Underyear ended with a bang, as promised by every year before. It was the last hurrah, the “true call to spring,” and all the activity of the previous six days was amplified. It happened the same way every year, but Laura couldn’t remember it feeling quite so desperate before.
“It’s like they’re afraid winter will last forever this time,” she murmured as she stepped off the trolley.
“Maybe they are,” said Morgan. Cheryl seemed far too interested in the crowds to care about the conversation, and maybe that was a good thing; Morgan looked morose. “Times seem dark and they’re desperate for a change.”
“Because of the monsters?”
Morgan nodded. “Nobody knows what to do without that sense of security.”
“It wasn’t security,” said Laura. “An infestation still could’ve happened at Underyear and they’d have just pretended it was something else so no one could ever prepare for it or know the warning signs. We’re safer this way.”
“My head knows that, but my heart has some catching up to do.”
“There they are!” Cheryl called.
They’d arrived at the tree. The trunk was still there with its scattered leaves, obscured by a wire-topped fence marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Around the back, at the edge of the Quarter’s wall, everyone from Acis Road had gathered. Mr. Brecht drank heavily from a hip flask and bemoaned the fact that his daughter hadn’t come to the party; the Keedlers exchanged weary looks at this, Mr. Keedler shaking his head sadly while Mrs. Keedler asked if the girl had been invited at all; the pawnshop owner and two other natives sat aside, and while they hunched as if speaking of illegal deeds, they were really playing a game of “six levels to Barnaby Gilda” and seemed to be stuck on the link between the actor’s latest film and one of the newest Litus imports.
“Butler,” Laura whispered loudly as she passed them.
One of them clapped his hands, glasses sliding almost off his nose, and said, “That director worked on Merriweather Skies, where Gilda was the butler!”
“How did it take you that long, Ju-Min?” one of the others grumbled.
“He still got three levels to your five,” said the pawnshop owner. “That means he wins the bet.”
“Yes, you buy drinks for everyone,” said Ju-Min.
“That doesn’t count if he cheated.”
“How, pray tell, did he cheat?”
“Someone just said it!”
“But they didn’t mention any films, did they?”
Laura sped away from that discussion, Morgan snickering at her heels. Near the middle of the group, Okane was making small talk with Amelia, and both looked up at her approach.
“Glad to see you made it!” said Amelia, flashing a grin.
“Sorry it took so long,” said Laura.
Amelia waved her off. “It’s Underyear, of course the traffic’s murder. Everyone’s getting to their seats for the fireworks.”
“Amelia said this was Clae’s secret spot,” said Okane.
“The Sinclair spot, more like,” Amelia snickered. “They had an obsession with this tree. Rosemarie napped here and those twins climbed it like monkeys. Clae fell out of it once! After that Mr. Sinclair invited other Sweepers with them so we could catch any falling children. Underyear here was fantastic. I’d expected to see more ex-apprentices here again, but I suppose they’re either dead or too ashamed to show their faces.” The humor slid from her face, delving into melancholy. “It was Underyear when Anselm died. That might be part of it. There’s only so much badness you can stand.”
“You just have to remember the good times,” said Morgan, sitting down on Amelia’s other side. “No matter how much bad comes your way, it doesn’t change the fact that good things happened too.”
“I didn’t know you were a philosopher,” Laura teased.
“Is that your profession?” said Amelia, instantly intrigued.
“Oh, no,” Morgan laughed. “I’m a cook.”
That had Amelia even more interested. As she started grilling Morgan on ingredient replacements, Laura turned to Okane and said, “No sign of Juliana or Lester?”
“They haven’t been to the shop since the start of Underyear,” he replied. “Mrs. Keedler went out of her way to invite them, but Juliana said they’re busy with business.”
“Business?” Laura gave him a skeptical look. “I get Juliana’s enthusiasm, but who’s open during Underyear, beyond the vendors? Unless she’s badgering Albright, it can’t be Sweeper-related.”
“Apparently she mentioned a guest.”
Laura’s eyes narrowed, and she dropped her voice to a whisper. “You don’t think it’s the person who gave her that red Egg? It had to come from somewhere.”
“Maybe it’s an actual friend? She didn’t mention any details.”
