Magic Brew

by T. Rae Mitchell

  The audience reacts with exaggerated gasps and too much clapping. Eating up the praise, he bows and then hushes them. He carries the huge card over to Nyx. Several mimes are holding her in place, back to back with her Carnie twin.

  My gut knots.

  The magician slides the Queen of Clubs between the two girls. Then he pulls out a cheap looking dime store wand and taps the card. It instantly spins, whipping Nyx and the Carnie up in a high-speed vortex.

  I can’t see Nyx anymore.

  The magician waves his plastic wand and the huge card slows, first flashing the design on the back of the card, before stopping on the Queen of Clubs. But the image changed during the spin. Now it’s a drawing of Nyx. Mirrored, as if she’s staring down at her reflection.

  Christ. He put Nyx inside the card with her Carnie twin.

  There’s more applause, whoops and wicked cackles.

  The magician hands me his wand. “Choose your queen.”

  How am I supposed to know which one’s Nyx and which one’s the Carnie? They’re identical. If I choose wrong, what happens to her?

  “Rise! Rise to your feet,” the magician says, waving his skinny arms.

  My body’s become heavier. I struggle to get up off the floor and I’m barely able to stand once I’m up. What’re they doing to me?

  “Choose,” the magician says again.

  I don’t want to. I’m afraid to get this wrong. I shake my head violently.

  He grabs me by the arm, bringing his face close to mine. His mottled black tongue darts out. Starting at my chin, he drags the wormy thing up the side of my face. His dank breath smells like road kill. Nausea rises up into my chest, burning hot. I’m going to puke any minute. With my mouth sealed shut, I’ll suffocate on my own sick.

  He pulls away just in time. “Mmm, the anger and fear on this one. Tastes like chocolate covered bacon strips,” he says, licking his darkly stained lips.

  The other Carnies tighten the circle around us. There’s a hungry look in every one of their eyes. Some of them are drooling.

  Terror stretches through me. What was it the ringmaster said, something about drinking tears and feasting on screams? That’s why I’m getting weaker. These creepy clowns are munching on my emotions. But the bacon remark makes me think that’s not all they plan to eat.

  Fear shoots through my heart. I start hyperventilating. The magician takes a step back as the air around me sparks and crackles. Dizzy, I close my eyes. A pressure’s building in my chest. Pushing my senses deep inside, I see something with my inner eye. I don’t know how I ever missed it before. There’s a quartz crystal the size of my thumb embedded in my breastbone.

  It’s lighting up, growing brighter and brighter, filling my ribcage with a scary amount of energy. I can’t control it. Panic races along my nerve endings. I think I’m going to internally combust.

  As much as that scares me, it’s a better way to go than being eaten by the Carnies.

  Taking cold comfort in that thought, I stop fighting the mounting energy. Strobes of electricity burst past my skin, shooting out my palms and fingers. Power surges up my throat, blowing past the magical binding sealing my lips together. My mouth splits open, releasing an inhuman sounding roar, so piercing I cover my own ears.

  Silvery-blue lightning arcs from my body. In a flash I see every jesters’ fanged grin stretch back in terror. Fiery bolts snarl everywhere, radiating a path of pure destruction through them, blasting the surrounding darkness with so much light the pitch black is swallowed up by an endless white.

  Hues of gray dissolve the blinding light, slowly taking on the shapes of buildings, parked cars, trees, dumpsters and the city skyline. The ordinary sounds of traffic on the bridge, music coming from distant apartments and the random pop of fireworks pierce the soundless void of the demon dimension.

  I’m back at the bottom of the stairs, where I was before I slid into the Nightmare Circus. The only thing left of that freak show is the stench of sulphur drifting on the air. And a whole bunch of white rabbits with black spots hopping all over the place.

  The crystal’s energy is still coursing through me. For the first time tonight, I feel strong–maybe even invincible. My senses are on fire. I’m seeing that trippy glow in the grass and trees again. The whole hill’s pulsing with streams of golden light.

