Caster

by Elsie Chapman

  I look up as I near the cage to get a glimpse inside. The city keeps a display cage for every sector, and Scouts save them to display the worst of the Ivors they catch. Mostly repeat offenders, like casters who get recaptured after escaping lockup or those unlucky few who get on the bad side of a cop in a mood.

  The Ivor leans toward the bars, pressing her forehead into them so she can peer down at me as I go by. She smiles, and there’s too much fury in her expression for me to believe she’s actually insane.

  “Hello, little one,” she croons. “I smell magic off you. Won’t you share, since mine’s all gone?”

  I keep walking, stiff with discomfort at being noticed, at the risk I’m taking. I don’t know if I could stay as furious and alive as that Ivor if I lost everything. What if I just faded away, nothing without full magic? What if all these risks I’m taking is magic using me instead of me using it, and there’s no winning this game?

  What if it’s right that casters like me disappear?

  I walk faster and push away the questions. More answers I might never find.

  Smells of blood and grilling meat greet me as I enter the Meat Sector. I find a street that’s more steakhouses, fish markets, and delis instead of processing plants and butchers, not wanting to see for myself if what they say about this part of the city is true—that from dusk until dawn, curbs from certain places turn red with runoff as they clean.

  987 Scalding Way turns out to be an underground mall at the edge of a small retail area. Everything around it is closed except for a twenty-four-hour gas station a block down; the large clock on its display says it’s five until midnight. I’m standing across the street, and the only parts of the mall that are visible from here are the length of its top floor and a cone of a roof that’s like a small hat perched on an oversized head. The top floor is banded with wide windows that are covered up with paper from the inside.

  After double-checking the address that’s painted on the roof against the one that Rudy wrote down, I fold up the note, return it to my starter bag, and cross the street. I go down the mall’s sunken front steps and walk up to the glass-fronted entrance. The glass is boarded up, covered over with plywood. The sign taped over it says the entire mall is set to be demolished in two weeks.

  I’m not sure what’s more surprising—that the address on Rudy’s note is for a mall or that he might have actually meant to be here at midnight.

  Midnight and malls don’t mix.

  I’m pretty sure Rudy and malls don’t mix.

  I tug at the handle of the door, feeling both ridiculous and annoyed. And of course the door’s locked, so I let go of the handle and stand there for a moment, considering. Then I peer closer at the lock to see how much full magic it would take to open it.

  Everything logical says I should turn around and just go home, but there’s no way I can leave this place without going inside. Rudy died while speaking of meaning to finish things, while having this note on his body—to leave this place now would be doing the very opposite of what I promised him while coming here tonight.

  The lock is a typical one for an outer door. Meaning, as with all locks in public places, that leftover magic can’t touch it. You either need its key or to cast full magic.

  I take a small rock from my starter bag, draw a six-pointed star, and cast.

  Nothing happens.

  The ground stays asleep instead of sending the full magic I just called for. My feet aren’t even remotely hot. The rock starter sitting in my palm is just as cold.

  For a second, the world goes off-kilter: My full magic is gone. I’m transported back in time to a workroom and a red fire that wouldn’t dance, to those few seconds when I was sure I would only ever cast leftover magic. Failure turns my mouth ashy.

  My ears are roaring as I numbly open my starter bag and begin to riffle through it with unfeeling fingers: Something else in here will work, something must. As if ancient rules about how starters work have suddenly changed. Or a cure for lost magic can be found inside my bag.

  The strange black coin clinks against my nails.

  My heart pounds inside my chest as I pick up the coin. So much like a mark but not one at all—useless, then, unless you happen to know its real purpose. The world stays off-kilter as I hold the coin tightly enough for its edges to dig into my fingertips, a near kind of vertigo that still leaves me dizzy. Nothing seems real.

  Oh, Rudy—what were you up to?

  I draw a six-pointed star on my palm once more. I drop the coin into the middle of it.

  There’s a clicking sound as the lock of the door twists open.

  I wait for the pain to come like it always does, a thrumming ache that starts behind the eyes and ends up a sting in my nose. Sometimes nosebleeds from casting gush and sometimes they don’t—a six-pointed star for unlocking a door has a different effect than six points for a mind wipe—but their arrival is always the same.

  The pain, when it comes, is a fraction of what I’m expecting. Here and then gone, a spark that doesn’t catch fire.

  I keep waiting for it, sure it’s only delayed, not understanding. Full magic without pain is as disorienting as the sky without its robe of smog—it’s impossible.

  I look at the starter still in my palm. The black coin had been an oddity from the start, but only because I’d never seen anything like it before. Its strangeness feels different now. Like I’m about to encroach on something much bigger than I am. Something meant for someone stronger, more experienced.

  What am I getting into here?

  I drop the coin back into my bag with shaking fingers.

  “Last chance,” I mutter out loud. Just as I said to Coral this morning, which feels like an eternity ago. So are you in or out?

  I release a shaky breath. “Guess I’m in.”

  I pull open the door and go inside.

  The dark wavers but stays mostly solid—the paper covering the band of windows is thin, but so is the light from outside. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to this part of the mall. The only sound in here is my breathing. I take off my mask and fold it away.