“Hey,” said the pawnshop owner, catching everyone’s attention. “My friend Lin lost a bet and has to buy everyone drinks. Who wants what?”
Brecht raised his flask, but Mrs. Keedler caught his wrist and guided it firmly back down. The others rattled off their choices. The pawnshop owner nodded along, then said, “That’s eleven drinks for six hands. Could someone help carry them?”
Laura became distinctly aware that she was the only other person standing, and said, “I’ll help. It’s bottles, right? I can carry lots of bottles.”
She followed the little group back into the city streets. Stalls of food and drink were still there, but had followed the crowd toward the designated viewing areas. The streets were absolutely packed with people. Laura had to keep her eyes on the pawnshop owner’s shell of sweaters to keep track of where she was going. Lin located a booth and ordered. In a matter of minutes Laura found herself with three bottles under her arm and a cup of mulled cider in the opposite hand. A whistle and crash sounded overhead, and she looked up in time to see green sparks in the distance.
“That’s fast,” said Lin. “When were fireworks supposed to start?”
“Ten minutes from now,” said the pawnshop owner. “Let’s hurry back.”
They hastened down the street. The crowd had thickened, worse because a parade had reached them. Marching drummers and dancers led the way, followed by an enormous fabric dragon. Its lead handler leapt left and right, bearing aloft a pole so the head turned, rolled its eyes, and snapped its long black maw as if uncontrolled by human hands; the rest of its body was suspended feet above their heads to weave, serpentine, and men on the roofs hauled on lines to make thin wings spread like sails. Meant to represent the dark of winter they were chasing away, this was the only darkness allowed to stain Underyear. As a child Laura had watched versions of it pass, and imagined the Sweeper from her Coronae book fighting it; nothing else looked so much like the infestations Sweepers supposedly fought. Now, as a Sweeper herself, she had to admit the likeness was a little too close. Its red glass eyes were so accurate, she felt almost obligated to freeze under them. Creepy.
“Avoid the dragon,” said the pawnshop owner, and cut straight through the dancers.
Laura tried to do the same, but went slower to keep from spilling. She got across as the dragon’s head came past, and someone darted out to grab her. She squeaked, half surprise and half dismay as cider spilled over her fingers.
“How ungraceful,” said the person.
“It wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t grabbed me,” Laura snapped. “Who even are you?” It took a moment for her to recognize the bowler hat, the sneer. It was a mobster, the Mad Dogs negotiator who’d been in front of the shop. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
“Just to make a proper introduction.”
“‘Proper’ includes manhandling me?”
His grin became more sinister. “We can make this a lot less comfortable.”
“What, like knocking me off a bridge?”
“As you’ll recall, that was the work of another mob. The same mob who bombed our newspaper, so we’re just as upset with her as you are. If you’ll come with me somewhere quieter, I’d like to have a chat.”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “I’m staying right here.”
With all the more witnesses if anything went wrong. The mobster seemed to think the same thing. He looked around before fixing his plastic smile.
“Then there’s no time like the present. My name is Haru Yamanaka, and, as you already know, I work with the Mad Dogs. I’ve been asked by our boss to give you a proposition.”
“That being?”
“Become one of our Sweepers.”
Laura gaped. Her? A mob Sweeper? It was ridiculous! Haru seemed not to notice her shock, and continued, “With our current boss, we know how to treasure our Sweepers and how to help them best do their jobs. Materials, intel, techniques, the Mad Dogs can offer you all of this with a Sinclair twist. After all, Boss was one of you. He knows your quality, which is why he’s so interested in hiring you.”
“This is a joke, right?” said Laura. “You’re only offering because you know that’s what the Silver King was so upset about.”
“Was she, now?” said Haru. “I’d say it’s a valid concern. Joining us does seem to make the most sense right now.”
She’d assumed this was a petty move in the mob war, to go alongside sabotaging the Silver Kings’ Kin system back at Sundown Hills. He didn’t sound mocking, though. He was serious, and that was scarier.
After a moment, she asked, “What is it that the Silver Kings want?”
“For you to remain neutral.”
Laura raised a brow. “Neutral in mob politics?”
