Killing a magical is not an easy thing to do, and the difficulties start with just finding them in the first place. The first method is to track down their civilian identities, which is how the white masks do it. But I don't have the resources of the cops behind me; all I know about Firestorm is that he's a guy, he probably lives somewhere in west Franklin, and he's probably within a couple years of my own age. That means I'll have to find a way to lure him out.

  The simplest thing would just be to attack his gang, and maybe that's what I'll end up doing. But it's not like the spots where they hang out are gonna be conveniently labeled for me. Even if I can find a trap house or something, that's more likely to be full of customers than actual members, and it definitely won't be where they actually make their drugs. Also, if I go in myself, he'll show up ready for a fight with another magical, and I'd rather try and ambush him if I can. Even though I feel like my power is growing pretty steadily, I really have no idea how it actually compares.

  I don't want to leave the Wildfire Boys to expand for too long, but their aggressive expansion will probably also create some kind of opportunity for me sooner or later. For now, I've got a more immediate problem I finally need to deal with. Even though it's stupid, it somehow scares me more than the thought of my first fight against another magical, but at least I actually have a plan now.

  I buy a mortar and pestle from a crafts store for a few bucks. Once Jess and David aren't home, I go out in the backyard where there's plenty of ventilation and pull out the bag of meth, considering it. I know you're supposed to smoke it; if the bag were weed, there'd probably be enough for like fifty or sixty bowls in it. Probably better to err on the safe side, but I don't have to use all of it. I pour out about half the bag into the mortar, setting the rest aside for later. Then I spend half an hour grinding it until it's a fine powder, without any visible chunks. I pour the powder into another little ziplock bag, rinse the mortar and pestle off, and throw them out in a dumpster behind a corner store a few blocks away.

  I'm jittery and nervous for the rest of the day, and smoking a bowl only helps a little. The evening crawls by, but when Jess and David go to bed, it still feels like it's too soon. Forcing my nerves down, I wait until I'm sure they're asleep, then transform and sneak out. Instead of heading out of town like usual, though, I head west, towards my old neighborhood and the one place I never wanted to go back to.

  My parents' backyard is dark and quiet. They've fortunately never owned a dog, or this whole plan would've been dead on arrival. I levitate myself down barely an inch from the wall, in the blind spot of the motion-sensing light over the back door. Then, I drop my transformation. As much as I want to stay transformed the entire time, I'd need to drop it at some point regardless. Besides, being caught here in my magical identity would actually be far more disastrous than in my civilian one, even if it doesn't feel like that.

  I drape a spare hoodie over the light to block it, then walk a few feet to the nearby flower bed and lift up a particular decorative rock. With a small breath of relief, I see that the spare key is still there. I definitely could have found a way in even if they'd moved it, but it would've been a lot riskier. Fortunately, my parents are creatures of extreme habit. Really, my entire plan relies on that.

  The back door opens without even the slightest hint of a squeak, as expected. I step inside and ease it most of the way closed, then stop, listening intently for close to a full minute. There isn't a single sound aside from my hammering heart, so I close the door the rest of the way and creep forward as silently as I possibly can. The back door is in the dining room, right next to the kitchen, so I only have around twenty feet to go. When I get there, I pause again to listen, still hearing nothing. Honestly, I probably made more noise than this all the times I snuck out my window to go see Emily and never got caught, but it still feels different.

  Opening one particular cabinet, I pull out the coffee. My mom doesn't drink coffee. My dad drinks exactly two cups of coffee every single morning without fail; one when he first gets up, and another with breakfast. I open the can and find it to be a little more than halfway full. That should be enough for, what, two or three weeks? Call it fifteen days to be safe, and assume I have about thirty doses… It's a lot of guesswork, but it's fine if I'm a little on the low side. I pull the bag of powdered meth out of my pocket and pour roughly half of it into the coffee grounds. Then I close the lid and start shaking it as quietly as I can, stopping regularly to listen.

  After a few minutes, I open the can again and look inside. It's dark, but I have supernaturally good vision. I can't see a hint of the meth in the coffee grounds. Nodding slightly, I close it up again and put it back where I found it. Then I retrace my steps, locking the back door behind me, replacing the spare key, and retrieving my hoodie. The light flicks on, so I immediately transform and shoot away into the sky, breathing out a huge sigh of relief as I leave the place behind.

  I'll have to go back one more time, of course. My mom takes my dad's suits to the drycleaners the last Saturday of every month, regular as clockwork. That's still a good three weeks away, but that's fine. Unless I got the dose way too low, the personality changes should definitely be noticeable by then. When the drycleaners find the original bag of meth in one of his suit pockets, the evidence should be damning.

