About three to four years ago.

~Lionel

In the history of human invention, there was nothing quite as confounding, as annoying, as troublesome as the humble shoe. I left the drop site—where the bags with the body parts had been dropped—wearing my black converses, but they squelched and farted as I walked through the mud of the development which would soon hide that slice of sky currently showing a sunrise as seen through a cover of clouds over my left shoulder.

“Fucking rain,” I mumbled. The drizzle that had started up just as I’d been called out here took no note whatsoever.

One of the crime scene people heading toward the scene where I had asked the severed heads to tell us everything they could, heard and turned.

“You didn’t walk all over the scene with those shoes, did you?” he asked.

I looked up from the safety of my hoodie. He flinched. Maybe it was the uncaffeinated state of me—my coffee machine was broken—or it was my magical necromancer aura—doubtful.

“I didn’t’ destroy your evidence,” I said. They always assumed I did, but I always wore gloves. I wasn’t a complete idiot.

He raised a placating hand, his heavy-looking forensics kit in the other. “That’s not what I meant. Rubber boots. You need some.”

He pointed at his own.

I sighed. “I had a pair, but then a zombie…you know.”

His eyes went wide. “I don’t, and I don’t want to. I’m Simon by the way. Just transferred here a few weeks ago. I heard one of the units at the Brunswick PD has their own necromancer. That’s you, right?”

This put me on guard right away, never mind how exhausted I was. Some people were bigots when it came to magic users, even more so when it came to necromancers, and I lacked the blood caffeine level to deal with anything like that.

“Yes. Lionel Hawkes.”

I didn’t even hold out my hand. Some people who were not quite bigots but superstitious clung to this unfounded fear that magic users of any kind could read their mind or control it with the simplest touch.

Therefore, when Simon held out his hand to me, I stared at it for a good two seconds before shaking.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Lionel! One of my colleagues said you can help identify how injuries were caused and even identify cause of death, is that true?”

I cocked my head but nodded carefully. “I did that already though. Done for the night, I’m afraid.”

Three people bludgeoned to death were waiting for him, dismembered afterward. Talk about small mercies.

Simon nodded. “I was called in as an extra set of hands. Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing you work soon. Get yourself a new pair of rubber boots before then, yeah?”

And off he went, his own sturdy boots easily subduing the mud. I watched for a moment while the drizzle picked up again. At this point, I’d been outside long enough for the BPD consultant windbreaker I was wearing to have gotten soaked through as well, but I had infused my hoodie and jeans with a water repellent spell before getting out of my car, meaning apart from where the rain had trickled down my neck, I was dry.

Except for the shoes.

I squelch-farted my way to the car which I had parked across from the construction site next to the other police cars, both marked and unmarked. I hesitated with my hand on the driver side door, then went to my trunk instead.

I tossed my converses in there. I’d wisely laid out a sheet of plastic in the trunk, almost as if I were planning to transport bodies, but it was just for clothes I didn’t want inside the car. My gnawed-on rubber boots were there, as well as the wrapper of a granola bar I remembered devouring though I had no idea where I’d gotten it.

“I should stop by the landfill,” I said, then cackled. “This is what no coffee does to me, it’s making me sound like one of the bad guys.” I opened my door and got into the car, soaking the seat in the process but really not giving a fuck at this point.

I turned the heating up on high because of my besocked and very much soaked feet, then left the scene in the rearview mirror.

It was a Monday, and traffic would clog the streets like a hairball in a drain soon, but I couldn’t just head home and sleep for the next ten to twelve hours. I needed shoes, preferably some that held my spells better than those dead converses in the back. The forensics guy was right about the rubber boots too—I needed them, had put off getting a new pair for the sole reason that I loathed shoe shopping.

My feet turned cold on the drive despite my car’s best efforts, and the rain beat down on me, turning the morning light into an insubstantial ghostly flicker across my slick windshield, but I did make it to the FerroFinn Center, Brunswick’s glitzy, 24/7 shopping opportunity. I knew they had a coffee shop.

The underground parking was pretty empty, and I only spotted one car come in after me out of the corner of my eye, something sleek and black and vaguely European.

Either way, I felt great about the prospect of not getting seen by too many people who would give me a weird look.

“No reason to think walking around in your wet socks would be weird at all, right?” I glanced at the foot coverings in question. With all the rain and the mud, they were barely even still recognizable as socks. “Fuck me.”

I tried magic on them, but contrary to some people’s olfactory perception, socks and necromancy didn’t really mesh. Instead of a wet, flubbery mess, I ended up with a still wet but slightly stiffer mess. It was like walking on milk cartons, but really, it was fine. No fucking way was I putting on the mud shoes from the trunk, nor the boots with the bite marks and that one zombie tooth sticking out of the sole.

I made it ten noisy steps away from the car when I realized I was still wearing the BPD consultant windbreaker, so I walked my ass back and threw it onto the passenger seat before finally heading up to the stores.

“Need to be strategic about this,” I mumbled as I inspected the signage telling me what stores were on which floor.

I was seconds away from going to the second floor first to get myself those damn shoes, but I just couldn’t, not when the coffee place had a coffee bean on the sign. That was an invitation I couldn’t say no to.

“Double espresso, here I come,” I said, and with the prospect of blessed caffeine, my mood lifted.

When I got off on the third floor, there was barely anyone there, and the most looks I drew were from the staff of the various stores I walked past, though really, the soft background music overshadowed most of the noise my milk carton socks made. If no one actually looked at the two atrocities covering my feet, I was really just another customer, not memorable at all.

I smiled at the lady in the coffee shop who looked about as enthusiastic about making my coffee as I was about buying shoes, but I didn’t fucking care about her mood. She was making me coffee and putting extra espresso in, and that was good enough for me.

I tipped her generously before making off with my prize in hand, sipping carefully once I got on the escalator so as not to burn myself.

I risked slight scalding for a good swig though, and the coffee immediately settled my nerves, allowing me to take in the haven of consumerism all around me.

At this time of day, there was cleaning staff visible, the odd businessperson with a rain slick umbrella just grabbing a pre-packed lunch, people that sat on the benches and sort of stared into space, potentially killing time here, either because they had nowhere to go or had a place they didn’t want to return to if they could help it. The shopkeepers weren’t too busy, looked at their phones or stocked shelves.

It was such an in-between time this early in the morning, and taking a look around this otherwise busy place allowed me to see the fringes of the everyday. I wasn’t sure I liked it, didn’t know I hated it.

With the shoe store looming ahead of me as soon as I got off the escalator, I risked a second scalding gulp and made my way inside. I’d just buy the damn shoes quickly, maybe get one of those coffee filter holders for drip coffee, then head home.

Easy-peasy, a half hour tops, and then my day would finally be over. A shiver ran over my neck as if someone were watching me, but when I turned, it was just the escalators, the elbow and knee of someone going up on them just about visible before the person vanished.

“Lack of coffee can make you hallucinate,” I said and sipped some more.

Thus steeled, I went to buy some shoes.

#