Gooseberry Bluff Community College of Magic: The Thirteenth Rib

by David J. Schwartz

  The story ended there. The first half reminded Joy of a story she had heard as a child—it was about a rabbit instead of an otter, and it stopped with him cutting off his head. She supposed that it was a sort of a joke about how sometimes tricksters outsmarted even themselves. But the rest of the tale was unfamiliar, and the ending was troubling. It was probably overthinking to wonder why Beaver was so angry—folktales and myths just worked like that, sometimes. But Raven and Rabbit were also trickster animals, and bees and ants and beavers, it seemed to Joy, were creatures of order. There was no chance that this was accidental, with the book having come from the Emissary. But who the hell was Otter? Was it supposed to be Joy?

  Two in the morning. More insomnia. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  Joy spent the morning catching up on the office hours that she had postponed from the day before. The highlight was the three students in a row who hadn’t attended a single lecture yet, each of whom was seeking individualized guidance on how to do the paper and wanted her to tell them how they were doing in her class. Joy had encountered this in her former life as an actual academic (as opposed to an undercover law enforcement agent posing as one). There was a class of student that treated the payment of tuition as an exchange for goods; they stopped by once or twice during the semester to make sure that the instructors understood that they expected to receive a good grade—not necessarily an A, but no lower than a B minus—simply for existing.

  Joy told all three of them the same thing. “Write a good paper, start showing up for lectures, and you’ll probably manage a C.” When they tried to argue, she called for the next person in line. By the third one she was fighting the urge to reach across the desk, seize him by the collar, and ask him if he really thought that she cared about his stepmother’s substance abuse problems when the entire universe was in jeopardy.

  To be fair, most of the students had brought some real questions. The entitled trio were younger students, kids with money who couldn’t get in to a better school and yet still thought a community college was beneath them. Joy had worked her ass off to get into college and then get through it. She didn’t like these kids, and she didn’t very much care if she let them know it.

  At a little after eleven Zelda knocked on the door. “Hi!” she said. “If we’re still on for lunch, do you want to head down together?”

  “Sure,” said Joy. “Just let me…I should pack up…” She sighed. “Forget it. I’m just leaving everything here.”

  Zelda smiled. “I’ve had those kind of days. I’ll drive, OK?”

  “Sure,” Joy said again. She looked around her desk for a minute without really seeing anything. Finally she walked out of her office and locked the door behind her.

  “We’re going to lunch, Andy,” Zelda said. “Do you want us to bring anything back?”

  Andy was wearing a vintage green chiffon shirtwaist dress that set off his pale complexion and brought out the hint of red in his hair. “I brought lunch, thanks,” he said. “You two have fun!”

  “Andy always looks so great,” Zelda said as they walked down to the building’s atrium. “I wonder where she gets her clothes?”

  “Does Andy prefer ‘she’?” Joy asked. “I’m a little confused about that.”

  “I asked her once and she said she didn’t care if we called her he or she or they, as long as we didn’t call her ‘it.’ I just think ‘she’ is a better fit, I suppose.”

  It was raining lightly outside, so they hurried to Zelda’s car, a tiny red hatchback that was at least fifteen years old. It labored a bit before starting, but it was running smoothly by the time Zelda pulled it out of the parking lot. Zelda turned down the loud country music on her radio and turned on the windshield wipers.

  “Sometimes I think Andy is more feminine than I am,” she said, picking up the conversation. “And then I start thinking, what does that even mean? Like, what is feminine when it’s applied to someone who’s not a female? I don’t know. I guess I’m a little confused too.”

  “I guess,” Joy said without thinking. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I think I really need some food.”

  “Right away, Professor.”

  Joy chuckled. “Just an instructor, right now.”

  “Oh, let me tell you, there’s a whole world of difference between the two. I can afford to pay the minimum on three credit cards now! And when the student evaluations come in, they read as extra sneery when they express their disbelief at how I ever managed to reach the distinguished rank of professor.”

