Good As Dead

Chapter One

It's Monday morning and I'm cutting pills for the week, as good a sign as any that the day's already gone to shit. Usually, I do this on Sunday evenings, after Gran swallows her last dose, but last night she became convinced ants infested the house. I had to comb through each carpet and curtain; it was either that or watch her try it herself. At least she forgot what we were doing before demanding me to call maintenance at one o'clock in the morning.

I know. I sound like a cold-hearted brat. Caseworkers call it compassion fatigue. They have many nice-sounding terms like that. Thaumaturgical fallout. Long-term health effects. Syllables used like sterilized wrapping to soften the sharp angles of the facts: we're the clean-up attempt of a government struggling to deal with a disaster it created.

I blink burning eyes while my hands move out of sheer muscle memory. The rattle of medication falling into pill slots reminds me time isn't slowing down. I glance at the clock and swear after seeing I'm already ten minutes late for class. That means Mrs. Kent is late, too.

After snapping shut the lids for each slot, I hide the container and the extra pills in the pantry, on a shelf high enough that Gran can't see them. As if sensing my treachery, I hear her call out, "Nina?"

"I'm coming."

She's still where I left her, sitting in her chair with the reading lamp on for light, since she dislikes opening the curtains. "I don't want these socks. They keep slipping off."

While fitting a new pair onto her feet, I glance at the clock again. Fifteen minutes late. Ms. Darzi will dock my homework for sure. "That feel better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Like I'm a strange hospice nurse instead of her granddaughter. I try telling myself it's just an extension of the distance that always existed between us; unlike Maria, I can't hide my teeth. They're not that bad-looking; anyone who doesn't know my mom was a wolf witch might think I only have very pointed cuspids. But Gran knows.

When she doesn't say anything else, I take the inadequate socks and dump them into the washer. Done.

I let myself slump back against the machine, staring at the mirror facing me. My hair's a mess and I'm not wearing a bra, but I can deal with any jokes thrown my way. With a punch to the nose, if necessary.

Back in the kitchen, I gulp some of my coffee, grimace that it's gone cold, and then down the rest of it while grabbing for my backpack. The door to the communal garden opens while I dump the cup into the sink.

Mrs. Kent steps inside, a white woman in her forties, solid as stone and with metal jewelry jingling around her neck and wrists. If that's not clue enough about her line of work before she ended up here, her calloused, scarred hands take away the last hint of uncertainty. She's a mech witch, twisting magic into little life forms merged with machines. I always thought it would be cool as hell to have a job like that, but my dreams of becoming a mech witch died with the realization that one needs innate talent to manipulate magic with metal. No kind of reality check like concentrating on a penny until my nose bled, willing the coin to move, even just twitch, while my sister only flicked her fingers to give it wings and send it flying around the room.

Seeing me, Mrs. Kent offers her usual greeting. "Any guns in the house?"

"Nope." There never are, but Mrs. Kent watches so many hospice patients she prefers hearing the same information each time over misremembering.

One of her metal necklaces unwinds itself to blink sleepily at me, growing stubby lizard legs and delicate bat wings in the process. It's her old familiar, Fuel. One of its copper eyes is melted to a nub, an injury all the way back from when Mrs. Kent found herself trapped on the edges of what's now known as the Fivefield fallout range. Fuel tilts its head so the good eye can better see the broken zipper on my backpack.