  The next morning, I make a call. It picks up almost immediately. "You've reached the office of Samuel Sterling. How can I help you?"

  "Um, hi. This is Gabrielle Harper, we met a couple of weeks ago to talk about emancipation?"

  "Ah, yes, Miss Harper. Are you prepared to file your application?"

  "No, not yet. I actually had a question. You checked police reports to see if I'd been reported missing, right? Can you check police reports whenever you want?"

  "Within certain limits, yes. Was there something in particular you were looking for?"

  "Yeah. Would you be able to let me know if you see any police reports on Richard Harper? For the next, like, month or so?"

  "Your father? Yes, that shouldn't be difficult. Regularly checking police logs is a service I already perform for other clients, so it would require relatively little additional time on my part. For a hundred and twenty dollars, I will keep you notified of any police logs involving your father for the next month. Is that acceptable?"

  "Yeah, I can do that. I'll stop by later today to make the payment. Thanks."

  "No trouble at all. Is there any sort of crime I should watch for in particular?"

  I hesitate for a moment, but he was the one who put this idea in my head in the first place. "...Yeah. Possession of methamphetamine."

  He chuckles dryly. "Oh, dear. It seems your father is quite the naughty boy after all. Very well. If and when the police take interest in your father's vices, I will inform you immediately. Will that be all?"

  "That's all."

  "Then I wish you a pleasant day."

  It isn't entirely pleasant. I can't quite get rid of the knot of anxiety in my chest, because there's no way to know if my plan is actually working or not. I'd need to somehow keep my parents under constant surveillance, and that's obviously not happening. I guess I could, like, hire a private investigator or something, but that seems like a terrible idea for multiple reasons. I'll have to do the next step basically blind.

  The anxiety does fade at least partially over the next couple of days. I haven't heard anything, which is good; it means I didn't accidentally get the dose way too high and poison him. There's no reason why the plan shouldn't work, it's not like I actually need him to go to jail. I just need something to hold over their heads, a guarantee that they won't try and contest my application.

  Meanwhile, things are generally going pretty well. I've been keeping an ear out for any rumors about the Wildfire Boys, but haven't heard anything new. It means there's not really anything I can do to track them down right now, not without drawing a lot more attention than I want to, but it also means they're probably not gonna cause trouble for Jess and David any time soon. I'm also settling well into my new job, and between that and my own independent practice, my skill as a DJ is increasing pretty quickly. I almost never completely fumble transitions between tracks anymore, even if they're not always as smooth as I'd like.

  That becomes relevant barely a week later. There's another rave coming up, and I'm obviously going. The morning of the party, Jess yells at me that I've got a call. I'm expecting Cassie, but instead it's Chris. I haven't kept going to him for lessons since I got my job and my own set-up, so hearing from him is a surprise. "Hey, Gabby?" he says. "You're going to the party tonight, right?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "One of the DJs just flaked out at the last minute, the organizers are looking for someone to fill the spot. I told them I might know someone. You think you can handle it? No pressure, they can fill the spot themselves if not, but-"

  "No, fuck yeah, I'm a hundred percent in!" I quickly reply. "Shit, uh, will I need to bring my own equipment? I don't have that many albums yet, how long will my set be?"

  "No worries, they'll have equipment for you. You can bring your own if you're more comfortable with it, but theirs should be top quality. Your set's only an hour, you won't need a ton of music, but you can borrow some of mine if you need to. The fee's one fifty, that sound good?"

  "Sounds fucking great!" I hadn't even thought about the pay, I honestly would've done it just for the opportunity, at least this time. "Thanks a ton!"

  "Glad to help. Your spot'll be midnight to one, but try and be there before ten so I can introduce you and get everything sorted out."

  "Got it."

  It's Friday, so I have work in the evening, but it should be fine. I ask a favor from Jess and David, if they can pick me up from work with my album crate in the car and take me there, and they're happy to agree. Conveniently, the rave is actually pretty close to my job this time, across the river on the far north side of town. I'm excited and a little nervous all day, making it a little hard to focus, but I manage to get through my shift alright.

  A little before 9:30, David's car pulls up outside the mall and I get in. Cassie's already in the back seat. "Hey. You stoked?" she asks.

  "Hell yeah," I say, grinning.

  "Oh, by the way, we forgot your albums. Sorry."

  "No we didn't," says Jess in a long-suffering tone of voice. "They're in the trunk."

  "Not funny," I say with a glare, but there's no heat in it.

  Cassie just laughs. "The real tragedy is that we aren't getting free E this time."

