“How does that let you get to the other side of the world?”

“There’s a spell that, should a Ley line be deep and rich enough, surrenders your physical form and travel along it in whatever direction you face. You just have to know when to get off.”

“Like a subway?” She shrugs.

“Sure. If a subway makes you lose all sense of self in an infinitely dark yet blinding way.”

“That’s exactly what a subway is.”

“Oh, then yeah. It’s like a subway.”

“Where do Ley lines come from?” I ask, curious about the subject.

“They’ve always existed. The earliest records of them call them different names, but only recently has anyone begun to look into why they exist.”

I make a sharp left turn.

“What’s the most accepted reason?” I ask. I’m not sure what good it’ll do for me to know this stuff.

“There are two popular theories. One suggests that the entire planet, being a living thing, has an aura.” She sticks her hand out the window.

“And that Ley lines are parts of it that we can perceive and even draw from. Some go as far as to say that auroras are visible pieces of Earth's aura. That they’re so potent, they can be seen by the non-magical eye.”

“So we’re all just leeches then?”

“Basically. The other theory is for the more pragmatic sorcerer or warlock. It suggests that the electromagnetic field that protects Earth from solar flares and such chips away from time to time, falls and gets absorbed into the earth and that’s where Ley lines come from. Personally, I think it’s far fetched and there’s very little evidence to support it.”

“So I’m guessing you’re leaning to the other theory then.” Someone honks their horn at me and I wave a middle finger at them.

“I honestly haven’t thought about it much. But it certainly has a sense of balance to it, y’ know?”

“No, not really.” I stop at a crosswalk with a lady who looks like she’s a hundred years old walking by herself. “Life, to me, has just been a series of chaotic fuckin’ whirlwinds. That includes you too. If there is a balance to this, I don't understand the scale,” I comment.

“Maybe you’ll face a tipping point soon. I could be your lucky charm,” the witch says with a giggle. I scoff but can’t hide my smile.

“Think I’d rather have a four-leaf clover.”

“Does a four-leaf clover heal your wounds?”

“Touché.”

I finally pull up to Bay Leaf headquarters.

“Stay here, I won’t be long.”

She opens her mouth to protest but I point at her.

“I’m serious. I already shouldn’t bring you, so you’ll stay in the car.”

“Fine,” Witch-Hazel pouts.

“Thank you.” I exit the car and enter the den of assassins. Someone I haven’t seen in awhile is leaning back in a seat while juggling three grenades. Being as clumsy as she is, this isn’t something she should be doing. I grab two out of the air and look her up and down.

My skin isn’t exactly a blank canvas, but she collects scars like they’re going out of style. The ones that I can see are from all manner of things. Blades, bullets, she has a pretty nasty burn near her elbow, and something I suspect to be the bite mark from a dog.

All of us Bay Leaves have dangerous lives, so the amount of scar tissue might suggest she’s particularly unskilled. But the truth is that she’s impossible to kill. Nothing seems to be enough to stop her.

She gives me an annoyed look.

“Why do you always have to ruin my fun, Hollyhock?”

“Because I don’t like exploding first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

A bear of a woman with pale white skin, a short crop of blond hair, and startlingly blue eyes make up this Bay Leaf. She has a bruise on her left eye like someone punched her in the face.

“Nice black eye, Susan.”

“I got it from a sucker punch. Stabbed the guy in the dick, then the neck.” She pulls out a knife and starts twirling it between her fingers.

Susan is an anomaly, not just because she’s physically incapable of feeling fear, but because I’ve been led to believe she had a completely normal upbringing. Her parents are alive, she knows them, and they’re normal people. How she fell into this line of work is beyond me.

“Nice. Listen, I’d love to swap kill stories with ya, but the boss wants me.”

“Please,” she does a wave of her hand. “Don’t let me keep you.” I place the grenades on the table next to her.

“Catch ya later.”

Walking into Tamara’s office, I find her standing in front of an old, large cork board that she only takes out while on a warpath. In true conspiracy nut fashion, she has red strings linking different photos to each other. The sticky notes she’s put on there are in at least three languages. I don’t know if this was intentional.

“Someone had a fun night,” I comment.