  The faintest sound pricks my ears. I turn to the trees on the other side of the street. The noise could’ve been caused by a dry leaf fluttering to the ground. But I know it’s not. They think they’re hidden, those thin creatures of bark and branch, and shining eyes, dark as blackberries. I see them, moving between the trees like a slight breeze. What are they and why are they so curious about me? Slowly, I take a step in their direction, but they turn, twisting away quicker than a darting bird, and vanish.

  Someone grabs me by the arm, hauling me forward. Resisting, I pull away.

  “Earth to Edge!” Nyx shouts, her one eye glaring at me. “Pan’s yelling in my head. There’s still time to catch the train.”

  Drawing her shadow cloak over us, she skims us across the Polo Grounds, straight to the stairs leading down to the subway. We pass by a few gullies standing near the entrance. They don’t see us at all. I reach out and shove one guy on the shoulder. He whips around, looking ready for a fight. When he doesn’t see anyone, he accuses his friend of pushing him.

  Stupid humans. They only believe what they wanna believe.

  Laughing, we glide swiftly down the stairs, coming to a sudden stop when we reach the bottom. Nyx’s cloak disintegrates and a thick wall of stifling heat hits me as I’m dropped to the floor. I nearly fall over when the rubber soles of my boots catch on the concrete. “What’ the–?”

  “It’s too bright down here,” she snaps. “I can’t keep the cloak up.”

  We take off running, our footsteps echoing within the wide, underground walkway as we head for the turnstiles. We leap over them without paying and someone yells as we race toward the stairwell to the platform. I catch the silver glint of the train from the top of the stairs.

  “Train’s still here!” I yell. But as we clamber down the steps, the train’s hydraulics hiss and it rolls into motion and snakes down the tunnel.

  12

  All Saints Feast

  NYX GRABS MY ARM AND SQUEEZES. “Come on, time to surf. The tunnel’s dark enough. I should be able to catch up with the train.”

  “Whoa, whoa, not so fast,” Hurley says from behind us.

  Startled, I turn around as he steps out from behind one of the concrete pillars, followed by Justice and the Mech. “What’re you doing here? Why aren’t you on the frickin’ train?”

  “Told you he’d be wrathful,” Justice says, throwing Hurley a look.

  Hurley slaps me on the shoulder. “Leave no soldier behind.”

  Nyx kicks the wall and screams, scaring a gullie so bad she drops her groceries and runs up the stairs screaming even louder. “You idiots! I can’t catch the train dragging all of you with me. What the hell do we do now?”

  “Truce, man,” Hurley says, holding up his hands. “We’ll just hot wire some wheels and book it to the station at Bryant Park. The others know to wait for us there.” He punches me in the arm. “No offense, but when it looked like you weren’t gonna make it in time, Pan wanted some muscle left behind. Wanted to make sure Nyx is covered.”

  “Nice,” I grumble.

  “We would’ve been fine,” Nyx says. “Edge blew the Carnies away.”

  “With what, his good looks?” Hurley says, grinning at me.

  “Ha, ha, very funny. Let’s go find that ride.” I turn and stomp up the stairs.

  It doesn’t take long for us to find three cherry rides parked outside a bar. A Triumph, an Indian Chief and a Captain America Chopper. All in mint condition. I put dibs on the Indian.

  “Work your magic,” Justice says to Gort.

  The Mech walks over to the Indian. I’m expecting him to hotwire the bike like Hurley said, but he plugs his slithering
black tentacles into the gas tank, filling it with a dark oily ooze. Within seconds the crankcase, carburetor, pistons and gears mutate into steely but pliable throbbing organs, arteries and veins, which thread over the tank, airscoop, pipes and seat like a network of fine cobwebs. The dragbars twist into iron bones, the grips into clawed knuckles, and the headlight sinks into the eye sockets of a monstrous metallic skull.

  “I’m supposed to get on this thing?” I say as Gort moves on to ruin the other two bikes.

  Hurley shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

  “It’s breathing.”

  Hurley climbs onto the Captain America. “What, afraid it’s gonna snap at your little boys?”

  “At least I’ve got some to worry about,” I say as I swing my leg over the monstrous bike and straddle the thing.

  “Burn!” Justice laughs.

