“Do you know where I can find an elder witch?” I ask, as I walk out of the red room, sore and blissful. No pacts this time, just trustworthy leather and rope.

  “Uh- they’re hard to find,” Vern says, “It’s kind of their thing.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “I say this knowing full well one of these other witches just tried to shoot you, H-bomb, but elder witches are dangerous. Like capital D dangerous.”

  “How much more mortal peril can I be in?” I ask, with a laugh. “Maybe if enough people are trying to kill me they’ll all get stuck in the door together.”

  “Babe, I’m serious.”

  “Babe, I am too. I can sit in your living room all day and I’d still fear for my life, I may as well do something. I’d be harder to track down, too.”

  He scoffs, mumbles something. “Yeah, maybe. I can come with, keep you safe.”

  “I’m not-” I stop, shut my eyes, look at him. He’d be mad if I refused. “Just remember, this is my thing, okay? Not yours.”

  “This is my contact.”

  “And that’s supposed to be sacred now?” I laugh. He doesn’t. Why does he have to look so hurt, why do I have to feel so guilty? “We’ll do this together. Partners. Equals.”

  I offer it with a smile, and he rolls his eyes and storms off.

  It’s late afternoon when we hit the metaphorical road- we spend most of it two stories above ground. I made coffee and set us up with travel mugs. He takes the time to stop at a ten stack drive through to get himself something else. My stomach feels uneasy the whole ride, every twitch of his face, every augmented reality yellow light he runs, I’m watching his mood like a hawk, and still powerless to change it.

  Ali texts “Are you okay?”

  “Safe. Went for a walk when it happened.”

  “Good, don’t tell anyone where you are,” he replies. Then he types again: “Are you *okay*?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “What does Sazwa think?”

  “She’s convinced it was Vern.”

  “Vern’s convinced it was her,” I write, then backspace it. “It wasn’t.”

  “Who’re you texting?” Vern asks.

  “Ali.”

  “Spend a lot of time with him?”

  “Not really. A couple coffees.”

  “Uh huh,” he says.

  I look back at my phone. Ali’s replied: “At any rate, I’m glad you’re safe, if you need space from this thing, I understand entirely. Live to fight another day. If possible, though, we should talk in person soon.”

  I think about replying, then lock my phone, bury it in my pocket, spend the rest of the trip in silence. How did we get back here so fast? What did I do so wrong? Last night he was my best friend, today he’s the man I broke up with five times.

  We arrive at a restaurant, Old Country Astoria, a dust smelling diner with buzzing lights, its only occupants the bartender and a set of bar stools molded to the bodies of their regulars. Vern stalks between tables, taking a lap before turning to me and declaring “Not here.”

  “Okay. So what do we do?”

  “Be patient,” he says, in a tone that suggest I’m not. He sits down at the bar, and I sit down with him.

  I am patient. I am patient as he has his frist 11AM beer, and his second. I am patient as he compliments the bartender’s tattoo. His shirt. His eyes. I am the patron saint of patience, and I’m still testing his with everything I do.

  And I know these tricks, I know why he does this, he’s always done it.

  Before we were dating, when I caught on and asked flat out if he was a witch he showed me squishboy. Then without warning he made him live up to his name. I couldn’t look him in the eye for a week, but it got my attention, and that’s all he wants. Me to attend him. To worry I’m not enough for him. To be afraid for our future together rather than excited about it.

  I know he does this, so I excuse it. It’s not what I should do about it, I know, but it’s a step better than falling for it, for getting jealous, for giving in.

  The front door opens, and I hear a single step, an exhale, and then whoever just walked in turns and walks out. Vern puts a bill on the bar. We both run to the door.

  On the sidewalk Vern looks both ways, but there’s no sign of anyone. “Go left,” he tells me, and runs right.

  I run, past the building’s front, Vern’s parked car, past the narrow entrance to the alley that runs around the back of the restaurant-

  And then I stop, and go back to that alley. I step slowly, carefully through, peak around the dumpster, and find myself staring down someone’s outstretched finger, pointing at me like a gun.

  “No moves,” the man says, quietly. He’s pale skinned, tall with some asian features, brown eyes that gleam a little green in the sun. Too young to be an elder witch, unless it’s a disguise. “Talk.”

  “I’m just looking for someone. My phone is off, we can have a conversation,” I say, hands up like his finger is a gun, because with cyborgs around, it could be one, and with xenonaturals, it could be much worse. I add: “Technically it’s on, but I ripped the microphone out, which is much safer.”

  He pulls out his phone with his left hand, flips a bolted on switch on the back, and the screen goes dead, not just shut off- battery disconnected, capacitors discharged with an audible zap. “I was perfectly clear to Vern what would happen the next time I see his face.”

  “Well, then I guess it’s lucky you’ve only seen the back of his head,” I smile. “Vern’s just a facilitator here, he’s not involved, it’s me who wants to talk to you. So we can set up a date and I’ll say you got away, or we can wait around till he circles by. Your choice.”

