We strolled down the main street together, past crowds laughing and toasting each other. My bracelet thrummed, asserting the magic needed to pin me here instead of in the middle of a midday traffic jam. The street vendors lined the sidewalks.
“Fresh auguries,” said one crone, catching me looking at the rabbits. If I needed an augury I’d ask Grimm. When I spent my Glitter, I did so with care.
“Animal companions,” said another, with a cage full of wide-eyed rabbits and squirrels. No doubt all of them talked, and would be happy to follow me around making cute jokes and conversation. I got lonely sometimes, and often thought about buying another companion. I say another because Grimm got me a cat from here when I first started working. To the best of my knowledge I didn’t have it anymore.
“Weasel grease,” cried an enchanter, holding up a bottle. “Slip any fetter, break any bonds.”
Evangeline snorted. “Don’t bother. I tried it once.” She was ten years older than I, and had the scars to match it. The business was hard. In Kingdom she could take the scarf and veil off. She did so now, revealing a ruined mass of wet, red flesh that never healed. Rumors at the Agency said that she’d gotten into a fight in Lower Kingdom and lost. However it happened, from then on I always played the wrong woman.
We picked our way past the shops and the banks, which had enough Glitter to free me a million times over, and finally got to a squat marble building. “Kingdom Postal Service” said the engraving over the door.
The door-gnome spotted me from across the street and already had that look on his face.
I stopped at the curb. “I hate this place. Couldn’t I go to Inferno instead?”
Evangeline grabbed my hand and dragged me across the street. “You don’t hate this place. You hate the fact that every gnome in Kingdom has your face taped on their fridge with the words ‘Beware of Killer’ underneath it.”
Inside, white marble floors reflected the light from massive chandeliers. The lobby had velvet seating and a butler, but it was still a post office, so of course it had a line. At the front of the line a man argued, and his tone said he was a prince.
No third-string prince or second stringer. He was the real deal, and the shine seemed to run off him like a river. “I don’t think I made myself clear,” he said. “I will personally deliver it.”
The postal gnome leaned over his counter and shook his head. “No unauthorized pickups.” He pounded a tiny fist on the counter with each word.
The prince was obviously accustomed to getting what he wanted, which meant he obviously wasn’t accustomed to dealing with the postal service. The KPS was the only organization I know of that actually got along with the USPS. I’d always believed that every normal postman had to have a mandatory gnomish blood transfusion to qualify for the job.
The prince glanced around the room and I got a look at his face. Chiseled nose, black eyebrows to match that gorgeous raven hair, and pale skin that said he’d never spent a day at the beach. Disgusting in my book. “I don’t believe you appreciate who I am.”
The postal gnome obviously shared my feelings, because he rang the bell and said “Next.”
We waited in line like proper cattle. The prince swept up his papers and started one of those regal “storming out” things they do, and he glanced at us. Well, at Evangeline. Men don’t look at me, they look past me. Evangeline might have been thirty-five, but her curves left men bent, and she was used to it. He approached and she gave him a coy glance over her shoulder.
It wasn’t her shoulder his eyes were riveted to, and that was fine by me. His gaze made me feel like I needed a shower, like his eyes had slime-ray vision. If so much as one of those carefully manicured fingers touched me, he was going to need dental work.
He gave us a slight bow. “My ladies, I would like the pleasure of your names. I am Prince Vladimir Mihail, of the Second Royal Family.” Of the seven royal families, the second was now number one on my most detested list. It’s actually a lengthy list.
Evangeline played it to the hilt, waiting till the last moment to turn enough so he could see her face. He flinched and jerked his hand away, then got it under control enough to give her hand a kiss. She made no secret of wiping it off.
He kept his eyes on the ground, avoiding her face. “I beg your pardon, but duty calls.” When he was gone the air no longer reeked of roses.
I watched him walk out. “Jerk.”
Evangeline gave me a half smile that’s as close to the real thing as she could get.
I looked at her, looking at the cuts. Three long slices lay on each side of her cheeks, the edges tinged with rotten green. On one side, her teeth showed through the gashes. “Did you ever ask Grimm about—”
“About fixing me? These aren’t just cuts, M. They’re wounds from magic.” Magic wounds were like magic spells—it wasn’t easy to set magic against magic, like pushing two magnets together the wrong way. Magic could only counter magic with the greatest of wills and effort. Even then things didn’t usually turn out right.
She put a hand up to her face, tracing the gouges. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Most of Grimm’s agents have worse before they’re done. You’ll get your own eventually.”
“Next,” said the postal gnome, and it was our turn.
Evangeline presented her Agency bracelet, and the gnome scanned it. “I’ll be right back. It’s in a secure vault.” I have no idea what a secure vault actually entailed. KPS hallways had guards with guns and dogs and Kingdom only knew what else. The secure ones, on the other hand, I had heard only rumors about. Rumors like the doorway to the vault was actually a portal to the surface of the sun. Some of their gates had musical codes, and you had to play the right song on a flute or get devoured by a pack of rats. Those were the easy ones. The high-security ones, you had to play Mozart on an accordion, a feat that wasn’t even possible with the proper number of fingers.
The gnome came back looking a little singed, carrying a book-sized brown paper package as tall as he was. With a final shove he dropped it on the counter. “Sign in septuplicate, please.”
I signed my name. And again. Over, and over, and over. “What exactly do you do with all of these?”
He looked at me as he spindled, punched, and folded my carefully written slip. “Orange copy goes to records. Green copy goes to tracking. Chartreuse copy is for my trophy wall in the office, Maniac.” He leaned over to the gnome in the next window and whispered, “I met the Maniac of Eighth Street and lived to tell about it.”
“I didn’t mean to kill anyone. What about the other four?”
“They don’t stock toilet paper in the bathrooms. Whether you meant to or not, Bernie is dead.”
“He was curled up in a pothole at night, it’s not my fault I ran him over. He ruined my tire and I had to get the front end realigned. How did you even know him?”
“Bernie was my eight hundred and fifty-third and one-eighth cousin,” said the gnome. He picked up a metal stamper and I yanked my hands off the counter.
“How do you get to be one eighth of a cousin?”
The gnome reached under the counter and took out a saw. “I’d like to show you.” He rang his bell three times and the security guards came over to escort us out.
As we walked along I gave the box a shake, but it was well packed. “What’s in the box?”
Evangeline shrugged.
“Not even a little curious?”
She shook her head. “Curiosity killed the cat, his owner, and most of the people in the apartment building, M.”