The Fascinators

by Andrew Eliopulos

  “As acting president, I honestly have no idea what to do,” Sam said. “But if his parents are here now, they’re probably going to be here tomorrow, too. We have no idea how long a person can live without their magic, and I’d rather not find out.”

  Denver said, “We can create a distraction for a few moments if you think that would give you enough time?”

  Sam paused, considering. It was the kind of plan that would work only with superlatively good luck.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “All right.” Denver nodded. “You stay here. When you hear me or Amber say, ‘vegetarian lasagna,’ that’s your cue to make a dash for the room.”

  “It will definitely be Denver,” Amber said. “I have no idea how I would work the words ‘vegetarian lasagna’ into a sentence.”

  “Duly noted,” Denver said, and then the two of them were off.

  Sam heard the moment they reached Mr. Dawson. It was hard to miss, because he had such a loud, deep voice. Even without hearing every word, Sam could tell that they were playing the concerned friend card, and he could also tell that Mr. Dawson didn’t want to let them anywhere near his son.

  “—and we would be happy to switch off with you this week, taking turns with him. Or if you even need us to bring food here one night, I make a mean vegetarian lasagna.”

  Denver was practically shouting that last bit, and Sam turned the corner at a near-sprint, afraid to miss his window. But the hardest part of staying hidden ended up being resisting the urge to laugh—the sight of Denver with his arm over Mr. Dawson’s shoulder, forcibly turning him away from James’s room so that he could tell him about vegetarian food, was pure comedy—the kind of gesture only someone as charming and lucky as Denver could get away with.

  But Sam didn’t laugh, and just like that, he slipped into James’s room, where he had a powerful urge to sob.

  James had severely diminished in the two days since Sam had seen him.

  His skin was clammy and bruised. His hair was matted to his forehead. The tubes coming out of his mouth and nose made him look like some kind of android, more than anything. This couldn’t wait another day. It couldn’t even wait another minute.

  The spell they’d prepared on the drive over here—Denver reading aloud the steps in the photo and then the three of them loudly debating the reverse of those steps, like this was one more convention category brief—was both tricky and demanding.

  While the associations for the original spell were all about cutting and tearing, they’d agreed that the associations for the counter spell couldn’t be as simple as mending or repairing. It was like a vein had been cut and James’s magic had poured out; closing the vein now probably wouldn’t do him much good. This was one of the points they’d debated—was magic a finite thing in the body, that needed to be replaced in the measure that was lost, or was it regenerative, self-restoring, so that if they could heal whatever part of James held it in, his own stores would resupply in time?

  They weren’t magic doctors, of course, but it was Amber who argued that since the magic doctors hadn’t been able to fix James yet either, there probably wasn’t a known healing spell that would do the trick. The piece of this True Light spell they needed to reverse was the piece that made True Light such an unprecedented horror—the taking of one person’s magic for another. The counter spell needed to be a spell of giving.

  Transcribing the words of the spell in reverse had been a touch easier, although it sounded like there were some instances of Arnauld’s Axiom where it had been more effective to read the original words in reverse order, rather than to reverse every single letter. Who the hell had time to care about that? Sam had asked in the car and asked himself again now.

  He needed to hurry, before Denver ran out of distractions.

  Sam began to recite the words of the counter spell in a low whisper. He pictured his magic as a tangible thing, a thing he could give, and he pictured himself giving it. He remembered the time when he made James a playlist because the Schnauzer he’d had since he was a baby had died, and the time he gave James a sleeve of Rolos, for no other reason than that James had said he liked Rolos.

  He conjured up all these moments of giving, and he kept reciting the words, and like anesthesia coursing its way fast and hot through his veins, he noticed that this spell was working, because he could feel its magic flowing through him.

  And in the exact moments that he began to lose control of the spell—when the volume of his voice began to rise; and Mr. Dawson heard it and came in, shouting; and all the moments of giving started to become a blur—the spell took over, then took him out, then took him in.

  Sam was back in the woods, that night after Bridget’s party.

  He and James were running, hand in hand, convinced that everyone was after them. They were being chased.

  (No one was after them. They were not being chased.)

  They reached the edge of the woods, and James stuck out his arm, ready to protect Sam from any Friedmanite who might want to hurt them.

  (There was no one on the soccer field. No one in Friedman wanted to hurt them just then.)

  James collapsed onto the grounds, and Sam lay down beside him. They looked up at the stars as if the stars existed only for the two of them.

  (Countless people were looking up at those same stars at that same moment. All over the Western hemisphere.)

  James leaned up on his elbow. He peered into Sam’s eyes as if he was thinking about kissing him.

  (He was thinking about kissing him. The boys felt so safe there.)

  Sam didn’t move, and James closed his eyes, and the moment passed.

  (The moment passed. The moment passed. The moment passed.)

  It was this summer at the bowling alley. The three of them had already bowled two rounds. This group of other Friedmanites had come over, because one of the guys, Jamal, had wanted to talk to Delia, and that meant everyone in one group was supposed to talk to everyone in the other.

