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Part 1: Pigeon-Rat

With one cold fingertip I trace a sigil for luck onto the glass of my balcony table. The air is damp, the sky a deep navy edged with lavender where it dips out of sight beyond the towers of the city. Here and there lights flicker on as the world wakes. The wind smells of rain on concrete.

I've got this. I've definitely got this.

I take a drag on my long-stem Lady Royale and exhale slowly, focusing on the coiling wreathe of vapor. The fragrance of lavender and cloves. The gentle tapping of the rain at the balcony's edge. My heart rate slows.

Then something brushes against my foot.

"What the fuck?" I nearly drop the Royale as I jump to my feet. Something scampers out from beneath the table and scrambles its way up to the balcony railing. It stares at me with beady eyes, whiskers twitching.

A pigeon-rat.

I scowl at it. It blinks, stretching out one grayish wing. Flashes of purple and green iridescence catch the weak glow of the lanternlight as it grooms its feathers with dexterous little fingers.

"You're actually kind of cute," I grumble, sitting back down. "It's just a ridiculous superstition, anyway." My mother's superstition, one of many. That the first animal you see on a significant day portends its outcome. But I don't believe that.

At least, I tell myself I don't. But it doesn't help that I manage to burn my cloudcakes and end up having to skip breakfast. Or that I drop a bottle on my toe in the shower. Or that the outfit I picked out last night doesn't look half as good as it did when I first tried it on.

No. I look amazing. Professional. Hireable. I tug the pencil skirt into place and smooth my gray scoop-neck top, wondering if I should have worn some color. Hopefully the strawberry-blond streaks in my brown curls and the patches of pale skin on my arms and face will be enough to make me memorable.

Along with my winning personality, of course.

Popping Hex's voice link in my ear, I slip on my kitten heels, and top everything off by shrugging into my nighthorn leather jacket. Ink black with an iridescent sheen—fitted, fragrant, and naturally waterproof—it's my greatest treasure. My armor.

Deciding I'm ready as I'll ever be, I pluck up my umbrella with one hand and pat my pockets with the other. Companion. Keys. Wallet. Make-up. Vapestem. I've got everything I need.

"I'm ready," I tell myself, though I feel anything but.

~*~

I'm still thinking of the damned pigeon-rat when I step off the underground two hours later.

"Hex? Time?"

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"8:06. You have fifty-four minutes before your interview begins." Wasting no time and not waiting for me to ask, it whispers directions from the voice link. As usual, its irritation rises with every step I take.

"Your pace has slowed by thirty-seven percent. Stop dawdling. You can stare at the architecture all you want on the way back. Turn right here."

I mutter threats under my breath, but Hex ignores them. It knows I'd be lost without it. I promise myself that I'll remove the voice link on the way home and take all the time I want. I've almost never been to this part of the city. I've had too few reasons and too little money to find myself here.

The luxury of it is almost painful to witness.

Most everything is built of marble and granite in shades of ivory, gray and black—serving as a backdrop for the sprays of color provided by terraced gardens and rooftop arboretums. Windows cut in artful shapes reflect the rain-soaked sky, and colored lights paint the wet concrete so that even the ground glows. Spirit shells of every form and material imaginable stare out from corners, entryways and terraces.

"We're here," Hex says so abruptly that I'm sure it's in retaliation for my mumbled curses. I lurch to a stop and whip my head around. I'd been so busy ogling the park across the street that I hadn't even noticed what was on my side of it. The building towers over me, disappearing into a grayish haze. I can see my own reflection in its glossy black walls—my hair's drooped significantly over the course of the commute, but at least my eyeliner still looks alright.

A few paces ahead is the public entrance—a tall black door flanked by palms and fir trees in raised terraces. Approaching it, I see no handles, latches, or spirit shells. I'm reaching out to try to push it open when there's a cough from off to my left. I turn to notice the small window to the side of the entryway, and the dark-haired, black-clad woman glowering at me from behind it.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I blurt, hurrying over to her. "I'm here for the nine o'clock interview with Ms. Butler?"

The doorwoman frowns at me.

"I.D.?"

I dig into another coat pocket and pull out my companion, raising it up within view. Her face glows violet as Hex displays my I.D. sigil, then the scanner wand chirps. She grunts, doing something just out of sight with her left hand. The doors slide open. For a moment, I freeze, my stomach bubbling with the anxiety I've worked so hard to suppress.

Then the doorwoman barks at me to get inside, and I hustle through the door as fast as my kitten heels can take me.

"Welcome to Umbratech, Ms. Fleetwood. Right this way." A pleasant, humming sort of voice greets me from seemingly nowhere. I twist my head about, trying to find the source. There are a few employees milling about the space, but no one near enough to have spoken to me.

"I'm right here, Ms.Fleetwood," the voice says as something that looks vaguely like a bat hovers into view. It's glossy and black, with eyes that glow a deep shade of fuchsia. Although it has what look like wings, they don't flap.

"I'm Somi, Ms. Butler's personal servitor. This way, if you please." It bobs in the air as it introduces itself, giving the impression of a curtsy. I follow it through the lobby, trying not to get distracted. Black windows afford a view of the park and city outside, but let in very little light. Instead, the space is illuminated by channels of emberstone set into the granite walls—carved in whirling geometric patterns that seem to dance without moving.

Somi leads me down a long hall past several rooms, stopping at last before a door labeled "106" near the very end. The servitor's eyes flash, the door whirs open, and I step inside. Before I can take in anything about the space, I'm distracted by the faces—eight of them in total, all of their eyes on me and each with a different expression.

"Please wait here. You will be summoned when Ms. Butler is ready for you."

The servitor disappears through a slot in the wall. Careful to avoid anyone's gaze, I choose one of the two remaining open seats. There's almost as many plants in the room as there are people—small potted trees with waxy leaves. I fix my eyes on one of them and focus on my breathing, allowing myself to think of nothing but a blank, black void. No thoughts but darkness. No feelings but calm.

Thankfully, no one tries to talk to me. A few of the others chat amongst themselves, but most of us share the same tense silence.

"Ms. Fleetwood?"

I stand up a little too fast, following a newly re-appeared Somi out of the room once more. To my surprise, it leads me just a few doors down and across the hall. The servitor's eyes flash, something whirs mechanically, and the door slides open. Beyond, in a plain interview room with a single table and two chairs, sits the most intimidatingly majestic woman I've ever had the fortune to lay eyes on.