“Hmmm took me a while to find red string. All I had was green for some reason.” She briefly turns to look at me before returning to her board. “I hate green. Anyway, here’s the first string to pull.”

Tamara pulls a photo from the board and hands it to me.

“This is Jeremiah Bastian.” The photo shows a young man in his mid-twenties maybe, sitting on a red sports motorcycle. Black leather jacket with an arrow pin in the lapel. He’s smiling at whoever took this picture. The number one is painted in white on the side of his bike.

“Jeremiah here runs a speedy smuggling business for the DeadNettles. Mostly around Oleander City, but he does business out of town occasionally. Money, drugs, weapons, sometimes diamonds, and sometimes V.I.P’s. If they want something somewhere quickly,” she flicks the photo. “They call him. And they have.” I follow Tamara as she walks over to a map of the state.

“Source says he’ll be going to Lantanas City later today. He prefers long roads to rush down so he’ll take Hyperion Drive.” She points to a long highway. “You’ll kill him here.”

Her voice is clinical, she’s no longer talking about a living man, he was dead the moment she handed me his photo. I just have to make him realize it.

“There will be ‘construction ahead’ which will keep away any prying eyes. This has to look like an accident so that the DeadNettles think that it was us. The Purlanes will think it was someone else and we work from there. Digit has the gear you need for the job downstairs. Jeremiah has also been known to take a few hit jobs also. So he’ll likely be armed, make your move first and make it first,” she instructs.

“Always,” I reply.

Tamara turns her attention back to her board. Before I leave her office she stops me with a question,

“What’s going on with you and that girl? Hazel?”

My hand is on the doorknob and my grip gets tighter when she finishes her question.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean are you friends, friends that fuck, are you her sugar mama, or is it something more substantial?” She hasn’t turned around to face me yet.

“I’m more of a glorified tour guide, actually,” I clarify.

‘That sometimes flirts with her.’

“Just remember we don’t get to live normal lives. The people out there,” she gestures to the stained glass windows. “They get to go on dates, sit at a coffee shop and talk about...taxes or whatever. What we do eclipses everything, there is no room for anything else.”

I’ve heard her give this sermon many times over the years. Not always addressed to me, but meant for my ears as well. I’d ask why she’s giving this speech now but I know the answer.

Tamara adjusts something on her board.

“Just because she saved your life doesn’t mean you get to-” she stops for a moment. “Have to spend it with her.”

If I didn’t know her any better, I’d think there was a shade of regret in her voice. But I do know her better.

“Okay, you have someone to kill and I don’t pay you to listen to my rants. Get outta here.”

The door opens before I do anything, standing before me is six feet and three inches, two hundred and twenty pounds of woman all wrapped in a periwinkle three-piece suit. Her long black hair rolls down to her shoulders. A deceptively kind face with gentle features smiles warmly at me. Light brown skin and honey brown eyes with lines cut into her thick eyebrows. You’d never think she’s a seasoned killer.

“Ahh, Hollyhock, mea aloha. Morning,” Koki’O greets me.

If Tamara is the brain of the Bay Leaves, then Koki’O is very much the heart of us. For whatever that might be worth. While the rest of us are cold, calculative machines that Tamara has created, she’s a...well, human being. A warm one. What she’s doing here, let alone acting as the right hand of Tamara is one of life’s biggest mysteries.

“Hello, Koki’O.” I look her up and down. “Nice to see you dressed.” The pictures she sent to the woman at the board behind me spring to mind. She’s very sexy, but I’ve never felt the urge to get with her. Which, for me, is very strange.

If the tree of a woman feels embarrassed, she doesn’t show it. A playful smirk goes across her face actually.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” She asks sweetly. A very violent memory surfaces from when I was younger and sparring with Tamara. I wanted a different opponent and thought that Koki’O would go easier on me. I was wrong. Very wrong. I don’t know what it is about her that makes her punches hurt more, but they just do.

“No, I don’t. So, excuse me.” I get out of her way.

“Tamara! Ko aloha makamae e ipo!” She greets the boss affectionately.

“Hello, Koki’O,” she replies cooly. Why Tamara doesn’t accept Koki’O’s advances or flat-out reject them is an enigma to me.

‘I mean, is she straight or something?’

And why Koki’O flirts with her and only her is also confusing. I’d ask what she sees in her but I’m not sure I really want the answer.

