by Ashia Monet
“I’ll stay with you,” Jamal says. Before he leaves to fetch an army of pillows and blankets, he turns on the TV and tosses Blythe the remote.
Jamal must’ve been watching it last—he’s the only one who watches the magician stations. There are certain channels that are only visible by enchanting your TV with a particular spell, and it took Jamal a whole weekend (and a whole power crystal) to properly spell their TV.
The Alastair French Show is on. Alastair himself is a charming man with iconic brassy hair and an iconically wide smile, but Blythe is iconically tired of seeing him. As if his nighttime talk show weren’t enough, he has his own radio station too, flaunting his monopoly on the “magician news” market.
Tonight, Alastair’s guest is a sharp-faced man in a slick grey suit. Blythe doesn’t recognize him. But what he says makes her skin go cold.
“We think of the Trident Republic as a weak government but that is a genuinely dangerous underestimation,” the man says. “If they wanted a fight, they could get one. All it would take…”
He holds up a skinny, pale finger. “Is one act. One random, hostile action could completely tip the scales. Word would travel to the Black Veins, the Sages would get a call and boom. The whole situation explodes. Next thing we know, there’s a war on our hands. All because of one act and one phone call.”
One
The Full Cup is more than the Fultons’ coffee shop. It is Blythe’s oasis.
Her parents had always dreamed of running a magic-based café but didn’t get a chance until the family moved to Washington. That was when they found the perfect vacant building in the middle of a block that wasn’t too busy or too slow, too noticeable or too tucked away. It was just right.
At the time, Blythe was thirteen, naive to the coffee world but not blind to the joy it brought both her family and every magician that walked through the café’s doors. In short, she fell in love instantly, and has remained in love for every day since.
Outside, the Full Cup is a plain brick building with a hanging neon sign. Inside, it is a paradise: fairy lights drip from slanted rafters, folded napkins adorn vintage redwood tables, and sunlight pours from the windows.
During the school year, Blythe baristas as often as her schedule allows. Once summer vacation rolls around, the Full Cup transforms into Blythe’s home away from home. She spends hours behind the counter, soaking up the scent of espresso and pouring latte after latte.
She is pouring steaming milk, watching the froth morph into art from the sway of her wrists, when her mind flashes with sharp memories. The view from the roof, her numb limbs, the hum of the melody in her ears.
Her hands tremble. She shuts her eyes, stilling herself. She is not on a roof. She isn’t even in her house. She is at work, at the Full Cup, and she is okay. She is safe here.
Jamie, the only non-Fulton café employee, leans over Blythe’s shoulder. “What is that?”
The floating shape in the espresso looks obvious. “A bunny,” Blythe answers.
Jamie arches a thin eyebrow. “That’s funny because it looks exactly like Cthulhu.”
Blythe rolls her eyes. She’s been doing latte art since she was thirteen-years-old—Mr. Bunny may look a little rough but he’s not cosmically ugly. “He clearly has ears, Jamie.”
“Not to the human eye.”
Blythe scoffs, sliding the mug down the polished counter to the customer—where the recipient wrinkles her nose.
“Um,” the customer begins. “…what is this picture on the top supposed to be?”
Blythe’s eye twitches. “It’s an abstract representation of the daily trauma my soul endures from living in this hell we call a modern-day society.”
The customer stares at her. Blythe stares back.
“Or a bunny,” Blythe relents.
The customer gives an indignant sniff. “I’ll take the bunny,” she says, and carries her coffee away.
Blythe makes a mental note not to be snide with the customers. Especially not today, when the café is already warm with tension. A variety of people sit at the tables, typing on laptops or gazing longingly past the windows, nibbling eclairs and sipping caramel lattes. But the Alastair French Show plays from both TVs, on either side of the space, sandwiching the space with piercing political worry.
Blythe’s been tuning it out since she clocked in. There is no possible way for her to handle the world’s problems along with her own.
