A Spoonful of Magic

by Irene Radford

  “If you take enough for yourself and Tiffany.” I agreed with him.

  “She won’t eat much until she’s done for the evening. But she’s acting a little fragile—more from the breakup with her boyfriend than BJ taking aim at Jason while she was standing next to him. A bit of your cooking should restore her.” He wrapped his arms around me from behind.

  I remembered my junior year at the U, before I met G, and understood. A protest turned riot didn’t bother me as much as worrying about my relationship with the boyfriend of the month.

  “Since BJ didn’t aim the gun at anyone but Jason, Tiffany didn’t feel threatened, just exasperated with adolescent hormones getting in the way of logic. Dumping the boyfriend before the performance kinda fell into the same category. A long-distance romance at their ages doesn’t compute for her. He saw it differently and promised to wait for her to come to her senses. He’s called six times in less than twenty-four hours. That’s more than when they were dating hot and heavy.”

  “Sounds like she’ll recover.” I reached into the spice cabinet and started adding a few dried and bottled herbs from my greenhouse. Fresh would have been better, but not enough sunlight this time of year to keep the plants vibrant. A little of this, a lot of that. I let my fingers make the decision while I kept both Jason and Tiffany in mind. “Make sure she eats some of the stew. The bread is organic whole grain and the butter is also organic. No GMOs anywhere in my kitchen. They’ll both feel better after only a few bites. I promise.”

  “Enough said. We know your talents.” He turned me around and kissed me.

  I let my hands encircle his neck, careful not to dirty his work shirt with the residue of an afternoon in the kitchen. His lips were firm and dry and wonderfully reassuring and safe. No manipulation. A tiny tingle crept outward from my core. I could get used to this.

  “Don’t let anyone walk on the attic floor for twenty-four hours to give the varnish time to set,” he said after several delightful moments. Then he dropped a light kiss on my nose. “I should go.”

  “I’ll pack a picnic basket for you and the kids.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll put my tools in the back of the truck.”

  The crunch of gravel in the driveway sent both of us jumping apart, as if we were teens caught necking on the front porch by an overprotective dad.

  Thirty-Seven

  JASON STRIPPED OFF HIS black-and-silver tunic from Tubular Bells and hung it on its rack in the dressing room. All around him, the other boys in the company did the same. A few changed into broom costumes for the final number. Most just chattered and drifted out to watch the finale and catch some extra curtain calls. He could do without them both.

  A chill invaded his bare skin. Wrapping his arms around himself didn’t stop the goosebumps. But the cool air eased the headache behind his eyes. A T-shirt and hooded sweatshirt took care of the ice in the air.

  Ice? This was October, not deep January when they normally got freezing temperatures and occasionally snow. Last summer he’d have passed this all off as his overactive imagination.

  Now he knew better.

  He sat on the closest backless bench, elbows on knees, fingers pressing tight against his temples. If he could just get rid of the buzz in the back of his head, he could think things through.

  He’d had headaches all his life. Allergies mostly. This was autumn not spring. He didn’t react to mold the same way he did to flower pollen. Something was out of place.

  Come.

  Was that a whisper from a healer promising relief?

  Or just a breeze coming up and rattling through the rafters of the old theater.

  He listened more acutely, with all his senses, not just his ears, like Dad had told him.

  Come.

  A little clearer, more insistent. A real voice, or rather a magical voice.

  He knew he should resist, listen to some music through the earbuds on his phone. He didn’t think music would block out the compulsion to rise and walk out the back door.

  Come.

  His feet found their way to the back door on their own.

  Come! This time a triumphant laugh accompanied the words. It sounded sort of like Mom when she beat a blackberry vine into submission.

  But this wasn’t Mom. The laugh was deeper, throatier, then shrill. Like someone on the edge of insanity.

  D’Accore. He’d only encountered the woman once, on the day of the Saturday Market when he and Dad had to fight her and her minions.

  He told his feet to stop moving. Go back to the dressing room. Put his costume back on and take that final curtain call with the assembled company.

  The voice kept him moving. He tried sinking back onto his heels, taking any weight at all from his toes.

  And still he kept walking.

  His mind swirled and raged in fear and blind panic.

  He reached to push open the back door. His hand shook with his effort to control it.

  And then light and fresh air burst around him.

  Mr. Tyler stood in front of him with Mom’s picnic basket and the homely smells of stew and bread wafting around him, filling his senses and pushing away the compulsion. It was like the man put a wall between him and the magician outside.

  Gratefully, Jason pushed the door closed, quietly, behind Tiffany’s father and banished the voice.

  No need to mention this to Mom and Dad. They had enough to worry about.

  “My lady.” The big black man, Zebediah Macumbo kissed the knuckles of my right hand as if I were royalty. His deep voice rumbled through him and down my spine. No magic in that sizzle, just a beautiful man with a lot of charisma.

  “Welcome, all of you.” I opened my arms and waved in the three strangers and my ex.

  Wu Sing Chen bowed low and proceeded inward with only a glance at me. All his focus seemed to be upward. The pentagram.