I head downstairs to the basement, where our more specialized gear is kept.

I walk past Kevlar vests, a spool of fabric that should distort thermal imaging, several laptops tracking various things, and a special chemical compound that I don’t understand and have given up trying to.

Towards the back, Digitalis is hunched working on something. At a glance, it’s some kind of explosive. He briefly looks up to one of the monitors on his table before continuing his work.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, then addresses me. The fact that he smokes is proof of his significance within our organization.

The boss doesn’t let any of us smoke anything. Mostly due to health risks, but she also just hates the smell. Digitalis here gets to smoke because he’s irreplaceable. Our mechanic, doctor, techie, and most importantly: our tattoo artist. He makes sure we can get our jobs done in the best of style.

“Heya, Holly. Heard about your brush with death and how someone patched you up. You ain’t cheating on me, are ya?” He rubs his face and scratches at his five o’clock shadow.

“Maybe if you went outside more you could’ve saved me.”

“No fuckin’ way, me being in this crypt keeps you motherfuckas alive.” He puts out his cigarette. “Lemme see your injury.” He gestures with his hand.

“Not much to see, to be honest.” If any other man asked me to lift my shirt I’d break his neck, but Digit has proven his disinterest in other humans many times. I oblige and he comes closer in his rolling chair.

The dark skin of his thin, lanky fingers goes over my abdomen with a trained manner. This close I can see a little cut on his slightly pointed nose. His hair is dreadlocked and orange. I never asked if it’s natural or not. His dark eyes seem to look through everything.

“You said you got shot right?” He asks.

“I say lots of things.”

“I don’t see any sign of a gunshot or anything. What kinda healing did you get?”

“Magical.” If you can’t come up with a lie, the blunt truth will suffice. He lights another cigarette.

“Whatever. Anyway, you got a guy to kill so check this out.” He gets up and walks me over to a table with a number of half-finished projects. “Here’s the first part.” He picks up a tool that resembles a gun but the barrel is too big, long, and there’s no hammer.“This is a pneumatic air gun. Think ‘harpoon gun’ but we’re not shooting spears. Bit of compressed air, this shoots a projectile fast and relatively silent. But,” he hands me the air gun.

“This is what you’ll have to shoot.” He holds a long, thin black cylinder for me to see. “This is a tungsten alloy core, with a carbon-fiber casing. Practically indestructible.” He bends it to no avail, then hands it to me. It’s much heavier than it looks. The carbon fiber makes it easy to grip. “You know what to do with that, right?”

I nod and tuck the air gun and rod in my jacket pocket.

“Make sure you bring it back. Wasn’t cheap. You’ll find a bike in the lot, it’ll fit your needs. Bring that back too if you don’t mind.” Digitalis tosses me the keys. “I’ll call when he’s getting there.”

“See ya later, Digit. By the way, I need you to do a treatment on my jacket.”

“Drop it off later,” he replies, bored.

I exit through a hidden stairway that leads to the parking lot. A jet black sports bike, ready to go, is the first thing I see when I get up the stairs. There are two helmets waiting on it. This is either a happy coincidence, or someone knew I was bringing Witch-Hazel.

I hop on, turn the key, and the engine roars to life underneath me. The constant rumble is a promise of its speed. It handles well enough, but I can feel the tenuous relationship it has with balance.

I pull up to the front of the building where Witch-Hazel is patiently waiting in the car for me. I half expected her to run off somewhere and get into trouble.

“Hop on,” I tell her while offering the helmet. She comes around and sits on the bike like it’s a bench. “Put your leg on the other side and hold onto me.”

“For safety or you want me to cop a feel?”

I lurch the bike forward and she almost falls off.

“Two things can be true. Put on your helmet.” She obliges and we take off.

Rushing past buildings, zipping between cars and disobeying several traffic laws. We reach the outskirts of Oleander City and head towards Hyperion Drive.

As Tamara promised, there are roadblocks in front but no actual construction workers in sight. I speed between them and go down this long and empty road. With no other cars around, it’s easier to appreciate the natural beauty of the highway. Redwood trees rise high into the sky on both sides, there’s something total and domineering about them. These wooden skyscrapers make you feel tiny like this is the loneliest road in the world.