  Joy laughed, but it quickly turned into a yawn; she covered it and apologized. “I know it’s only been a week and a half, but I feel like I haven’t slept in a month.”

  “Food and caffeine.” Zelda parked opposite the Mandrake, overlooking the pier. “That’s my prescription. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

  The Mandrake was even more packed for lunch than it had been the night Joy met Hector for drinks. The hostess seated them at a tiny table near the window, on the tall bar stools that always made Joy feel like a kid in a high chair. Zelda lagged behind, speaking to someone she knew at one of the other tables, so Joy stared at the menu, trying to decide if she wanted anything in particular or just a trough full of whatever sort of food was on hand.

  “Sorry,” Zelda said as she sat. “One of my colleagues from Arthur Stag. What looks good?”

  “I don’t know,” said Joy. “Just a burger, I guess. Are they good here?”

  “I’ve never had anything here that wasn’t good,” said Zelda. She scanned the menu and then set it down. “So. You went to the University of Kentucky?”

  “I taught at Kentucky State University. They’re often confused with each other.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “I’m from North Carolina, originally. But I haven’t lived there since I was a teenager.”

  “Oh.”

  A waitress came and took their orders. Joy decided not to get the burger after all, but a Caesar salad; the beef would just make her more tired as she was digesting it. Why was she so tired? Carla Drake. It occurred to Joy that Zelda’s and Carla’s offices had been right next to each other, just like Zelda’s and Joy’s were. She wondered if Zelda had ever invited Carla to lunch like this.

  “How well did you know Carla Drake?” she asked once the waitress had left.

  Zelda shook her head. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “I thought we could come here and just chat, talk about ourselves. Be friendly. But you’re always asking questions about the school, about the people that work there. It’s off-putting.”

  For a second Joy forgot that she was an undercover agent, and she was just hurt. Zelda was right, in a way—in ways she wasn’t even aware of. Joy did like Zelda, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust her. The lavender/valerian mix-up in the library could easily have been sabotage. But when Joy did forget why she was here, she thought of Zelda as the person she would most like for a friend.

  “I don’t mean to do it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just think about her sometimes. I feel like I’m living her life, sort of. It messes with my head a little bit.”

  “Oh. I guess I understand that.” Zelda squirmed in her seat. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. How is it that you know Hector?”

  Just like that, Joy was stuck back in undercover mode. “I don’t, really. I met him here last week to talk about having him do a guest lecture in my course.”

  “Oh. Because on Sunday he said he was meeting you at the library, and it sounded like it was important. He seemed worried about it, actually. And then he ran in looking for you…it was just odd.”

  “Are you dating Hector?”

  “I…I feel like you’re trying to change the subject.”

  Score one for the alchemy professor. “That was just a follow-up meeting. I don’t know why he would have been nervous.”

  “You needed a follow-up about a guest lecture?”

&nbs
p; “Look, Zelda, whatever you think is going on here…”

  “Oh, don’t do that to me. Can’t you just give me a straight answer? Do you have some kind of history with him?”

  Joy’s jaw worked, as if just moving her mouth would somehow knock the right words loose. She hadn’t anticipated this—clearly Zelda was involved with Hector somehow, or she wanted to be, and she thought Joy was an obstacle to that. Unless…unless she was using this to pry information out of Joy.

  Zelda stood. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I’m not hungry. Really nice chatting with you, Joy. Thanks for being so forthcoming.”

  “Zelda—”

  “You don’t mind finding your own way back to campus, do you?”

  Zelda didn’t look at Joy as she walked quickly out of the Mandrake.

  Joy considered going after her, but she had no idea what she could say. It was her fault for trying to make friends on a job like this. She couldn’t be honest with Zelda until she could trust her, and she couldn’t do that until she knew for sure who was involved in Carla Drake’s disappearance, who was working for order, who was part of the Thirteenth Rib…

  She sat and ignored the stares of the people around her. When the waitress came, she asked her to wrap up Zelda’s lunch. She felt better after her salad, but still badly about Zelda. And she was going to have to walk a couple of miles back up to the campus in the rain.

