Kate Daniels 04.5 - Magic Dreams

hawked their wares. Dull electric lamps were strung out between old Christmas lights, marking the little shops. Despite the hour, customers already flooded the market, men, women, and children of every color and race looking for the magic cure to their problems. They were what allowed the poachers to exist. They’d stop poaching if people stopped buying.
    What I needed wouldn’t be sold here. I had to get to Kenny’s Alley.
    The electric lamps blinked and died. Darkness clenched the Underground in its mouth and spat it out with the hiss and crackle of magic. Fey lanterns ignited with a pale blue glow, their thin glass tubes twisted into
kanji
and familiar shapes: phoenix, tiger, dragon. Magic flowed and twisted around me. Here and there, wards shielded the storefronts, strong, solid. To the left a wavering miasma of something foul and wrong leaked from behind a closed door. Straight ahead, a stall of small coin charms radiated something pleasant, almost warm.
    Another magic wave. There shouldn’t have been one. Nobody could predict when magic came and went, but it rarely flooded the city twice in twenty-four hours. Just my luck.
    I kept moving, winding my way between the stalls. If Jim was following me, I couldn’t see him. I hoped he stayed awake. I hoped he would with all my might, because if he fell asleep, there was no hope for either of us.
    The entrance to Kenny’s Alley loomed ahead, a rectangle of weak sunrise light. The smell hit me first, that unforgettable stench of too many animals kept too close together. Then came the noise: the braying, the mewing, the snarls. I stepped out into the open. Three-story houses rose on both sides of me, boxing in a narrow alley. Stalls and tables lined the front of the shops, offering dried ox penises, tanks containing geoduck mollusks, deer antlers, bundles of dried herbs. To the left a man dipped steel tongs into a box and plucked out a black poisonous centipede. The insect writhed, trying to break free. The man took the lid off a pot on the kerosene burner and tossed the centipede inside.
    Small-time. I kept walking. I needed a rare-goods dealer.
    People were looking at me. From the shop front on the right a middle-aged white woman in camo fabric stared at my legs, then at my head, as if she wanted to shoot me. Magic probed me, teasing, testing. A couple of younger men, probably Chinese, leaned to each other, whispering. I caught bits and pieces. A word stood out:
hu
. Tiger. Didn’t take them long to see through my human form.
    I felt like a cow being led past a row of butcher shops. I raised my chin. Show no fear, or they will swoop like vultures.
    A stall to the left looked richer than the rest: The table was sturdy and the cloth on it was red silk, the real thing, not a cheap imitation. An old wizened woman, Korean by her dress, sat guarding the wares, looking bored. I stopped and looked at the dried-out parts displayed on the silk.
    I bowed.
“An-nyung-ha-se-yo.”
Hello.
    The woman bowed her head back. “Hello.”
    English. Great. My Korean was rusty.
    I paused by a small white sack that lay half open. Inside lay minced leather strips.
    “Bear gallbladder,” the woman said.
    I picked up a small slice and sniffed it. “Pig.” If it had been a real bear gallbladder, she wouldn’t have let me pick it up. “Do you have bear?”
    The woman reached under the table, pulled out a small wooden box, and opened it. Dried leathery strips. Could be bear gallbladder.
    The woman snapped the box closed. “When were you born? What is your sign? You have nice pale skin, but the eyes are not so good, yes? We have snake glands for the eyes. Dried cicadas, make it into soup, it will make your eyes stronger. Or does your man need help in bed? I have something very special for that. Not like all those dried-out dog parts over there.” She grimaced at the stall across the street. “I have a sure thing. Want to see?”
    I nodded.
    Another box appeared as if by magic. I looked inside. Rhino horn. The genuine article, too.
    “I’m looking for a rare thing.”
    The woman pondered me. “How rare?”
    “Very rare. Keong Emas.”
    “The Golden Snail.”
    “I will pay well.” I reached into my hoodie and showed her the money, just a hint, but it was enough.
    “Keong Emas is powerful magic.” The old woman stared at me. Her eyes were cold like two pieces of coal.
    “Makes it easy to recognize a fake,” I told her.
    She let out a short little grunt and called out