Jamie leans against their register to watch Blythe wipe down her station. “Is bad latte art like, a weird magic thing?”
Their questions are usually a welcome distraction, a rope pulling Blythe back into the mundane. One month ago, Jamie was the new kid at school—they were also a magician who didn’t know magic existed.
Jamie had exuded an aura, the same kind that resonates from every magician and every magical location, this slight hum of energy not dissimilar from the sparking static emitted from old electrical appliances.
Blythe had introduced herself and started a conversation about magician politics that absolutely blindsided poor Jamie.
By the end of this very awkward introduction, Blythe ended up offering Jamie a job at the Full Cup—and gave herself the job of teaching Jamie the basics of magic.
“Does it curse people?” Jamie asks. “Take away their magic? Damn them to hell?”
“Y’know,” Blythe begins. “Sometimes bad latte art just means your barista is fucking out of it.”
Jamie winces. “I was really hoping it’d be a curse.”
Blythe smiles tightly, the best she can offer. She’s not exactly in the best headspace to be a patient teacher and an awkward silence falls between them. Jamie seems to be out of questions.
“Are you doing okay?” Their gaze is unblinking on her. Jamie is, apparently, never out of questions.
“I’m fine.” At this point, Blythe’s answer is automatic. Talking about her emotions, showing her emotions, admitting she has emotions—that’s not really her thing.
“Alright, but like…” Jamie plays with a tuff of their short, purple hair. “Your latte art is usually really good. That last one looked like I made it.”
Blythe barks a laugh. Jamie absolutely beams. “Okay, I’m not sure if I should be happy that you laughed or offended that you agree,” they chuckle. “But if there’s anything I can like…do for you…just let me know. For realsies.”
Despite their laughter, there is heaviness behind Jamie’s voice. They’re not kidding.
So Blythe smiles at them. And it’s an actual smile this time. “How about you just do me the favor of never saying ‘for realsies’ again?”
Jamie shoots finger guns at her. “No promise-sies.”
Blythe turns back to cleaning before Jamie notices the smile spreading on her face. Blythe usually keeps herself company these days—friendships start strong and fade into awkward glances and wondering when it’s appropriate to unfollow on Instagram.
But Jamie is annoyingly likable—from their awkward, tall, lankiness to their charmingly harmless smile. And the two of them have too much in common.
While Jamie is nonbinary—agender, to be specific—they’re into girls, and when Blythe told them she was bisexual, their response was a punctuated, “Hell yeah, broski”, which was equally endearing and painfully corny.
The two of them are going to be best friends if Blythe isn’t careful.
A group of girls walks in, their arms weighed down by shopping bags as they gossip adamantly. Customers like these are common at the Full Cup. When Blythe used to imagine a café for magicians, she assumed she’d be serving adventurers overflowing with stories, or magic scientists carrying mysteriously powerful artifacts. But the truth is, most modern magicians are just normal people with families to take care of, bills to pay, and a life to live in-between.
It is painfully mundane. But it is exactly what Blythe needs today.
Blythe makes their drinks with as much passion and flair as if the Sages themselves were standing befo
re her. The orders pile in until Blythe is lost in a haze of lattes and iced coffees.
She barely notices when she passes a drink to one of their regulars. The woman cocks her head to the side, blonde hair falling in her eyes.
“Will you guys be closing?” she asks.
Her question makes Blythe freeze. All stores close eventually, but she’s probably poking at something much more serious.
“What do you mean?” Blythe asks in her Customer Service Voice.
“A lot of magician-run stores are closing until things cool down. You know, because of all the stuff going on with the Black Veins and the Trident Republic.”
Blythe swallows thickly. She just can’t escape this situation, can she? Even at the Full Cup, it lingers over her, heavy and palpable and ruining everything.
“No,” she manages to say. “Not to my knowledge.”
Blythe hurries back to her station as if she could outrun the thoughts clouding her mind. But the anxiety sticks around, tensing her shoulders as she mixes drinks, delivers them to customers, and tries her damned hardest to force a smile. She doesn’t stop, not once, until six o’clock arrives and the seats in the Full Cup are empty. Closing time.
