Crying out in pain as the hellhound’s jaws closed around his arm, Joey suddenly felt the pressure recede, and when he looked up he saw the hellhound once more sliding backwards across the floor, tearing furrows in the rug. Behind the creature stood Caden, hands grasping the air as if yanking backwards with a look of extreme concentration on his face.
“Joey, the Box!” came Frankie’s voice, her thudding footsteps approaching as she pelted across the room. Joey still had the Box clutched in his right hand, and while he stared in horror at the blood soaking his shirtsleeve felt the Box ripped from his fingers.
With practiced ease Frankie flicked the catch on the Box to open it and, with knees bent and shoulders straight, stepped forward so the Box’s light fell on the hellhound. In about five seconds the beast was drawn into the Box, which clicked shut. The room filled with anticlimactic quiet, with only the sounds of everyone breathing hard. After a moment, Frankie cursed and disappeared into the client’s bathroom, muttering something about first aid kits.
The wounds from the hellhound’s teeth started to burn as the acid ate through Joey’s shirt, and he hissed through his teeth at the pain. His vision swam, but when he looked up Caden had crouched down in front of him and was gingerly pulling at Joey’s injured arm, which he had clutched against his chest.
“Let me see,” said Caden gently, and Joey took in Caden’s solemn face, heart still pounding with adrenaline, nonsensically thinking once again how handsome Caden was. Once Caden had arranged Joey’s arm to his satisfaction, he slowly moved his hand from Joey’s elbow to his wrist, hovering a few inches from the wound. Joey then felt one of the oddest sensations he had ever experienced; he could actually feel his skin knitting back together. While Caden worked, Joey’s attention was called to a ring Caden wore on his index finger: it had a rectangular emerald, darker than Caden’s eyes, set in gold. The piece was almost clumsily made, as if forged by inexpert hands.
“I like your ring,” said Joey as Caden finished working his magic, leaving behind only Joey’s torn sleeve and smears of blood on Joey’s arm. Caden finally looked up into Joey’s face, merely blinking in response to what he’d said. “Thanks,” Joey said softly. Caden gave him a tiny smile, then stood from his crouch as Frankie returned.
She had a white plastic box in her hands, and she took Caden’s place, kneeling by Joey. When she saw that there was only blood remaining on Joey’s arm, rather than open wounds, she leaned back on her heels to give Caden another suspicious look. “’A little of this, a little of that,’” she quoted.
“Any other gigs today?” asked Caden casually. “I’m spent.”
“I bet you are,” replied Frankie, still guarded.
Caden crossed to the front door. “I’ll call Indira back to question the client,” he said over his shoulder, and exited into the courtyard. Through the door Joey could see the client a few paces back, wringing her hands, and he heard her ask,
“Is it gone?” Then the door closed.
“What did he mean, ‘I’m spent’?” said Joey.
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Frankie shook her head and started mopping up blood and hellhound saliva from Joey’s arm with a cotton pad from the kit. “Right, I forgot you weren’t around when our last Channeler, Rowen, was here. They only get a certain amount of magic a day before they start having to draw on their ‘life energy’, whatever that is. Or so I’m told. Then their magic recharges overnight.” Switching to alcohol wipes, she shook her head again. The stinging in Joey’s arm receded as the skin was cleaned—seemingly unbroken skin, no scars to be seen. “He used up all his magic healing you.”
It hit Joey just how much he had screwed up with fighting the hellhound. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“For what?”
“Messing up. Getting hurt.”
“We all screw up our first time,” said Frankie, but Joey was dubious. Surely Frankie and Mac had shown up to their first jobs fully ready to be badasses. They’d been hired to be in the field.
Joey was just the Researcher. A wave of longing for the comfortable back room of the antiques shop washed over him as Frankie finished with her cleaning and chucked the bloodied supplies in the client’s kitchen trash. Finally, Joey fumbled to his feet, pulling at his sleeve.
“Yeah, that’s rags at this point,” said Frankie. “Not that it wasn’t already.”
Joey examined the unbloodied part of his shirt and privately agreed with her: even before the hellhound’s attack the shirt had a missing button and elbows that were worn thin from years of wear.
When they exited Brooklynn’s apartment, they found Indira speaking with her, Caden standing aside with folded arms.
“But what was it? Where did it come from?”
“Have you performed any arcane rituals recently?” asked Indira patiently. “Any new purchases of vintage objects? Has anyone in your family experienced magical sensitivities?”
“N-no,” said Brooklynn. “Arcane rituals? Who even are you guys?”
“Just call us ‘fixers’,” said Indira. She glanced at Frankie, addressing her. “Not sure how it got in, boss.”
“Has anything gone missing recently?” blurted Joey, before catching himself. Questioning the client wasn’t his job, it was the Spy’s.
Brooklynn shook her head, then paused. “Actually,” she said thoughtfully, “my dad’s radio disappeared the other day. I thought it was a break-in, but nothing else was taken, and my doors were still locked when I got home.”
The team all glanced around at each other. “Joey,” said Frankie after a few beats. “Go grab her a trinket from the back of the van.”
Joey jogged over to the van and grabbed a low-level protective knick-knack from the box in the trunk.
When Joey returned to the group in the courtyard the client was asking “How much?” incredulously, and Indira told her they’d be forwarding an invoice.
On the way back to HQ Frankie told a relieved Joey that he didn’t have to go out again that day—Mac would be taking his place. So Joey climbed aboard the El train home carrying his dismal sense of failure with him.
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Joey’s apartment seemed too small to contain his frustration at himself and at the entire fieldwork situation. Yes, he realized that Mac needed to hang back more, and Joey could help, but what help was he if he was too cowardly to do his job right?
Pacing his small living room, he replayed those few moments with the hellhound in his mind again and again. He’d just been a bundle of panic. Useless to the team.
And his mind kept returning to Caden’s sense of cool through the entire incident. Caden’s calm face as he easily healed Joey’s wound. Joey had made a complete fool of himself, though he had already pronounced himself a fool for staring so much at Caden in the first place. But that little smile when Joey had thanked him…
Joey’s pacing brought him to his bedroom, and he found himself in front of his closet, filled with raggedy clothing. How long had it been since he’d actually cared about his appearance? He thumbed through his shirts, some of them with holes, some worn nearly see-through with years of washing. The jeans in his dresser were all torn, and not artfully, but from overuse.
Maybe he couldn’t solve his problem of being a coward, but there was one problem he could fix.
Throwing on a light coat, Joey stepped out of his apartment. At least the fresh air would do him good.