Magic Dreams (Kate Daniels #4.5)(13)
Author: Ilona Andrews

The electric lamps blinked and died. Darkness clenched the Underground in its mouth and spat it out with the hiss and crackle of magic. Fey lanterns ignited with a pale blue glow, their thin glass tubes twisted into kanji and familiar shapes: phoenix, tiger, dragon. Magic flowed and twisted around me. Here and there, wards shielded the storefronts, strong, solid. To the left a wavering miasma of something foul and wrong leaked from behind a closed door. Straight ahead, a stall of small coin charms radiated something pleasant, almost warm.

Another magic wave. There shouldn’t have been one. Nobody could predict when magic came and went, but it rarely flooded the city twice in twenty-four hours. Just my luck.

I kept moving, winding my way between the stalls. If Jim was following me, I couldn’t see him. I hoped he stayed awake. I hoped he would with all my might, because if he fell asleep, there was no hope for either of us.

The entrance to Kenny’s Alley loomed ahead, a rectangle of weak sunrise light. The smell hit me first, that unforgettable stench of too many animals kept too close together. Then came the noise: the braying, the mewing, the snarls. I stepped out into the open. Three-story houses rose on both sides of me, boxing in a narrow alley. Stalls and tables lined the front of the shops, offering dried ox penises, tanks containing geoduck mollusks, deer antlers, bundles of dried herbs. To the left a man dipped steel tongs into a box and plucked out a black poisonous centipede. The insect writhed, trying to break free. The man took the lid off a pot on the kerosene burner and tossed the centipede inside.

Small-time. I kept walking. I needed a rare-goods dealer.

People were looking at me. From the shop front on the right a middle-aged white woman in camo fabric stared at my legs, then at my head, as if she wanted to shoot me. Magic probed me, teasing, testing. A couple of younger men, probably Chinese, leaned to each other, whispering. I caught bits and pieces. A word stood out: hu. Tiger. Didn’t take them long to see through my human form.

I felt like a cow being led past a row of butcher shops. I raised my chin. Show no fear, or they will swoop like vultures.

A stall to the left looked richer than the rest: The table was sturdy and the cloth on it was red silk, the real thing, not a cheap imitation. An old wizened woman, Korean by her dress, sat guarding the wares, looking bored. I stopped and looked at the dried-out parts displayed on the silk.

I bowed. “An-nyung-ha-se-yo.” Hello.

The woman bowed her head back. “Hello.”

English. Great. My Korean was rusty.

I paused by a small white sack that lay half open. Inside lay minced leather strips.

“Bear gallbladder,” the woman said.

I picked up a small slice and sniffed it. “Pig.” If it had been a real bear gallbladder, she wouldn’t have let me pick it up. “Do you have bear?”

The woman reached under the table, pulled out a small wooden box, and opened it. Dried leathery strips. Could be bear gallbladder.

The woman snapped the box closed. “When were you born? What is your sign? You have nice pale skin, but the eyes are not so good, yes? We have snake glands for the eyes. Dried cicadas, make it into soup, it will make your eyes stronger. Or does your man need help in bed? I have something very special for that. Not like all those dried-out dog parts over there.” She grimaced at the stall across the street. “I have a sure thing. Want to see?”

I nodded.

Another box appeared as if by magic. I looked inside. Rhino horn. The genuine article, too.

“I’m looking for a rare thing.”

The woman pondered me. “How rare?”

“Very rare. Keong Emas.”

“The Golden Snail.”

“I will pay well.” I reached into my hoodie and showed her the money, just a hint, but it was enough.

“Keong Emas is powerful magic.” The old woman stared at me. Her eyes were cold like two pieces of coal.

“Makes it easy to recognize a fake,” I told her.

She let out a short little grunt and called out something in Korean, too fast to follow. “You go inside now.”

I stepped over a small crate containing a pair of frightened rabbits, and went inside. Cages lined the walls. Monkeys, dogs, birds. Big frightened eyes. They screamed and shied away from the bars at my approach. I clenched my teeth. I just had to get the snail. Just get the snail.

An adolescent boy came through the curtained doorway and waved to me. “Come this way.”

I didn’t want to go that way.

The boy waved at me. “Come! Come!”

Crap. I followed him through the curtain. A long dark room smelling of blood. Great. We kept going, farther from the street, deeper into the house. I was probably walking into a trap, but I had to get the snail. This was the only way. As long as Jim stayed awake, he would get me out. He would. Of course he would.

Another set of curtains and I stepped into a large room lined with tables, supporting a medicine man’s smorgasbord, as if a dozen street vendor carts had vomited their contents into the room. Boxes, wicker, wood, and plastic. Bloated glass bottles, skinny glass vials, jars containing powders and liquids. Dried herbs, in bundles and packets. And bones. So many bones: bear bones, wolf bones, tiger bones. Bastards.

An Asian man sat at the table, wizened and old, dressed in dark clothes. Behind him a white man leaned against the wall. He was tall and beefy, and his fatigue jacket made him look rectangular, like he was made out of bricks. A short reddish beard hugged his chin. A red NC State baseball cap covered his hair.

In the right corner a large cage sat covered by a tarp. A blond woman stood by it, leaning on a baseball bat. She wore jeans and a huge man’s T-shirt with an oversized blood drop and the words DONATE BLOOD on it. The T-shirt was threadbare and patched in a couple of places.

Something moved in the cage. I could hear it breathing in long, labored gasps. People moved in the outer rooms, too, to the right of us and behind, making small noises. A lot of people. At least eight, maybe more.

I just had to get the snail. That’s all. Just get the snail and save Jim.

The old man regarded me. I wouldn’t bow to this ass**le. My back would break.

“You want to buy Keong Emas.”

“Yes.”

The boy who brought me here walked over to the far table and brought a wicker box to the old man. The man opened the box and removed a glass tank with five snails inside. Each had a dull brown shell.

The old man offered me the tank. “Choose one.”

This was it.

I reached into the tank and passed my hand over the snails. The smallest one tugged on me, tiny needles of magic prickling my skin. Gently, I plucked it from its leaf and held it in the palm of my hand.