  One of the girls in Jamal’s group, Bethany, had immediately started flirting with James. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. She asked him what he thought of her fake tattoo, her new jeans. Sam kept getting cut out of the conversation, but James kept roping him back in, making it clear he didn’t like the way this was going, and he was politely trying to correct it.

  Finally, James had said, “Do you want to go?” And Sam and James had made up some excuse to say goodbye to Delia, who looked happy enough with Jamal. They’d tried to slip out without saying anything at all to Bethany. She had caught them outside. “Aren’t we going to exchange numbers?”

  James had made up some excuse there, too, which was the point when Bethany had said, “Oh, I get it. You two are fags together.”

  James’s response, hardly missing a beat, was to lean over and kiss Sam, full on the mouth. It was a horrible moment that should have been wonderful. A kiss that felt more performative than genuine, that came as a shock when Sam was already shocked, that lasted both too long and not long enough, that only served its purpose if its purpose was to send Bethany away, and why would that ever be the purpose of a kiss?

  Sam had been just caught up and confused enough that when it was done, he’d turned and continued leading the way to his car, laughing like ha ha, didn’t we do something great. But the whole drive home, James’s nervous monologue was about Bethany. The look on her face. How she had that coming.

  There had never been a good moment for Sam to interject that he had some questions. That he was pretty sure he wanted to kiss James again, but alone this time. He’d dropped off James never asking those questions, and then he’d determined that he would stay home from Gulf Shores and ask James at Mike’s party.

  (He didn’t stay home from Gulf Shores. He didn’t go to Mike’s party.)

  The thing about dreams is, they are real and not real. Things happen without happening. Often, they don’t make any sense.

  Magic isn’t like that. Sometimes people think it is, because on
e’s associations are as personal as one’s dreams. But magic is very real. It makes sense. It happens.

  Magic isn’t like a dream, but a memory is.

  For a person who doesn’t remember his dreams, a memory can be a hard thing to grasp. One wants it to be solid—a thing to build upon. One wants it to have really happened, and for the happening to matter. One wants it to make sense—to bear the weight of further examination.

  But then one wakes up.

  And when one does, at least one has the magic to fall back on. No one can take that away.

  “Wake up, Sam. Sam, are you awake?”

  That voice. Fractured and fragile, like a little boy scared of the dark.

  Sam would know it anywhere.

  “I’m awake.”

  Which made it so.

  “You saved my life,” James said. Pulling himself into himself, Sam realized that he was holding James’s hand. He was lying in a hospital bed, and James was sitting in a chair beside him. The smell of plastic was strong, which made sense, because—ah ha—there was an oxygen tube in Sam’s nose.

  “We switched places,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper, more like a high-pitched squeak.

  “As usual, you overcorrected.” James was smiling sadly.

  “Best be glad I’m awake now, because if I had died trying to save you, my mom would have killed you.”

  “No lies detected. She actually just went to get a coffee. I think she was planning to put it into your IV.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  James appeared to be doing some mental math.

  “A day and a half? They’re keeping me locked up in the room next door, so I’m losing track of time. But Denver and Amber are at school, so . . . yeah, I think it’s been almost two days since I woke up.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just remembered,” Sam said. “When I was out, I think I had a dream. Or maybe it was memories. But they felt so real.”

  “Oh yeah?” James said, suddenly looking a little shy.

  “It was in the woods by the soccer field. That night after Bridget’s party. And then it was that night at the bowling alley. Do you remember?”

  “I remember,” James said.

  Sam still felt a little woozy, as if he were waking up from anesthesia. It was making him bold.

  “Amber told me about your dad losing his job.”

  “I heard. And . . . I’m glad you know. I wanted to tell you so many times, but I . . . I don’t know what it’s going to mean for me, you know? Next year and stuff.”

  “You want to be here for Benji. Make sure he’s okay.”

  “Exactly,” James said, sounding almost relieved.

  “Always putting other people before yourself. Even when it almost kills you. I guess that’s what they teach you in that church of yours, huh?”

  James searched Sam’s face for a sign that he was joking, but Sam wasn’t joking; his voice just defaulted in that direction.

  “Magic can do an awful lot,” James said. “But sometimes I think the more we try to understand it, the less we get it. And the more we try to control it, the more powerless we become. For me, that’s where God comes in. Not to make you fear magic. But to make you appreciate it.”

  “I appreciate you, James,” Sam said earnestly. There must truly have been some anesthesia in his system; he felt as if he were hovering outside his body, hearing someone else say these words with his mouth. His mind was already drifting back in the direction of sleep, a swift undertow that was difficult to resist. “That’s why . . .” His words trailed off, giving way to the gentle hum of the machinery around him.

  Finally, James leaned in.

  “That’s why what?”

  “Honestly, James, I’ve already forgotten.”

  Chapter 24

  THIRTY MILES NORTHWEST OF ATLANTA, IN THE PARKING lot of a Publix that looked like every other Publix in Georgia, Delia sat in the back seat of a silver Honda, picking at her nails.

