Heist

by Kezzy Sparks

  Perhaps not unsurprisingly, The Mage’s own sexual instincts are aroused. Casey must have been a real stud. The Mage kicks her legs and lies on her bed. This thing is beautiful. No wonder the client insists on taking it.

  Titillated, she peels the dick’s head back and brings it to her mouth. Her movements ought to cause pain in the injured shoulder, but she doesn't feel it much. The cock actually gets hotter when it touches her lips, and its weight increases. Magic is wonderful.

  One of her familiars, Tyrese, the striped one, sidles into her bedroom through the door that’s cracked open. The felines are allowed to roam inside if it’s only The Mage home. Milyn left hours ago.

  “Please don't watch Mom, go away.”

  The cat scurries back to its buddy.

  With this dick, she wants to do more, but unfortunately sex in the proper sense is denied her. It’s something she had to swear off, so as to reach this lofty mage position. She can never have anything pleasurable inserted into her vagina. Truly, that sensitive area is forbidden. Not even a finger, unless the action is medically related.

  “Great thing, my mouth doesn’t fall under those restrictions,” she says and then she shoves the whole shaft of Casey between her lips. The veins ripple on her tongue. This is genuine ecstasy. You can’t ever beat it.

  Incredibly, she starts to again feel sorry for the client. Maybe out of sisterhood she ought to have allowed her a private moment with her ex's goodies in a bedroom or somewhere.

  But, by Jove, no, E would have to pay big dollars for that. This thing is going to be big business. DB4R! If it turns out well, she might rob more of these big ones, just to make some side money!

  She propels the thing deeper in. Until she can feel it at the back of her throat and she is having difficulty breathing…

  Six

  “Mel, you are my first and last hope,” Casey says to me as we go.

  What a lot of responsibility this young man is placing on my shoulders.

  We are still going up Jefferson, bathed in sunlight that’s pouring in through the windows. I always make sure to have one or two herbal air sweeteners in the car, and right now, we swim in aromas of jasmine and lavender. We tailgate behind Fords, GMC’s, Chryslers, and Toyotas. Virtually every big car brand with a global footprint is represented here. Engines roar, exhausts puff, and America goes on with its business despite that some people like Casey are suffering enormously, and in silence, due to black magic attacks.

  Cheektowaga is big, and I don’t know where Casey lives, but he is giving me some directions. As soon as we approach Genesee, he instructs me to turn right. That road is a bit of a bother to drive on because there are too many buses going to the airport and it’s generally busier.

  Gazing toward the airport, I get a bad feeling that actually approaches alarm. Black magic practitioners often escape away from towns where they have committed grievous crimes, and it might be possible that in one of those busses, the culprit could be seated. And soon they would be gone from this city, possibly never to be seen again. It's bad and I can’t tell Casey.

  We chug along, and then after crossing past the I-90, we reach Union Street.

  “Now getting close,” Casey says. “The Crooked is down that way.” He points to Union.

  “No, we go home first.” I am not sure where this whole tragedy occurred, but I don’t suppose we should start with the bar.

  He lives on Dick, a road I know too well. All along, he was directing me, but had he only named it, I would have driven without asking. I live in West Seneca myself, but it isn’t so far from here, just a few miles south. This area is one I could consider my locale, and the fact that a bad witch has been prowling and committing terrible magical crimes in my backyard makes me all the more angry. I want to find out who did this.

  As we get to his home, my right hand starts to twitch again like it was doing in the office. Something bad passed by here, barely twelve hours ago; I hardly need my sniffer to confirm.

  I park in his driveway, and then we get out. Casey’s home is an oldish wood-sided two story dwelling with a brown shingled roof.

  “Try to think, Casey,” I say. “Something went on out here.”

  “I know something went on,” he answers. “Otherwise I’d be normal.”

  “So do you now remember whom you were with?”

  “No, I don’t, sorry.”

  This is frustrating, but I have to pardon him. He may not only have been drunk, but also under a spell.

  I take out my sniffer wand. Unlike the traditional type of wand that is a single stick, this one is a small whip, since it consists of a handle and a short rope. The handle is nineteenth-century hickory, the rope lambskin. The combination of hickory and lamb, plus a good dose of enchantment, makes this wand a stunning tool.

  One of the biggest troubles of our work is that we can’t just display magic devices in the open as we have to avoid alarming the innocent, unaware public. Briefly I look around to check that no neighbors are looking. I then start off by making sweeping movements, traversing the driveway, road, and porch.

  All over, the wand’s rope part whips about, but the motion is more intense on the porch. Also here, the whipping vibrations have a different beat.

  “A big thing happened on this porch,” I say. “Casey, why did you get drunk to the point of not remembering?” Really I’d like to scold him for getting wasted, but also know I should treat clients with care.

  He only shakes his head.

  Aside from the evidence of black magic, I also sense another supernatural presence. A force for good sometimes walks this place. Could Casey be one of those few lucky souls with a guardian angel? Those entities sure still exist, and even though I have never actually seen one, I have felt their power in several places I’ve been to.

  Our world is indeed full of wonderful invisible things, but what breaks my heart is how evil triumphs over good ever so often.

  Casey produces a small bunch of keys and unlocks the door. I respect him by taking off my shoes at the mat. The house is neat for a building of its age. There are old leather couches, and a breakfast nook with a round glass table that has four cream-colored dining chairs around it.

  In spite of all that though, I must get to the real business. “Since you were a little over-served, did you sleep on the couch?”

  “No, I actually woke up in my bed, and with all my clothes on,” he says. “What I don’t understand is how this thing could have happened while I was fully dressed, all night.”