  There’s an elevator in the middle of the floor. A mall directory juts out from the floor beside it. A blur of deep shadow farther down is likely the escalator. That’s all. There’s nothing else.

  I go to the directory, half-convinced someone’s going to pop up from somewhere and know I’m not Rudy. Know I’m trespassing—a fake—and make me leave.

  But no one does, and I squint in the half dark, reading for something to explain this weird night.

  There are three more levels below this one—two of retail and a food court floor on the bottom. A typical setup.

  Then my pulse speeds up.

  Food court.

  FC.

  Everything I see says the power to the whole place has already been cut—the covered-up windows, boarded-up door, and a demolition date just two weeks away. The idea of walking down the escalator in the dark, step by step, feels like a terrible one. So I move over to the elevator to see if it’s working.

  I blow a breath into a cupped palm and cast leftover magic to call the elevator.

  The motor stays silent.

  Just as the lock outside did not twist open.

  But now I know about the strange black coin.

  The vertigo from earlier—that sense of things not being quite real—swims back. I fumble open my starter bag and fish out the coin. I cast.

  The motor hums to life and the cab climbs. The elevator doors open with a ping.

  I step inside before I can change my mind. I jab the button for the food court and cast around the coin again. The doors shut, the floor drops, and my stomach drops along with it.

  Cold sweat films my skin. I shove the coin back into my bag and clutch it to me like it’s some kind of lifeline.

  “Yep,” I mutter out loud. “I guess I’m definitely in.”

  I curse Rudy for dying with a cryptic note. Curse myself for finding it, for not being able to let t
hings go.

  Third floor.

  Aza, what are you doing?

  My own voice in my head, sounding panicked.

  You’re in a building you got into using magic that makes no sense. Go back.

  The black coin’s peculiarity, still on the skin of my palm like something alive. “I can’t. I have to finish this.”

  Second floor.

  Rudy didn’t write that note for you.

  “I know.”

  How is this going to help you with Saint Willow? Help you with the cop?

  “I have no clue.”

  FC.

  The ping sounds again, the elevator doors open, and I step into the food court.

  Everything comes at me at once. I don’t know where to look first as an already off-kilter world tilts even more.

  You and parties at midnight, Rudy—I never would have guessed.

  However this place appears during daylight hours, I’m willing to bet magic that it’s far different.

  People are everywhere—two hundred, maybe even three. Groups of them fill the middle of the floor, which has been cleared of the eating stations, having conversations and calling out names to those who pass by. Others are busy looking for empty spots at the tables and chairs pushed to the sides of the room.

  There’s a sense of anticipation here. The noise of a crowd that’s waiting for something to happen. My own nerves buzz, wanting to understand what’s going on. The room’s setup reminds me of a show and its audience. Was Rudy coming to watch something?

  I peer upward at the lights that float just beneath the ceiling, dozens of oversized bulbs, running on magic because the power to the mall has already been cut.

  My mind struggles with the impossible, with the possibility of the impossible. What if there is a third kind of magic in this world? One that works when the others fail, and only with certain starters like the strange black coins? What if there’s a kind of magic that’s as powerful as full magic can be, but is kinder to its casters? Pain that is a brief eclipse instead of a long blackout?

  Or maybe it’s magic that works only at this address. Or only after midnight. Or according to rules I’ve yet to understand.

  Rudy, did you know? Or would you have been here, just as stunned as I am? I think you’d agree with me that if either of us had to pull enough magic to keep all these light bulbs lit, we’d already be dead and the city burning.

  “… want to enter, make sure you’re registered!”

  I swivel at the raised voice, my pulse speeding up at the word enter. I hear Rudy again as he bled on the floor: Meant to enter … meant to finish what I started …

  “Fighters, come get registered! You’ve got to register if you want to fight!”

  Fighters? There’s a fight tonight?

  I really didn’t know Rudy.

  I follow the sound of the voice, weaving through the crowd, and soon I’ve crossed the floor and am at the restaurants lining the back of the food court.

  The voice belongs to the guy who’s standing behind the counter of a burger place. The word REGISTRATION is scrawled across the front menu in thick white chalk.

  “Fighters,” he calls out, “if you mean to enter, come get registered! As always, first fight opens as soon as we register fighter number fifty!”

  I hesitate, unsure, wishing there were someone to ask. I’m only here because I’m supposed to know—will they kick me out if they realize it’s Rudy’s note, not mine? That would end my search for answers before it’s begun.

  A caster—a girl, White, younger than me—moves up to the counter.

  “Fighter, here to enter,” she calls out, her tone completely confident.

  I move a step closer, listening as closely as I can without being obvious about it. Less obvious than Rudy’s cop, anyway, I would hope.

  “Ring name for the books?” The guy drags over a clipboard.

  Ring name.

  The name a boxer or wrestler uses for matches to keep their real name a secret.

  Dread threatens. Boxing and wrestling—what do I know about either? And yet, Rudy was definitely neither, so why did he mean to come? And the girl doesn’t seem to be any closer to being a boxer or wrestler than I do, but she’s here entering without seeming scared at all.

  What am I missing?

