“Looks legit enough,” Frank remarked as they entered the upper-class clinic, the marble floors as clean as that of any government building or bank.

Donny wanted to kick the crass man, the idiot’s words causing the nearby secretary to raise an eyebrow in judgement of the trio who were clearly not the usual class of clientele that frequented this establishment. Further cause for embarrassment was the puddle now forming beneath them, the heavy rain from outside having seen them near doused from head to toe.

They were not the first to trespass in such a state, but that did little to diminish the glare of the forty-something-year-old secretary.

“Yes, Cohen and Sullivan…and Goodwill; here for a transfusion,” Donny informed the woman as he and the others went about divesting themselves of their damp coats and hats, depositing the offending garments onto a nearby wooden stand.

Checking the book before her, the woman noted their names and said, “Ah, yes; if you’d please take a seat, the doctor will see you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Turning, he followed Frank and the boy over to a row of seats, to wait to be addressed.

“Gonna flood at this rate,” the kid commented.

“Already is,” Frank told him. “Least in the poor quarters. Didn’t you listen to the radio?”

“Eh, I can’t stand that old-timey stuff,” the kid replied, confusing him and Frank.

“Old-timey…? Oh, I guess they got better where…”

Donny coughed loudly as Frank began to let his emotions do the talking instead of his head, the man then trailing off as he realised his error.

“Well,” Frank then said a moment later, after looking around, “this weather’s going to keep everyone inside, at least.”

“Mm,” Donny agreed, the kid gently nodding too.

“I hate wasting time,” Goodie commented.

“Yeah,” Frank replied, “but what you gonna do?”

They were in the better part of the city, not just where they were now, but also where their office was built—the street there was as wet as anywhere else, but the sewer system beneath it more than enough to handle the downpour. Still, people in the area would need to keep an eye open to see that the ground floor and below did not suffer.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Frank.

“God help us all,” Donny quipped.

Frank looked at him, but said nothing. At least, nothing out loud.

“As I was saying, about the desk you wanted?” Frank said, addressing Goodie, “wouldn’t it be better to rent another office? I mean, you want a space to do your drawings, right? So, we keep ours so we can meet clients and get…”

“The one to the left of your office,” the kid offered.

“…right, right; so we rent that one and…”

“He already has,” Donny informed him.

“What?”

“He already rented the office, Frank,” Donny repeated, wishing he still had his hat to lower over his eyes, the glare from the waiting room’s lights giving rise to a headache as it agitated them.

“When?”

“Yesterday,” the kid told him, “after we came back from registering.”

“Well, ain’t that a how do you do?” Frank groused. “This is supposed to be a partnership, kid. You discuss things like this with us.”

Goodie turned to him and said, “I paid for it out of my own pocket.”

“Oh…okay.”

Donny turned an eye to Frank as all concern then left his partner’s face. He shook his head in disbelief, though he knew not why, Frank’s behaviour having long already been established…but also having long been annoying. To him. Frequently.

“Speaking of registering, you still need to teach me to shoot,” the kid reminded Donny.

“Yeah, but not today. And you still need to get in contact with Germaine if you want to do…whatever it is you want to do.”

“Already have.”

Rather than ask, “What?” as his partner was so prone to doing, Donny instead asked, “And how’d you manage that? Don’t recall you stepping out yesterday.”

“The phone.”

“The wha…? Oh, that thing.”

The kid was referring to the little booth installed in the lobby of their building, in which a telephonic communications device was installed. It was so unobtrusive that Donny had forgotten it was there.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Wretched things,” Frank commented. “One day people’ll to toss them all into the sea.”

The kid snorted then, and neither Donny nor Frank liked the way he did it.

But rather than broach the subject of whatever the kid knew, Donny asked, “So?”

“So?”

Donny rolled his eyes and asked, “What did he say?”

“That he’ll think about it.”

“Yeah,” Frank commented, “that sounds like him.”

Their conversation experienced a lull, then, the three not really having much else to say, until Goodie asked Donny, “So, any more signs?”

“Signs? Oh, no, and don’t jinx it.”

“Sorry…wait, is that a thing here?”

“Not a magical one,” Donny said, “but yes, so don’t do it.”

The sound of footsteps drew their attention up from any further talk, the doctor then entering the lobby from the back.

“Cohen, Sullivan and Goodwill?” the balding man asked.

