“Well, that could’ve gone better,” I say to myself trudging along. Holding my side as best I can to stop the bleeding. The cut across my arm doesn’t make it any easier to hold the bullet that just missed my kidney. The stab wound in my leg also isn’t doing me any favors but it’s not like I have anywhere, in particular, to walk to. Really I’m just looking for a quiet place to pass out and die. 

I find what I’m looking for, a little stairway about a block away from the bloodbath I just left behind. I slide down as painlessly as I can, which is to say not at all, onto the small steps and let the late-night summer breeze do what it does. It blows my black hair into my face where it sticks to either sweat, blood, or some gross mix of the two. There isn’t anyone out this late in this part of town, so when morning comes whoever finds my body is in for quite the surprise. 

‘Being close to death really brings out the macabre in me, huh?’ I chuckle at my own joke and immediately regret it as my bruised, possibly fractured, ribs rub against the thing I’m leaning on. A small part of me wants to get up; I know there’s work to be done. But now that I’ve sat down I know I stand a snowball’s chance in Hell in getting back up. The last bit of adrenaline leaves my system and all the pain that I’m actually in floods my nerves.

 The parts of me that aren’t bruised, cut, stabbed or shot are just plain sore from the quite literal fight for my life. Everything hurts. 

‘It just figures that I’d die on some random step, I always thought I’d die somewhere sorta cool. Like an expensive penthouse or something. Instead, I’m going to die in the street just like all the other poor bastards in this city.’ I stretch my legs out as much as the pain will allow me. Might as well get somewhat comfortable. 

“Can’t beat this view though,” I say to myself, referring to the empty sidewalk and abandoned liquor store across the street. I make myself laugh again, hurting myself in the process. “Okay, no more jokes, girl. Let’s just sit here and bleed.”

I start counting my breaths, wondering which will be my last. I hope I’m not counting for too long ‘cause I don’t want to get into the triple digits.

When I get to the forties I see something weird. Or someone, rather. It looks like a woman wearing a...puffy black dress? Can’t really see out of my left eye since it’s swollen from the right hook that big guy gave me. And my right, I’m just now realizing, has a cut above it. The blood is dripping into my eyes making everything look pinkish. The stranger approaches and squats right in front of me. From what I can make out she has a worried look on her face. 

45…

46…

47…

“Are you ok?! Do you need help?!” She asks.  She hesitantly reaches out to help before she thinks better of it. 

“Why would I need help?” I deflect. ‘What’s a woman like this doing out here?’

“You’re bleeding all over the place!” She points out. 

“Really? And it’s not even that time of the month.” I laugh at my own joke and my entire body makes me pay for it. The jolt of pain from my side makes me sit up a bit straighter. “Sorry, that was just too good to pass up, ” I mumble through the pain. 

51…

52…

53…

“Let me help you!” The woman reaches into her dress pocket to probably get her phone. I grab her wrist to stop her. 

“No ambulances, no hospitals. They’ll call the cops,” I explain. The last thing I need is the cops asking questions. 

“What’s an ambulance?” The woman asks. Did I hear that right? I have lost a lot of blood, maybe I’m going a little crazy. 

58…

59…

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, trying my best to wave her off. “Unless you have a first aid kit in that pretty lil’ dress of yours, there’s no way for you to help me.”

62…

“Why don’t you want my help?” 

“It’s not that I don’t want your help. There’s just a lot going on here that you don’t understand and I’d rather not get you mixed up in this.” 

“Well, I’m not just going to let you-”

“STOP!” I say as loud as I dare. She just stares at me. 

67…

68…

69… Nice. 

70…

“Look, just get outta here, ok? You can’t help me and I’m not looking for companionship on my death step.”  I take a moment to try to get comfortable again which I’m realizing is impossible given the situation. “You seem like a nice chick. You shouldn’t have to see someone die right in front of you, even someone like me. It’s the kinda shit that stays with you and you don’t want that stain on your soul. So beat it, let me clock out in peace,” I say hoping that’s enough to deter her. But to my surprise, she furrows her brows in determination. 