  She cast an elemental umbrella around herself, but it wasn’t one of her better spells; she was still getting wet. Her shoes were probably going to be a loss, but that seemed like the least of her problems. What she had told Zelda was true: sometimes she did feel like she was living Carla Drake’s life—alone, chasing secrets while trying to keep her own, having no idea who to trust.

  That line about Larch in the folder nagged at her. Leaving aside the question of why Drake would even consider trusting Larch, why would she need to? Unless…unless she was considering hiding something in the library.

  Something like a manuscript.

  “Shit.” Joy let the umbrella go and broke into a run. She hoped she wasn’t already too late.

  It took her seven minutes to reach the campus. She was soaked, although probably more so from the water she had splashed through than the rain that had actually fallen on her. Her hair clung to her head like a helmet; she would have to go home and shower before class tonight.

  She needed to double-check the notes Drake had scribbled on the folder. She hoped to smooth things over a little with Zelda at the same time, but when she reached the offices she found Andy there alone. Zelda’s office door was closed.

  “Is…is she in there?” Joy asked.

  “No,” said Andy. “She did stop by, but she left pretty quickly.” His (her? She should really ask about it) tone suggested that Zelda’s irritation had been obvious.

  “Mind if I borrow a marker?” Andy handed her one, and Joy wrote Zelda’s name on the takeout box and put it in the department refrigerator. Then she wrote a note and slipped it under Zelda’s door before unlocking her own office. The manila folder was in her shoulder bag; she pulled it out and looked at the notes again:

  - “Great Man” theory - Carlyle

  - Multiverse theory - James

  - Boleskine - Victoria - Cefalù

  - A Domesticated Beast?

  - Can Larch be trusted??

  “A domesticated beast,” she said to herself. “Andy, who has keys to the library?”

  “Greg,” Andy called. “The cleanup crew, if they’re in there.”

  She went to the doorway. “Are any of the sorting spells still in place?”

  Andy shrugged. “I really don’t know. But I did hear that they managed to separate out the collections.”

  “Can you call Greg and ask him to meet me at the library?”

  “OK.” Andy sounded dubious, but picked up the phone as Joy left again, carrying the folder. Domesticated beasts. Domesticated animals. Carlyle, James, Boleskine, Victoria, Cefalù…hm. Not all of those things could be clues. Carlyle?

  She needed a librarian.

  The high glass walls of the library had been papered over with black, and the sign in front read NO ADMITTANCE. No more warnings about cats or feline allergies. Joy wondered what sort of animals they would bring in to monitor the collection once the library was rebuilt. She had a vision of enormous boa constrictors slithering along the tops of the shelves.

  Greg arrived at the door a few minutes after she did. She told him she had lost a ring inside, she had just noticed it was missing, it had been a gift from her great-aunt. She was glad that Greg was not Gray. He put on a Serious Face and told her not to drip on the books, but he unlocked the door and asked her to shut it behind her.

  There was someone inside already, a youngish man with reddish hair and an orange aura. “Hi,” he said.

  “Are you a librarian?” Joy asked. The windows behind the young man had been covered with plywood, and the room was much dimmer than the last time she had seen it. The light fixtures overhead cast stark shadows over the empty shelving units.

  “I…not yet. I’m a student, from UI-Champaign? I needed a practicum, so they sent me up here to salvage the collection.” He glanced behind her as if hoping for some sort of backup. “The library’s not open.”

  “I’m looking for a very specific book. A book on domesticated animals, but I’m not sure of the title. The author…I believe the author is a James Carlyle.”

  “OK, uh…that’d probably be an SF41 dot C…I have the esses all over here against the wall. Let me see if it’s still vocally keyed.” He cleared his throat and raised his arms in a pose that Joy found a little ridiculous. “Carlyle, James. Subject: Domesticated animals.”

