Sunset Shimmer jumped off the couch when I entered the waiting room, her yellow and red mane practically blazing in the bright light of the potion lamps. "What did he tell you?" She sounded nice. She sounded worried.
"That I'm incredibly talented, and incredibly lucky you brought me here. So, thank you."
I also told Sunset Shimmer that she was on the hook for teaching me how to properly cancel a spell. That she insisted that I teach her in return some of my tricks went a long way toward annoying me.
She followed me like a chick behind a hen all the way to the classroom to retrieve my saddle bag of books, continually chattering about the performance of my classmates compared to the reaction I had. By the time she followed me off campus toward the university district I usually cut through, I was about to lose my cool.
She said, "The Hut has good hayburgers and they'll serve me beer."
Despite an answering growl from my stomach, I said, "Nope," and teleported to the opposite side of the block.
She proved that she was a high-level unicorn by following me with an echoing bang within ten seconds, and trotting up behind me. "That was rude."
"It's been a hard day, in case you didn't notice: you dredging up bad memories, me reacting badly, my nearly blowing up my brain… Tomorrow, Sunset Shimmer, is soon enough. Don't follow me."
But she did, forcing me to queue up teleports until I lost her on the third in a row. Exhausted, I walked all the way through downtown and into the Lower in a funk, barely noticing how the nice mansions became commercial buildings that became brick houses that became more hodgepodge hovels. Various redevelopment projects over the centuries had given the poor area of Canterlot a mismatched downtrodden patina. Housing varied between big flat square block edifices, four-story rectangular towers, and the organic wood and stone remuddles with tin roofs that had grown to fill the interstices like mold. At some point, the bureaucracy had decided to paint so that everything might be white like the castle. The results after decades of neglect was patches of white and decrepit purple scrolls or hearts painted over exposed red brick and chipped and spalled sandstone block. In the evening, with few functional gaslights, all smart ponies made themselves scarce or traveled in herds. The darkness seemed dangerous.
To me, it brought peace. I was a denizen of the dark.
"Dude!"
A shadow separated itself from some trash cans while hooves clattered on the cobblestones as a stallion approached. I pointed my horn at his neck as I stopped below a cracked lamp flickering in a cooling mountain breeze. I relaxed when I recognized Tailor, a lanky mauve earth pony with a black mane. He wore a beaked cap, reversed as was de rigueur.
He said, "Shaved?" He squinted as he came closer, then smiled. "That's a double four-point star centered on your horn. Grimoire! Announcing to the clientele you're a magical badass are we? Kinda messed up with the razor on your side, though."
I rolled my eyes. A name with grim in it suited me professionally. That I remained a blank flank helped all of it. It made putting on the makeup to create a nasty old book cutie mark easier when I needed to be in character. I walked on past him, stoically silent. That I still had no cutie mark meant being an enforcer wasn't my special talent, thank Celestia and all the forces of nature for that. Despite my competence, hurting ponies was neither fun nor exciting. Breaking things, well… it didn't suck.
Behind me, Tailor said, "Boss wants to see you."
I shuddered. Was I in enough control for a job? "Why?"
"Dunno. Told the bunch 'find her,' that's all."
I would have liked to get into character, but didn't have my uniform with me and wasn't going to lead these scum to my flat in the slim chance that Running Mead hadn't found out about it. I settled for undoing my ponytails and piling my mane up behind my head into the bouffant I wore while working, lashing it with the purple ribbons I used for my ponytailers. The mane style made Grimoire look older than she was.
We found Running Mead at The Edge, a park bordered by various dive restaurants and saloons at the edge of a better part of town. Canterlot middle-class elite-wannabes often slummed it here, considering it dangerous-chic. Running Mead stood at a cafe table outside a Hooflyn-styled deli restaurant. I could hear voices and the muffled sounds of dishes, but there was no hoof traffic. The boss stood broad and tall; he had obviously come from stout work-pony stock. He was brown with a tan mane, with white socks, white hooves, and a matching white horn that looked dapper with the tweed evening jacket he wore—it sported a style that had been fashionable two decades ago. A tilted glass mug cutie mark with yellow liquid spilling out filled a muscular flank. I could smell the darjeeling tea he stirred sugar into as I stepped up to him. His yellow aura set the stainless steel spoon on the china saucer with a clink.
"Sir?"
"Little Filly Grimoire, I commend you. You visited Canterlot castle today!"
Don't blink. Don't react. I had thought he only had influence in Lower Canterlot. "Sir?"
"Why?"
"An upper-classmare dragged me to a physician. I fumbled a spell."
Amber eyes regarded me as if he hadn't been looking before. I remembered Tailor remarking that I'd burnt off a four-point star around my horn. I remembered reading somewhere that magic had shape in the dimension of the magic pulse. Certain reoccurring motifs in cutie marks corresponded to certain classes of talents; stars specifically were associated with general magical ability proportionate to the size and number of points in the stars. Burns and discolorations left by magic were often star-shaped, which fit the paradigm, but there wasn't much proof of the theory except anecdotally. The "shaved" areas could be considered to look like a boastful tattoo and I decided to go with that angle. I quashed the reflex to look at my reflection in the smoked glass window behind the boss; I had learned in my career dealing with egotistical ruffians that keeping eye contact was essential to controlling a situation.
He continued. "And about the upper-classmare. A friend?"
I didn't have friends. They always left you and that was too painful. Sunset Shimmer? Ha!
I tried not to grimace, but I guess I did because he quickly added. "Certainly something, considering she tried so hard to follow you." His voice lowered, "If not a friend and not a foe, perhaps a customer?"
No. No. No. "I do not sell product. I made that clear—"
"Grimoire. My little filly! What you want and what I want are two different things! And, for the record, note that I am not asking you to sell product. But— But turning away well qualified customers, like one of Princess Celestia's protégés, the one known for her bad girl behavior and occasional drunken tantrums. My, my." His voice became very low, almost a whisper. "Turning away customers. Did you think I would find that type of behavior funny?"
"I didn't think—"
"Precisely." He blew across the top of his steaming tea and took a sip. "You have made yourself very valuable to me, and not for knocking heads together—" He saw me stiffen and rolled his eyes. "—not for breaking knickknacks, sorry. Be open to Sunset Shimmer. My business is all about contacts. And if she wants product, don't let me hear she took her bits to the competition. I won't like that." He sipped some more.
"I will not sell product."
"Grow up. Don't be a foal. I don't want to teach you common sense, but I will if you force me to."
"You misunderstand me. I don't need to work." I turned and walked away. I suspected at this point everypony had heard of the fire fight this afternoon, including the force spells, and wouldn't be surprised to learn I was a former gang member trying to reform herself. He had little to blackmail me with, suddenly.
"You have a Horseshoe Bay accent when you get emotional."
I kept walking because I had to. Did he know where I'd run away from? I hated that I was accustomed and attracted to dangerous games, and to that feeling of being effective—even as a thug—that counteracted the feeling of worthlessness that was Sunburst's legacy to me.
When something jangly and heavy was flung my way, I morphed a quick draw spell equation into Levitation.
I caught a purse of coins a hoof length from the back of my head.
Running Mead's voice said, "You'd walk out on opportunity?"
I looked around the street and saw a number of Running Mead's lackeys, including a pale blue pegasus with a white-streaked blue particolor mane—his aerial spy, no doubt. I worked up a general spell I could transform to Force or Teleport. I could probably handle this, so instead of departing I spun the purse in a whirlwind spiral flourish into by saddle bag and faced him. "I won't sell product."
"Stubborn."
"You aren't the first pony to tell me that today."
I felt a pull on my shoulder. "Come here. Let me convince you…"