  He holds his pose, stares me down. I tilt my head.

  “I fucking hate you people,” he says. “Come back at Five.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Promise.” I command. “You will be here at five, alone, unarmed, no taps, no funny business,”

  “I will be here at five, if I feel like it, and with whatever precautions I feel suit me, and when you arrive you will show some fucking respect. I’m not falling for your shitty spells.”

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  The impasse holds for a moment. Ten seconds. Twenty. Vern showing up now doesn’t feel like much of a win for me either. I blink first, cuss. “Fine, now run,” I say.

  I fake receiving a text from work, put on a uniform and sneak out from Verns house. Two buses later I’m back at old country astoria. No sign of the contact. I take a seat at a booth and settle in for another missed meeting.

  I order a drink, watch carefully as the bartender uncaps it, drink half, then keep my eye on it as I wait.

  I reply, finally to Ali.

  “Skip coffee, come get drunk with me.” I say, then remember he’s muslim. “Or just come hang out.”

  I drop a pin to where I’m at. Its only 5. I was judging Vern for his 11am drinking after he got stood up and here I am, no better.

  I exhale, stare at my reflection in the bottle, warped. Wobbly. Moving.

  I look up and everything is melting, my vision blackening, the horizon swaying around me. The bartender gently takes back the bottle and dumps the contents in the sink. “Ah come on,” I say, and drop off the barstool, to the floor.

  I wake up in a meat freezer, wrapped in a heavy coat with bloodstains on it, shivering.

  “Hello?” I call. Nobody replies. I stand, look through the tiny room, at shelves of butchered meat, frozen produce, and a door with no handle.

  I kick it, lose my balance, brace myself on a shelf, come back to a stand, then vomit.

  “Oh fuck,” I say. “Oh christ, why?”

  I bang on the door some more, to pry it open, my sweaty fingers glue themself to the frozen metal, I pull them free and then lose my balance, drop to my knees in my own vomit.

  Defeated, I find a corner and curl back up in the jacket.

  When the door finally opens it feels like it might have been days. My lips are chapped, my nose has bled and then the blood froze. There's a small puddle of frozen pee in the corner. I struggle to a stand, find Vern’s contact obediently at the elbow of a bloated, walking corpse in a frumpy brown suit.

  “You’re not an elder witch,” I whine.

  “You wanted to talk?” he says, little black freckles in his face seem not to follow as his sloughing face makes words. The seed within me grows a new twisted branch, a strange sixth sense crawls into my mind and cozy’s up between scent and taste. I know their names, at just a glance.

  “Hello Bruno Zucaro,” I say, hoping for an edge. It has a hint of familiarity to it.

  “Witch’s party tricks don’t impress me.”

  “Date rapey bartenders don’t impress me much either.”

  “Mmhm.” He folds his hands behind his back. “Perhaps another day in the freezer would improve our friend’s tone.”

  “I just want to meet an elder!” I yell. “This has nothing to do with either of you!”

  The zombie businessman turns, exits out the door, and the contact, Gaki Davis, does the same.

  “Wait- wait!” I beg.

  The door shuts.

  It's bad. The coat I woke up in was plenty for the cold at first, but now I’m dehydrated, hungry, weak. I’ve been shivering for hours, and now that’s started to come and go. There’s a shit corner and a piss corner, now, and as much as I’d like to be waiting against the door, that’s still the vomit corner.

  My fingers are dirty, cold, nails broken as I’ve scraped the walls for ice to suck on. I know who the Zucaro are, having had time to think on it. An organized crime syndicate that butted head with the yardbirds, who I worked for a lifetime ago. While the yardbirds bought and sold magic staffs and vampire fangs to the rich and mundane, the Zucaro counted wizards and vampires in their own ranks. As far as gangs went, they were small and powerful, talked about in whispers with nearly the same reverence we held for witches, but with fear rather than opportunity.

  As for the man himself, he was not Ampelio Zucaro, the top of the family, but that last name told me he was within arms reach of it.

  The light overhead is covered by Gaki, and the barrel of a gun is pressed against my head. I laugh, first at the prospect that someone still needs a gun to feel in charge, then at the funnier thing: he pointed his finger at me in the alley, and I totally bought it was a real threat.

  I slump to the ground cackling. He slaps me, and my cheeks are too numb to feel it.

  “You gonna start cooperating?” Gaki asks.

  “I was always cooperating,” I whine.

  Gaki stares hard at me. “Who did you tell to come here?”

  “Nobody,” I say. “Is Vern looking for me?”

  He pulls something from a jacket pocket, a bunch of crow feathers that flutter to the frozen ground. “Vern doesn’t do magic. Who is this?”

  “Sazwa?”

  “You got a last name for her?”

  “No?”

  “You have a last name for everyone, try that again.”

  “I haven’t talked to her since my spell got stronger” I shrug.

  “You’re not cooperating,” he says. “Better luck tomorrow.”