  "Nope, sorry," says Jess. "This is Syndicate territory, so we're just selling weed tonight. Their dealers will have all the harder stuff, only a real idiot would try and cut in on their business."

  It's a pretty quick drive, ten or fifteen minutes. The venue this time looks like it used to be a store that went out of business at some point. The insides have all been ripped out, leaving bare concrete interspaced with a few pillars. There's no music playing yet, and a handful of people are gathered around the low stage at one end of the space doing sound checks. I spot Chris and walk up.

  "Oh, hey Gabby, perfect timing," he says when he notices me. "Here, let me introduce you." He leads me over to a couple of figures in the corner. One of them is a guy in his late twenties with long brown hair in a baggy black t-shirt and jeans; I'm pretty sure he was one of the DJs who played last time. The other guy is older, probably thirty or forty, wearing a white button-up shirt and a tan sports coat. He definitely doesn't look like a raver. "Hey, this is Gabby, she's the one taking over Ethan's spot. Gabby, this is my buddy Pete, also known as Hyperkube, he's actually gonna be playing the set after yours. And this is Mr. Smith, he got us the venue and he's in charge of some of the, uh, amenities."

  In other words, he's with the Columbia Syndicate. "Nice to meet you," I say, shaking his hand first.

  "Likewise," he says. "If tonight goes well, we'd be happy to invite you to further events in the future."

  I'm pretty sure he's not implying that they'll have me whacked or something if it doesn't go well, but I still get a little more nervous. Whatever; I'll just have have to make real, real sure that things do go well. I turn to Hyperkube and shake his hand as well. "Hey, always good to meet an up-and-comer," he says. "Thanks for doing this, I'd have to play your set otherwise and I don't get paid any extra."

  "My pleasure, really," I say.

  We exchange pleasantries for a couple more minutes, then Chris takes me over to show me the set-up. It's pretty much what I'm used to, again a little fancier with some nobs I don't know the function of, but all the stuff I expect is where it should be. "My set's right before yours, so I'll just leave my crates behind if you need them."

  "Thanks so much, really."

  "For sure. Good luck, and don't forget to enjoy the rest of the night too."

  The music starts up around ten minutes later, what I now recognize as acid house. Cassie does in fact track down one of the Syndicate dealers to get another hit of ecstasy. I don't take anything. I want to be completely sober tonight, and even uppers might make me feel like I'm doing an amazing job when I'm actually sucking. It's a little bit of a bummer, but there'll be more raves in the future.

  Like before, the venue slowly starts filling up over the next hour, with close to a hundred people by eleven. Part of me hopes I'll see Megan, but I don't, which is honestly probably for the best. I dance a little bit. It's still fun even when I'm not high, but my nerves make it harder to enjoy. About halfway through Chris's set, I head outside for a breath of fresh air before I go on.

  There's plenty of people milling around out here too, most of them smoking something. I spot Jess and David and wander over in their direction. A little group is just leaving as I approach, lighting up their freshly purchased joints. "Hey Gabby, holding up okay?" asks Jess.

  "Little nervous, but I'm good," I say.

  "How long til you go on?"

  "Bout half an hour."

  "Cool, we'll make sure to step in for a bit and watch."

  "Thanks."

  Another couple comes up to buy some weed, so I step back for a moment to make room. Looking around, I easily spot a few more dealers doing brisk business. I make a mental note never to wear a hoodie to a rave unless I want people asking me for drugs all night. I notice a pair of dealers apparently in an argument with a third, and hope it won't cause trouble. The lone dealer walks off after a minute, so I shrug and turn back to Jess. "So how's your guys' night going?"

  "Pretty well. Plenty of people still want weed, either cause they wanna stay away from the harder stuff or just can't afford it. Probably gone through about a third of our stock so far, would you say?"

  "Yeah, about that," agrees David. "Sales always peak earlier in the night, when people are still getting warmed up. Probably be done around two or three, anyone who's still looking to buy at that point will be looking for uppers."

  It's always interesting to talk to Jess and David, hear the ins and outs of their business. Right now especially, it's a good distraction. "How much do you think you'll make?"

  "Around fifteen hundred, if we sell out," answers David. "Probably won't quite manage that, but we should still make over a grand."

  "Damn, that's not fucking bad for one night."

  "Well, you know, these kinds of things only come up once every couple months, usually it takes us a couple of weeks to make that much. It's less than it could be, too, since we're only selling weed. But most of our harder stuff ultimately comes through the Syndicate anyway, so it'd be extra stupid to step on their toes."

  "Man, the Syndicate ain't shit."

  We all turn to face the newcomers; it's the same pair of dealers I noticed in an argument a minute ago. "Excuse me?" says David.