  “You are moving to Raphe’s house tonight. Jason packed your bags,” I whispered to G as he passed.

  “Not Ted?” He raised an eyebrow at me, not as angry or defensive as I expected. And he didn’t limp nearly as much as he had that morning. Though I noticed George Red Hawk had driven G’s car.

  “Speaking of Ted, he refinished the floor in the attic. No one is to walk up there for twenty-four hours until the varnish dries,” I said, making sure all of them heard me.

  “Not going to happen,” G growled. Back to his beastly jealousy. “We need to tweak the spells for our final confrontation.”

  “You have a week before the party.” We’d talked about this. After the party, close to midnight on All Hallows Eve when the wide-open portals between dimensions start to close. I understood the spiritual symbolism. My family had celebrated All Saints Day on November first. My parents considered Halloween as a night of prayer and fasting, spiritual cleansing to keep the demons at bay. I’d just never realized that the religious overtones had meaning in reality, or metaphysical reality.

  “It’s going to take every minute of this week to get the spells right, to make it look like the pentagram is not working because of the nature of Halloween but, in reality, is only masked and ready to spring a trap.”

  “So Mooney and D’Accore and their minions can get in but not back out?”

  G jerked his head down once in agreement and proceeded to the dining room—our ad hoc conference room. I had plans for luring those minions in and trapping them in the pantry, the only place they could hide on the ground floor.

  Tonight, I’d set the table with a green tablecloth and golden linen napkins along with the good china and silverware. We had guests. We’d eat first and confer later, probably in the living room where G could get his knee up. I had ice packs prepared, just in case.

  “Ted promised to bring Jason home before ten, and that’s way past his bedtime and mine,” I continued. Both Ted and Jason needed to be involved in the confer
ence. And Gayla. We’d need mundane help at ground level and for mop-up.

  “Full conference over brunch at nine tomorrow, Sunday morning,” I affirmed to all present.

  G just shrugged and frowned. He glanced longingly at the recliner in the living room, then limped into the dining room, taking his place in the captain’s chair at the head of the table. He barely grunted when Gayla shoved a footstool under his feet. But Zebediah noticed her trim backside when she bent over.

  Interesting. They were of similar age, and he was indeed one of the few men taller than she. I could almost feel the attraction blooming. No magic needed.

  Then the girls bounced into the room, smiling their not-so-secret secretive smiles at their father. They knew something I didn’t know.

  But I would know. And soon. I’d make certain of it.

  Despite the October drizzle that made the oak and alder leaves in my front yard a soggy mess, Zebediah raked them diligently. By eleven o’clock Sunday morning, only an hour and a half after the conference where G assigned tasks and set up a timeline, then dismissed us all, he’d filled two orange lawn bags with black jack-o’-lantern faces and was working on his third. “Where do you want these?” he asked in his British accent with just a hint of South Africa.

  “On the porch, away from the door, a little less spooky than the cemetery for little trick-or-treaters,” I answered handing him a travel mug full of café au lait.

  “A barricade on two sides of the wraparound porch will slow down trespassers sneaking in from the back. G and Sing are adding a little extra something to the back gate and fence that will help, too,” he said with a smile as he retrieved a vial of powder from his flannel shirt front pocket and held it up to the misty light.

  “What’s that?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Just a little sneezing powder. And some itching powder in another bottle. Sprinkle a little on the back side of these oversized pumpkins, and any intruders will have other things to worry about than breaking into your house.” He chuckled. “Not all defense has to be magic.”

  “You’ve done a marvelous job of cleaning up my yard,” I said, not retreating to the warmth of the house as quickly as I should.

  “Always finish what you start, my mother used to say.” He took a long swig of the hot coffee and returned to his raking.

  “Well, I appreciate the help.” At this rate, I’d have my house ready for the party long before I was.

  “We’ve got to look busy or the boss will tan our hides. He’s not happy that he can’t get at the attic.”

  “He’s rarely happy these days. And won’t be until D’Accore is back in prison.”

  “Don’t we all know it. He pulled in every favor owed to him to get this team together. Not like him to ask for help. Except now his family is involved, and he’s desperate.”

  “He’s also hurt and suddenly aware that he isn’t invulnerable or immortal.”

  Zebediah tilted back his head and roared with laughter. “A nice comeuppance for his lordship.” His deep voice rumbled like an earthquake and may have distressed some people in the neighborhood. Thankfully, I’d watched Bret and Flora Chambers drive by very slowly, assessing us, on their way to church an hour ago. They’d be gone all day.

  “How long have you known G?” I asked.

  “Since we were kids. After his folks died defending my father, my village sent me here, to live with G’s family. Grandpa had magic, my dad had magic, but they didn’t pass on the gene to me. I fell in love with this town and went to the U with G. I competed in decathlon, he captained the gymnastics and fencing teams. We lived in the same dorm for a year before his family demanded him home and he commuted to classes. I guess every guy needs to live away from home for a while. Don’t know what went down to drag him out of the dorms. He liked it there, made friends.”

