A Criminal Magic (5 page)

“An old friend.”

“Doesn't look like a friend to me.” Sam studies me with wide eyes. “You even go here, chump?”

“No, I'm a trainee,” I say slowly, “with the Prohibition Unit.”

Sam pops a sharp, cutting laugh over the crowd's silence. “So you're fighting with a pig, Warren, at a criminal magic party?”

“I'm not a pig,” I interject.

“Shut up,” Warren and this Sam chap say in unison.

Sam turns his wrath back to Warren, stares him down. “It was stupid, bringing him here. And we take smart fellas at Sigma Phi—”

“No, no, he's cool,” Warren interrupts with a stammer. “I mean, he's a total prick, but he won't rat on us—he can't, he's as crooked as his old man—”

At the mention of my father, my fist takes on a mind of its own, flies out from my side before I can stop it, sucker punches Warren right in the jaw.

Warren stops, sucks in his breath, in shock or pain I'm not sure. He looks at me silently, as he holds his face.

“Get these losers out of here,” Sam barks at the two varsity-letter types that pulled us apart earlier. Each of them grabs one of my arms, as another frat boy comes to the rescue and restrains Warren.

Sam glares at Warren. “Don't come back here.”

The frat boys take us up the back stairs, into a dark kitchen,
through the side door and the force field, and into the alley behind 35th Street. And then they leave Warren and me with each other.

“I can't believe it.” Warren gives a weird, almost girlish laugh as he rubs his jaw. “You just managed to ruin everything.”

The high from Lana and the adrenaline from the fight are both waning, and a dull, familiar self-loathing starts taking over. “It's all right,” I say softly. “Sam must have paid an arm and a leg for those sorcerers. My bet is he was already shined. He won't remember tomorrow. You'll get in.”

Warren just stares at me like I'm insane. “Don't ever talk to me again, you understand?”

He turns on his heel, starts fumbling with his pack of cigarettes as he walks into the alley.

“Come on, Warren, that was as much your fault as it was mine.”

He doesn't answer, and my heart starts pounding.

“Warren.”

Nothing but smoke funneling over his head as he turns onto O Street. “WARREN!”

Christ, he's really serious.

“Warren, come on!”

And then the pounding gives way to a strange, searing ache in my chest. It vaguely feels like a part of me's melting.

I stand there for a long while, alone. I smoke one cigarette, then another, study the force field of the house in front of me, the dark exterior, the magic blanket of quiet draped over the raging Sigma Phi house within. I picture all those pretty dames and lucky chaps. Dolls with nothing to worry about but the shade of their lipstick. Boys with fathers who can buy them into fraternities. Boys like Warren.

Once upon a time, boys like me.

I take a long drag, focusing on that force field. And then I turn
inward, wait for that huge, all-encompassing feeling of power to start coursing through my veins, fuel me with lightning. And when I feel ready, full, I flick my cigarette stub toward the force field and exhale with a whisper:
“Poof.”

The facade in front of the Sigma Phi house shatters, crumbles into dust in a flash of a moment, spirals away like it's being carried by a magic wind, and now I'm staring at the real house. Light shines from every window. The quiet back alley of Georgetown is shocked awake with the wailing jazz that thunders from within Sigma Phi. No longer cloaked in magic, it's bright as a beacon, a siren. The house practically thumps against the crisp September night.

I watch neighbors' lights go on around me, witness a woman in her nightgown thrust open her door to assess the commotion from across the street. Dogs bark and more lights blink on as I walk away, smiling, down the alley toward O Street.

And for just a second, the world feels a little fairer. Despite the fat lip that Warren just gave me, I even manage a whistle around the corner.