“Neutral in any, but that’s not exactly an option anymore, is it? Being neutrally steered by the Council is what got poor Clae Sinclair killed, after all. Ooh. I touched a nerve.”
“Shut up,” said Laura. Her blood boiled and she wanted nothing more than to throw the rest of the cider on him. She took a deep breath, exhaled. Channel Clae. Stay mean but keep your cool. “The secret’s out, so the Council can’t hide behind lies anymore. We’ll have all those materials, intel, and techniques without your help, thanks. We have Juliana MacDanel now.”
“Is that what you think? That the Council has been wrestled to your side?” Haru laughed. “You’re part of their shame. They want to bury you and close the door on any other memory of failure. It’s the game of politics and skeletons in the closet. Why else do you think they appointed a foreigner over you?”
That last one threw her off. The jab at her lost title stung, but the rest was worse, foreboding.
She frowned. “They can’t get rid of us. Not when there are so few—”
“It’s you they want gone. With Sinclair dead, you’re the poster child of his old regime and the citizens know it. They’ll keep you on until a few more Sweepers are recruited, but after that? You may just vanish.”
Laura felt cold. “They wouldn’t.”
“This is the same Council that approved the MARU. You remember the MARU, don’t you?” His mouth thinned into a severe, cruel line. “I was fifteen and not even part of the mobs when a MARU agent beat me with a bat and hauled me to court under the claim that I was a mob spy. And that agent said Oops, my poor captive slipped down the stairs on the way here. That judge looked at me, at the child bleeding from the head with a broken arm and scared out of his goddamn mind, and said Of course he slipped. How careless of him. If the Council claims you’re a mobster, you’ll face worse even without proof. Or maybe they’ll go for another angle. Maybe they’ll threaten your family until you move to a satellite town. We know very well the lengths and cruelty the Council will stoop to. But the mobs?” He spread his arms. “Mad Dogs is family. We’ll have your back through anything.”
“Since when has family meant anything to you, Haru?”
The sharp tone made Laura jump. The pawnshop owner had returned. She held a soda bottle by the neck as if ready to use it as a club, and glared through her massive glasses. Haru looked just as unhappy to see her.
“Natsu,” he ground out. “It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” said Natsu. “Don’t you have a brain? Interfere with Sweepers and the Silver Kings will be after your blood.”
“It’s not interference if she makes her own choices,” he said breezily.
“So you’ll respect her decision if she says no?” Natsu scoffed.
“For the moment, but she can always come crawling back to us.” Haru stepped back, toward the street and the dragon’s winding tail. “Just remember, Miss Kramer: the mobs have had your back through the entire upheaval and even the Falling Infestation. We’re the reason the Council had to change. Consider your position if we were to withdraw that help. Furthermore, consider your position when the Silver Kings lose interest.”
He tipped his hat and disappeared into the crowd. With him gone Natsu heaved a heavy sigh.
“Clae Sinclair didn’t spend a year scaring off Mad Dogs agents just for you to accept their invitation the moment he kicked the bucket.”
Laura gawked. “He—What? A year?”
“They tend to prey on Sinclair apprentices.”
“Him specifically? Haru?”
Natsu’s expression darkened. “Unfortunately. He’s one of the Mad Dogs’ favorites.”
“He hasn’t tried going after Okane, has he?”
Natsu lifted the bottle, gave it a threatening swish, and replied, “No. But we should get back to him. This Underyear’s been tainted enough.”
Natsu’s friends waited on the next street. When they asked what took so long she waved them off with an excuse about the parade. They hurried back to the tree and passed out the drinks.
Okane accepted his bottle with a murmur of thanks, and Laura plunked herself down next to him.
“So,” she said, “not to scare you or anything, but you haven’t been approached by any mobsters recently, have you?”
He choked on his drink. “I—what—no,” he coughed.
“Good, because they’re apparently trying to recruit us.” At his horrified look, she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll get Byron on the case. I’m sure he’ll know how to solve this. Besides, if they make a move on us, Silver Kings will strike back. So long as a rival’s interested and they don’t want to start a fight, we’re safe.”