  Isaac sat in the front passenger seat, tapping his hands on the dashboard in a steady, maddening rhythm. Grace reclined in the driver’s seat, her eyes closed, her legs pulled up and folded in—a deep state of concentration. Hank sat in the middle seat beside Delia in the back, staring at her hands as if, at any moment, he might reach out and try to make her stop. She almost wished he would. That would give her the excuse to fight back.

  They’d been sitting like this for twenty-five minutes already, and Delia was starting to get cold. Grace swore she couldn’t concentrate if the car was on and the heat was blasting in her face—or at least that’s what Isaac said she said—and Delia’s attempts to convince them that they could turn the heat on but point the vents in another direction had not gone over well.

  Finally, chancing a look past Hank’s creepy face and out his window, Delia saw the woman making her way to their car with her cart full of groceries. Isaac saw her, too, and he reached over and popped the trunk. When the woman reached them, she began loading the groceries one at a time. Gallons of milk, dozens of eggs, many pints of ice cream, sodas, beers. It took her at least five minutes to load all the groceries, in the state she was in. She looked a little bit like a zombie, so Delia decided to stop watching her.

  The woman finished, closed the trunk, and then moved to stand next to their car. Grace opened her eyes and turned on the car, and they high-tailed it out of the parking lot before the spell fully wore off.

  By the time the woman came to, the four of them would be long gone. At that point, she wouldn’t remember a thing, according to Isaac, speaking on behalf of Grace. And Delia had every reason to believe them, seeing as how they hadn’t been caught so far, after all these times.

  Isaac turned on the radio. Lately, his paranoia was manifesting itself in attempts to get the news from every possible source. They didn’t see any sign on social media or TV that the police were closer to tracing their whereabouts, but after the last rending, when it had seemed like the police must have been waiting for them—or else how could they have had so many officers at the mall?—Isaac had determined that the police were keeping what they knew from the press on purpose. That it was part of their strategy.

  Isaac stopped on a channel that immediately sounded promising.

  “—and all four victims were able to make a full recovery, with help from a spell devised by Dr. Greg Harris. If you witness an attack of this nature, please pick up the phone and call—”

  Isaac switched the radio off. He eyed Delia in the rearview mirror, suspicion clouding his features.

  He wasn’t stupid. He knew as well as she did that all the full recoveries trailing in their wake wouldn’t have been possible without help from someone on the inside, handing over the exact steps of their spell. Arnauld’s Axiom. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  But he also knew that the moving house of cards they’d all built together would come crumbling down at the first sign of infighting; they were at half capacity already. He also knew it was no skin off their backs for these victims to recover. Once a rending was successful, they had the magic they needed. If the victims wanted it back, they’d have to get it from somewhere—someone—else.

  Most importantly, Isaac liked her.

  Unfortunately for him, Delia didn’t like him back. She never had, really. He was a bit of a brute. His magic was assertive and uncreative—his associations as dull as . . . well, dishwater. Grace had always been the real genius of their operation, Delia could see that now that Mr. Grender was in jail, but for whatever reason, Grace only shared her knowledge with Isaac. Once, late at night, in the bedroom Delia and Isaac were sharing at the motel where they’d stopped between compounds, Isaac had intimated that Grace really did get her magic from angels, and it was the angels who had told her she needed to speak through him.

  That was the night Delia had confirmed her own long-standing suspicion—that these True Light members were all absolutely insane, and she couldn’t respect
herself if she stayed with them, no matter how powerful they were.

  Which was why this was officially the last time that Delia would be sitting in the parking lot of a Publix for thirty minutes, while some rich, mind-controlled thrall did all their shopping.

  She had enough power, surely. Enough to escape, to disappear—enough to erase every trace of her involvement with True Light, and to start over somewhere new where she could enjoy what she’d won in peace. Put it to good use as . . . something. She could figure out her next steps from wherever that was.

  Somewhere far away from Georgia. Somewhere far away from Pinnacle.

  And if the memories of what was and the dreams of what was supposed to be ever kept her awake, well—hopefully she would be powerful enough to erase those, too.

  Chapter 25

  IF IT WAS WEIRD TO TAKE A DATE OUT FOR BREAKFAST instead of dinner, the biscuits and gravy at Mary Ellen’s were good enough that Sam was willing to accept any weirdness that came with them. Anyway, while it was true he was still getting used to the rules of dating, such as they were, from what he could tell you were sort of allowed to make up whatever rules you wanted, as long as you both agreed on them.

  For example, not only were he and Denver out on a breakfast date at Mary Ellen’s, once they were finished there, they were headed straight for Waffle House for an immediate comparison—not so that Denver could decide which was better, but so that Denver could see how truly excellent both restaurants were.

  “Too bad they don’t have Mary Ellen’s on the UGA campus,” Denver said, before taking another bite of his biscuits and gravy and letting out another obscene moan that—breakfast time or not—was making Sam want to jump across this table and start making out with him that second.

  “That only means we’ll have to take turns. One weekend you can drive to Athens and experience life as a cool college kid who has countless friends and plans every night. The next weekend I’ll drive back to Friedman so I can remember how it feels to be bored out of my skull, dancing alone in my room.”