THE ROAD TO POSSIBILITY

JOAN

Gunn and I haven't said a word since we left Parsonage. His sleek black car keeps popping as we cut through thick woods, and every jump and stall of its engine rattles me like gunfire. I'm riding with a man I presume to be a gangster, to a foreign city to prove that I'm one of the strongest sorcerers he's ever seen, and I've got about two spells and one trick total to my name. I need to prove that I can brew sorcerer's shine along with the best of them, and I've brewed shine exactly once. On the night of my mother's death, no less. And by accident, since all I was really trying to do was banish my magic touch and bury it three feet underground. And there is no room for error; there is no option to fail. Ben and Ruby are counting on me.

It nearly killed me saying good-bye to Ruby back at the cabin. Telling her that Ben was going to watch over her, that I didn't know where I was going, and that I wasn't sure when I was coming back. Ruffling her wispy hair and leaning in close so I could take her smell with me, reminding her that she needed to believe she was strong enough to fight her “sickness” and get well. I picture her smell now, try and conjure it, wrap it around myself like a blanket.
This is my charge, to make things right
, I
remind myself.
I wouldn't need to do this if I hadn't gone and blown everything apart.

Around the signs for Richmond, Gunn breaks our silent standoff. “You learned your magic from Jed, I take it?” he says quietly.

I think about the best way to answer this and finally go with, “My mama showed me.” But Mama wanted no parts of me mixed up in magic. When I confided that I'd gotten the magic touch, told her I'd woken up one morning with a near-electric feeling pulsing through my veins, she reluctantly taught me a couple spells, only ones she felt necessary to survive in the world we were living in. Dark, powerful blood-spells she inherited from her family, ones that involve a sacrifice in the casting. Severing spells, like the ones she'd have to perform in secret on desperate farmers who came stumbling to our door late at night, where she'd sever a gangrenous toe off a foot to save the rest of the leg. Tracking spells, like the ones she'd cast on Ruby, where Ruby would ingest Mama's blood so Mama could keep tabs on everywhere she went. And her caging spell, where you lock away a symbol of an evil and smear your blood over the lock in sacrifice, and ask the magic to imprison the evil forever—the same spell I somehow managed to use to banish my magic on the night that Mama died.

“Your mama was a sorcerer too?” Gunn interrupts my thoughts.

I nod. “Mama had a spells license from the government. She specialized in remedial magic—ran a spell room off our kitchen, sorcering legal antidotes and cures,” I say. “It did solid business before she died.”

Gunn nods, gives me the gift of not asking what happened to her. “What sorts of spells?”

“Kendrick family ones, like lavender and jasmine spells to ward off the common cold, or gingerroot spells for a mind's
health and clarity. Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose, all stuff that falls under the Volstead Act concession for remedial magic.” I don't mention the blood-spells to Gunn, since Mama warned me never to tell a soul about her family's special magic, and I don't think a gangster would qualify as an exception. In a time when sorcerers are public enemies, she always said, you don't go showing the world a magic that would put the fear of God back in them.

“So you're a spells expert?”

“I picked up a few things, but spells were never my strong suit.”

Gunn glances at me. “Then you must be a performer.” He says it like it's a fact, not a question—though I suppose if I'm in his car, it should be a fact.

“That's right.” I turn back to the window. I'm awful at lying, so I need to keep my answers short, and vague, at least till I figure out how the hell I'm going to earn a place in Washington. “Though truth be told, Mr. Gunn, I've never performed for a large audience. For as shined up as Jed always is, he's still a prima donna when it comes to sharing his stage.” I stare at the dark trees on the side of the road, passing by in a streak of deep green, and add, “But sometimes I think it's better not to show the world what you can do, at least all at once.”

Gunn doesn't answer, not for a long while, so long that I start to wonder if he knows that I'm playing him. But when I finally work up the nerve to steal a glance his way, I catch him smirking. “Couldn't have said it better myself.”

There's a point at which your body just gets too exhausted from fear to be scared anymore, and before I realize it, I'm swimming in a shallow swamp of sleep. By the time I come to, the scenery's changed. Our two-lane road has transformed into a moonlit bridge, and then a four-lane bustling avenue. The horizon becomes crowded—short towers of man-made stars light up
the sky, and row homes now line the road, pressed tight to one another like little kids heading into their lessons.

