Sacrifices by Jamie Schultz

was pleasant enough andnot overpowering. Tie-dyed everything hung from everywhere. There was a young woman behind the counter—a girl, really, no more than sixteen—who smiled and gave her a friendly greeting. It felt jarring. Was this how people normally interacted? She’d lost track.
    Genevieve smiled back and, per instruction, asked for the manager. The girl went in back, emerging a minute later with an older version of herself who gave Genevieve the same smile.
    â€œHow can I help you?” the woman asked.
    â€œThe trunk.”
    The woman’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
    â€œThere’s a trunk in back, or there had better be. I’m told you get a hundred bucks a month just to keep it back there and leave it alone.”
    â€œMmm.” The woman’s gaze darted over Genevieve’s body. Checking for a weapon, maybe? Some sort of reassessment was clearly being made. “Are you with the police?”
    Genevieve laughed. “Do I look like I’m with the police?”
    â€œYou didn’t answer.”
    â€œNo. Not even close. I can open the damn box, though.”
    The magic words, as Sobell had said they’d be. Genevieve wondered what the woman had been told. She wondered if Sobell himself had ever even been here, or if he’d dispatched someone else to set this up.
    â€œFollow me,” the woman said.
    Genevieve came around the counter, through the obligatory curtain of beads, and into the back, a combination office/stockroom that revealed the tie-dyed profusion out front for the warm-up act it was. The room was sizable, but there was barely space to move between crates of mysterious organic foods, boxes of candles, incense, and enough T-shirts to outfit the fans for an entire Grateful Dead tour.
    I’d have paid this woman a hundred bucks just to invite me over and let me watch Sobell maneuver through all this.
    The woman lifted a limp stack of dresses and put them on the office chair, then cleared a few boxes away, revealingthe trunk against the back wall. It looked like an old army footlocker, aside from a few markings around the lock.
    Genevieve squatted in front of it and got out a knife. Like every other goddamn thing, this would need a little blood. She held the blade to the end of her thumb, then paused, realizing the woman still stood behind her. “Could I get a little privacy?”
    â€œDoes the money stop? After this, I mean?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    The woman nodded. She looked as though she wanted to ask another question, but after a moment’s hesitation she nodded again and left. Genevieve supposed Sobell didn’t pick people for this kind of job who couldn’t keep their mouths shut.
    She cut her thumb. A little blood in the right places plus the incantation Sobell had taught her, and the lock popped open. She opened the box.
    Inside was a piece of luggage, one of the small carry-on types with wheels and a collapsible handle. She took it out and opened that, too.
    Cash. A hundred and fifty grand, if nobody had messed with it, and the warding on the box should have ensured that. Also, a complete set of identification—driver’s license, passport, credit cards—for one Frederik Strauss, who looked suspiciously like Enoch Sobell; a small pistol with extra ammunition; a set of black candles; and a handful of pages.
    In short, a getaway bag.
    Genevieve took a five-thousand-dollar bundle of bills out of the suitcase and set it aside. Then she zipped the suitcase. Wheeling the suitcase behind her, she went back out front. She gave the manager a tight-lipped smile, tossed the five grand on the counter, and headed back to the taxi.
    Her shoulders tensed as she stepped outside, and an awful hyperawareness came over her. Nothing occult or anything like that, but every person on the street, from the pair of women at the crosswalk to the teenager on his bike across the