I don’t see anybody, but whoever blew up my car will be here in a second. That or the police, paramedics, or maybe some random normals, and I’ll have all sorts of new and enjoyable problems.

I don’t have to wait long. Three people in thick, hooded robes step over the wreckage of the chain-link fence and stand in front of me like executioners. The hoods hide their faces better than normal hoods should. The formless robes are black and covered with golden sigils, most of which are the equivalent of getting a kanji tattoo and finding out later that it means “ramen.”

Still, they’re real mages, even if they can’t spell right. I can feel the magic they’re drawing from the pool, the spells they’re crafting. They’re sloppy. I’m not sure what the spells are, though I can guess, but I can tell that they’re struggling. It’s like watching toddlers put together a five-thousand-piece Lego set.

I’m not topped up myself, but I’ve got plenty of power. No reason to draw from the pool, and if I need a spell, I can think of a dozen I can pop off with barely a thought. Just because they showed me theirs doesn’t mean I have to show them mine.

“Wool robes?” I say. “In this heat? You lost a bet, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” one of them says, fists clenched, a blue glow building up around them. “You’re a murderer and a monster and we’re here to pass judgment on you. I declare you guilty.” The other two chime in with their own cries of “Guilty!”

“Wow. That’s some high-pitched squeaking you got going there. Okay, either one of you is a girl, or you’re a boy whose balls haven’t dropped yet. I’m going with option two. How’s puberty treating you, Junior?”

The first one throws off their robe. It’s a man, white, early thirties, maybe. “You killed my wife, you sonofabitch.” The other two drop their robes.

One’s a black woman about the same age as the guy, and the third is a gawky, acne-riddled Latino kid with a rage in his eyes he’s finally figured out what to do with.

“My husband,” says the woman.

“My mom,” the boy says.

“Holy shit, am I a real bastard, or what?” I should be talking them down, not goading them on. They really think I killed their families. But the fuckers blew up my car. My car. Okay, yeah, it was stolen, but the guy who it belonged to was already dead. And yes, admittedly, I’m the one who killed him, but he was a very bad man.