“If you don’t stop wiggling, I will break arm more. Eh?” Sterling stated, gripping the bloodied arm of a child that couldn’t have been more than twelve, but no younger than three. He was bad with ages. The child calmed down, and his doe-like blue eyes pushed against the witch’s pleading. His mother’s shadow loomed over them both, Sterling perched precariously on a short stool that barely supported him.

He wrapped the arm in an old satin blanket that had come from the “old country,” or at least that is what he said. It actually had wrapped some kolackzi from another client. Still, it was a good way to hide whatever he was doing. The mauve tassels of the blanket bobbed from the faint breeze that moved through the apartment, with its old wooden floors, oppressive marmalade-colored walls, heavy crown molding, and geometric wooden panels over the windows. It didn’t help that Sterling hung numerous herbs from the ceiling, not all of them medicinal. There was a faint scent of oud wood that hung in the air, but beyond that, there was sterility to everything. The child looked away from Sterling and back at his mother. The witch used that moment to grip the child’s arm and twist with his fingers. The child let out a yelp and jerked his arm from Sterling. His eyes were bubbling with tears. Sterling just tugged the blanket away to reveal the misshapen curve of his forearm was gone. There was no sound of grinding bones when the child moved it. The only tell that there was anything wrong with his arm before was the swelling. “Make sure he drinks plenty of juice. And none of that sugary głupie gadanie, eh?” The mother didn’t know whether to cover her son’s ears or not, but she fished some bills from her pockets and placed them on one of the ancient pieces of furniture before leaving.

Sterling stood and grabbed the wad of cash. He thumbed through it disgruntled. It was sad to say that he was cheaper than the American healthcare system, but he wasn’t that cheap. She’d shorted him twenty dollars. Fortunately, Val had decided to bunk down with him, and she was an endless fount of money. It wasn’t something he wished to take advantage of, but he was boarding her, feeding her, and training her. He’d be an idiot not to take anything. Still, he did pull out a ten-dollar bill and lay it on her schoolbooks.

Val was currently in the shower, the old pipes rumbling through the apartment. He knocked heavily on the door. “I’m off. Make sure to lock door. And keep water off of floor. I nearly died last night.”
“You nearly die all the time, GG. You’re old and fat. I’m surprised you don’t keel over just going up a hill.”
“I love you too, so I left you money on books. It’s not enough to fix attitude, though. So, just get burrito.”
“Should I stop by the coven after school?”

“Yes, but this time actually study. No flirting with girls.” Sterling yelled through the door before leaving, locking the front door on the way out. He sighed into it as the stout smell of old beer and vomit from the hall in the building hit his nostrils. He slid his shoe underneath the rug outside the door to see that his runes were still intact. It’d been some time since he’d seen witch hunters, but he’d been getting some troubling reports recently from the pigeons. He needed to keep both himself and Val safe.
Sterling tapped his shoes on the mat right inside the Rosenthal Coven’s mansion door. There was nothing on them, but it was an old habit that he’d picked up from living in rundown houses most of his life. It was always muddy on his trek to the door. He glanced around, the odd hum of conversation tickling his ear. Usually, people were still mired in their cups of coffee during the morning, but the hum of energy was—different. He pulled his London Fog coat further onto his person, it was a brick red with thin gray lines running through it. He had a gray suit on underneath, with a black dress shirt and deep red tie cinched tightly around his neck. It all looked in order, but the fashion was that of a tenured professor at a community college—if that was something that existed. His tallow hair was less messy than usual but still came forward in slight waves—trimmed neatly on the sides. Those pale locks ran into his glasses which obscured his eyes. There was a bulge in his top left jacket pocket from his tarot deck, another bulge in his bottom right pocket from his wallet and keys, and then a general bulge of his midsection which pushed his gray waistcoat out making diamond-like gaps from his dress shirt between the buttons.

He moved through the hallway with deliberation, one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding an apple. Inevitably, he found the source of the conversation. His brows may have risen in surprise as he rounded the corner to see everyone gathered in the kitchen. “What in nine hells?” he asked under his breath. There was Clara, who was well-mannered and good-natured. He also got a good handful of ingredients from her. Then there was Mark. Mark from a long-standing family of blah blah blah. He didn’t care. Sterling didn’t have much regarding lineage to lean on here, his family old and blooded in Poland. But that didn’t mean he had to respect the young man. Then there was Mira, strapped with the unfortunate duty of dealing with a group of assholes—himself included.

“Ms. Andrul, you will let me know if you need me to get high spots again, eh?” He asked, noting her cleaning supplies. "Everyone seems to be standing around for reason, yes? Why?"