“Oye, mami,” a familiar voice called out. “When are you going to let me show you what a Baricua can do for you?”
“When you call me by my name,” I called back to the dark-haired man, who crushed the end of his cigarette beneath his boot.
Because I took my job seriously, I already knew his name was Enrique Alvarez, a DJ at one of the hottest clubs on Miami Beach. He was tall, dark, and handsome to the T, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about taking him up on his offer. If nothing else, he’d be a great distraction from last night’s reaper encounter, and I could all but guarantee he’d be a fantastic adventure between the sheets.
I sighed. Business was always getting in the way of pleasure.
“You never tell me your name!” he protested.
“Then I guess I’ll never know what a Baricua can do for me.” I turned and blew him a kiss before continuing on my way. His playful mutterings faded away.
A few streets later, I arrived at my destination. The little bell above the piano store door jingled in welcome.
“Veronica, you’re back so soon?” asked a man’s gruff voice behind the cover of a majestic black-and-gold grand piano. The music didn’t even pause. Rhapsody in Blue, if I wasn’t mistaken.
“You never are, my dear,” Tony said, his dark brown eyes twinkling behind his thin wire spectacles as I rounded the piano. As a telepath, Tony was one of the rare people who knew exactly who and what I was. And as one of my favorite people on the planet, I would have married him years ago had he not been old enough to be my grandfather.
His coffee bean-colored cheeks and chin were as clean-shaven as his head, but grey hairs peeked out from beneath the top of his button-down polo. The shirt’s floral pattern screamed its bright colors amidst the somberness of the black and white pianos.
I leaned in to kiss his bald black head, which shone in the fluorescent light. “Business, as usual.”
He frowned up at me as I stepped back, his fingers halting on the keys. “The job did not go as planned.”
“Nope.” I shrugged, having long ceased to care about the invasion of my thoughts. At least when it came to Tony. I never received any judgment, only care and concern and sometimes caution. “But I’ll work it out.”
“Your client will not be happy,” he said as he resumed his finger dance across the keys.
I bit my lip since I didn’t have anything to say to that. Tony was completely right, and dread started to trickle its way up my spine. I’d been able to keep it at bay until then. Not wanting to let Tony see too much of my fear, I patted him on the shoulder and headed to the back of the shop, where a heavy velvet curtain separated the display room from the storeroom.
The curtain whispered as I slipped behind it. Not like a rustling of fabric—the barrier actually whispered my name as I passed through the veil, granting me access to the world hidden behind it. The piano shop was one of several entry points, but the only one I used consistently because of Tony. To most humans, the curtain simply kept prying eyes from seeing the clutter of the storeroom.
The world behind the curtain wasn’t like another planet or anything, just a market for those of us without human genes or those humans granted an entry card. A place to gather, trade stories, and barter goods with like-minded individuals. But for me, it just meant business. I wasn’t a loner by any means, but I made it a priority to keep my true identity hidden from just about everyone, and that meant avoiding friendships.
Sounded lonely, maybe, but I was the last of my kind. Priceless. A somewhat pretentious thought, but it was the truth I had to live with. I reserved my need for companionship to straight-up humans or as close as I could get to mortals, like my bestie Kit, who wasn’t human but not quite immortal, either.
El Mercado Sombra, the Shadow Market, had been here for generations. No one I’ve met knew where it came from or who created it. But it was one of only a handful of its kind in the south, and it was a sanctuary. No magic could be cast here, other than that of the market itself, and no attacks could be made. Try, and el demonio del mercado would eat you up and spit you back out somewhere far away and wouldn’t allow you to return. Some even said you got spit back out with missing body parts.
Or maybe that was just what they taught the kids to keep them in line. Either way, no one ever violated the rules.
Despite its name, the market was far from shadowy. The sun beat down here just as much as it did anywhere in Miami. As sweat accumulated and dripped down my back, I might’ve even argued that the humidity was worse within the market’s confines because the surrounding buildings blocked the wind.
I strolled down the winding paved street, passing various stalls and carts, wishing I had time to stop and shop as I eyed some of the goods. Every once in a while, I found something I couldn’t pass up, like the tiny glass sculpture of a mermaid I kept on my living room windowsill. When the sun rose, the rays would pierce through the glass and spread a rainbow of light across the room. I always associated rainbows with my little brother because he had loved them and everything for which they stood.
Sharp voices hawked their wares all around me, behind merchandise-ladled tables and beneath canvas tents. Sweet and savory aromas from the food vendors drifted beneath my nose, setting my mouth watering and my stomach grumbling. I hadn’t eaten yet that morning, and I didn’t eat enough after arriving home last night. Shifting forms expended copious amounts of energy.
Stopping at my favorite food cart, La Bruja Hambrienta, I ordered my usual: picadillo cua cua. I never understood how some people didn’t like the taste of plantains, but for me, the mixture of the sweet fruit combined with beef hash, eggs, and served over rice was simply divine. I ordered it to go, planning to eat while I worked.
The girl running the cart today was new, and young enough to be the daughter of Manuel, the truck’s owner. Probably his youngest daughter. I already knew the other two. Poor guy had his hands full with those girls. Maybe this one would go softer on him. When she handed me the plastic bag full of my food, I chuckled at the ridiculousness of that thought, earning myself a weird look as I turned away.
The computer lab was just across the street, another reason why the Cuban food cart had become my favorite. I found my empty desk at the back of the shop, facing the front, a place reserved for me so no one could sit behind me or see the screen. The owner and I had a financial understanding, and she didn’t bother asking any questions once I told her the number that I was willing to pay for her discretion.
I set down my food and fired up the computer. In between forkfuls that set my taste buds singing like a choir of church boys, I pressed my thumb to the fingerprint reader, allowing me to log into the website used for setting up exclusive contracts. Some type of shadow magic secured the computer lab so well that no one could hack it, including the Death Enforcement Agency, making it uber-secure for people in my line of business. The website I used was technically illegal and existed on the dark web.
A message notification blinked on the screen. When I opened it, my appetite fled and threatened to expel the little I had eaten. I read it twice more after enlarging the text, in case my dyslexia was messing with me. No such luck—my buyer already knew I didn’t have the box. With sweaty fingers, I furiously typed out a response:
X,