  Maybe this isn’t about boxing or wrestling at all. Maybe there’s still magic somehow, if floating light bulbs and mysterious black coins mean anything …

  “Kylin,” the girl tells the guy behind the counter.

  He nods and scrawls her name down on the clipboard. He uncaps a white pen and holds it out.

  Kylin leans forward, her braid a stream of bright chestnut down her back, and the guy writes something on her face.

  “Don’t forget to get over to the starter counter as soon as you can,” he tells her. “It’s the pizza place tonight. And listen for the bell—if you’re late, you’re out. Winnings and cuts can be picked up at the bets counter after the fight. Good luck.”

  Starters. Relief swamps me.

  “Thanks.” She turns to leave. The name KYLIN glows from one cheek as she slips into the crowd.

  I move up to the counter before I can chicken out. If it ends up that there are actually no answers to be found here, or if it’s impossible for me to keep my promise to Rudy—I’m no boxer or wrestler—I’ll just leave. No one will ever know.

  “Ring name for the books?”

  “Rudy.”

  I watch him write it down on a lined piece of paper. He puts the number thirty-eight in front of it.

  Then he writes on my cheek.

  I feel better with my ring name on it. No one seeing it would guess I don’t know what I’m doing. A deception is as good as casting magic, and I don’t even have to be in pain for it.

  But now to get to the starter counter. Don’t forget, the registration guy made a point of saying not just to Kylin but also to me. Which means it’s probably important.

  I find the bets counter before the starters one. As much because I see it—the word BETS is written over the main menu of the noodle bar—as I hear it. Just as the guy at registration was calling loudly for fighters, two more men from the bets counter shout out for wagers. They’re standing in front of the restaurant, their voices rising above the crowd. Behind the counter, three people are frantically taking bets.

  “Spectators, get your bets in now for tonight’s match!”

  “Place your win here! Fifty fighters going tonight, so c’mon and get your picks in!”

  “Minimum bet is five marks, and you got your choice of status- or technique-style wagers!”

  Gamblers press close at the counter, hurrying to place their bets and calling them out over one another.

  “Ten marks on Cheddar to be a bow-out!”

  “Seventy-mark technique on Paddy to cast two skins!”

  “Fifty marks on returning champion Finch to survive, and five on Clayton to be a knockout!”

  “Twenty on Lil to survive, then twenty on Aimee to cast a blood!”

  Cast two skins.

  My ears pick up on the phrase the way speakers listening to a foreign language strain to catch words like their own. It’s more proof there’s magic involved in some way tonight. And while I don’t understand any of the betting terms I just heard, something the registration guy said comes back:

  Winnings and cuts can be picked up at the bets counter after the fight.

  Winnings must mean fighters can place bets, too, maybe even on themselves. And cuts must mean if anyone bets on you, you get a portion of whatever they win.

  Maybe tonight isn’t just going to be about Shire and Rudy and uncovering secrets, I think as I leave the bets counter and continue searching for the starters one. Maybe I’ll make some marks along the way. If I can figure out what I’m doing and make others believe it enough to lay bets on me.

  One week before Saint Willow snaps.

  My already-buzzing nerves wind up even tighter.

  I spot a f
ew other fighters in the crowd as I keep walking along the food court’s restaurants. The white writing on their cheeks flickers and winks as I walk by, like stars do in a dark sky.

  A guy in his twenties whose ring name is Wilson.

  A balding Asian guy in his forties, and his ring name is Crawl.

  A tall blonde, fair-skinned woman in her thirties—Aimee.

  Who are you? How did you come to be here? Why do you fight? Did the ghosts of those you’ve failed chase you here? Promises you mean to keep? Marks? Cops and gangsters and families who don’t see you?

  I get to the pizza place a few minutes later. The word STARTERS is scribbled across the menu in white chalk. It’s a woman behind the counter, looking bored. I keep a few steps back, remembering to be cautious again.

  Instead of pizza slices, there are baskets of coins behind the glass of the display case. Square holed coins just like the black one I found with Rudy’s note, but in shades of red, white, silver, and gold.

  I peer around for Kylin, hoping she listened to the registration guy just like I did and is here. But there’s no sign of her, and no else has gone up to the counter yet, either. I hesitate, not wanting to wait so long that it becomes too late to do whatever I’m supposed to be doing.

  I glance up at the guy who’s come up beside me—tall, dark hair, hazel eyes. He’s around seventeen or eighteen and White, like Kylin.

  “Are you in line to buy, or …?” he asks me, trailing off.

  The seriousness of his navy button-up shirt is saved by the perfect way it fits. His tone is friendly enough, but his expression says he’s in a hurry. His cheeks are bare. So either he hasn’t registered to enter yet or he’s not a fighter.

  “No, go ahead,” I say. In my head I’m already calling him Navy. “Sorry, I’m still … deciding.”

  Navy’s eyes slide to my cheek, and he nods and moves up to the counter. I can hear him from where I’m standing, so I just wait, listening.

  “Hey, seven of each,” he tells the woman. He sets marks down on the counter. “You need a ring name from me before selling or anything?”

  “It’s fine, I still remember you from last year’s tournament,” she says. “Need another key just in case?”