“You have the cash?” Callie wished she could fake that kind of bored disinterest, but the woman’s eyes were sharp. She tracked every movement Callie and Beck made.
“Of course. Three, right?”
“Yeah.” The woman keened her head to the right until her ear nearly grazed her shoulder. She made the move look graceful and disaffected. Her naturally curly hair offered the air of polish Callie didn’t have. Hell, maybe this lady was ready for a night out for real.
Beck proffered the money. Once the dealer had the cash in hand, she said, “You want me to check your chakras first?”
A punch to the nose wouldn’t have rocked Callie as much as that statement. She tried to maintain her excited affect, but this woman was too familiar, those words were too familiar. Tess had built her business on chakra massage, which had turned out to be her siphoning snippets of her patron’s souls. Classy shit. Gem City had its fair share of woo-woo shit, and aligning chakras wasn’t that weird. And yet those words, that affect, flicked against her collarbone. The rap-rap-rap of memory begging to be let in.
The dealer shoved a lock of hair away from her face in a blunt motion. Aquamarine flashed a hello from the woman’s wrist. The speckled stone was familiar, too. Callie could forget plenty in the wake of stress and soul magic. But chakra massage and gaudy ass jewelry? The thwack of remembering hit home, shook her sternum, and fired the truth to the front of Callie’s mind.
This woman had worked at Cedar Retirement. She’d been one of the massage therapists who hit up the retirement home a couple times a month—back when Callie still had a reputable job, back before her apprenticeship killed that. Insurance didn’t cover chakra whatever, but this woman had stood by as another therapist sided with Tess. Whoever this Anonymous Souls driver was, she wasn’t new to the shady side of business. Massage therapy must not pay like it used to if she was hustling souls out of a van.
Had shit gotten bad enough for this lady that she wouldn’t remember Callie, too? The whole plan hinged on Callie being the mark, being the dumb girl who wanted some consequence-free sinning. If the driver recognized Callie, it would all fall apart, and Callie was really fucking over things falling apart.
“We just need the rental so she can have a good time this weekend,” Beck answered, diverting the chakra question and pulling the attention to himself. He said it like he was a bad influence and ready to give Callie a weekend of pure debauchery. Either he was an ace liar, or he’d given into the chaos party life at some point.
“Your loss.” The dealer didn’t double take at Callie, and didn’t hesitate to continue the transaction.
“Whatever, I’m ready to get the goods and get to the club.” Callie’s voice squeaked, and she hated herself a little bit more.
“Cool. I’ll give you the soul. Sunday morning you need to call the number on the back of this card,” she handed over one of the Anonymous Souls cards, and Callie took it. “Tell the guy that answers where you are, and we’ll come pick it up or we’ll agree to meet somewhere like this again.”
This soul rental company hadn’t been in business long, but this dealer’s indifference was concerning. She rattled this process off like she was a bus driver calling out the stops on a commuter line. How could this already be rote for her? How many souls were Anonymous Souls slinging?
“What if we don’t meet up?”
That got her attention. “Excuse me?”
“I mean like what if I’m hungover or whatever and oversleep.”
“She won’t oversleep,” Beck quickly interjected.
“If you don’t call in, we’ll come find you. We have tracking on all of our souls.”
Callie blanched, and it wasn’t an act. Tracking the souls was impossible. This woman was full of shit. Right?
“Purely a safety measure. Keeping rented souls too long can have some side effects.” While that was true, this lady didn’t know the half of it. It was another repeated phrase with no substance behind it.
“Oh, okay,” was all even fake-party-girl Callie could muster.
The dealer slid open the van’s side door, and returned with a small tin. Callie didn’t have to stretch her magical muscles to hear the soul within. The material wasn’t enough to fully contain the soul.
It was screaming.
Blood curdling caterwauls blasted Callie’s eardrums. Her chest began to shake, but she wasn’t hyperventilating. Her heart lurched. Her stomach heaved. Her magic hit.
Callie wouldn’t bother faking. Her hand was engulfed in bright blue flames. She took the tin from the other woman’s hand. The dealer yelped. Her skin puckered where Callie’s had touched hers. Good. Slinging tainted souls without a single care for the consequences? You get what you deserve. Callie certainly had to swallow her lumps.
Now the dealer was shrieking. Beck barreled forward and into her. He and the dealer collapsed through the open van door. Callie’s focus was the searing of her own skin and the source of the problem. The tendon in her thumb was quickly becoming visible as her skin and muscles succumbed to the soul fire. Callie used her good hand to pull the flask from her pocket. She popped the cap, and brought it close to the tiny tin in her ruined fingers. Go, she ordered. This wasn’t a soul she could be sweet to. Those screams were not pleas for help. They were not a request to escape the rental services. They were pure agony without context. Callie wasn’t sure how to even handle the soul, but she’d figure that part out later.
The raging soul leaped into the flask and Callie capped it inside. She watched her muscles and skin regrow. Once her magic was snapped back inside, she took