  Rolling his eyes, Hurley jumps on the kickstart. An unearthly snarl blasts from the engine as he tears away.

  Nyx slides onto the bitch pad behind me. “Let’s roll.”

  With Justice and Gort sharing the Triumph, we rumble down Harlem River Drive. The growling engines of the three Franken-bikes make an awful racket. Obviously Gort’s never heard of a baffle.

  Shaking my head, I look down at the beast vibrating beneath me. The Indian’s single cylinder, two-stroke engine was a thing of beauty before Gort ‘mechanized’ it. The creepiest part is, I can’t tell if I’m the one in control. My riding’s rusty, so I should be a lot more squirrelly with the gears than I am. I think the demon bikes are allowing us to ride them.

  Holding onto the belt loops of my jeans, Nyx leans forward and yells over the noise. “Chill out, Edge. Enjoy the ride for once.”

  “Kinda hard to relax when we’re in enemy territory with our numbers so low, and…” I trail off, knowing Maddox and the Bad Hats are out there hunting me. They must’ve sicced the Dreads on us. Probably the Harlem Carnies too. There’s no telling how many other gangs the warlocks have on their side. At this point we’ve gotta expect it’s every gang between here and Coney.

  “Do you know why Maddox turned on us?” Nyx asks.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s listening in on my thoughts. “How much did you see?”

  “I saw what he did to Booker.”

  Tension rails through me, aching in my jaw. I need to stop clenching my teeth so hard. At least someone else knows Maddox is a backstabbing traitor. But do I tell her everything else? That I’m the son of the Highborn asshole we’ve all learned to hate? No, I can’t go spilling my guts on that one. Might not happen right away, but Nyx and the others will stop trusting me because I’m a Highborn. I couldn’t take that. Best to keep quiet and stay on point.

  Veering off onto the 5th Avenue exit, I take the tree-lined street at a slower pace.

  “Are you gonna tell me what that portal was, and why the warlocks needed your blood to open it?” Nyx says.

  She would have to ask. “It’s best you don’t know.”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Edge. What’s going on with you? First Maddox shuts your Djinn powers down and then he tries to sacrifice you. Only you. And now you’re all juiced up with God knows what, blasting the Carnies with that white light business. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Wishing she’d stop badgering me, I cut a sharp left on 130th.

  “Edge,” Nyx presses.

  Just when I’m about to tell her to lay off, I notice a small church on my right. “Hey, is Justice keeping his cool?”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  I point at the church.

  Nyx twists in her seat and glances back at him. “So far so good.”

  “He better behave,” I mutter as we cross Madison.

  The sudden squeal of tires and cars honking, has me looking over my shoulder. Justice is splicing through oncoming traffic, cutting a straight line to an enormous Catholic church on the corner. How’d I miss that monstrosity?

  “Uh oh, he’s goin’ for it,” Nyx says.

  Shifting down, I make a hairpin turn. The guy behind me lays on his horn as I swerve onto the sidewalk and head back down the one-way street. Hurley brings up the rear.

  By the time we reach the other end of the block and round the corner of the church to the front side, Justice has already dumped his bike. He’s nowhere in sight and Gort’s sitting on the curb.

  “Why aren’t you with him?” I ask the Mech. “Thought you two were best buds.”

  “Tried to go with him,” Gort says. “He told me to sit on it, so I did.”

  “Where’d he go?” I say, glancing at the All Saints sign and up at the towering peaks of the gothic cathedral. Wouldn’t you know it, the dark angel’s sitting in the curve of the rose window above us. Dropping my gaze to Gort, the Mech points at the heavy ornate doors of the entrance. A slim shaft of light spills out onto the steps where the door is cracked open an inch.

  I jump over the wrought-iron gate and race into the church. It’s quiet as a tomb inside. Marble columns stand like redwoods amongst the carved pews. Arched ceilings climb to massive heights. A gilded Jesus hangs above the alter. No wonder Justice couldn’t resist. This is like setting a bottle of the finest whisky under the nose of an alcoholic.

  Nyx and Hurley fall in beside me. “Do you see him anywhere?” Hurley whispers.