  "The Syndicate's all talk. If they actually gave a shit about Franklin, they'd have a magical here. They're only pushing in cause Surf 'n Turf are too big of pussies to push back. If you guys need a supplier, the Wildfire Boys've got you. We're gonna kick these assholes right out of town."

  Jess and David have identical expressions on their face, and I'm pretty sure I do as well. It's the kind of horrified amusement that only comes from watching someone do something so incredibly stupid, you have to wonder how they even survived this long. "Yeah, well, good luck with that, man," says David after a moment.

  The pair aggressively refuse to take the hint. "This time next year, this whole town is gonna be ours. The smart move'd be to join the winning side now. Firestorm's been looking for growers, you could expand into a real business."

  "...Nah, we're good," says Jess. She's inching away nervously, but she's looking behind them, not at them.

  "You always let your bitch do the talking for you?" says one of the Wildfire Boys to David, because apparently being a giant asshole really is a requirement to join the gang.

  "...Uh, dude…" replies David.

  "What? You got-"

  He cuts off as a hand comes down on his shoulder, and his buddy's as well. The guys behind them are both wearing bulky black jackets, the kind you can easily hide a gun under. I can't actually see any guns, but from the way the two idiots freeze, I'm about ninety percent sure they're currently pressed up against their backs. Another two enforcers come around the sides to stand in front of them, and the three of us quickly back up to give them plenty of room.

  "I hear the two of you were rude to my friend, here," says Mr. Smith, gesturing to the dealer I saw the pair arguing with earlier. "I think some apologies are in order."

  One of the guys rallies a little. "Hey, fuck you, man! You can't do shit to us, or Firestorm'll roast you like a pig!"

  "Wrong answer." He gives a little nod, and the two enforcers standing in front deliver simultaneous sucker punches. The two idiots go down with wheezes. "Search them," orders Mr. Smith. One pair of enforcers pat them down efficiently, extracting their bags of drugs and cash from beneath their hoodies, while the other pair loom overhead with their guns poorly hidden behind their sleeves. Mr. Smith squats down next to them. "Run along home, and tell your boss that if he makes a move in our territory again, there'll be consequences."

  He stands, patting one of the enforcers on the shoulder, and says, "Nothing permanent." Then, as the four enforcers close in and start kicking the everliving shit out of the unlucky pair, he turns to us. "Sorry about that. Enjoy the rest of your evening. If you'll excuse me, I need to make a call." He walks away, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket and dialing a number, ignoring the ongoing beating behind him.

  We quickly make ourselves scarce as well, moving over to the other side of the entrance. Jess is the first to speak. "Fuck me, did that really just happen?"

  "Like watching a train wreck in slow motion," mutters David.

  "You think Firestorm really will retaliate for this?" I ask.

  "Hope he does, then we won't have to worry about him anymore. Maybe the Syndicate doesn't care that much about Franklin, but they definitely care about people defying them. Even if they really don't have any magicals in town right now, that'll change real fast if Firestorm goes after their people personally."

  A few people approach us to ask what happened; the universal reaction to hearing that someone was trying to muscle in on Syndicate territory is, "What a couple of idiots." The borders of gang territory are ill-defined, of course, but pushing this deep can't be seen as anything but a deliberate provocation. Even Surf 'n Turf has kept their simmering conflict with the Syndicate confined to the disputed territory around the river.

  After a few minutes, the two Wildfire Boys manage to get up and stagger away, watched from a distance by one of the enforcers. I watch them until they disappear around a corner, then shake my head. Maybe Firestorm is surrounding himself with useful idiots deliberately, but I'm starting to suspect that they're actually pretty representative. That's probably good news in the long run, although in the short term it'll make him unpredictable. He might even really go after the Syndicate, in which case I won't have to do anything at all. For some reason, the thought disappoints me a little.

  The start of my set is only about ten minutes away now, so I head back inside. I grab my single half-full crate of albums from the corner and take it up to the stage, setting it next to Chris's three crates. He gives me a nod. "You ready?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be."

  "Don't sweat it, you'll do great. One more track after this, and then you're on."

  I stay out of his way, leaning against the table with the album crates and watching the crowd dance. The place is packed now, definitely over two hundred people. It takes me a couple of minutes to spot Cassie; she's dancing real closely with some guy near the center of the floor, definitely rolling hard. Next time, I promise myself.

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  Chris puts on his final track; it's one we practiced with, which is nice of him. I start searching through my crate for something that'll mix well with it, making my choice after half a minute or so. I pull out the album and move up next to him, putting it on the turntable he just emptied. He finishes putting that album away, then takes off the headphones and passes them to me. "Knock 'em dead," he says, grinning.

