I choked back the urge to vomit.

Nestled on the outskirts of the financial district in downtown Chicago, the dark brick building was tucked under the elevated tracks that ran above Wells street. If I hadn’t known a magos owned the small shop, the strong disgusting smell gave it away. Magi marked their territory with a combination of glyphs for visual warnings and a variety of potent smelling herbs. When mixed together they created the most toxic scent I have ever had the displeasure of smelling. 

The name over the awning declared the building a pawnshop called Smitty’s. To the untrained eye, that was what it looked like. I knew better. I knew the creature inside did not go by the name Smitty, though I remained ignorant of his true name. I knew only that he referred to himsel...

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