Jamie claps their hands emphatically. “Time to clean!”
Blythe frowns. “You’re excited to clean?”
“No, but you’ve been having a bad time, so I was trying to like…” they make awkward hand movements to replace the words they can’t find. “Trying to make Blythe feel better”, may be what they mean?
“Well said,” Blythe teases through a smile. “Time to clean, indeed.”
The sky fades into the red and purple gradient of twilight as they mop, sweep, and put away the mugs. Jamal, who has been isolated in the back for most of the day, makes an appearance to stack chairs.
The TVs fill the silence. “…the object that was found, reportedly an ancient stone, is currently in the Black Veins’ hands. The Sages, however, are yet to make a statement.”
Jamie’s gaze snaps up from the broom in their hands. “Wait, what happened?”
Blythe clenches her teeth as she stares at the screens. “The Black Veins and the Trident Republic are…getting into some shit.”
“Is it bad?” Jamie asks.
Jamal snorts. “It ain’t new.”
He’s right. Magician governments function like kingdoms without borders. Every magician government has leaders, in the same way a kingdom has kings and queens.
And, just as the citizens of a kingdom are not required to remain in the kingdom forever, it is not mandatory for someone to stay allied to the government their parents raised them under. People can switch governments or leave their power entirely and become unaffiliated—as the Fultons did years ago.
But unlike kingdoms, magician governments care less about their physical land—which usually consists of scattered, hidden cities—and more about the size of their citizenship.
A magician government is only as powerful as the number of people who pledge allegiance to it.
Most of the western world—from the Americas to most of Europe, and including several Hispanic countries—are under the control of the first magician government ever established: the Black Veins.
Their very name is associated with castles of white marble, the Sages in fine silks and velvet robes, cities of scholars and scientists where magic is celebrated in the streets.
The Trident Republic, however, is three years younger than Blythe. An up-and-coming government of rebels, they are the lost, the young, and the hungry.
They only have one city, Electric City, located in no-mans-land in the middle of the desert. They have no business even speaking ill of the Black Veins—and yet here they are pushing their luck by trying to ignite a war.
Blythe has no proof that the Trident Republic is behind what happened to her last night. But since she is a Guardian, and under the Sages protection, she would not be surprised if they had organized it to get under the Sages’ skin.
She would not be surprised if she were just a pawn in their game. And that knowledge makes her sick.
She must wear her emotions on her face because Jamal glances to her and goes to grab the remote.
Alastair French stops mid-sentence as the screen clicks off. “The Trident Republic in Electric City—“
“That’s enough of that,” Jamal says. “Let’s get ready to go.”
Blythe couldn’t agree more. She takes out her phone to let her mom know they’re on their way home, but she feels eyes on her skin. She glances up to find Jamie staring at her.
“…Hi,” Blythe greets.
Jamie’s obviously ready to go—they’re wearing their oversized jean jacket and their backpack hangs off one shoulder—but they’re just…watching her.
“Oh, sorry, I was just,” Jamie hesitates, their cheeks going pink. “I was going to um…ask you something.”
“Alright.”
Jamie takes a deep breath. Oh boy. “Right. So. Um. I know today sucked for you, but I have an, uh, idea that could be fun—if you’re down, of course. It’s okay if you’re not. But me and a friend are going to the shore tomorrow night. It’s just us but my friend’s cool. I mean, he’s not a magician. Obviously. You guys are the only magicians I know. And, uh, it might rain so we probably won’t go—okay, I’m rambling but I’m shutting up now, anyway, yeah, do you want to come?”
Blythe has to switch mental gears from “impending magician war” to “beach vacation”.
“Oh,” she says. “That sounds great. But it’s my parents’ anniversary and I always watch my sisters while they go out.”
