The Misadventures of Anna Cabbot

The Bookkeeper

She couldn't look.

She'd been in the hospital for three days, was about to have her first shower post-surgery — she had goddamn iodine everywhere — and she couldn't make herself look.

On the one hand she was fine with it. On the other, well, it was as permanent to her skin as the tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, except she hadn't picked the artwork.

"It's a little baby scar is all," Chris, her patient care tech, said.

Anna's wide eyes must have spoke volumes as Chris's eyebrows rose toward her blue-streaked dreads.

"You ain't seen it yet? Go look. It's a little baby scar." She gently but firmly took Anna by the elbow. "You look at it and I'll get everything else set up."

Nervously, Anna positioned herself in front of the bathroom mirror. There were traces of yellow stain along her neck and shoulders, and the place where her monster-esque neck bolt of a needle had been was only now starting to gruesomely scab. Her hair was a matted mess, stuck to her throat by a combination of things she didn't want to think about, and she smelled an unholy mix of sterile and sweaty.

Her eyes followed the space between her collarbones down, and there was the surgical incision between her breasts, about four inches long and behind a clear plastic bandage.

She'd survived.

Oh, God, she'd survived.

Her eyes welled, and she was thankful beyond words when Chris stepped behind her and put a hand between her shoulders.

"See? Little itty bitty baby scar." Chris smiled at her in the mirror.

Anna cried silently. For what, exactly, she'd never been able to say.

The doorbell rang again.

Anna did up the last few buttons of her shirt to hide the tender skin of her scar away, and finally stepped from in front of the mirror over her low dresser to go down and let Carson in.

He came bearing a David's Tea bag, which he handed her after he hugged her.

"You didn't have to get me anything," she said, completely charmed and a little red in the face.

"I wanted to." He smiled. "I know how much you like tea despite your caffeine limit. And I figure with all the stress going on right now it would be a nice way to kind of relax in the evening without being too sweet."

She pulled out the gray pouch and her jaw dropped. "They make a rooibos version of Earl Gray?" She grinned and hugged him again. "Thank you!"

Anna headed for the kitchen in order to put the pouch in her tea cupboard, expecting him to follow. She could hear him behind her, and asked over her shoulder, "How did your tap thing go?"

"Good, considering it's a class of six-year-olds and they sometimes have the attention span of a gnat." He detoured to the stove and picked up the kettle. "Do you want one?"

"Not right now, thank you." She leaned against the counter while he slid onto a stool at the island.

"How was work this week?" he asked, shifting aside some papers in front of him.

"Not bad." Anna shrugged. "It was work."

Carson hummed. "Who is she?"

"They," she corrected quietly, one hand straying to her chest. "Funny story, sometimes the last MetroRail train gets stuck in the tunnel and you can meet Death themselves on a weekend."

He stared. Slowly, he said, "That sounds like a Buffalo gothic Tumblr post."

"Doesn't it, though?" She shifted from foot to foot. He was still staring. "What?"

"Why is Death meeting with you on late-night MetroRail rides?"

She looked down at her mismatched socks. "Because my magic's tinted and they find me curious." She met his eyes and added, "I'm a necromancer."

He blinked. "You weren't born like that?"

"No." Haltingly, with her shoulders curled forward and her arms around her midsection, she told him of ICU, the shadowy figure in the hallway, the cello music, the lantern, and what it all meant in the end.

"I know some people like to think of things like this — of this second chance — like a gift, and that is. But I've got a lot of complicated feelings about the actual necromancy bit. I'm not sure I could ever view it as a gift." She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "It's...it's complicated."

"Of course it is. I'd be surprised if it wasn't." Carson nodded.

Deeply relieved, she let her shoulders sag. "Thank you."

"Hey, Anna?"

She looked up.

"I, uh, know you probably already have a good support system, but if you ever wanted to or needed to, if you ever wanted to talk about it — any of it — I'm more than happy to listen."

She didn't doubt Carson's sincerity, and she smiled softly. "Thanks."

He shuffled the papers in front of him again, and asked, "What's the plan for tonight's shenanigans?"