  I grin back and put the headphones on. Now that I'm actually here, most of my nerves just melt away. I've practiced, I know what I'm doing, I want to be here. There's plenty of time to match the tempo, then spin it back to the first beat. I hold it there, starting it just as Chris's last track starts the outro and nudging it a couple of times until the beats match perfectly. I don't go for anything fancy, just fading his track out over the course of a bar while I fade mine in.

  "See? Nothing to it," he says, patting my shoulder, then taking his final album off the other turntable and putting it away.

  "Hey, Chris. Thanks. For everything."

  "No worries. Maybe someday in a few years, some kid'll come to you looking to get into the scene. Give 'em a hand, and we'll call it square."

  "Yeah. I'll do that," I say. Then I turn to find my next album.

  Cassie doesn't notice that I've started playing until my second track. When she does, she jumps up into the air waving her arms, probably shrieking in excitement, although I can't hear it. I grin and wave back at her, but don't let myself get distracted. I want everything to go perfect.

  It doesn't go perfect, but it goes pretty damn well. I can hear places where my mixes clash, where I could've done it smoother or picked a better track, but the crowd doesn't notice at all. They're all going wild, jumping to the beat, cheering during the breaks. I can't stop grinning; it feels like I'm high even though I'm completely sober. Some girl wearing a bunch of glowsticks gets up and starts dancing right in front of the stage, and I again have to stop myself from getting distracted.

  And then there's a distraction that I can't ignore. It comes in the form of a guy wearing a stereotypical biker outfit, leather pants and a sleeveless vest that shows off his muscular arms, and a black motorcycle helmet. On the back of the vest is a stylized red-orange flame with a toothy grinning face. He's carrying a long black chain coiled up, and as he enters, he cracks it over the heads of the crowd like a whip. It emits a burst of flame and a deafening bang. People start screaming, scrambling out of the way of the newcomer. He ignores them, walking straight towards the stage, towards me.

  He moves fast, shoving people aside when they're not quick enough to get out of his way. My astonishment that he's actually doing this freezes me for a few seconds, long enough that he's already almost to the stage by the time I kill the music. I scramble back to the edge of the stage, hoping he'll ignore me, or else things are about to get real messy. Well, messier. More guys are coming in, around a dozen, wearing ski masks or bandanas over their faces and carrying guns, even one guy with some kind of submachine gun.

  Fortunately, he does. He takes up position behind the DJ table and cracks his chain-whip again, mostly silencing the crowd. "Yo, Franklin!" he shouts. "I'm Firestorm, and I got an announcement to make! This is our town now! The Columbia Syndicate is fucking finished here! They think they're hot shit just cause they got a few magicals up in Portland or Washington or whatever, but guess what? They're not fucking here, are they? And unless they want to take up permanent residence in the morgue, they'll stay out! So all you assholes who thought you could fuck with the Wildfire Boys and we'd be too pussy to fuck with you back, think again! You got two choices, now. You can hand over your product and your cash, and maybe if you kiss our ass enough, you get to walk out. Or you can get carried out in a bag. So what's it gonna be, huh?"

  Towards the back of the room, the Wildfire Boys have already got a couple of dealers held at gunpoint, the ones who were outside. I don't see any of the enforcers, but I didn't hear any gunshots, so they probably made themselves scarce when they saw what was coming. Now, though, the gang is starting to go through the crowd, looking for more dealers. I spot Jess and David; luckily, they came in to watch me, and now they're right in the middle of the crowd. It'll take the gang a while to find them, the crowd is scared and not cooperating, but two of the Wildfire Boys are guarding the exit to stop anyone from getting out.

  Then Firestorm notices me standing a few feet away. "Shit, the DJ's a chick?" he says. "Now I've seen it all."

  Transforming right now would be a disaster for multiple reasons. A fight between magicals right next to a packed dancefloor is a recipe for a bloodbath, even without all the guns. There'd also be no faster way to publicly out myself. And yet part of me desperately wants to anyway, because now that I'm actually standing in front of the little shit? I somehow know, with total certainty, that I can take him. And I want nothing more than to shove his words right back down his throat, along with his stupid whip.

  Instead, I play it cool. "Hey man, how long is this gonna take? I wanna finish my set."

  He laughs. "Don't worry, I'm not here to kill the vibe. In fact, once this little change in management is done, I promise this party is gonna get wilder than ever! Hey, maybe after your set, you can give me a private show, huh?"

  Yeah, that'll do for an opening. Firestorm himself is the real problem here, if he's out of the picture the Syndicate should be able to clean up his goons no problem. I make myself grin. "Shit, I don't wanna just stand here for twenty minutes. How 'bout a private show right now?"