I rub my eyes and sit upright as Gunn pops a cigarette into his mouth and lights it. He rolls his window down a sliver, and a steady stream of horns, engines, and screeching wheels overwhelms the car. He rubs his temples with his thumb and middle finger, gives a wide stretch of his mouth, and a yawn escapes him.

I venture, “How long you been seeking out sorcerers?”

He glances at me, looks like he's debating whether to share. “Far too long.”

Encouraged, I push, “You said you're rounding us all up for an experiment?”

Gunn doesn't respond, so I look at my hands and add, “I never see the paper unless we go into Drummond, and even then, we don't have a penny to throw away on news about other folks, but my cousin's friends have told us about Washington. About these big-city shining rooms where you can drink magic all night, and get a fancy sorcerer's performance to boot. Is that . . . is that what this is all about?”

Gunn takes a right, and now we're smack in what looks to be the middle of town. Stretches of chalk-white pavement start running next to the street like thin ribbons. Dames in big brimmed hats and cloches, short skirts and long dresses, spill out onto the bleached walkways, huddle around the outside of buildings sharing smokes. Men lean out of wide-open windows, shouting and laughing into the September night.

“This is about far more than that,” Gunn answers quietly. “I have theories about magic, theories I'm quite keen to prove, theories that could turn this world upside-down. But like you, I'm a big believer in waiting for the right time.” Then he looks at me. “There's something else you should know about me, Ms. Kendrick. I'm far fonder of solutions than questions. You understand me?”

A strange mix of fear and shame writhes through me. “I do, sir.”

And then it's quiet. We cruise down a narrow cobblestone street, Gunn's car stumbling over the bumpy stones, and then we make another turn and pull into a small parking lot pockmarked with a couple of cars. The place looks like it's been closed for days. No lights, no music, no signs of life from the large storefront window that faces out to the corner lot.

Gunn cuts the engine. “I need to make a quick stop.”

I look at the dark corner lot and say slowly, “Sir, I don't think anybody's home.”

“The place is spellbound. It's just a magic manipulation.” He opens his car door and steps outside. “Don't move. I'll only be a minute.”

Gunn slams his door behind him, sidestepping around an old Model T. But before he can get to the door of the place, an older man just
appears
, out of thin air, like he materialized from the darkness to stroll over and greet Gunn.

Spellbound
, Gunn called it. There must be some kind of large-scale force field protecting the entire property from the eyes of the law. I wonder if Jed could pull off something like this. Then again, the only magic he's cared about for a long while is the kind that's transferred into a bottle.

My nerves return again, that panicky, gut-wrenching feeling of being in way over my head. Despite the secret magic that Mama and the women in her family might have conjured in our neck of the woods, sorcerers in Washington clearly have their own tricks. Big, bold, awing sort of tricks. Makes me wonder what special magic Gunn's other sorcerers might have up their sleeves.

The older man who just appeared out of nowhere is at least twice Gunn's age, around fifty if I had to guess, with thick silver hair as shiny as a polished nickel and a suit on that manages to put Gunn's to shame.

Gunn's window's still rolled down a couple inches, so I angle closer to his driver's seat, strain to catch anything of what they're saying—maybe what the heck is going on, what's in store for me—

But I only catch bits that I can't make sense of or string together—
shutting down the Red Den for a while to switch things up, sir . . . Understood, just making my rounds. You're doing your part. Danny would have been proud of you, son. . . . Any leads for the street? . . . Just some dame
 . . .

At that, the older man looks into Gunn's car, searches till he finds me inside it, then laughs and slaps Gunn on the back before turning around and sliding into a car on the other side of the lot.

I scramble away from Gunn's seat before he gets back. He plunks down next to me, settles in, and starts the engine again.