  “Wait- come on.” I plead. “No- no no no- I- there are pacts, I can’t give out names, it doesn’t work like that.”

  He takes a step away from me and I paw at him with my frozen hands.

  “The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you get out.”

  “I swear to god I’m doing my best,” I say. “What do you want?”

  He steps away from me, and I can’t move fast enough to follow. “If your friends rescue you, they’re going to die,” he says, opening the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  The door slams shut.

  I’m conscious the next time the door opens. I stare at the ground, don’t even register if it’s Gaki or Bruno, and I say “Anything you want.”

  Todays’s jailer shushes me, and gestures me through the door with a gloved hand. I follow obediently, slip on the frozen vomit, make no noise as my frozen knee impacts frozen concrete floor. The gloved hand takes mine, pulls me up, braces me. He makes a fist and then opens his palm, and cradled in his hand is a gentle flame.

  I can feel it on my cheeks, I raise my hands around it, flex them for some feeling, exhale a deep shuddering breath.

  “I think we’re all clear,” whispers a familiar, dour, woman’s voice. Sazwa. I raise my head, she’s around the corner, and holding me is Ali.

  “Oh, don’t- don’t-” I plead.

  “You’re okay. Nobody’s here, they left.”

  “No, they said- if you try- they said-” I want to cry, swallow it down. “You should run.”

  “We already did the dangerous part,” Ali assures me. “Just have to take you to the car.”

  “No- they said-”

  “She’s delirious,” Sazwa says.

  “Your face is delirious,” I retort.

  “Your face is perfect,” Ali says.

  “Just grab her,” Sazwa says.

  “My love, if you order me to do something I physically can’t do it,” Ali says.

  “Oh fuck, the strike.”

  “Don’t worry about it right now, just come with me,” Ali asks.

  His tone is so eminently reasonable, my head so blurry, I can’t argue. I follow him, up a flight of stairs, into the empty kitchen, to the back door, a stolen key still slotted in it. It can’t be that easy. They have no idea who they’re dealing with, it can’t be.

  Sazwa goes first, her crow cawing an all clear. Ali, still holding me, steps through the door, and I follow a few paces behind.

  What do I have, if I leave now? Nothing. This will all be for nothing. Vern said these people have what I need. This was the first and only stop on the way to finding someone who could fill that empty seat at the bargaining table, to save us from this strike. And, loathing it the whole way, I realized I trusted Vern.

  I grab the keys out of the door and shut it on Ali and Sazwa.

  “Heidi! What the fuck!” Sazwa shouts.

  “You can’t rescue me!” I throw the keys across the room, they skid into a corner of the kitchen and vanish. “You can’t!”

  I hear the key enter the lock, pilfered to Sazwa’s hand again, and I brace myself against the door.

  “You’re going to get us caught!” Sazwa yells.

  “JUST GO!” I shout, furiously. “I WANT TO BE HERE.”

  The door budges once, no difficulty to keep shut even in my state. Then there’s a calm, and an impact that echoes through the restaurant, opening the door an inch before my body weight pushes it back closed. I don’t know if my shoulder is still in its socket, if my skull is still in one piece. I swear I see a dent in in the door in the shape of a boot but I’m too tired to open my dried out eyes all the way. “Shoulder it,” Sazwa says. “Help me.”

  “I was going to but now-”

  “Ali you see how this is already ridiculous.”

  “Is her mind altered? A succubus or something?”

  “Just delirious,” Sazwa says. “Not everything is magic, two days in a fridge will do that.”

  “Just go, please,” I say. “Like you said, I’ve done enough damage to Ali.”

  They’re quiet for a while, on the other side of the door. Then Ali speaks in Arabic, and Sazwa sighs.

  “We’re coming back tomorrow,” Sazwa says. “We’ll call the cops if we have to.”

  “That’s fine, just go,” I beg.

  And then the door is quiet. I open it a crack, stare out, watch them get in their car. Look back. Argue. And then drive off, alive.

  “Good choice,” says a man’s voice. I turn my head. The kitchen is still empty, until he moves from that corner I threw the keys into. My brain can’t make sense of it, I think maybe I’m dying, as I watch part of the wall in the approximate shape of a human tear free and walk towards me.

  The screens occupying his body flicker off, holograms vanishing into pinpricks of light along his skin, and he’s just a dead businessman again, with crow feathers stuck to the bottom of his shoe. The gun in his hands looks like the kind of thing they no longer give to the city’s power armored police, a magazine holding hundreds of rounds and a grenade underbarrel, all decked with the same holographic tech to hide it. It’s too big for even his substantial frame, but he holds it like it's weightless.

  The gun and the tech are impressive, but the really scary thing? It’s not the witching hour. He has the resources to shoot a car full of people in a parking lot outside his own business, satellite images and neighbours be damned. This was power.

  “I’m cooperating,” I repeat, and slump to the floor.

  “I think I might even believe you, now, Heidi,” Bruno says. “So let’s make a deal.”