“Present and accounted for,” Frank spoke loudly, reaching out a hand to grasp the doctor’s own in a firm grip.

“Yes; good-good,” said the doctor, “Ms Bow is here and ready, as are we, but I must warn you gentlemen that there appears to be a minor complication…”

“Here it is,” Donny heard Frank mutter to himself, the man still certain that this was all a scam of some sort.

“Uh…,” the doctor hesitated, clearly also having heard Frank’s muttering, “Ms Bow was caught out in the rain, unfortunately, and appears to be coming down with a cold,” he explained. “As you would already know, a transfusion is not without its risks, and while we run a tight ship here, I can almost guarantee that the very least that will happen is that you’ll catch that same cold if you proceed today.”

That had not been what any of them had expected.

Donny looked to Frank, to see what he thought of the matter. They had received many transfusions over the years, and had suffered far worse than a sniffle for it, but as the doc had said, it was a risk.

Frank, in turn, looked to the boy, to see his opinion.

“If the adults are fine, then I’m fine,” Goodie answered his unasked question.

The doctor frowned, obviously confused at the relation between the three of them. That a child was working with a pair of freelancers was not entirely without precedent, but that he was treated as an equal?

Whatever his thoughts on the matter were went unsaid, the doctor instead waiting silently for their reply.

“Well, for one of Ms. Bow’s stature,” Frank opined, “I’m sure we can weather a common cold.”

Nodding, the doctor then led them back the way he had come from.

As they travelled, Frank leant in towards Goodie and whispered, “Best behaviour. If this is Ms. Bow, you don’t antagonise her, right? A woman of class needs to be respected.”

“Said class being?” the boy shot back, in a not so whispered tone.

Frank made a face, but did not reply. Instead, he indicated for Donny to explain it while he himself stalked forwards to talk to the doctor.

“Right,” Donny comment as he watched Frank stalk off. Turning to look back at Goodie, he then said, “Magic is magic. Whatever it is, it’s always the same…technically. But people? We each vibrate at a different frequency or something…”

Goodie opened his mouth to say something to him, more than likely that he had been told this all before, and probably in a far better manner than Donny was trying to do now.

“Yeah, I know you know, but I’m telling you again, so you remember that you know—now shut it and listen. This frequency makes it difficult to makes it difficult to exchange magic from one person to another. Not much so, but enough that it’s noticeable—also helps protect people from curses and such, but that’s another story. For nobodies like us, it don’t mean much, but for those in the position to be choosy, matching the right types of people is important. To maximise what they can get, you understand?”

“Okay?”

“Thing is, a person like Ms Bow doesn’t need to do any of that on account of being of the right type of blood and frequency…makes her good for anyone that needs her, right? Meaning everyone can use her. The bigger agencies? They’d be going for each other’s throats to get her to sign a deal for exclusivity with any of them. Big money. Her level of her power isn’t that great that they’d try and force the issue, but its enough that she’s in with the elites of the city. A crowd that’s very small, very powerful, and who all have very, and I say again for effect, very long memories. So as Frank said, best behaviour.

The kid nodded his head in understanding and made to say nothing, but then asked, “Wait, then why’s she here with us?”

The question had been asked before, by Frank, in fact. Obviously, the kid had either not been listening or not payed much attention to the man. Either case went far to prove to Donny that the kid did have some level of intelligence.

“Well, that’s the real question, isn’t it?” Donny commented.

They were soon led to a room of similar size to the lobby, though the chairs in here were anything but the simple style exhibited there for waiting patients. Here, the chairs were sturdier, made of metal, each with an assortment of devices next to them meant for assisting with the transference of precious blood that would help them all do what they did.

And in one of those chairs sat the Ms. Clara Bow.

She was by no means the most famous of persons that they could have met, but she was certainly someone who should not have been consorting with riffraff such as themselves.

Some people gained a certain type of fame, from their performance on the stage or because of their voice on the radio—but some, some received that dazzle through simply being born.

The woman before them was one of those—depending on who you asked—blessed or cursed of society, one of the few who could cast magic naturally. A trueborn witch. As such, the attention of many were drawn to her as they imagined what grand rituals and adventures that she might experience on the daily.

In truth, most like her spent their time bedridden, the constant transfer of blood leaving them weakened and deprived of much of their naturally gift.

