in the storm. The storm has turned the ordinary world into something out of a children’s book, a silvery slice of the Up-and-Under.
Smita gives the weather little attention; it’s bigger than she is and doesn’t care what she does, and besides, she’s indoors. She’s alone in the lab. She likes it that way; likes the silence, the hollow echo of her own footsteps, the comfort of knowing no one is watching her. She can leave her research spread out across the counters without concern that someone will see it—not another student, maybe, but an eager professor or greedy researcher—and claim it as their own. It’s never happened to her. That doesn’t change the stories that circulate through the department, tales of stolen effort and unreceived credit. Smita plans to change the world someday. She can’t do that if the foundations she’s been building wind up given to someone else.
There’s a sound behind her, soft, like a candle being lit. It’s an odd image, not like her at all, but the thought is foremost in her mind as she turns. Then she freezes, thought fading.
The woman behind her holds a novelty candle, one of those tasteless Halloween souvenirs. It’s shaped like a severed hand, and whoever designed the wax injections did a fabulous job; Smita would swear it’s the real thing, if not for the ridiculousness of the idea. Who would use a human hand like that? The wicks protrude from the tips of the slightly curled fingers, each burning with a greenish flame. That, more than anything, convinces her this is some sort of prank, probably orchestrated by the chemistry department. Fire doesn’t burn like that unless you’ve done something to make it.
The woman looks vaguely familiar, someone Smita has seen in passing, in the time between classes maybe, or elsewhere in the building. She’s neither friend nor foe, and that makes her a problem to be dealt with quickly and efficiently. Smita folds her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip, and glares.
“What are you doing here?” she demands. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The woman says nothing.
“I’m going to call security. They’ll be happy to explain why trespassing is not allowed.”
The woman says nothing.
Something about her flat, affectless stare is beginning to make the hair on the back of Smita’s neck stand on end. For the first time, she finds herself wishing she were more social; that other students were here to back her up.
“You need to leave,” Smita says. “Take your creepy prop and get out.”
The woman speaks for the first time. “This isn’t a creepy prop,” she says. “This is a real Hand of Glory. They’re not easy to make, and they’re not pleasant to use, but you shouldn’t call it a ‘prop.’ Someone died to assure this item of its provenance.”
“Erin?” breathes Smita. Familiarity and recognition rush in with the other woman’s voice, making her presence even more of a betrayal. Why hadn’t she recognized her? The urge to take a step back, away from Erin and her “Hand of Glory,” whatever that is, is almost unbearable. “What are you talking about? Why are you here? I very much want you to go.”
“To make a Hand of Glory, you need the hand of someone who’s been murdered,” says the woman—says Erin. “Lots of people seem like they’ve been murdered, but the alchemy is specific. It doesn’t work nearly as well with a victim of manslaughter, for example. The intent is embedded in the flesh. Murder-suicide is also a complicating factor. Someone who wanted to die creates an inferior light. You need a genuine victim of intentional and intended murder, the more brutal, the better. Violence also seems to embed itself in the flesh. It’s funny, the homeopathic ingredients required to violate the laws of nature.”
Smita’s lips draw back from her teeth in an involuntary expression of disgust. “That’s horrible. Why would you even say such a thing?”
“I didn’t just say it. I killed this man. He was a guitar player. You might remember him. Used to sit down by Amoeba Records, playing bad acoustic covers of pop songs. I said I’d cook him dinner, and then I took him apart. I’m not much of an alchemist, but I’m an excellent killer.” Erin sets her burning hand primly on the edge of the nearest table. The flame doesn’t so much as flicker. “It doesn’t matter that I’m not that good at alchemy, because this is one of the simpler recipes. If you’re willing to commit a