"Well," Anna said, drawing the word out into multiple syllables. "We're going to wing it."

"Erin wasn't much help, though I see you survived."

"Clearly." She crossed her arms over her chest with a chuckle. "Basically, the only help she had was a general location and the order to keep her name out of my mouth when dealing with anything we might find down there."

He startled sharply. "Is she putting you on the chopping block?"

"I don't know what she's doing." She shrugged. "I don't know what I'm doing, but hey, wingin' it."

Carson, clearly in need of something to keep his hands occupied, neatly reoganized the papers in front of him yet again. "These are very good. I meant to you tell you this, but got sidetracked. How are we getting to where we're going?"

"I was planning on the bus."

"You have a car."

"Yeah, but the last time I went anywhere with the intent to help Erin a building exploded, and I'd rather not be seen driving away from a flaming building."

"Fair enough."

Rubbing the side of her nose, she said, "I thought we'd leave sometime around nine."


She had no idea what one wore for this kind of nighttime adventure, and settled on her darkest skinny jeans, her lace-up boots, and a dark gray hoodie. Carson was similarly dressed, his elbow bumping her upper arm as he peered over her shoulder to see her phone screen. They followed the blue line on her maps app to the address Erin had provided.

"Warehouses," she muttered. "Why is it always warehouses? Why can't they do this in the back of a flower shop or something?"

"That's the dream." Carson wiped his hands on his jeans and looked for a door. "Shady business in a florist's."

She rounded on him, eyes wide. "Can you imagine the puns?"

From his expression, he evidently could.

They found what they thought was a door. Anna rested her weight evenly on both feet and thumped the side of her fist on it. A plate slid back and a pair of eye stared out.

"We're here to see the Bookkeeper," she said.

"Pass phrase?"

Anna and Carson looked at each other. He double checked the sticky note and, bewildered, shook his head.

She tapped her fingers against her mouth, glanced at her feet, and settled on an idea that made her stomach flip. "Gimme a minute."

The plate slid shut.

"Necromancy has some quirks." She shook her hands out, and pushed her sleeves up. Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly.

Witches — and most magical folk — were taught the source of their power was their Evrael — their magic soul. A physical manifestation of Evrael was typically blue, white, or some combination of the two.

Anna's resembled swirled soft serve, the bluish white of it mixed with a dark gray from Death. It was difficult, and required concentration, but she could separate the two of them and use them individually.

She took another deep breath, ignored Carson's curious eyes on her, and struck hard against the darkened part of her Evrael. Her vision went from Technicolor to monochrome. She knew, having done this and taken a selfie, the only bit of color in her otherwise black eyes was the bright silver iris.

God, there was power at her fingertips with this. Something deep and earthy, something very, very old.

Anna sighed.

Carson, to his credit, merely blinked at her when she faced him. "That's a hell of a party trick."

"Right?" She grinned briefly, then blanked her expression as she banged on the door again.

The plate slid back; the man inhaled audibly.

"We're here to see the Bookkeeper. Please."

The slot slid shut and the door opened.

Anna relaxed. She gave a full-body shudder, and glanced over her shoulder at Carson with a smirk. "Sometimes I levitate, too."

He strolled in behind her. "Like I said, that's a hell of a party trick."

The warehouse floor was a dustry concrete, cracked in several places. There were goods wrapped in cellophane on pallets neatly arranged around them, though the terrible lighting created deep shadows and spots of brightness throughout. There was a set of stairs toward the back to an upper floor — maybe an office — and their own footsteps echoed back at them.
Anna felt him before she saw him, a sensation of a swift water, leather, and gentle valleys rolling over her witchsense. She grabbed a fistful of Carson's sleeve in order to pull him behind her. With a flick of her left hand she had a softball-size bundle of blue-white witchfire at her disposal, and scanned the area for the threat.

"Your reflexes are good, I'll give you that."

"I was backup pitcher in high school, so hey, if you wanna try your luck that's totally on you." She reminded herself to keep breathing evenly, and if she tried hard enough, she could even tune out her own pulse in her ears.

