“Yes,” James said. “We heard about the situation with this ‘Motorcycle Man’ person and about the outbreak of gang wars involving an outfit calling themselves the ‘LA Witches.’ Based on the intelligence we reviewed on Motorcycle Man’s many activities over the last few weeks and our knowledge of how magic works…well, the takeaway is obvious.”
LeBlanc finished once it looked like he was going to delay the rest of his response. “It is clear to us,” she stated, “that all this is the work of a single person, who may be attempting to pose as a group by obscuring their identity. The coincidences are too many, and the psychic evidence for an entire coven too little for it to be otherwise.”
To James’ surprise, Richardson laughed. “Well, that’s a relief. I’m not sure how we’d deal with a whole bunch of them. The three guys with magic among the bank robbers, not to mention you two, have been enough of a handful.”
MacDonald gave him a quelling look, “Be that as it may, the FBI has asked a group of agents to join us in LA. We are to meet with them and then move against this...individual. The flight leaves this evening at 6:30. We’ll be there before prime time is over.”
James shook his head. “Nope. Out of the question. I insist on taking my car. We just got the radiator repaired, after all.”
LeBlanc held back, remaining neutral as MacDonald and Richardson tried to argue that flying would be far faster and more convenient and that if the Bureau had to delay the operation by an extra day, there would be more opportunities for things to go wrong.
James wouldn’t hear of it.
“Besides,” he added, “if I tried to cast a spell and screwed it up—unlikely, but by no means impossible—the plane would crash with everyone on it, instead of only crashing a single Rolls-Royce with two inhabitants.”
He had enough experience that catastrophically failing at a spell to that extent was only “possible” in the same way that it was possible to be struck by lightning twice on different occasions, but the feds didn’t need to know that.
Mother LeBlanc seemed inclined to let him proceed with his deception. She shrugged, her multi-hued dress wafting in the air. “I will be riding with him.”
Agent MacDonald leaned forward. “Fine. We might be willing to meet you halfway on your admittedly incomprehensible terms. If you won’t agree to go now, we at least want to start prepping for the endgame by starting a smear campaign against Motorcycle Man. It will be easier to take him off the streets if the people start to dislike him.”
Both thaumaturgists frowned, and James asked, “How are you going to do that if I might ask?”
“Oh, we have our ways.” Richardson was smiling.
LeBlanc raised a hand. “That sounds like you plan to create even more publicity and draw still more scrutiny to our witch. One of our primary goals was to quiet things down and avoid excess public attention. Attacking the vigilante’s reputation might seem wise in the short term, but it could be very foolish in the longer term.”
MacDonald shifted in her seat, trying to control her impatience. “The immediate goal of stopping MM from wreaking havoc—or getting to a point where he can escape our scrutiny altogether—outweighs any long-term concerns of that sort. Besides, since you two were the ones who caused all of this, you aren’t in a position to complain about ‘increased scrutiny’ of magic users, are you?”
At that, the New Orleans thaumaturge bristled and glared at the agent, but James laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“It was mostly my idea,” he told the two of them. “LeBlanc, you were right. We still want to cover this up, not get the whole country talking about it. What we want from you is an assurance that your smear campaign will tone down attention and cause this to fizzle instead of increase scrutiny.”
MacDonald made no assurances. She leaned back in her chair and watched him.
James felt it better to get LeBlanc out of the room before she hexed anyone. He smiled at the agents and stood. “We’ll be at the Bellagio,” he told them. “You can find us under ‘Lovecraft.’ We will set out for Los Angeles tomorrow morning, first thing.”
He hustled LeBlanc out of the room, trying not to make it obvious.
“I am going to turn her into a frog,” LeBlanc stated.
“Patience,” James told her with a grin. “First, we get their intelligence. Then you can turn people into frogs.”
“Very well. I’ll wait.” She gave him a look. “For now.”
Kera picked at the remains of the grilled cheese sandwich before returning to her chicken fettuccine alfredo and tall glass of soda. Non-diet soda. Calories were key.
“Thanks,” she told the Kims between mouthfuls.
“Keep eating.” Mrs. Kim was not impressed. “You need to gain weight.”
“And energy,” the man added.
Kera swallowed. “I had a double meal before I came over. Can’t believe I’m putting away this much. I appreciate your generosity, but at this rate, I’m going to end up having to roll home.”
“Hah!” Mr. Kim scoffed. “You know by now that isn’t true. You never put on a single pound.”
“True.” Kera sighed, pausing to wash the current bite down with carbonated lemon-lime sugar water. “I’m probably the only woman in America ever to worry about whether alfredo pasta will put enough mass on my thighs.”
Mrs. Kim laughed at that. She didn’t laugh often, and the sound was soft and pleasant.
Her husband waved a hand. “Anyway, I have reached out to other people in the Korean and Asian ex-pat communities. Made some, ah, very discreet inquiries, and I learned something that’s been troubling me.”
Kera raised an eyebrow as she finished the grilled cheese and mopped up some of the white sauce on her plate with the crust.