And I know Gunn's warning about too many questions, but I can't help but ask, “Who was that, sir?”

Gunn grips the steering wheel tighter as he navigates out of the lot. “The Boss,” he concedes.

“
Your
boss?”

He gives another little smirk but doesn't meet my gaze. “Boss McEvoy is everyone's boss. You'll find that out soon enough.”

We take a wide turn out of the lot, down a back alley, and through a quieter part of town. Whatever way we're heading—north or south, east or west—the city soon falls away and then we're over the same bridge, back on a lonely two-lane road, surrounded by a forest so thick and dark it swallows the moon and eats the stars. The suspense, the nerves, it all keeps rising, up my throat and through my lips, forcing me to speak.

“Mr. Gunn, you said you were taking me to DC.”

Gunn doesn't answer.

“And we were in DC.”

Again, nothing.

“So where . . .” I take a deep breath. “Where are we going?”

The car gives a little stutter of exhaust and then keeps chugging forward on the long stretch of forested road. All he offers: “This little theory of mine, it needs privacy, room to be tested. It's an experiment that needs to develop on its own.”

Gunn throws on his turning light and drops the car into a lower gear, and we take a slow turn into the trees. In all directions, there're only twisty dark branches and black-emerald leaves. It's beyond spooky, and I keep having to remind myself to breathe.

A block of cold cement takes shape amid the forest. It looks like a prison, maybe a warehouse, with a narrow stitch of windows running like a border around the top. There's a little gravel lot surrounding the place—a small white island shining under the hazy moon—but no cars besides Gunn's.

“We're here.” Gunn nods to the backseat. “Grab your things.”

We crunch across the gravel lot and approach the warehouse entrance. Gunn takes off a block of wood that's barricading the door on our side, props it against the concrete wall. Then he opens the door and offers me his hand. I just think
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ben, Ben, Ben,
and I force myself to grasp it, to allow this gangster to lead me by the hand into a locked warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

It's too black inside to see anything, and so I step carefully, the scuff of my work boots against the concrete floor the only sound through the dark lofted space. It takes a near minute for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I see the floor is littered with at least a dozen occupied cots.

“Who are they?” I whisper.

“The other sorcerers,” Gunn answers. “Fifteen of you in total, though only seven will be staying beyond my experiment.”
Seven
. I look around at the smattering of satchels littered around each
cot, each sorcerer thrown over a thin mattress like a twisted bag of flour. Old, young, men, women, from what I can make out. I wonder where they're from. I wonder what they can do. I wonder if they'll all perform circles around me in whatever “experiment” awaits us tomorrow.

Stop. You will succeed. You
must
succeed.

Gunn clutches his keys in his palm, and the sudden jangle prompts a few of the sleeping sorcerers to grunt and roll over. “I need to go. It's late, and we're starting nice and early tomorrow.”

“Wait—” But the word hangs there alone. There's too many other ones to choose from—
where are you going you gonna leave me here where the heck are we
—that I can't figure out where to start.

“That one's yours.” Gunn points to the one empty sunken mattress in the corner. He tips his white fedora, a cotton ghost floating in a haunted warehouse, and turns on his heel. “Get some rest.”

“Mr. Gunn—” I whisper, but he's already back out the door. He closes it and gives a faint grunt as he slides the block of wood over the door to lock it on the other side.

Nerves on fire, I force myself to tiptoe around the minefield of sleeping sorcerers and lie down as quietly as possible on the empty cot. The thing's all coils and sharp edges, but I just close my eyes, wrap myself around my knapsack, and pray for a sleep as deep and dark as sleep can get.

Long ago there was a sorcerer who walked to hell for her family, and in the pits of fire, the devil saw her remorse and let her walk back
—

But I can't fall asleep. I'm too wound up. One of the men a few feet away shifts with a squeak in his cot, and I give a gasp before I can help it. Another wheezes—
whispers?
—while a nearby cough nearly sends me jumping off my mattress.