  The moron doesn't even question it, because obviously every girl on the planet is dying to get in his pants. "I like the way you think! But I gotta stay here and keep an eye on things, you know, make sure these Syndicate fuckers don't get any ideas."

  "What, you don't think your boys can handle it?" I casually lean back against the table with the crates on it, putting my arms behind me so my chest sticks a little further out. "The Syndicate's probably pissing itself right now anyway, I bet their boss is already halfway back to Portland."

  I obviously can't see his expression behind his visor, but I'm pretty sure he's crumbling. After all, if he had good judgement, he wouldn't be here in the first place. "They were pretty quick to fuck off, huh? Yeah, you know, maybe-"

  "Well, I think it's about time to wrap this particular shitshow up."

  We both turn and look down at the crowd. There were a pair of Wildfire Boys standing guard by the exit, four at the back of the room watching the dealers they've rounded up, and another seven trying to go through the crowd to find more. Every single one of them now has a Syndicate enforcer standing behind them, holding a gun to their head. From the shrieks and jumps, I'm pretty sure they literally appeared out of nowhere. In an open space towards the back of the room, four more enforcers armed with actual assault rifles are standing in a loose square around the man who spoke.

  Like Firestorm, he's wearing leather, but it's brown and weathered instead of black and shiny. He's got a full overcoat trimmed with fur, tall cowboy boots, a fur hat complete with a tail, and a scarf wrapped around his lower face. He's holding what looks like an oldschool flintlock rifle. I feel a sudden sense of wariness. Despite its appearance, that rifle is by far the deadliest weapon in the room; the M16s carried by the enforcers might as well be pea shooters. Just as certainly as I know I can take Firestorm, I know I can't take this guy.

  "Who the fuck are you supposed to be?" demands Firestorm.

  "I'm Huntsman, representing the Columbia Syndicate." He jumps, and the leap takes him all the way across the room, over the heads of the crowd in an unnaturally flat arc. He lands on the stage lightly, on the opposite side from me. "And you're Firestorm, representing absolutely fucking nobody. So I suggest you shut the fuck up before you dig yourself any deeper."

  Firestorm shuts the fuck up, even taking an involuntary step back. Right, of course; danger sense is one of the abilities shared by all magicals. He can feel it too, maybe even stronger than I can since he's the one actually under threat. "Better," says Huntsman. "See, I'm actually gonna do you a favor right now. A lot of black masks wouldn't give a shit about collateral damage, they'd put your ass directly into the ground for the stunt you just pulled no matter how many bystanders were in the way."

  "Lucky for you, the Syndicate's top priority is business. This?" He gestures broadly at the room and the crowd. "This is bad for business. So you get off with a valuable life lesson, and a warning. And here's the warning: You and your pathetic band of shitheels have one week to get the fuck out of Franklin. You show your face in any city where the Syndicate does business after that, and you're gonna find yourself with a new fuck-hole in the middle of your forehead. Do I make myself clear?" Firestorm doesn't answer. "I said, do I fucking make myself clear?"

  "...Yeah, we're fucking clear," Firestorm eventually mutters.

  "Good." I notice that his enforcers have already disarmed the Wildfire Boys while he's been talking, and stripped them of any drugs or cash they took or had with them. "Then I suggest you and your people get the fuck out of my sight."

  Firestorm hesitates for a moment, then grudgingly slouches off the stage. The enforcers shove the rest of his gang towards the exit as well, not gently. In less than a minute, they're all gone. "Sorry for the trouble, everyone," says Huntsman to the crowd, letting his rifle dissolve into white light. "As an apology for the interruption, everything's half-off for the rest of the night. Hope you'll all stay and enjoy your evening."

  Then he turns to me, walking across the stage. "Hey, you good to finish your set? No pressure, you'll still get paid your full fee if you'd rather step out now."

  "Nah, I'm good to finish," I say. "Honestly, I'm mostly just pissed that asshole cost me ten minutes of my first real performance."

  Huntsman chuckles. "Good attitude. Go 'head, then."

  I decide not to just restart where I was cut off, putting the previous album away instead. Seized by an impulse, I grab another album from my crate and put it on. It doesn't fit great with the rest of my set, but the opportunity is just too good to pass up.

  "I'm the trouble starter, punkin' instigator. I'm the fear addicted, danger illustrated. I'm a firestarter, twisted firestarter. You're the firestarter, twisted firestarter."

  The crowd cheers and laughs as they recognize the song. A fair amount are leaving anyway, but it looks like more are staying. Huntsman roars with laughter as well. "Nice choice," he says. He holds out his hand, and a roll of twenties appears in it. "Here's your fee now, and a little extra. Hope we'll see you around again."