He came out of the shadows, hands in his pockets and a witchlight trailing off his left shoulder. He was around six foot tall, reddish-brown hair sweeping across his forehead, and hazel eyes, crinkled at the corners.

He was, decidedly, not what Anna had been expecting. Certainly, he was significantly more attractive than the grizzled mafia lackey she'd imagined.

"Are you the Bookkeeper?" she asked.

"No." The witchlight bobbed upward. "I'm the Bookkeeper's muscle."

Anna glanced around the space. "At least tell me it pays well."

He laughed. Behind her, Carson relaxed the grip he had on the back of her hoodie.

"Why do you want to see the Bookkeeper?"

She held her hands up. "Truce?"

"Sure." His witchlight winked out. "Why do you want to see the Bookkeeper?"

"Does the muscle have a name or does he just repeat the one line like an overgrown parrot?" Carson murmured in her ear, and she choked on a snort.

In a show of good faith, Anna released her gathered magic and put her hands in her hoodie pockets. "Heard from a friend of a friend that the Bookkeeper has a finger in basically every pie in the city and then some when it comes to magic. We're looking for someone in particular."

"That someone have a name?" Mystery Man came forward.

"Do you have a name?"

"Mine's Carson," he said over her shoulder.

"I'm Jamie." Jamie chuckled.

"Anna Cabbot."

Jamie put his hands on his hips. "Ah. Buffalo's newest necromancer."

"Is there anybody who hasn't heard of you?" Carson whispered.

"Evidently not." Anna grimaced.

"Who's your missing person?" Jamie asked.

"It's more of a what than a who, really," she said. "But...the Niagara River's gone missing."

He barked out a laugh. "No, really. Who's missing?"

"Nigel. The Niagara River."

That seemed to register. Jamie's expression grew guarded. "Nigel's missing?"

"You know Nigel?" Anna and Carson said at the same time.

Jamie crossed his arms over his chest. "Nigel likes bingo. Our company runs a local bingo hall. He's a regular."

There was a list of things Anna though she'd never hear and it was growing longer by the day. Now she could add 'Nigel, the Niagara River has a fondness for bingo' to the top of it.

"He's missing, we'd like to find him, and we're hoping the Bookkeeper has some information that will help us," she said.

Carson completely let go of her hoodie. Jamie shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"That's big magic," he said lowly. "We don't have any record of magic that big recently."

"And your books are accurate?"

He snorted. "Fingers in every pie, remember?"

She squinted. "Do you really have your fingers in all the pies or just the ones you think are worth it?" The corners of her mouth twitched as his eyes widened. "Yeah," she murmured, "that's what I thought."

"Let me rephrase," Jamie said, hands out in front of him in a pleading gesture. "Of all the people we keep tabs on, none of them have done magic this big."

"So it's someone outside of your influence then?" Carson hooked his elbow around one of Anna's.

"Didn't really think there was anyone in the Buffalo magical Community who was left in that category, but apparently." Jamie shoved his hands in his pockets.

Anna stiffened. "What the hell are you? The magical mafia?"

Jamie hesitated too long before he finally said, drawing the word into multiple syllables like he didn't quite believe it himself, "No."

"Yeah. That's really convincing." She reached over and patted Carson's forearm.

"It's...complicated. It's not what you think." Jamie checked his watch. "Look, the Bookkeeper left for tonight, and scheduling is a nightmare. I can tell you what I know, if that might helpful, tomorrow at Spot."

"The one on the corner of Delaware and Chippewa?"

He smiled. "Yeah. At eleven?"

Carson gave a thumbs up. Anna nodded, and said, "Sure. We'll see you at eleven at Spot."

Grinning, Jamie looked between her and Carson. "Great. It's a date."

In all honesty, Anna wasn't sure if he was talking primarily to her or Carson. Regardless, the image of his smile lingered as they saw themselves out the door they'd originally come in.
The man who'd let them in was nowhere in sight, and when she looked back before the heavy metal swung shut, neither was Jamie.