  “Not yet,” I say as I continue down the center aisle toward the altar.

  A faint, muffled cry comes from the far right corner of the building. Pointing in the direction of the noise, I lead the way to a door that’s been left ajar. I push it all the way open into a dimly lit office with a sturdy, box-shaped wooden desk, a wall of bookcases and two chairs facing a chess board. Nothing appears to be out of place.

  I gesture to Nyx and Hurley to turn around, when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. A foot twitches from behind the base of the desk.

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter as I rush around to the other side of the desk.

  Justice looks up at me, his mouth, chin and neck dripping with blood. “His holiness tastes heavenly,” he says, bending back down to continue his feast.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Hurley says, pulling Justice off the lifeless priest.

  The priest’s head lolls to one side. Blood pools around his exposed windpipe, spilling over the papery edges of his torn skin. Disgusted, I look away, my gaze landing on the framed pictures on the walls–pictures of the kind-faced man in service to his community.

  Nausea snakes through me.

  Justice growls, his eyes blazing with hunger as he presses his back against the wall. “He is sacrificed for my baptism. You know I need the blood of the faithful to wash my sins away,” he snarls.

  Believe it or not, it’s the cherubim part of Justice that has an appetite for holy people. My guess is, he wouldn’t feel the need to eat the occasional monk, nun or priest if it wasn’t for the Mogwai demon sharing the same space in his head. Wouldn’t want to be Justice in the morning. He’s in for a hell-of-a guilt-ridden hangover.

  Nyx kneels down next to the body with a frown. “The heat’s gonna be all over us if we don’t dump the body.”

  “We need that like a hole in the head,” Hurley says, his skin flushing a deep red as his features thicken into the Oni demon.

  “Be back in a flash,” she says, drawing the shadows of the room over herself and the priest before vanishing.

  Justice edges away from Hurley’s bulking form and heads toward the door.

  “Move another inch and I’ll snap your stalk,” Hurley growls at him.

  Sulking, Justice slumps against the wall.

  Hardly any time passes before Nyx steps out of the same shadowy corner of the room.

  “Where’d you take him?” I ask.

  “A couple of blocks away to the Metropolitan Baptist Church.”

  “Well, that won’t be confusing at all,” I say.

  “Hey, it’s better than a dumpster.”

  “Never should’ve happened in the first place,” I grumble. We�
�ve been covering for Justice far too long and something tells me karma’s going to bitch slap us for this one.

  13

  Rockabilly Knights

  THERE’S A GANG OF GULLIES–each carrying baseball bats–lined up on the sidewalk when we walk out of the church. Ten Italian stallions, still living in the fifties, suited in black leather with the collars flipped up and greased with an obscene amount of hair wax. A hurricane couldn’t knock those pompadours over.

  They outnumber us two to one. Not that that’s a problem. We can easily take ‘em. We rarely scrap with human gangs. Unless you count the time the Rat Kings tried to expand past their Brooklyn territory into Coney. We pressed on them hard. Sent them limpin’ home with their tails between their legs.

  One of the greasers points his bat at Justice. “Whose blood is that? Where’s Father Valenti?”

  Biting back my anger, I glare at Justice. Tonight of all nights, he had to go and pick the one priest in the city with a gang of protectors.

  Justice steps forward, the hint of a smile on his blood encrusted lips. “He’s sleeping with the angels.”

  “Shut up, Justice,” I hiss under my breath.

  The gang closes in, banging their bats along the iron fence standing between us. “What’d you do to him?” the same one asks. He must be the one in charge.

  Fear creeps into his eyes as he looks from Justice over to Gort, where he’s standing next to the monster bikes, then to Hurley, who’s in full demon mode. The Mech has his glamour up over himself and the bikes. Hurley’s cloaked, but I can tell this gullie senses a distortion–something he can’t quite wrap his mind around. Probably has the Sight, but he’s most likely shutting it down. Most gullies do.

  “Everything’s fine. The blood’s his,” I say, referring to the bloody show all over Justice’s face and the front of his shirt. “Sucks at riding and bit the street back there. We thought we’d get some help for him inside the church. Nobody’s in there though.”