“What makes you think that I’ve never seen someone die before?” I’m taken aback by that. The stranger takes a necklace out of her pocket and says something in a language I don’t understand. I think she’s praying or something and then suddenly a bright light envelopes us. I have to close my eye to it. 

The light fades and I open my eye. I must’ve passed out because I’m not on the step anymore. I’m lying down on something, in what looks like an abandoned apartment. The paint of the walls are chipping off and there’s dust everywhere. She’s walking around, looking for something. 

‘Did she carry me here? There’s no blood on her.’ She finds whatever she’s looking for and comes over to me. 

“What’s your name?” She asks while she kneels next to me. 

“Daisy Silver,” I lie. It’s a fake name that I routinely use. I don’t remember if I met a person with that name and I liked it or if I just made it up. Doesn’t matter. 

“Ok Daisy, were you shot?”

“No, I fell and landed on my sharpened pencil.”

“Daisy,” she says sternly. 

“Sorry, can’t turn off the sarcasm. Yes, I’ve been shot,” I answer. 

“And the bullet is still in there?”

“I hope so, otherwise this is a painful kidney stone.” 

“Alright Miss Joker, were you shot anywhere else?”

“No.” She rubs her hands together. 

“This is going to be...unpleasant,” she says. She pulls my shirt up a bit to see my wound better. “Stay still.” Not like I’m doing backflips or anything. I focus on the ceiling to dampen the inevitable pain of her digging out the bullet. I feel it getting pulled out, but oddly not whatever she’s pulling it out with. Clenching my teeth, it’s all I can do to not scream out in pain.

 I lean up a bit to see the bullet get tossed to the ground and I sigh in relief as it ends. Her hands aren’t bloody at all and she offers a small bottle to me. It has a yellowish-green liquid in it. 

“Drink this, quickly,” she commands. I don’t know what it is but it’s not like it can hurt, right?

“Bottoms up I guess.” I put the bottle to my lips and the drink is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire life. It’s how I imagine gasoline, battery acid, gorilla sweat, and rotten milk, all blended together and filtered through a boxer’s underwear would taste. I want to vomit but she holds the bottle to my mouth. 

“You have to drink it all at once. I know it’s bad but do it.” I force myself to keep drinking it and it somehow gets worse. I manage to swallow it all and almost throw up. The thought of tasting it again is the only thing that keeps it down. Honestly, I want to smack her for making me drink this when I realize the pain isn’t as bad. In fact, I feel much better. The wounds on my stomach and leg are gone. 

The blood is still there but the cuts are closed. I’m still sore, and my eye is swollen but at least I’m not bleeding out anymore.  

The woman wipes away the blood on my stomach with a cloth. Her touch is gentle, careful, despite having just miraculously healed me. Her bare hand goes over my stomach, her skin is soft and warm against mine. I want to push her hand away but I'm suddenly very tired.  

‘Plus it does feel nice.’

“Are there any other injuries here?” She asks. 

“No,” I answer. My ribs don’t hurt as much as they did before. The woman still runs her hand over my body. I can feel the slight flinch she has every time she runs over one of my many old scars. Too many to count. Or maybe not but I’ve never bothered to. 

She undoes my jeans button and pulls them down. 

“I usually have to do more to get a girl to pull my pants off,” I drowsily say. Each passing second has me more and more exhausted. 

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” she jokes back. “I’m just cleaning the blood off you.” By the time she’s done with that, I can barely keep my eyes open, but then she gets to my face. Wiping the blood and sweat off it, I can finally get a good look at her. 

She’s a very pretty Asian woman with an angular face, tanned brown skin that looks smooth as silk, steel-gray eyes, and a cascading waterfall of hair that matches her eyes in color.  It’s long, thick and reaches her waist. Her face is close enough that I can feel her breath on mine. Even her eyebrows and eyelashes are the same gray. That’s a serious dye job. 

