When you’re asked to go on a double date with your best friend to meet her new boyfriend, you never expect it to end in murder—especially one you could easily be accused of.
The alley Karina and I went through to get to her boyfriend’s place in West Talish proved less than useful. It was only a few hours ago that Karina and I were getting ready to cross the border, Karina spouting off some stories of her and the new man in her life. My stomach turned when she suggested taking the alleyway as a shortcut, but I followed my friend anyway. The shadows of the setting sun darkened our way, hiding the horrors beneath. We stumbled through, tripping into a puddle of what I know now was blood. It was the copper smell and our bloody footprints exiting into the light that alerted me to go back. Staring at the body now, the color drains from my face, and my heart beats rapidly beneath my ribcage. Karina screams beside me, but it’s diluted alongside the pounding in my ears.
The man is nestled between two piles of large black garbage bags, as though he had fallen asleep there the night before. His arms and legs have been cleanly removed, the wounds slightly cauterized—a stark contrast to how the limbs were thrown into the open green trash bin like yesterday’s dinner. Where his eyes should have been, only two large bloody holes remain, leaving crimson tears streaking down his pale cheeks. Though the empty sockets drip with blood, no cuts mar the skin around them.
They have been removed from the inside.
“Magic was used to kill this man,” I mutter.
My legs buckle, and I lean into the metal bin, steadying myself. My short black hair curtains my face and tickles my nose, eliminating some of the putrid stink of garbage mixed with blood.
Karina continues to scream, and my focus is drawn to the tears streaming down her reddened cheeks.
“Reeney, get back—” Before I can herd her away, someone comes running out of the apartment building we were just about to buzz into.
The large figure wraps Karina up in a tight embrace, murmuring soothing words. No doubt her boyfriend. The one I was supposed to meet today.
Once he calms her shrieks, he finally takes a glimpse of what’s spooked her. Though he’s a broader man, he resembles a child as fear overtakes his stern features.
“Get her out of here,” I tell him, but he makes no movement. “Kenjamin, right?”
The sound of his name alerts him back to the present, and his dark eyes meet mine.
“Take her inside,” I tell him.
He nods and leads Karina away from the horror. I try to take a few deep breaths, but this sector’s stench and dirty air do nothing to soothe me. My eyes are drawn back to the corpse, taking in the grotesque scene again.
I stumble, my boots trouncing in the puddle of blood below, and almost trip over something: a small fabric shoulder bag, similar to my own, decorated with white embroidery depicting an open book with little stars floating around it.
My father’s work logo.
My breathing hitches as flashes of his death come to the forefront of my mind.
His head rearing back behind the domed glass as the executioner’s magic sucked the life from him; me pounding on the glass, calling to him in some futile attempt to save him; my mother wrapping me in her arms when it was over and she realized I was there, sobbing into my ebony hair.
“Why did this happen?” I asked my mom that day two years ago.
No proper answer was ever given to me. I only knew that he had broken the Laws of Magic, falling prey to the seduction of the Dark Arts.
Staring at this man in the alleyway, I can’t help but feel he was connected to my father. Did he know about his work after hours? Was he helping my father? What kind of spell were they trying to create?
The same pit in my stomach from two years ago forms again. Before I even have time to think about it, my hands are moving, pawing at his shoulder bag. I open it and grab all its contents besides his wallet and keys, shoving them in my own bag as I take one last look at the man, wondering if his death will help me finally get the answers behind my father’s execution.
When I stumble from the alleyway back into the cloudy streets of West Talish, my eyes take a moment to readjust. Thunder from the busy streets penetrates my eardrums, sending my anxiety skyrocketing as swarms of people effortlessly pass by. In the north, there seem to be half as many people wandering the streets. Even on the outskirts of downtown where Kenjamin lives, there are still vast crowds on a trajectory to some undisclosed location.
I turn back to the apartment. Behind the large glass doors of the lobby, Kenjamin is sitting next to Karina on one of the fancy velvet couches, rubbing her back and talking to her. She’s leaned over, long blonde braid falling over her shoulder, head in her hands. My heart aches to see her this way.
Growing up as a Mortal, she didn’t have to learn about all the terrible things that happened to us. She could remain ignorant of the oppression in our society. But my mom would watch the news with me when I was young, allowing me to see how the Mortals treated us, keeping me awake, aware. Murder wasn’t uncommon, especially among Crafters.
But seeing something like this firsthand was different. Almost surreal.
I snap out of my thoughts and knock softly on the glass door. Kenjamin looks up, his long straight hair flipping back. He gets up and opens the door.
“Natsu, I’m assuming?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
I walk past him to Karina, her sobs now audible. When I sit by her, she removes her hands from her face and looks at me, her piercing blue eyes even brighter when shrouded with tears.
“Who was that man?”
“I’m not sure,” I say softly, trying to keep my composure.
“Who would do something like that?”
I’m about to tell her this happens all the time, but I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I clutch at the strap of my bag across my chest, hyper aware now that I’ve stolen evidence from a crime scene.