“Safe,” he mumbled. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Laura cracked open her soda bottle. She rolled the cap between her fingers, pondering, before asking, “Do you think they’ve tried recruiting Juliana? She seemed so desperate to power up our magic with their Gin. If she couldn’t cooperate with the police to get what she wants, maybe she decided to cooperate with the source instead? The Mad Dogs don’t seem to like her, but what if that friend of hers is a Silver Kings negotiator? What if that’s where she got the red Egg?”
“I don’t think the mobs have that kind of technology,” said Okane.
“You may have heard their business deals, but you didn’t see them Sweeping. How would you know?” said Laura.
“I just … I know.”
Trumpets echoed from all around, the emergency sirens converted to announce the start of the fireworks. All eyes turned upward. The first went off, a barely discernible line shooting upward before bursting into a cloud of fiery green. Following it came red, blue, a yellow far too close to kin-gold. As three pink-and-white salvos went off at once, something nudged the back of Laura’s hand. It was an Egg. Okane seemed determined to sneak it over to her while everyone else was preoccupied, so she accepted it. It seemed the same as any other Egg, but then again it wasn’t. Black paint had been dabbed onto the metal casing, and the kin inside was darker than normal. She puzzled at it before realizing she could feel something from it. Anger. An echo of the Falling Infestation.
“What is this?” she whispered.
“It’s a one-of-a-kind Egg,” he replied, just as quietly. “I made four, but I think - - - grabbed one by mistake earlier.”
“Then what are they?” A pause. “Okane, you can’t mean this is—”
“It has Clae’s magic in it.”
For a moment Laura could only stare. Anger rose hot inside her, but she kept her face smooth and said, “I thought we agreed not to put him into kin production.”
He winced. “It was a stupid decision. A selfish one, too. I just … I wanted him to stay with us.”
“You used him.”
“We both used him before.”
“Only because we had no choice.”
“I don’t want to use him anymore, just for this. Besides, I think it’s good for him.”
Laura scoffed. “Good for him? He’s dead.”
“He’s not. - - - should be able to tell just by looking at the crystals.”
“They’re not much more than Gin at this point.”
“But Gin is alive, too. It’s sentient. Didn’t - - - know? It’s identified all of us already. That’s one of the reasons it’s so hard to steal, and why Sweepers create kin, instead of some allied company. It won’t trust people it isn’t acclimated to. It recognizes us. We’ve spent enough time in the shop, and Clae approved of us, so now the Gin and Anselm approve of us. If we hadn’t been around, Albright probably wouldn’t have been able to help carry them. They would’ve shocked her. It’s not exactly smart, but it can think. If it can think, how can it be dead?”
Could something dead still feel anger? She rolled the Egg from one hand to the other, remembering the laughing sound of their old kin, the almost-words she’d exchanged with the Gin in the fountain, the flicker of movement she’d been sure was Clae. Was he still awake and aware inside a crystal shell?
“That makes it even worse,” she murmured.
“Clae told - - - that the kin has a will, didn’t he?” said Okane. “It takes on the will of the parent magic. That Egg has Clae’s will in it. I might be stretching, but if kin can be spelled to report to amulets … couldn’t this Egg report to Clae?”
She looked up at Okane again as blue light flashed over the scene, catching his eyes in an odd reflection. She couldn’t really believe it, couldn’t excuse it, but she wanted it to be true.
“So you don’t actually want to use this,” she checked. “Just carry it around. Like giving Clae some extra eyes.”
“That wasn’t even the original plan,” said Okane. “I just thought of mementos. Like how some people have watch chains made of hair, or lockets with pictures inside? Like … a permanent candle. I’ll admit, the logic’s faulty.”
“Very.”
“I know. But it occurred to me, when I saw Clae’s Egg and the red one used on the same infestation, that they’re similar.”
“The red one didn’t feel angry,” said Laura.
“No, it didn’t have an emotion attached,” said Okane. “But neither did the ones with only Anselm, right?”
Oh? Oh. Laura drew back. “You think that magic was pulled from someone like them?”
“There’s a possibility. If so, if Juliana suddenly knows about what happens to Magi or even what we are, that would explain why she suddenly seemed interested in me, right?”
“And the mobs don’t know about Magi. Do you think Theron might be involved? Magi-related, showed up on the same day…”
He looked back at the sky as another firework rattled from green to gold. “I sincerely hope not.”