He went on, “There have been a lot of incidents in the local news of people saying they can work magic and perform miracles all over the country. Then it all dies, and nobody talks about it anymore.”
Mrs. Kim reached out to retrieve Kera’s empty plates, then she pushed a tray of fruit and chocolate dipping sauce toward her. “Here, eat more. Dessert!”
Kera grudgingly accepted it. “Okay, fine. But the magic thing. Do you think it’s connected to what I’ve been dealing with?”
“Probably.” Mr. Kim shrugged. “Most of the reporters and the so-called experts they interview think it’s a new nationwide fad of people claiming to have special powers so they can be famous for fifteen minutes. People hearing stupid stuff on the Internet and wanting attention. That kind of thing.”
Kera frowned, thinking back to the day she’d seen How to Be a Badass Witch listed in Amazon’s e-book store. “Right.” She waited for more.
Before her husband could speak, Mrs. Kim refilled Kera’s glass with soda and said, “We also have leftover spring rolls. You should eat those, too. Need healthy weight! We might not eat them, anyway.”
Kera covered her mouth to disguise a burp of consternation. “I’ll, um, take them home with me for a snack later, okay?”
“Okay,” Mrs. Kim agreed. “But finish your fruit.”
The man glared at her. “She already ate enough for five people. Leave her be, woman.”
Mrs. Kim snapped something at him in Korean and he briefly went pale, then shook his head. He reclined in his chair, giving up the fight and returning his attention to the subject at hand.
“Kera. We know what is happening is not just a stupid fad. This is real. Magic, or whatever people choose to call it, exists. Its power is as much a part of our world as the water and trees and sun.”
For a second, Kera felt as though a droplet of ice water had fallen on the back of her neck. “So, what does that mean? That these random people figure out how to cast one or two spells, then screw up the rest and decide to give it up?”
“No,” Mr. Kim responded. “I don’t think so. It means that someone is stopping their power. Turning it off like a faucet—one that can’t be turned back on.”
The people who published the
book, Kera thought immediately. It must have been a trap from the beginning. Maybe? Would they go to all that trouble to flush out people with magical potential so they could hunt them down and snuff out their power?
She raised a hand. “Do you have all those stories saved? I want to look at them.”
“Yes,” said Kim. “They all say much the same thing, though.”
Kera closed her eyes. “Okay, but I want to look at the dates and also the locations.”
At that, the man gave a slow nod as understanding dawned on his face. “Ah, yes. Come.”
He helped his wife back to her couch to rest until it was time to begin training, then he took Kera over to his computer and found the list of articles in his bookmarks.
Kera skimmed the text of each, paying attention to the temporal and geographic data. She opened a map of the US to chart the course of the stories.
They started in the East Coast states. A couple days later, they moved on to Missouri and Texas, then they proceeded into New Mexico and looped around much of the Southwest.
Once again, the icy-water feeling worked its way down her spinal column.
“Whoever they are, they’re coming here,” she whispered. “They’re getting closer.”
Kera opened the side door into her warehouse, yawned, and took off her boots. She needed caffeine and perhaps a cold shower.
“Man, eating enough food for eight people and then doing martial arts for an hour is better than a handful of sleeping pills. I’m pretty sure I did sleep better back when I was in karate and cheerleading in high school.”
She made herself a small pot of coffee, enough to have perhaps two cups over the course of the next hour. Then she rubbed her eyes and tried to orient her thoughts toward the issue at hand:
How to hide a witch.
As she poured her first steaming mug, she glanced over to where her bike sat, lean and impassive, by the front warehouse door.
“Okay, Zee,” she told him. “I need to find a way to mask my magical signature or whatever. Any ideas? If so, feel free to shout them out at the highest possible volume.”
Unfortunately, Zee didn’t respond, and studying his sleek profile didn’t give her any bright ideas. She sipped coffee and walked over to where a pile of books lay next to her bed. On top of the others was the hard-copy version she’d ordered of How to Be a Badass Witch.
“Hmm.” She picked up the grimoire and flipped to the lengthy Table of Contents, her finger running down the page as she examined each item. To her lack of surprise, there was nothing that seemed capable of helping her.
Kera scowled and tossed the book back on the floor.
It was by design; it had to be. The mysterious individuals who’d composed and distributed the damn thing must not have wanted their erstwhile pupils to be able to hide. They’d intended to track people down all along.
A thought popped into her head. If the book was still available for sale, its publishers might have a never-ending task ahead of them. What if they only wanted to do a brief cull of America’s magical talent?
Kera flipped open her laptop and went to Amazon to check for the volume in question. A search for its title yielded a couple of vaguely similar-seeming books on witchcraft, but not the one she possessed. When she went to her Orders page, the link to the book was now grayed out and dead.
“Shit.” She tapped her lips, then pulled up a search engine and typed the title again. A few reviews and forum discussions popped up, some of which looked like they might be interesting. She could not find the book for sale anywhere.
After staring into space in puzzlement for a few minutes, Kera had to laugh. “I wonder if they got more than they bargained for? Like, maybe they published the damn thing for fun, or money, or to spread the knowledge, but something got fucked up, and now they’re trying to erase their tracks.”