  “I’ve met precious few of his friends outside our immediate neighborhood. I wonder if that’s why his family brought him home. Friends outside the community.”

  “He doesn’t like to draw attention to the community. He only calls me when he needs mundane muscle.”

  And he had lots of those, nice long lean muscles. I was surprised Gayla wasn’t here yet to admire how they stretched and flexed while he worked.

  My next stop was the bottom of the attic stair where Wu Sing Chen strung wires and fixed hooks for the flowing gauze I’d shaped into a ghost. He accepted his mug of tea with a bow, his long black braid so immovable it seemed glued to his collarless black cotton shirt, and returned to his work.

  I watched his slender fingers adjust things with minute care for a few heartbeats.

  Then he touched something, and the ghost swooped down on me, tangling my hair and screeching like a banshee.

  I screeched, too, and scrabbled at my face and hair to dislodge clinging bits of the fake cobwebs. I hadn’t added those to the special effects, nor the bass voice laughing evilly backed up by “The Ride of the Valkyries” over the improvised sound system in Jason’s room.

  As I backed away, still swatting at the lingering sensation of ghostly fingers touching me, Wu Sing Chen smiled and bowed. The first expression I’d seen on his face. I had yet to hear a word out of his mouth.

  From the attic staircase, I sought the reading nook in my bedroom with the almost hidden door leading to the tower staircase. The open-air belfry had access to the widow’s walk. The smell of sodden smoke from downtown penetrated my senses. Already, construction crews were clearing away charred debris. I wondered if Mooney would rebuild in the same style or modernize. He had an entire block to work with.

  George Red Hawk sat cross-legged on the bare walkway. The top of his head barely reached the railing. Not a big man like Zebediah, nor small and secretive like Wu Sing Chen. A little taller than me, but short-legged and long-waisted. He’d braided feathers and beads into his two gray plaits and wore a soft gray felt hat. His jeans and chambray shirt with a polar vest and western boots wouldn’t stand out in a crowd of Anglos. In Eugene, with a lot of the mystic community affecting tribal connections, the braids and beads didn’t set him apart. It was the stillness surrounding him like an inviting aura that made him unique. This was the kind of man who measured time in seasons and generations instead of digital seconds.

  I handed him a travel mug of plain black coffee, three sugars.

  He took a sip and nodded. All the while his gaze wandered the horizon and the gray skies above.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  G had called him a bird whisperer. I couldn’t see any birds out this morning. Those that had not flown south should be tucked up in their nests, fluffed and enduring the cool autumn weather. Temps were in the fifties and likely to stay there. I couldn’t see or smell any clearing to the west.

  In reply, I heard a screech from a bird of prey. Instantly, my senses came alert, and I scanned the sky for a rare glimpse of a magnificent creature. A big red-tailed hawk swooped down, barely clearing the conical peak of the western tower. Then it flapped its powerful wings and climbed back into the obscuring clouds.

  “Keeli says ‘hello,’” George said.

  “Hello, Keeli,” I called upward.

  “She likes you. She doesn’t usually speak to strangers.”

  “Thank you, Keeli. Does she travel with you often?”

  He nodded. “She is my familiar. We work together like you and your wand do.” He nodded toward the spurtle sticking out of my back pocket. It had shrunk a bit more but was still long and obvious. “She does not like the crate modern airlines require. I had to let her out to hunt before G met us at the airport yesterday. She followed us closely to this house and then to Raphe’s.”

  “I wish you good hunting, Keeli.”

  George chuckled. “She ate well this morning. You no longer have mice trying to burrow under the greenhouse. So now she spies for me. For a time. Until she grows bored.
But I doubt that will be soon. This new territory is an adventure for her.”

  “What does she find so interesting?” I asked and settled down beside him with my own travel mug of strong black coffee with just a touch of cream and sugar.

  “A gathering of angry people. There is a community here that spends a lot of time shouting and little time doing. Today they are finally angry enough to begin planning something. She-who-must-not-be-named by me and her lover are feeding their anger, and ideas. G has warned the police to keep an eye on them, though they can’t do much but watch until this group moves out of their church and takes action.”

  My heart sank. “My parents view life a lot like they do. In trying to understand Flora Chambers and her husband, I’ve learned some truths about my past. I’m not quite ready to forgive, but I understand them better.”

  “And what have you learned, young wise one?”

  “We all want to protect our children as much as possible. But there comes a time when we have to allow them to grow up and send them out into the big, wide world around us. It’s very scary as well as awesome out here. If we haven’t allowed our children to develop life skills, explore, and make a few mistakes, then they will fail miserably. They will make more mistakes, but if they haven’t learned how to correct their own errors, or tolerate misjudgment in others, then they will either come running home and hide in the basement forever, or make even bigger mistakes, like drugs and crime, or attaching themselves to evil people. I believe that BJ Chambers did the latter. The boy I’ve known since he was four isn’t evil. He never would have thought to steal a gun and start shooting, no matter how mad he was. Someone had to coax him into that. I believe time in the state mental hospital with therapy and a complete separation from magic and our enemies will be the best thing for him.”