“We need to call somebody,” Kenjamin says, grabbing his phone from his pocket.
“Wait—” Karina starts and then looks at me.
“What’s wrong?” Kenjamin asks. “We need to call the police, right?”
“You know a Mortal didn’t kill that man,” Karina mutters.
I swallow the lump in my throat. She’s right. And with my mother’s shining Sorceress reputation in the Crafter community, my presence at a crime scene would not look good for her. Let alone if I was discovered stealing evidence.
“We can’t leave him out there,” I tell her sternly.
“Sorry—why can’t I call the cops?” Kenjamin asks.
Karina turns to him. “Natsu’s mom is, like, famous in the Crafter world. She can’t be found anywhere near this. The news could ruin her mom’s reputation.”
No more than my dad’s execution did—the intrusive thought pops in before I can stop it.
“I’ll be okay,” I argue.
Karina shakes her head, her long braid flowing behind her back again. “No, this was my fault. I brought you over here. I can’t get you into more trouble than I already have.”
Kenjamin’s eyes dart between us. “Wait, does your mom not know you’re here? She doesn’t know you crossed borders?”
“I may have left that part out.”
He runs his hands through his long hair. “This is bad.”
Suddenly, sirens pierce through our conversation. We glance at Kenjamin and he holds up his phone. “It wasn’t me.”
Someone must have heard Karina screaming. Or followed her screams into the alley and found the body themselves.
I curse and stand, pacing the lobby. Karina can’t leave if someone witnessed her anguished cries. She has to tell her side of the story.
Kenjamin approaches me and halts my steps. “I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”
A comforting sentiment from this stranger who’s only been dating my best friend for a few months.
“Natsu,” Karina hiccups. “You have to go. Please. I would never forgive myself if you got into trouble because of this.”
My emerald eyes meet hers, fear and desperation coating her pale features. I let out an irritated sigh, my back against the wall. The sirens grow louder. They are coming for us.
“Go,” she begs again.
It takes me a moment before I break away from her and barrel out into the streets. I run right past the police car heading towards Karina and zigzag through the throngs of people. The bright city lights and large TV screens blind my vision; I veer off towards a park after bumping into someone, desperate to get away from the crowd. The pathetically small park has barely any trees, unlike North Talish, where greenery is vibrant and calming.
Once my legs and lungs are on fire, I stop at the park’s edge, panting in the cool autumn air. My heart won’t slow down, and magic flows uncontrollably through me like a crashing wave.
You must learn to control your emotions. My father’s voice pounds in my eardrums.
My fury for the selfish behavior that got him killed floods my memories. I scream out my frustration, and a wave of fire shoots from the palms of my hands, creating a bubble around me before dissipating into the air. Then, silence—only my rapid breathing keeps me company. My gaze wanders to a tree beside me, where some of the leaves are on fire. I use water magic to put it out.
But when I turn back, there is a young girl standing several feet away.
I could have hit her! It was an amateur mistake, one I shouldn’t be making in my senior year of high school.
The girl simply stares at me, her chestnut eyes, which remind me of my younger brother, wide with fear. A look I’m all too accustomed to from Mortals.
“Hey!” Behind me, a cop rushes from the sidewalk. “No magic in the streets, witch!”
Calling someone a witch instead of a Crafter is highly offensive, implying we are stereotypical ugly simpletons who can only make amateur spells in a bubbling cauldron inside a cave. Though the term “Crafter” does derive from “witchcraft”, Crafters are more elegant and talented. It’s a term we came up with on our own, not something that was given to us.
I almost lose it at his horribly derogatory term, but instead, I turn on my heel and race towards the shadows beneath the trees. Running further into the pitiful forest, the large police officer’s huffed breathing sounds far behind me, and when I know I’ve lost him, I duck behind a tree trunk and use a gust of wind to sweep myself up onto a tall branch.
I sit perched on the branch and watch the idiot cop begin his futile attempt at a search. It doesn’t take long before he gives up. He snarls, no doubt cursing me, and heads back towards the city. Another gust of wind from my palms cushions my landing from the tree. I take a deep breath, helping my magic recharge like a worn-out battery.
When I’ve gathered my bearings, I rush back towards the train station before they close the borders. Once the investigation of the dead man starts, they won’t want those open.
My stomach churns. There was limited time to come up with a plan to get Karina back across, although it won’t be hard for her— they’ll be looking for a Crafter.
Luckily, the train isn’t far, and I make it before any commotion begins. I enter the lineup with my hands in my jacket pocket, trying not to play with my shoulder bag, the stolen evidence tucked beneath its fabric burning at my conscience. The line moves painfully slow, but eventually I make it to the police checkpoint, manned by a younger officer who eyes me while I remove my bag and navy jacket, throwing them onto the conveyor belt to be scanned. My heart races, hoping they won’t flag the bag as suspicious.
“Tattoo?” the man asks.