The laughter faded, and her face fell. If that were the case, these people might be even more dangerous.
The one thing I know for certain, she concluded, is that I don’t want them to find me. Or the Kims, for that matter. Having my powers taken away would make life simpler, but I don’t know how I could go back to normality at this point. I’ve been helping people and making a difference. Without magic…
She didn’t want to think about that. As much as part of her just wanted a normal life, she could not imagine how painful it would be to lose her newfound abilities.
As the various possibilities, most of them not encouraging, weighed on her, she found herself wanting to text Christian.
When she’d seen him at the Mermaid a few weeks back, she’d remembered how much she enjoyed hanging out with him. It had always been easy and pleasant. They had picked up right where they left off, but now…
She missed him.
“Goddammit.”
She needed to stop being ridiculous. No amount of missing him was going to make dating him a responsible choice. It would put him in danger. She hadn’t told him he was taking on being connected to the Number 1 target of the LA gangs, and even if she had, how was that a fair thing to ask of someone after two damned dates?
Despite her recent workout, the punching bag hanging in her exercise area looked very tempting. She pushed off the bed, did a quick stretching routine, and launched in on the damned thing.
She hit the heavy sack with one roundhouse kick, then another. She imagined her target as herself. Would he ever want to deal with her after all the falsehoods she’d subjected him to? If their positions were reversed, she would have serious doubts about him. It wasn’t wise to get romantically involved with people who contradicted themselves, led shadowy double lives, and flat-out lied about shit.
She struck the bag with a flurry of punches, elbows, and knife-hand strikes. “No,” she breathed, the words barely coming out with each strike. “I can’t have people close to me. Not right now. Not with the witch-hunters or whoever they are on my trail.”
The bag swung back at her, and she kneed it at groin level, then gave it a good, solid headbutt. She blinked, mildly dizzy, and staggered back to her couch to collapse on the cushions where Chris had so recently slept.
Who am I kidding? I’m just trying to soften the blow to myself. There’s never going to be a safe time as long as I have these abilities. Normal life is lost to me for the rest of my life, isn’t it?
Lost to me.
For the rest of my…
“Wait. The rest of my life…how long is that?” She'd heard something somewhere, long ago—the notion that magic had its price.
At this point, the question was whether that price was a short life…or a long one.
She looked at Zee for confirmation, and something about the way the overhead lights reflected off his glossy black surface told her she needed to think about it further. Later.
Her phone rang and vibrated. It was still in her pocket, so she slipped it out and glanced at the screen before the first ring finished. It was Cevin, the proprietor of the bar and restaurant known as the Mermaid, and therefore, Kera’s boss.
“Hi,” she said after swiping her finger across the green icon.
“Hi, Kera.” Cevin sighed. “Listen, based on how business has been, it looks like I might have overscheduled us for tonight. I’m sorry to ask this after sending you home early the other day, but would you be willing to give up one more shift?”
She thought it over for three or four seconds. Her parents had promised she’d finally be getting her inheritance, and in addition to that, she had some cash reserves.
“Yeah, sure,” she agreed. “I’ll be okay.”
He sounded relieved. “Oh, great. I’ll make it up to you soon. You should be back on normal hours next week, and I can put you at the top of the list to call in if we need extra help if you want.”
She told him that going back on a standard schedule would be sufficient. Her extracurricular activities were taking up enough time and energy these days that working a bit less was probably a good thing.
They said
goodbye, and after she hung up, Kera frowned into the distance, her caffeine-stimulated brain racing again. She really should quit at the Mermaid, but she realized she hated the idea. The work was only okay, but that seemed to be true in most places, and her coworkers were great.
And it was the one link she had to normalcy.
Her phone buzzed again, and she peered at it, then cringed.
It was a text message from Chris, who wanted to talk. That made sense. What surprised her was that he rather bravely admitted he couldn’t remember why the hell he had called things off with her, so as far as he was concerned, nothing was final yet.
A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it and switched to the logistics of the situation. Much easier to deal with than the feelings.
Did he remember her address? Probably not, after the amount she’d wiped from his memory.
She definitely did not want him to show up at her place at random, especially if there were people looking for her.
She typed a few responses, trying out ways to get him to avoid speaking to her ever again. In the process, however, she came up with an even better strategy: to simply not reply.
He’d think of her as a total bitch, and maybe he’d decide he was better off without her.
“This sucks,” she muttered. “I’m turning into a great person: rude and dishonest.”
There was no way she could stay cooped up in the apartment with her thoughts, especially since she wouldn’t even have work to distract her.
What else is there? Oh, right, she concluded, nodding. Crime, and how half the time, it seems like I’m the only one who can fight it.
She looked over to her bike. “You hear that, Zee? We’re heading back to the front lines, and I bet we’ll find some action. In LA, there’s always something shady going down.”
She didn’t want just something shady this time, though.
She wanted names. She wanted to know who was sending people after her.
Since James was carrying two suitcases full of luggage and LeBlanc had none, she was kind enough to open the door to their hotel room.
How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three Page 4