Charmfall (14 page)

“Until they solve the blackout or realize you have nothing to do with it.”

“So they won’t stop coming after us until they get their power back . . . and
actually
have the ability to come after us. I don’t really like that strategy.”

“They probably don’t, either. And what sucks worse? Other than knowing Reapers have lost their power and Jeremiah’s totally mad, we have no other clues.” I let out a frustrated sound and rolled my shoulders a little. “I need a break.”

“You’ve got one until study hall,” she said. Because of the shenanigans, classes had been canceled for the rest of the day. “Maybe we could take a walk, get a little fresh air.
Ooooh
,” she said, jumping up off the couch. “Let’s go to Gaslight.”

“What’s Gaslight?”

“Only the best magical trade shop in the tri-state area, offering magical surplus, supplies, and books for the exceptional spellbinder!”

I was caught between two emotions. Sadness that she was excited about something she may never get to use again, and amusement about how truly geeky that sounded.

I decided to feel amused.

“Wow. That was so geeky it, like, transcends normal geeky and moves straight into hella geeky. Or maybe über geeky.”

She stuck out her tongue at me. “Grab your messenger bag. It’s a short walk. We’ll grab a snack while we’re out.”

“Are we supposed to be leaving campus like this?”

“We just saved Foley a whole lot of grief by skipping the magical details. She owes us one.”

Scout was leaving out the part about how the fire alarm had been faked to get to her
Grimoire
, which made the whole incident our fault. But I didn’t think she’d appreciate the reminder.

“Fine,” I said. “But this time you’re the one who has to make up an excuse.”

She got her chance pretty quickly. We’d gotten our gear and were just preparing to leave when the door opened, and Veronica and Amie walked in.

Amie smiled. “It looks much better in here. Thanks for getting it taken care of.”

“You’re welcome,” Scout said. “Sorry for the mess.”

Veronica looked us over suspiciously. “Where are you two going?”

Scout jumped in with an answer. “Lily’s out of craft glue,” she said, “and she still has more, you know, decorations to do. So we were going to run down to the pharmacy and grab some. Sneak errand!” She waved her hands in the air excitedly.

“Wow,” I muttered under my breath, but Veronica must have bought it, or at least was bored by the conversation, because she and Amie moved back into her room.

“Let’s get going,” Scout said, “before she changes her mind and follows us.”

Probably a good idea.

*  *  *

A sign above the door read
GASLIGHT GOODS
. The door was framed by two old-fashioned lanterns, small flames flickering in the breeze.

“A bookstore?” I asked her.

“Calling it that hardly does it justice,” Scout said, pushing open the door and jingling a leather strap of bells that hung on the inside.

The store smelled faintly smoky. Not in a bad way—more like “fall campfire” than “burnt toast.” It wasn’t a big store, and it was divided neatly into areas by tall white bookshelves loaded with books, spices, and candles. Long ropes of beads and stones hung along one wall beside a set of tall wicker urns that held branches in various colors. The walls were painted cheerily white, and clerks in white lab coats milled around with feather dusters. Unfortunately for them, they were just about the only other people in the store except for a family of obvious tourists—complete with matching
I
CHICAGO
baseball caps.

Scout picked up a red wire basket from a stack by the door and immediately headed for a shelf that held various kinds of salt.

“Don’t people wonder about a magic store in the middle of downtown Chicago?” I asked quietly.

Scout picked up a small glass bottle of pinkish salt, held it up to the light, and squinted at it. “They don’t wonder because they assume it’s a joke.” She put the bottle back on the shelf, and grabbed a bottle of gray salt instead.

“Why gray instead of pink?”

Scout shrugged and moved over to the next bank of shelves, which held old coins and metal knickknacks. “It’s my go-to shade.”

“Veronica has lip stain; you have salt.”

“Not just salt. Brittany sea salt from France. It has great stick.”

“Stick?” I asked, picking up a small metal dog that looked like a miniature schnauzer. It was heavy for its size, and had a crazy level of detail—little ears, little tufts of fur, and a perky little tail.

“Stick,” she repeated. “It means . . . the spell has staying power. It sticks around for a long time. Doesn’t just fade away like cheap perfume.”

She picked up a coin, weighed it in her hand, and then put it back on the shelf again.

While she perused the coins, I put the tiny dog back and looked at the rest of the metal items. There were lots of them, and they were all just as detailed—a tiny Ferris wheel; a lantern; a potted sunflower; a laptop.

“What are these?” I asked Scout, holding up the lantern.

“They’re called icons,” she said. “It stands for Iterated Condensations of Normal Space.”

“Using English—no magic speak—explain to me what that means.”

“Just call ’em icons,” Scout said. “You use them to symbolize something in a spell. Something you want. Something you want to effect. A quality you want to give something.”

My gaze went back to the tiny dog, and I picked it up again. I know it sounds weird, but I liked the way it felt in my hand. It was a cute little dog with a funny little expression. But it felt kind of
right
.

“I like this one.”

She looked over. “Good choice. Dogs have good energy.”

I put the dog back on the shelf again. “So is this stuff just for people who do spells? Spellcasters or spellbinders or whatever?”

“Not at all. There are books, gear with the Adept and Reaper symbols on them if you want to go full out. And people who can make stuff with their magic sometimes sell the stuff they make. You can get all that here.
Oooooh
,” she suddenly said, making a beeline for the wicker urns of branches. “I need to look at those. The books are over there,” she said, pointing to the other side of the room. “If you want to take a look.”

I watched her pick through the branches, pulling out one after another, looking it over, and shoving it back into the basket. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but it was certainly beyond anything I could see. As far as I could tell, they were just tree limbs—the kinds of sticks an interior designer might throw into a vase on a dining room table.