  Nothing happened. Joy looked down at the tightly stacked rows of books. “Is this it?” She reached for a large green hardcover with the words Guide to British Domesticated Beasts emblazoned across the cover. She picked it up and paged through it, but found nothing unusual.

  Maybe something more was needed. A keyword? “Cefalù,” she said, and the green cover disappeared and resolved itself into a stack of loose-leaf paper held together with rubber bands.

  “Hm,” said the library student. “That doesn’t look like it belongs here.”

  “No,” Joy said as she read the title page. A Domesticated Beast: How Aleister Crowley Became Uncorrupted and Founded the Most Dangerous Agency on Earth, the Federal Bureau of Magical Affairs, by Carla Drake.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Ken took a long swig out of the bottle.

  “Mostly it’s about the butter,” he said. “I use half a stick for two decent-size fillets. You can’t use oil, it’s just, it’s just not…not to blacken it, anyway.”

  He was sitting on the floor. He remembered clearly a moment when this had seemed like a good idea, but not the reason why it had seemed like a good idea. He uncrossed his legs and accidentally kicked Victor the basset hound, who was lying next to him on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Victor,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Tears came to his eyes unexpectedly; he let them rest there, unshed, hoping they would dry before they fell.

  “What about the skin?” The thing that was not Philip was in the kitchen. It had asked him for salmon, but Ken had refused to cook it for him. Cook your own fucking salmon, Ken had told it. He had told it a number of other things, some of which he could not remember. At some point he had agreed to instruct the impostor on how to cook salmon, under the condition that he not be required to move or to eat any of what was cooked.

  “Just put it in the pan with the skin side down,” Ken said. “After it’s cooked that way a little bit you can turn it and the skin will come off easy.”

  “I usually just eat it raw,” said the impostor. “How is it that a divination professor and master duelist is also a master chef?”

  “I’m not a master chef,” Ken said. Then he said it again, louder, because for some reason being called a master chef had made him angry. Angrie
r. He took another drink before he answered.

  “I was based out of New Orleans for a couple of years while I was on the dueling circuit,” he said. “There was this boy there. He had these…arms. But it didn’t last, and when I came here I didn’t miss the boy. Or the weather. But I missed the food. So I took a course in Minneapolis. Cajun cooking. Actually, that’s where I met Philip,” he said.

  “What was that?”

  “I said that’s where I met you! Not you. Fucking, whatever-you-are. I met Philip. I mean, we had met, but he was just the man in charge, you know. No—he was still the head of the spatial distortion department then. Anyway. I saw him differently there.” Ken fell silent, remembering. The adolescent anticipation of that hour with Philip, and the disappointment every time he drove home without having said anything to him. He’d been such a fool. Ken was shy; he liked to be pursued. But Philip, it turned out, was the same way. It wasn’t until a couple of months after the class, after a long day spent in a staff development seminar, that Ken decided that he really was getting signals in response to his own signals—which he was never confident were getting through—and invited Philip over for a drink.

  “Where the hell is Philip?”

  The impostor sighed. “We’ve had this conversation, Kango. Philip is perfectly safe.”

  “ ‘Perfectly safe’ isn’t a place. When does he come back? Tell me that.”

  Ken’s back and butt hurt. He carefully set the wine bottle down on the wooden floor and struggled to his feet. Victor sighed once but did not stir.

  Once Ken reached his feet he reconsidered standing. He’d had most of a bottle before the impostor had shown up, and at least half a bottle more since. He’d been trying to moderate his drinking, he really had, but he had been doing it for Philip, and Philip wasn’t here.

  Ken thought maybe he’d better sit down on the couch before he fell on the coffee table. Sitting made him nearly as dizzy as standing had done. He was aware of the two black men in gray suits standing in his living room, but they didn’t register upon him as real until one of them spoke.