Page 69 of A Thousand Cuts

It wasn’t exactly the best area, so a lot of the surveillance had long since been defaced or outright smashed so the shady people could keep being shady in peace. Still, Fix persisted, following the overhead train line on its huge metal struts until he reached the street Liam had named.

He searched the area, ducking into a few shops and flashing his identification for a look at any camera footage. He came up with a big fat zero, but he didn’t stop.

He combed through the alleys along the streets, picking through trash without shame. Shoving the last bag aside with a sigh, he froze just as he was about to lever himself back to his feet.

Something glossy was peeking out from under the dumpster. He reached for it, stomach rolling when he turned it over and saw Liam’s unmistakable profile from last night dead in the center of a photograph.

His heart began to pound in his ears, a deafening roar of sound.

He wanted to rip the picture in two immediately, the violation making him feel sick, his rage all-encompassing. Closing his eyes, he took some deep breaths to fight the bubbling volcano his body was turning into, molten heat running through his veins and smoke rising to choke him.

This was evidence.

He breathed out slowly and then carefully set the picture aside, looking for anything else the stalker could have dropped. Any curse materials, in particular.

Nothing was obvious, so he exited the alley, looking for a store so he could get a bag for the photo to avoid contaminating it any more than it already was. As he rounded the corner, he spotted an electronics store and promptly ducked inside.

He found a little plastic pouch and grabbed that. It was only as he was paying that he realized.

He looked back over his shoulder at the window display as the old man was punching the total into the register.

“Do you have any cameras set up in here or outside?” he asked.

Friendly eyes turned suspicious at once and Fix was quick to pull his ID. “I’m a cursebreaker.”

“There’s no curses in here, son. I’d know about it,” the man said.

“It’s for a different case. I’m trying to track someone down.”

The eyes went back to his ID and his bushy gray brow rose. “I don’t see PUMA anywhere on that badge, what are you doing chasing casters for?”

Fix smiled awkwardly. Damn old man was sharp as a tack. “I’m investigating with permission.”

A snort answered him. “Sure, son, and I can tap dance on the ceiling.”

“Look—”

“I don’t use cameras,” the man said. “I’m too old to fiddle with that. I have a protection spell over the place to repel potential burglars and that’s about it.”

“Protection spell?” Fix asked and the man nodded.

“Confuses anyone who tries to do harm inside these walls,” the man said. “Makes them think they have somewhere else to be.”

“That’s a pretty high-level spell,” Fix said, knowing how much something like that would cost.

“It’s mid-range,” the man said. “My wife and I are both level two casters. We don’t do magic other than this. We conserve our power and use it twice a year just for this spell so it keeps our store safe. Been feeding our family for two decades now.”

“Why twice a year?” Fix asked.

“We don’t have enough magic to make the spell last longer without draining ourselves,” the man said. “Six months ends up being just enough time to get the power levels back up after doing it.”

“Clever.” Fix was impressed by the resourcefulness. His phone ringing interrupted him and he pulled back. “Sorry. Give me a sec.”

The man waved him off and Fix turned his back, stepping away from the counter as he answered the unknown caller.

“Hello?”

“Fix,” a measured voice said. “It’s Tarquin.”