I roll up my sleeve and stare down at the magically-embedded ink on my skin that alerts everyone to who I am and where I live. Memories flash of growing up and using a permanent marker to cross out the word “CRAFTER” and copy Karina’s “MORTAL”. And then my eye is drawn to a little horizontal scar further up my arm: a scissor slice from a Mortal girl in kindergarten who wanted to see if our blood was the same color. Psycho. Karina had a lot of words for her before the teacher got involved.
“Let’s go.” The officer’s irritated voice pulls me from my thoughts as he reaches for my arm, yanking it harder than I’m sure he intended.
We lock eyes for a moment, and he pauses. I snap my wrist away. He then retreats to another officer, and my heart thrums louder in my chest. When he returns with an older man, he waves for me to come over to the side to chat.
I hate the border chats.
“Ms. Kerning, correct?” the older officer asks. Of course they recognize me. There’s always a handful of Mortals who are close enough to the Crafter community to know my mother’s reputation.
I nod my answer.
“And why do we have the honor of having you in the west today?” His condescending tone, as though he were talking to a child, immediately irritates me.
“Visiting my friend’s boyfriend.”
He raises a bushy eyebrow. “And where is this friend now?”
I shrug. “She’s staying later. Having some private time.”
He scans my face, obviously searching for deceit. But I’ve perfected my uninterested teenage poker face long ago.
Don’t let them see your power. My father’s advice echoes in my ears again, but I ignore it.
“Alright, Ms. Kerning, get going,” he says, and I don’t hesitate to rush back into the lineup to find my bag. Thankfully, this was the one time it wasn’t “randomly” searched.
They then ask me to step to the side so they can use their handheld scanner, and I almost growl at them. After another agonizing minute, they finally set me free back into my home sector.
The moonlight guides my way back into our almost empty town, and the smell of flowers that perish in the newly autumn rain tickles my nose, reminding me of home. This time, though, the heavenly scent cannot subdue my anxiety. My mind races with questions, thoughts about Karina, and what I had pulled from the crime scene. I don’t dare open my bag yet; I have to focus on getting Karina home and safe.
In my tornado of thoughts, I don’t realize I’m taking a route I seldom travel. My feet stop on the cobblestone in front of City Hall. Bright white lights illuminate its lavish exterior and large stone columns, just as the lights illuminated the stage where my father was taken—a spectacle for those who wanted to witness one of the greatest Sorcerer’s deaths. But that day, only a few people occupied the theatre seats. Fortunately, his illegal activities were not publicized until after his death.
I grip the shoulder strap of my bag harder, and my indigo blue offensive magic involuntarily flows from my palms, heightened by my anger.
“What did you do, Dad?” I say to myself, knowing the contents of my bag are the first keys to finding the answer.
My magic burns through the bag’s strap, sending it tumbling to the ground. I yelp and kneel to scoop it up. Some of my things fall out, along with the evidence: loose papers that seem unimportant, some notes I can barely read, probably of new spells they are working on. But the paper he wrote it on has the same symbol of my father’s company in the corner. My eyes hover over the name: MacMillan and Co.
But did he know Dad? Did he know what Dad did?
There’s only one other thing, a small leather ledger. I open it and realize it’s an agenda, telling of the events and meetings from this man’s life—nothing stands out, not even his name. As I flip through the pages, I notice something stuffed inside.
With shaking hands, I pull out a few printed photos. My breath catches, the evening air becoming thin.
The first picture is of me and my father several years ago during one of my many visits to his office. I look to be around my brother’s age or younger, probably in the first few years of elementary school. My little pink dress contrasts with the dulled colours of my father’s office behind us. We are standing in the doorway, and my father’s arm is around me, ducking down so he can reach. His matching emerald eyes squint under his glasses from his broad smile. My heart aches, longing for those days again.
The second picture is of my mother and father at what looks like a work dinner. The grey streaks are non-existent in her long hair, and she’s in a beautiful violet dress. Her arms are wrapped around my father at a table with fancy candles and dishes.
Another picture is of my dad and Ruyo in a grassy field, sweat glistening on their red faces and a soccer ball at their feet. Ruyo looks quite young; it’s probably one of his first soccer games.
The final picture is of my mother holding my baby sister just before my father was executed. She’s still in the hospital, and Rae is wrapped in a little white blanket. Mom’s staring down at her child, serenity written on her face.
They all look like photos that would be in my dad’s office.
I flip through them again, examining each edge. When I turn them around, there are sketches of spell circles on the backs. Squinting, I try to figure out what kind of spell they could be, but it’s nothing I recognize. Our spell circles are elegant, full of curved, wispy lines, different types of stars and patterns that we can channel our magic into larger, long-lasting spells. These are jagged, rough and aggressive. I compare the four photos—each circle is similar, as though this man were trying to change the spell every time to make it perfect.
Or did my dad draw these pictures?
Nausea overwhelms me, and I plunk down on the cold stone stairs that lead up to City Hall. Feeling violated that this stranger had such intimate pictures of my family, I wrap my arms around my chest and slouch.
You must learn to control your emotions, Natsu.
His voice seems to be whistling from the menacing building behind me, floating past in the wind.
This time, though, I can’t control them, and I lean over and cry in the streets.