  Huh, that's a useful trick. I'll need to figure out how to do that myself. "Thanks. You definitely will," I say, taking the bills with a grin. "Hey, you mind if I ask a question?" He nods. "How come you gave him a whole week to get out of town?"

  "To give ourselves a few days to track him down, in case he doesn't," he answers. "If you make a threat, you gotta be able to enforce the exact wording of it. Don't worry, he'll probably fuck off on his own by the end of the weekend if he's smart. If not, he's got a date with a bullet next Friday at midnight."

  "Good," I say, nodding. I still feel oddly disappointed that I won't be able to kill him myself, but the important thing is that he won't be able to threaten anyone I care about again.

  "Anyway, time for me to head out," says Huntsman. "Or maybe I'll still be here. Who knows?" he says with a wink. "You have a good one."

  "Yeah, you too," I say as I go to grab my next album. When I turn back around, he's gone. Hmm. Teleportation, invisibility, or something more exotic? I should probably figure out at some point, but he seems like a pretty reasonable guy for now, so I'm not real worried.

  I switch back to happy hardcore after Firestarter finishes playing, and the rest of my set goes off without a hitch. Hyperkube comes up a few minutes before I'm due to hand it off to him, asking if I'm all good. I reassure him, and put on something a little slower for my last track to make the transition easier. Almost before I know it, I'm putting my final album away, and just like that my first real performance is over. All things considered, I can't say I'm unhappy with how it went.

  Cassie's waiting for me when I step down from the stage, practically launching herself into a hug. "Holy shit, Gabby! You were so fucking amazing!" she squeals. "You played it so cool with that asshole, you were totally gonna kill him, right?"

  Fortunately, it's way too loud for anyone to overhear us. "Of course. Shame I didn't get the chance."

  "Yeah, I wish I could've seen that! But Huntsman was super awesome too, right? You think he's still around here somewhere? I've got a beaver he could hunt, if you know what I mean!"

  "Yes Cassie, I know what you mean," I say, laughing. I carefully unwrap her from myself and set her down before she does something she'll regret later. Then I go looking for Jess and David, leading her by the hand since she refuses to let go of me entirely. I find them outside, already back at work, although they're sticking close to one of the Syndicate enforcers, who are much more conspicuous than before.

  "Gabby!" says Jess, rushing over as soon as she sees me. She hugs me too, although not quite as enthusiastically. "Thank god, I was scared shitless the whole time you were up there with that psycho. You're okay, right?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. What about you guys, you're the ones he was after, right?"

  "We're okay, they never got to us. Fucking terrifying, though, Jesus. Mr. Smith offered us an extra two hundred to stay and drop our prices like their dealers, but if you'd rather leave now, I understand."

  "No, it's okay, I think all the excitement's over for the night. Or at least that kind of excitement," I say. "Wouldn't mind getting a J now, though."

  "Oh, yeah, sure! No, keep your money, this one's on the house. You deserve it for keeping your cool like that, and even finishing your set!"

  "Thanks. Hey Cassie, can I borrow your lighter? Also, I'm gonna need my hand back now."

  I light up, then pass the joint to Cassie so she can take a puff too. A few people come up and compliment me on my set as we smoke, which definitely has me feeling great. One guy even offers me a line of coke. I turn it down for now, I want to be able to sleep tonight. Afterwards, we head back in. I find it way easier to cut loose and just dance now, without any nerves hanging over me. Almost before I know it, it's 3am. Part of me wants to stay longer, but Cassie's starting to crash, and Jess and David both look exhausted. I'm a little tired too, and I don't really feel like making up an excuse for how I'll get home on my own, so I regretfully grab my album crate and follow them back towards the car. The crowd is starting to thin a little anyway, and we're not the only ones heading out.

  "Man, what a crazy fucking night," says Cassie.

  "Fucking tell me about it," agrees Jess. "At least things will hopefully calm down now. Honestly kind of wish the Syndicate would just go ahead and seize the rest of the town, stop anymore shithead teenagers with a god complex from trying to set up shop here."

  Maybe it's for the best that I don't have to make my debut quite yet. It's not like I don't already have plenty going on in my civilian life, after all, and I don't want to cause problems where there don't have to be any. Still, I can't help but feel a little… itchy. Practice is all well and good, but it's not going to be enough to keep growing forever, or maybe even for much longer. Just when I felt ready to act, suddenly there's no more reason to. Even as I'm finding new pieces of myself, I'm starting to feel like I'm neglecting maybe the most important one of all. I shrug irritably. It's not like I'm on any kind of deadline; a few more months really won't make any difference in the long term.