If Jamie is disappointed, they don’t show it. “That’s cool, I get it. When my moms got married a couple years ago it was like…a whole big thing.”
“Well,” Blythe eyes her father. “My parents never had to deal with courts telling them their love was illegal. They’re just overly dramatic.”
Jamal scoffs loudly enough for her to hear.
“Nothing wrong with celebrating love,” Jamie shrugs. “But let me know if you…change your mind or something.”
Blythe smiles politely because she definitely will not be changing her mind. But Jamie doesn’t need to know that. She doesn’t want to hurt their feelings.
Jamie starts out, but they’ve barely reached the door before Jamal’s voice echoes around them. “Hey, Jamie. If it rains, how ‘bout you drop on by? Blythe could use the company.”
Blythe shoots her father a look before she can stop herself. And then she realizes Jamie has seen her.
Their face pales. “I wouldn’t want to bother anybody. I-It’s cool.”
Blythe’s face burns with embarrassment. She never meant to be mean to Jamie. “It’s fine,” she relents. “You can come.”
Jamie hesitates. As if this is some sort of trap. “…Really?”
Blythe nods. “Really.”
“Oh. Oh. Awesome. Cool,” the smile they break into is bright enough to light up a whole street. “Yeah, okay, see you tomorrow maybe!”
The bells chime above the door as they leave.
Blythe locks eyes with her father. “Why?”
Her parents, of all people, should understand why she doesn’t bother with people. They’re the ones who moved the family from state to state, uprooting them so many times, Blythe spent every school year in a different region of the United States.
But Jamal’s face is impassive. “You like Jamie,” he says.
Liking Jamie isn’t the point. Blythe pouts, keeping her gaze on him, letting the silence linger.
He sighs at her defiance, shutting his eyes as if she is being irrational. “You need to make some friends, Bubbles,” he says. “I know that’s hard for you, but if something goes wrong while your mother and I are gone, Jamie can help.” He pauses. “You need people. Not just us, or your sisters. Your mother and I won’t always be here.”
Blythe doesn’t want to talk about this. “I’m going to turn up the cloaker,” she says, and hurries
to the back before he can stop her.
It’s not that Blythe can’t make friends. She could, easily. There’s just no point. It took her until seventh grade to realize how quickly friends became strangers once she moved away.
The Fultons have stayed in Washington since Blythe was thirteen, but there is no guarantee they will be here next year. Why would Blythe risk getting attached to someone who won’t even remember her name next summer?
Friendships are fleeting. Her family is constant. Magician war be damned, Jamal said it himself—he’d protect her if anything happened again. So why is he asking Jamie to be around in case something goes wrong?
Blythe stomps down the stairs into the dim basement. The cloaker leans against the farthest brick wall, an egg-shaped generator that operates without cords or wires. Like all forms of magic, the only thing it requires is a power source. Without a power source, no magic can be done under any circumstances—and stronger magic requires a larger power source.
Thankfully, the cloaked requires a very low-energy, cheap power source that comes in the form of a crystal—power sources are often forms of crystals or rocks—that the Fultons replace yearly, after a short trek to a magician-run shop on the east end of town.
In exchange, the cloaker powers a constant illusion; while magicians see the café for what it is, Commons pass by an abandoned building. Blythe turns up the dial, strengthening the illusion, which is best for when the café is unattended.
She’s barely made it back up the stairs before her phone vibrates. We need to talk when you get home, the text from her mother reads.
This day just keeps getting better.
The drive back home is silent. Blythe doesn’t initiate conversation and Jamal only sighs, occasionally rubbing the back of his neck.
The Fultons’ current house is one of the nicer places they’ve lived in. Lena is in the backyard, thundering soccer balls into her net. Blythe greets her, but she only gives an offhanded “hey” before refocusing on her aim. Sister of the year right there.
The TV plays for an empty audience in the living room, but Blythe can hear someone typing in the family office. She peeks in to find her mother at the desk, hair pulled into a bun behind a headscarf, working on her recipe blog.