"Where's a chump sorcerer when you need one, huh?" I muttered to myself, skirting an overturned trash can. Remnants of mussels, crab, and lobster had spilled from the ripped bag onto the pavement, and the smell was ripe.
I'd spent most of my morning prowling the web of warehouses, hoping to get lucky and find someone who was breaking one of the Laws of Magic or wailing on the innocent. Or maybe just jaywalking while looking suspicious as hell. Nothing. Nada in the ritzier parts of town as well. I usually had more fights than I could shake a wizard's staff at. Now that I needed to sucker punch someone and turn out their pockets, Chicago was having an unusual supernatural dry spell. Go figure. If I couldn't find a solution by sundown I'd have to resort to drastic measures, like calling up my friends.
It wasn't that I was being proud, exactly. I'd asked for help with the faeries before, though Dad hadn't known exactly what I needed a metric ton of takeout for. If I asked him to do it again, he'd spot me the cash. The problem was the price tag that came along with it. My parents would demand an explanation in return for their help, and they were right to ask.
The problem was me. I wasn't ready to talk about this job, and what it was doing to me. I didn't want to explain the toll that Thomas' radio silence was taking on my psyche. And most of all, I didn't want to talk about the deal I'd struck with Lasciel. If I opened my mouth, everything would tumble out, and I wasn't ready. More than that, I didn't want to burden them with the truth. They'd done enough agonizing over me to last a lifetime. I wouldn't heap more onto their plate if I could help it.
Unfortunately, my options were running out. It wasn't like most of my so-called allies in the BFS could afford bi-weekly pizza duty. Even if they spread out the job, it would take a toll on their wallets. Which left Marcone as my only recourse. He'd want an explanation as well, and I couldn't hand a secret that dangerous to a man as amoral as Gentleman John Marcone. There was no telling how he'd employ the equally amoral wyldfae if he could bribe them with their favorite junk food. Besides, how would I even start a conversation like that? "Hello, Mr. Mafia Kingpin, would you like to contribute some of your drug money to buy pizza for pixies?" Yeah, that'd go over well.
But Toot had the right of it. The longer I waited to address this, the more of the Wee Folk I'd lose. Promises meant something, no matter how small the faerie. I'd kept to the letter of my word, but broken the spirit of it. It would bite me in the ass in the short term when I hemorrhaged workers. In the long term, it could have an impact on my magic. Break too many promises, and you whittle your strength down to nothing. With all the enemies I'd made over the years, that was a death sentence.
I leaned against the alley wall, flickering into visibility for a few precious seconds. I didn't normally prowl through the mean streets of Chicago in uniform during daylight hours, and when I did, I went with my old standby. A corset jacket, tac pants, and one of my mother's armored specials. The titanium rings in the overcoat made it heavy and hindered movement if you didn't know how to move in it. Thankfully, I did. Mom, Dad, and I had spent hours in the backyard training to get used to the new weight distribution of my new armor, and the sundry pieces she'd thrown into the bargain. I still sparred with mom when I had the time. The Jawas would take bets on who'd win, Mom would lecture them about the sin of gambling, and I'd slip them sugary prizes anyway.
I tugged my knees up to my chest, head throbbing. The pain Bob had promised had finally hit home, knocking me flat in the middle of a precarious undertaking three days ago. Without the pain blocks that Lasciel taught me, I'd have been spotted and killed by Fomor Servitors. It was a stopgap measure at best. There were two spirits in there and only so much space for them to grow. I'd eventually have to deliver or perform my own spin on that scene from Aliens.
The problem was, how the hell did I do it? If they'd been in anyone else's head, I could have performed a delivery no problem. The mind was my playground, and I knew the equipment by heart. But it was my head, and trying to dig around in my own brain was akin to trying to perform surgery on oneself. Messy and dangerous, if not outright impossible. Daniel could have done it if he'd lived. He hadn't been as adept at mind magic as me, but he'd been sensitive enough to learn. I couldn't have asked Harry, even if he'd survived Chichen Itza. Having Harry deliver my kids would be like getting a lobotomy. With a shovel. The only creatures I knew who could theoretically do it would demand a price. Lara Raith, who'd make me a thrall. Asking a Sidhe would put me in lifelong debt.
"Figure that out later," I whispered. "Pizza now, labor and delivery later."
I'd just begun to rise to my feet when something hit me on the head. I looked up in time to see more small, colorful objects dropping from the sky. I flattened myself to the pavement, arms flying up to cover my neck and head. Dozens of sharp, tiny objects dug into my hands before clattering to the pavement. Tiny fae voices screeched in unison as they did their fly by, and then, as soon as it had started, it was over.
When I dared to peek past my elbows, I found a restaurant's worth of toothpicks scattered across the pavement, all bearing the words LESS WORK, MORE PEPPERONI, or something similar. The one that had landed nearest my nose just read PIZZA BY MIDNIGHT OR ELSE.
"Looks like I'm on a deadline," I muttered.
Gulp.