell, was her one indication of actual fondness. “Hi Layla. You’re surprised to see me.”
Layla Rodriguez, bruja of Slakterquay, descendant of women who had burned at the stake rather than be enslaved, found the pride of her ancestors and stood tall. This allowed her to admit the truth. “Not you. But ja usually don’t trip the bell.”
Aggie glanced over her shoulder, eyes arcing towards the ceiling as she looked from the entrance and back to Layla. The proprietor took some small pride in still being in control of her space when her friend and customer asked, “What bell?”
To cover this, Layla pursed her lips and shook her head, letting her dangling gold earrings dispel the question. “It don’t matter. It’s been too quiet today.”
Aggie’s smile broadened, which usually indicated that she was about to amuse herself, Aggie’s main occupation next to dressing in expensive suits and working to pay for them. “You know, it might help if you named this place and put a sign outside.”
Layla dismissed this notion with a pshaw and a waggling of her fingers as if scooting naughty schoolchildren out. “I get enough business from the rubes. Anymore would test my patience.”
“Well, I like the purple. It’s a nice touch. Should freak out the tourists.” Layla smiled as Aggie reminded her of what she liked about the detective. She tended to notice anything out of the ordinary as well as its source.
With that in mind, Layla leaned forward, putting her elbows on the counter. “Would you like some tea?”
“That sounds delightful.” This brought out another smile from Layla. While the detective might be a bit too concerned with the material world, at least she was always polite.
With a drawing back of the curtain behind the counter, the two of them moved into Layla’s parlor, its old wooden floorboards making it feel as if they were stepping into the belly of the ship they might have been salvaged from. As Layla prepared the tea, Aggie asked, “No little street urchin to help you out today?”
“Luisa,” Layla corrected, “is old enough to start school and the sisters of the Parish have been kind enough to let her attend St. John’s.”
“You’re gonna let those old crows get their claws into that little girl? After all you’ve taught her?”
“Hush now. The sisters mean well and teach good. And Luisa needs to learn how to blend in.” Layla set down the tray at the table Aggie had arranged chairs at, the teapot and cups delicately placed as any Japanese ceremony.
“As long as some priest doesn’t get her alone in the rectory.”
Layla held the pot gingerly, pouring the steaming liquid into the cups one at a time. “If anyone tries to have their way with that child they’ll burn in the fires of Hell. Priest or no, I’ll see to that.”
Aggie quirked an eyebrow at Layla and her grin returned. “I really do enjoy your accent. Where is it you’re from again?”
Reconsidering her opinion on Aggie’s politeness, Layla sat down across from her. Rather than touch her tea, she steepled her fingers below her chin and gazed at her guest. Dropping the thicker edges of her accent, she asked, “What brings you around today?”
Aggie picked up her tea and blew on it, stirring the steam into the air. “I have a client that’s got a revenant on his trail.”
“Then you need to let that client go,” Layla answered, grasping her cup in both hands. “If it gains enough force it’ll chew through anything to get at what it wants.”
“I just need to figure out why it’s after my client. Technically, I’m not working for him yet, but I’d like to get a jump on it.”
“Not like you to start work for a client before an arrangement has been made. Who is this person?”
“You know that’s confidential information, Layla.”
“Oh, then,” Layla took a deliberately long sip from her cup before saying, “Best of luck.”
Aggie leaned back in her chair, staring with a long appraisal that Layla ignored by pretending to be very selective about a sugar cube. The silence went on long enough that Layla was about to offer Aggie one when she finally responded. “Well, I’m not really working for him yet.”
“Technically,” Layla offered.
“Technically. In the future, if everything goes through, I’d be working for Haddo Skull.”
Layla stood so fast that the tray and pot rattled on the table, her earrings jangled and her bones rattled. “Get out.” She helpfully pointed to the door.
Aggie didn’t move. “So you know him?”
“I know he’s an evil sinvergüenza.”
“I’m impressed. I had to do a lot of digging to even find his last name. Or, rather, the stupid alias that he’s going by. I suspect he’s had a number of names over the years.”
Layla lowered her pointed hand as Aggie’s calm salved her quick temper. She smoothed the idiot bones on her gown as she reseated herself, eyes on her guest in a steadying reevaluation. “And for good reason. Why would you get mixed up with that?”
“It’s a long story, but it involved the good Reverend I introduced you too.”
At the mention of Reverend Taggart, Layla’s sympathy overrode her animosity. “Oof, is that puppy having more bad luck?”
“Probably. He seems the type, but I don’t think it involves this.”
“Then why? And be quick, or take my instructions to go.”