‘Damn, she’s gorgeous.’ I could look at her all night, but I can feel myself succumbing to sleep. As if reading my mind she says, 

“You must be exhausted, you should rest. We can talk in the morning.” That’s right, I have questions for her, and things to say. But for now, I have to sleep. The woman produces a pillow from somewhere and rests my head on it. 

I turn on my side and take the pillow to hold to my chest. This is the only way I can sleep. I look for the door and find myself at ease when I find it. 

The last thing I see before I close my eyes is her getting a chair and watching me rest. Normally something like that would unnerve me and I wouldn’t be able to sleep, but I guess I’m too tired to care. I slide into slumber. 

When I wake up from another dreamless sleep there’s light coming in from what I now realize is a broken window. In the morning light I can see just how derelict this apartment is. No one has lived here in years, evident by the layers of dust on everything. Scratches on the floor tell me that heavy furniture was dragged out of here at some point. Probably stolen. 

Then there's the stuff she’s brought in, including the cot I slept on. She has a small dresser, several wooden cases with some kind of symbols on them, a stack of books tied together, and a large mirror. 

The woman herself is sleeping in a chair that looks like it was carved from the same wood as the floorboards. When I sit up and put my feet on the ground she startles awake. 

“How are you feeling?” She asks. At some point changed into another puffy dress, this one is green with frills at the hem. She has a sort of gothic look to her. 

“I’m feeling pretty good all things considered,” I answer. I touch where all my cuts are, or were. “What did you give me?”

“It was a mending elixir,” she says matter-of-factly. 

‘Oh, course it was.’ 

“It heals cuts and knits bones back together,” she explains. 

“How? That isn’t possible.” 

“Oh, it’s quite possible. It’s simple magic, really.” 

“...Magic?”

“Yes,” she answers. I rub my temple and wonder if I got a concussion when that dick in the leather jacket hit me in the head with that paperweight. 

‘I must’ve because it sounded like she said magic.’ Maybe I’m hallucinating. But it would explain a lot. 

“So, you’re saying that magic is real?”

“I wouldn’t be an effective witch if it wasn’t, now would I?” She replies. A witch. It figures with how my night went, this is how my morning should go. I scan the...witch’s face. I’m very good at reading people, and most people are easy to read. None of her gorgeous features are strained to keep a straight face the way people get when they tell a lie. She believes what she’s saying. And I suppose I do too. It’s the only conclusion that makes sense. Given the evidence.

“Ok. You’re a witch and magic is real. And you gave me a uhh healing potion?” 

“Mending elixir,” she corrects me. 

“Right. Why does it taste worse than actual poison?”

“It’s to prevent addiction to it. It’s made in such a way that it tastes like the worst thing to each individual. So that drinking them is seen as a last resort and not to be abused,” The witch explains. 

“That’s actually pretty smart. It’s not something I’d want to drink regularly. Either way, it did save my life,” I say now thinking about what this means for me. 

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” she notices. I shake my head. 

“Well, since you stopped my death that means instead of just being dead, now I have to find out who orchestrated this.” Regardless of magic being real, I still have very real world problems to deal with. “And why...or just who.” I get up. The cuts and probably fractured ribs are healed but I’m still sore. I wobble a bit before I can steady myself. “When I find out who, I can probably figure out the ‘why’. Or not. I won’t lose sleep over it.” The witch straightens in her seat. 

“What about whoever did this to you?” She asks. A look of concern on her face. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them. I might’ve looked bad-”

“You did look bad,” she interrupts. 

“But the bastards who jumped me ain’t exactly coming home for Christmas, if you catch my drift.” The witch shakes her head. 

“No, not really.” I suppose a witch wouldn’t get that particular euphemism. 

“They’re dead. There were seven of them, they double crossed me after a job. They tried to kill me, and since they weren’t very good at it, I killed them instead,” I explain. She just blinks at me. 

“A witch comes to the city and saves an assassin. Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

Chapter 1 End