Fate's Edge

on the wind. Placard Man. Declan smelled like a pie, but this man’s scent was slightly bitter, spiced with cloves. It wasn’t that Placard Man was that powerful or had that much magic, but he’d definitely been around it.
    The man stopped a few feet away, hands in plain view. “Hey there.”
    Showtime. Jack gave him the kind of look bluebloods unleashed when they first found out he was a changeling: half suspicion, half derision.
    George just stared at the man, his face flat and unfriendly, tense as if ready to bolt any second. Kaldar had explained the street-prostitute thing to them. He said it was the easiest way to go, and they both agreed they could do that.
    “I saw you standing here,” Placard Man said.
    Jack bared his teeth at him. “We can stand here.”
    “It’s a public street,” George said.
    “That’s an interesting accent,” the man said. “You boys are English?”
    Aha, they had practiced that one. “Canadian,” Jack said, while George said, “None of your business” at the same time.
    “Canadian.” The man nodded in appreciation. “You’re a long way from home. Does your family know where you are?”
    “What do you want, dude?” George asked.
    “I want to help,” the man said.
    “Right.” George laughed, cold and bitter.
    “We don’t need any,” Jack told him.
    “From what I’m looking at, you do. Do you boys know about Jesus Christ, our Savior?”
    “I don’t know, does Jesus have food?” Jack smirked.
    “Yes,” the man said. “Yes, he does. When’s the last time you two ate?”
    “Look, why don’t you bugger off,” George told him. “We aren’t bothering you.”
    Placard Man smiled. “I tell you what, I’m shorthanded today. If the two of you give out flyers for me for the next two hours, there will be a sandwich and a bottle of water in it for each of you. And a cookie.”
    “What kind of cookie?” Jack asked.
    George put a restraining hand over him. They didn’t practice that, but Jack went along with it. “What else do we have to do for the food?” A warning note crept into his voice. Heh. George was kicking ass and taking names.
    Placard Man sighed. “Nothing else. Definitely nothing like what you’re thinking of. Nobody will touch you or force you to do something you don’t want to do. Just simple payment for two hours of honest work. And the cookie is chocolate chip, by the way.”
    George pretended to think it over.
    “I’m starving,” Jack said.
    “We just hand out flyers,” George said. “Nothing else.”
    “Nothing else.”
    “We’re not going into any buildings with you, dude.”
    “That’s fine,” Placard Man said. “No buildings.”
    George hesitated for another moment. “What sort of sandwich?”
    “Ham or turkey. You get your pick.”
    “Come on.” Jack let a little whine into his voice.
    “Okay,” George said.
     
    “THEY’RE in,” Audrey murmured. On the street, the two boys accepted a stack of flyers each. Look at George go. The kid did everything right: the weary, suspicious look, the distrust, the jumpiness. George was a born actor, and Jack wasn’t bad himself.
    “Go,” Kaldar said.
    Gaston slipped out of the car. He wore a tattered trench coat and a filthy panama hat that hid his face and most of his hair, which Kaldar had sprinkled with white powder. His face and hands, what little could be seen of them, had been dyed brown with one of the plant dyes from Kaldar’s collection. As she watched, Gaston slipped a small glass vial from his sleeve and splashed some liquid on his coat.
    She glanced at Kaldar.
    “Cat urine.”
    Ugh. Cat urine stank to high heaven. Nobody would come within six feet of Gaston.
    All this trouble so they could get an invitation to the auction of the man who had bought the bracelets. And to think Audrey had the stupid things in her hands a week ago. She should’ve never taken that job. But whatever regrets she had, she would have to live with them. Regrets never did anyone any good. She would fix this mess. She was smart, good at what she did, and she had Kaldar, who was possibly the best conman she had ever met.
    The glass vial vanished into Kaldar’s nephew’s sleeve. Gaston slumped against the wall in the corner of the parking lot and slid down to the ground. He looked like an old Hispanic homeless man.
    “Nice job,” she approved.
    “One of the first things the Mirror teaches field agents,” Kaldar said. “The best way to hide is to do it in plain view.”
    If