I took her advice and walked to the book area, which filled the shelves on the back wall of the store. They looked like comic books and graphic novels, but then again, so did Scout’s
Grimoire
.

“I wonder if these are magic books, too,” I muttered.

“Can I help you?”

I glanced behind me. A guy whom I guessed was in his twenties, with short black hair, a Gaslight uniform, and a name tag that read
KITE
smiled at me. His teeth were a little bit crooked, which made him seem cuter, actually. Friendlier. More real.

“Are these really graphic novels? Like, comic books?”

“They really are.”

I looked at him for a sec, trying to figure out if he was telling me the truth and these were just normal books . . . or if they were magic books in disguise and he wasn’t sure whether he could trust me.

“If I was, um,
special
, would they still be graphic novels?”

“Yes,” he slowly said, looking at me with an odd expression. “Can I help you find something?”

“Hard to believe,” Scout said, joining us, “but she is totally for real. ‘Special,’ she says. Poor girl thinks everything in here is magical.” She fluttered her hands in the air. “Woo woo!”

Kite laughed knowingly. “Noob?”

“Totally. But got firespell her first time out.”

Kite’s eyes widened, and there was a little more respect in his face. “No kidding. Nicely done.”

Not that I’d had any choice in the matter, but I said, “Thanks,” anyway.

“I just thought they might be—”

“Because we’re in a magic shop,” Scout hurriedly finished. “We know, we know. Silly girl. Hey, do you have any of those beeswax candles I like?”

Kite frowned. “There weren’t any on the shelf?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Maybe we have some in the back. Let me check.”

“Thanks!” Scout said. As soon as he was out of sight, she gave me a sharp pinch on the arm.

“Hello,
ow
,” I said, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

“Ixnay on the graphic novel bit. The form of my
Grimoire
is just between you and me. Gaslight Goods is Switzerland.”

“It’s Switzerland?”

“Neutral territory,” she explained. “Reapers and Adepts are both allowed in here, and Kite loves gossip. That can work well for us—he gives us info when he’s got it to give, but he gives it to the other side, as well. So you have to be very careful what you say, because the information’s probably not going to stay here.”

“What happens in Gaslight Goods does not stay in Gaslight Goods?”

“Precisely.”

My stomach turned. I had almost given away the secret form of Scout’s
Grimoire
to some guy I didn’t even know just because he worked in a magic shop. Just because I’d assumed he seemed like a nice guy and, therefore, would have been some kind of Adept sympathizer. I was a magical disaster waiting to happen.

“I am
so
sorry,” I said, but she shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“No harm, no foul. Even if he figured it out, I could always change the form. We just have to be careful.”

We might have to be careful, but if Kite really liked to gossip, maybe we could use that to our advantage.

Kite emerged from the back room with an open cardboard box in hand. We followed him to the candles, where he began restocking the shelves.

Scout grabbed a couple. “So, Kite, how are things around the store?”

He made a low whistle. “Very, very slow. The blackout hasn’t exactly been good for business. Not many people stocking up on supplies when they aren’t sure when they’ll be able to use them again.”

“You know about the blackout?” I asked. Scout rolled her eyes.

“It’s not exactly common knowledge,” Kite said, “but I like to stay in the loop.”

Speaking of which: “Kite, we’ve heard Reapers are having some internal issues. Like, folks are really mad at Jeremiah. What’s your take on that?”

Scout’s eyes widened at my question, but then she smiled a little. She must have figured out where I was going.

“Only that the hierarchy’s getting nervous.”

“Hierarchy?” I asked.

“The Scions,” Scout put in. “Jeremiah and the others. The ones who lead the rest of them into committing heinous acts.”

“Switzerland,” Kite reminded her, and she gave him a canny smile.

“So why are they getting nervous?” I asked. “We’ve heard there are lots of rumors floating around the sanctuaries. Are the rumors making folks nervous?”

Kite shook his head. “My theory? People are nervous, and the rumors are how they’re coping.”

“How so?” Scout asked.

“Well, there are two tiers within the Dark Elite. Just like with Adepts, there are the ones who fight the war—who hang out in the sanctuaries and are in touch with the leadership, and there are the ones who stay home and mind their business. They’re called the ‘old ones.’ They keep their magic quietly. They take energy a little at a time. Slowly. Carefully. They don’t get wrapped up in the politics, and they tend to believe in fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales?” I repeated.

Kite nodded. “Think old-school fairy tales—the terrifying kind where everybody learns an important lesson about wandering around in the dark alone. Only they tend to think of them more like history than children’s stories.”

Okay, that was weird. But it got weirder.

Kite looked around, then leaned in. “Anyway, last week a few of these old-school types come in, and they’re fretting about leadership, and one of them mentions this old Scottish fairy tale about a boy named Campbell.”

“Who was he?” I asked.

“Supposedly, he led an army against the evil baron who was controlling their area of Scotland. He was helped by a band of fairies and pixies—little magical creatures—but after he won control of the country, he became as evil as the guy he’d replaced. Eventually, he banished the fairies and pixies from his country.”

Scout and I exchanged a glance. It was sad, sure, but an old fairy tale didn’t exactly help us figure out who was making trouble in modern-day Chicago.

“I don’t get it,” Scout said. “What does this have to do with Reapers?”

“They’re repeating the story like it’s gospel,” Kite said. “Every time they talk about Jeremiah, someone brings up the tale of Campbell.”

“Okay,” Scout said, “but maybe they’re just saying the grass is greener, or whatever. You know, don’t complain about what we have, ’cause the next guy could be worse?”