“Haddo has given me his word that if I find out about his Revenant he’ll leave Taggart and his congregation alone.”
Layla held her gaze on Aggie in the same way she might with a client who said they didn’t believe in Greenland. “If you stay out of it, it seems to me that the Revenant will solve that problem for you.”
Aggie shrugged, sipped her tea. “Maybe. Or the Legion might take him being targeted by a powerful supernatural entity as proof their cause is righteous and do something stupid.” She set her tea down. “It wouldn’t surprise me if a couple of them are just waiting for a reason to go postal.”
“What?”
“The Legion has amassed quite an arsenal. I’m sure there’s a few of them that are itching to start using it.”
Layla contemplated the kraken on her teapot. “Lots of targets for that lot in Slakterquay.”
“Yep. And the weapons are all legal so the cops can’t do anything about it. Of course.”
“Of course.” Layla thought she might have spotted the odd figure hanging around her shop, but it hadn’t concerned her much until Aggie’s news. Now she spent a moment trying to remember any detail she could, trying to make any connection. None surfaced, but she did remember the strange young woman who had come into the shop the other day.
“So you can see how keeping Haddo in play might keep the peace until a more permanent solution can be arrived at?” Layla picked up her cup again and tried not to grin, imagining what a permanent solution for Haddo Skull might look like.
“Fair point. But I couldn’t help you if I wanted. Revenants are necromancy and all of my arts in that sphere are just tricks and trades for the rubes.”
“You don’t have anything that might be protective?”
“Not for Haddo Skull I don’t. Legion or no, I’m not helping that bastardo.”
“OK,” Aggie conceded the point. “But Haddo claims he doesn’t know who sicced it on him. Or murdered anyone. Lately,” she added after a pause. “You have any ideas on how I might track it down?”
Layla let out a laugh, strong enough that it caused her head to go back and it drew a chuckle from Aggie. When she leveled her eyes back to Aggie, her grin had taken on a feral cruelty that would have set Taggart back. “What are you going to do if you find it? Talk to it? Bargain with it?” As if it were the funniest idea of all, she added, “Beg?”
“No. But I’d have a place to start.”
Layla shook her head. “I can provide a gris-gris for you in case you’re unlucky enough to find it. Nothing more.” She returned to her tea, but when Aggie’s grin remained unchanged, Layla added, “But you knew that.”
“I thought that might be the case,” Aggie said, perhaps a bit too proudly for Layla’s liking. “But it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“So what’s the real reason you came around then?”
“An old associate can’t drop by for cuppa?” Aggie said, sounding like a cereal box leprechaun. Layla only stared in return, immobile until Aggie continued in her normal voice. “I thought you might have noticed something out of ordinary lately. Clouds on the horizon, so to speak.”
Layla set down her cup, about to say that she hadn’t noticed anything that was strange for Slakterquay. This was her guarded side, though, the front she kept for rubes and would-be hucksters and white people in general. This was Aggie, though. They had always dealt with her squarely and never dragged trouble to her door, even when they could have. So she took a longer consideration. Then, “Nothing on the horizon, but a woman came in the other day. Little more than a waif. She had something strange she wanted to sell.”
“What’s that?”
“A blasting rod.”
That inquisitive eyebrow of Aggie’s arched. She set down her cup and raised her hands, holding them about a foot apart. “Was it about this long?” Layla nodded, causing Aggie to quickly bring her hands closer so they were a thumb’s width from each other. “About this wide?”
Layla nodded again adding, “Made of yew with a brass tip inset with a pointed ruby.”
Aggie leaned back in her chair, forgetting her tea. “She must have known what she had. Any normal thief would pry out the ruby and sell it.”
“True,” Layla agreed. “Nonetheless, I told her not to break the rod. If it still had charm, it could go badly for her.” Layla sipped her tea while she observed an uncustomary consternation on her friend’s face. “You surprised?”
“I am,” Aggie admitted in a way that suggested she didn’t care for the experience. “I thought it would be a man.”
“You’re looking for a thief now?”
“No. I’m just looking for leverage.”
It was Layla’s turn to look perplexed. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not important. Did you get a name?”
The woman who came in had been cagey, hadn’t introduced herself, which wasn’t unusual for first-timers into Layla’s shop. She had been tall, red-haired, and too thin for the cool, damp climate of Slakterquay. They parted ways when they couldn’t agree on price. The woman wanted more, but Layla didn’t have much use for it. Layla told Aggie all of this. At the end she added, “I don’t know where she was headed next, but there are only so many places she could sell such a thing.”
“Yeah,” Aggie nodded. “I was really hoping you bought it.”
See the author’s published work here.
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