  David parked three or so blocks away from the venue, just to be safe in case the cops decided to make an appearance. They weren't likely to actually raid it, not when there's a chance they could end up facing an annoyed magical, but they still might be watching. This way, they won't be able to note his license plate or something without actually following us. There are a couple more ravers trailing half a block or so behind us, but I'm pretty sure the cops don't hire teenagers.

  "Damn, glad that's over with," says David with a sigh as he unlocks the trunk for me.

  "Well, I had fun anyway," I say, putting in my album crate. We all glance back as a car turns the corner behind us, but it's just some old van. I close the trunk. "And everything turned out fine, right? So-"

  There's a squeal of breaks as the van comes to a sudden stop right next to us. For a moment, I'm confused, trying to see what they almost hit. Then the back of the van opens, revealing two guys wearing the ski masks from earlier. "Oh, shit," says David. He turns, then freezes. I turn as well. The two guys who were trailing us are rushing forwards, now also wearing ski masks and pulling out guns from under their shirts.

  The two guys in the van jump out, using the moment they're frozen to grab David and Jess by the arm. "Alright, fuckers, you're coming with us. Should've taken our offer while you had the chance."

  "Are you fucking insane?" shouts Jess. "The Syndicate will kill all of you for this!"

  The guys with the guns have reached us. "Fuck the Syndicate," says one of them. "Firestorm will kill us himself if we come back empty handed. You're gonna give us your cash and your product, and no one has to get hurt."

  "Could grab the girls too," says one of the van guys.

  "No, fuck that. This night is fucked up enough already, let's just get Firestorm what he wants so we can get the fuck out of here already."

  "Hey, hey, just fucking wait a minute, man!" says David. "You can just leave, Firestorm's already fucked anyway, you don't have to go down with him!"

  "Shut it, and get moving," says gun guy, pushing him forwards. "The only thing I wanna hear out of you is-"

  Both of the guys with guns are facing the other way, focused on forcing Jess and David into the van. The van guys are facing our way, but they're not armed; the Wildfire Boys probably don't have too many guns left. It's not even really a decision. I just act. It takes me about half a second to transform. That's enough time for the van guys' eyes to widen, and the gun guys to start turning around. I make a single slash with my spear. The two gun guys collapse. The blade is so sharp, their heads don't even fall off and roll away until their bodies hit the ground. Simultaneously, I thrust my free hand forward. The two van guys go rocketing back into the van and all the way through the empty middle, slamming into the front seats.

  I'm already moving, jumping passed Jess and David into the van. The two haven't even finished slumping down to the floor of the van when I reach them. Two quick jabs to the neck finish them, just like I did to Jason. Both front seats of the van are occupied, and the driver jerks his head around to see what the hell is going on. "Fuck!" is all he has time for before he gets a spear in the throat as well.

  "Wait, wait! Shit-" the guy in the passenger seat coughs a couple of times. "Wait! Don't kill me!"

  I do wait, because I recognize him; he's one of the guys who got the shit beat out of him by Syndicate enforcers a couple hours ago. He's got to be the one who told them about Jess and David, pointed them out. But he's also clearly not going anywhere. Just twisting around in his seat has got him doubled over holding his stomach. He'll keep for a minute.

  I turn and step back towards the rear of the van. Jess and David have scuttled backwards from the two headless bodies of the gun guys, and they're staring at me with wide eyes. Cassie runs a hand through her hair. "Fuck's sake, these assholes just can't do things the easy way, can they?"

  Jess looks at her, and then back at me. "...Gabby?" she asks hesitantly.

  I nod. "You guys should get out of here. Cassie can explain things. I have some business to take care of."

  "I- Fuck, this is…" says David.

  "We'll talk later, when I get back. Right now, you need to leave before anyone comes. I shouldn't be longer than an hour."

  "...You're going after Firestorm, aren't you?" asks Cassie. "Right now."

  "You're goddamn right, I am."

  She nods. "Good. That piece of shit doesn't deserve to just walk away."

  Jess hesitates. "I… Are you sure about this, Gabby? You don't have to…"

  I shrug slightly. "There's not a lot of things I have to do anymore. Only what I choose to do. Like Cassie said, he doesn't get to just walk away after all this. You don't have to worry about me. I know what I'm doing."

  "...Okay," says Jess. "But be careful anyway, alright?"

  I smile slightly. "I will."

  "Babe, she's right, we need to go," says David urgently.

  Jess nods, turning away towards their car. "See you in a bit. Fuck him up," says Cassie before she follows them. David floors it the moment the car's started, and they peel away.