The dangers that humanity faced were too many and too powerful for the city and the government at large to leave their defence entirely upon the shoulders of the far too few people capable of doing so; so instead, a means to endow their gifts upon those not so blessed had been sought out. Years of time, effort, and more than a few lives lost in pursuit of that goal.

It was only a few centuries ago that some thinker in jolly old England managed the task. Even then, it was a long time before they could perfect it enough that freelancers like himself could properly exploit the procedure. Hence the reason for all of them being here today.

Without the blood of people like Ms. Bow, he, Frank and the kid would be nothing more than a bunch of mooks playing hero. And not for very long at that, given how often one could encounter the paranormal in their line of work.

Without magic, that was as good as certain death. Or worse…far worse.

They each nodded in greeting to the woman who sat in one of those chairs, the celebrity trussed up to its various tubes, looking for all the world like some perverse puppet caught up in its own strings—but they said nothing to her, their different social circles making such a thing inappropriate, something that Frank visibly struggled with, given his nature. Not merely because the young woman in front of him was, in fact, a woman, but because the man was still dying to know why someone like her was stooping so low as to cater to their needs.

With her trait, she could have sold herse…her blood to any one of the larger agencies, or to the government, or to any one of the many other people interested in what she had to offer. People more fitting and, more importantly, wealthier than all three of them combined.

Sitting down, the doctor and his assistants then went about preparing for the hour-long process, first sterilising their skin with rubbing alcohol, then hooking each of them up to the contraptions by their sides.

The kid was handling it best, oddly enough, the same apathetic demeanour that had been his characteristic trait these past few months saw him near falling asleep as the transfer went on, whereas Frank and Donny…well, as much as they differed, the two of them shared a fear of needles—something that made these frequent procedures all the more difficult, the mere thought, to say nothing of the actual sensation of the needle piercing the skin, tearing a hole into...

Donny looked away, turning to the doctor to remind him, “One litre for me and Frank, two for the kid.”

The doctor, noticing his discomfort, merely replied, “Will do, Mr. Sullivan. Will do…”

“First time?”

The question came from Ms. Bow; the woman looking to Goodie for an answer.

“Second,” the kid told her.

“Ah,” Bow said as she settled herself into her chair, a good forty minutes still ahead of them all. “So,” she soon went on, “if he’s Sullivan, then which are you? Cohen or Goodwill.”

“Goodwill, Ma’am.”

“Hah! Please don’t tell me I’ve gotten that old?” the woman joked, breaking out into a giggle.

“Merely paying respect to a classy woman, Ms. Bow,” the boy appeased, Donny rolling his eyes as he listened.

‘As if Frank wasn’t bad enough.’

Though he may have thought that, Donny was also grateful for the kid’s ability to talk to people, that particular skill one of the most important in their profession—and one few possessed.

Frank, as much as it annoyed him, was a charmer, and he could play nice when he needed to, but so many of their competitors lacked the finesse to, and it was they whose behaviour kept fuelling the oft held opinion that all freelancers were nothing but a bunch of braindead brutes.

“Oooh,” the woman cooed, “what a little sweetie.” A glint of intelligence entered her eyes then. “Which kind of begs the question: what’s a kid like you doing with a bunch of lugs like these two?” she asked as she nodded her head towards him and Frank.

Before any could think to answer her, Clara Bow said, “Let me guess, you can do something interesting, and these two are riding your coattails upwards?”

“I’d like to think of it as a mutually beneficial relationship,” Goodie answered with a smirk.

Donny eyed the cheeky little shit.

Laughing again, the woman inquired, “And what might that particular ability be, may I ask?”

The kid looked to Frank, who gave him a nod. The question could have been troublesome, but he and Frank could sense that the woman was just curious, more from boredom than genuine interest; and who knew, maybe they could get a new client out of this?

“Remote viewing, miss.”

“Oh? I’ve never heard of that one.”

“It lets me see distant places. Helps my find things of interest,” he answered.

“And people?”

“On occasion. But they tend to move from wherever I see ‘em.”

“Huh,” the woman replied offhandedly, not really indicating what she felt of the revelation, “You know, I think I know some people who could use someone like you.”

Donny sighed in frustration as he attempted to ignore the existence of both of his annoying partners.

Why did life bless the stupid?

A moment later, a disturbing realisation crossed his mind.

‘Or is it that I’m the only one missing out?’