  It’s magic, I would like to tell him, it doesn’t get stopped by clothes.

  “I am so sorry for you” is what I say.

  In here, too, the story is the same. Those vibrating beats. The strongest signals come off the three-seater couch. Something terrible was set off there.

  Casey wonders what I am doing.

  “Just let me finish.” I don’t explain yet.

  Now that I have got the trail of how the perpetrator moved about, next would be to get rid of any evil spell energy still remaining.

  For that, I bring out my enchanted claw hammer and start to pry. The action is like I’m removing nails stuck into a wood plank. The claw end of the hammer is what I use for spell lifting, and the hard hammering part is for curse breaking. A curse and a spell are two different things, and so require different approaches to deal with them.

  Busily, I whistle spell-lifting chants as I work the claw. Huge popping sounds similar to metal banging against wood erupt, and a blackish vapor starts to crawl upward. Unfortunately, it’s not something a person like Casey who isn’t endowed can witness, but it’s a great spectacle, if it weren’t so evil. I will see what the effects on him would be, if any, when the spell lifting has been successful.

  My client looks puzzled at first, but as signs appear that something is releasing, fear takes over his face. It’s like he is having a panic attack, and he shivers. Sweat appears on his forehead. “I’m beginning to get some glimpses, Mel.”

  “O
f what, Casey? Please say.”

  “I see something or someone covered in red. And yes, it’s all from last night.” He trembles some more.

  Immediately I become scared for him. Red is never a good color in magic circles. If a black witch visits you wearing red, she or he means business. Worse, if it’s a demon that comes to you glowing red, the outcome will never be one you like.

  “How is the red? Deep, light, pale?” I ask.

  “It’s not too clear yet, I’m sorry. I just see red veils.”

  Unable to get more from him, I regard him silently, while my mind gropes at any possibilities. Unfortunately nothing reveals itself too soon, so the only thing to do is wait to see if the passing of more time will yield any better results.

  While waiting, perhaps now is the best time to lay that ward. Placing wards is something I always do wherever I feel there is a possibility of repeated attacks. And I do it regardless of whether I have sensed any powerful angelic presence at a home or not. Some dangerous baddies just know how to get past protective cherubs, and so beefing up security is never a waste of time or resources.

  Generally how wards work is that they radiate a disabling force that is effective around the area being protected. Any evil thing that tries to enter this area is greatly weakened and becomes unable to carry out its wicked purposes. Mysterious as they are, wards derive their power from three main sources: the maker, the material from which they are made, and then the chants uttered by the one doing the placing.

  The pixie doll I am going to use was made by a powerful good wizard in Salem, and so it’s got some punch. The material used is walnut wood, stained purple, and that makes the ward great because—magically—walnut trees are particularly strong and protective. Their nuts are a favorite food of faeries.

  Due to the nature of this attack, the most ideal place to put the ward would be in an attic, which would make it look over the whole interior, plus the back and front yards. When we came, however, I didn't see any such a loft, so maybe we will settle for a bedroom, the one he currently uses, preferably.

  “I will leave you a gift of protection,” I say. “Let’s go up.”

  Certain precautions must be taken before placing a ward in a space where bad magic has been used. The reason is any lingering ill effects could rob the ward of its power and render it useless. I take my hammer again and start hammering the air in the bedroom to destroy any curses.

  Bewildered, Casey still looks on. For that, I don’t blame him, because to his eyes it seems like I am just hitting at thin air. The curses, however, continue to break and disappear as swirling tendrils of a faint vanishing glow.

  “Just a little breaking action.” I bother to enlighten him.

  Now I will place the pixie doll underneath his pillow.

  “Let’s give her a name,” I say as I let Casey gaze at the pixie. “What was your grandma called?”

  “Florence Leanne,” he says.

  “Good, so we will call the pixie Flo.” I position it.

  Uttering words in a hard to hear whisper, I say the chant. It’s an art I believe I’m competent at, and even though I have had a few cases where my wards were breached, that doesn’t happen often.

  “Never give it away,” I say as I finish. “If you feel you no longer need it, hand it back to me.”

  “You can trust me on that.” Casey nods. “Why would I give it away anyway?”

  “Fine, it’s done.” I close my tote.

  We come back down to the ground floor and then get out.

  It now would be a good time to start a process I call magical locating. The process is easy, really; I don’t know why I call it by such a mystical term. Maybe I want to appear too complicated; I don’t know.

  Simply put, the aim of the locate process is to find on a map the current position of the evil perpetrator whose crime I am investigating. For this, I use that wand I call a dropper, one which sees where the perp is at any moment.

  For all it’s worth, the dropper is indeed a great tool, but the problem of locating would be that much easier if the wand simply could talk. For then it would just tell me where to go and look, and I would crack the mystery in a day. But then wands don’t talk, they only point, so I must go another route to find the position.

  To get a more workable result, the cleverer thing most investigators do is to use the dropper to draw two lines on a map, and where those two intersect is where the evil currently is. Boom, problem solved, and they just go and raid the position.

  “Just a moment.” I fetch the dropper from the jean tote.

  Like most tools used in paranormal investigations, this type of wand needs to be first primed with the magic scent of the suspect so it knows who is being looked for. I will do that now.

  Before I can go any further though, I must again confirm that there aren’t any neighbors gawking. It’s still a sleepy afternoon on Dick, so the process can go on. I take the wand to the porch where I registered those sniffer vibrations strongest earlier. Priming implies pointing at and sensing the trail the suspect took, and once I am satisfied the dropper has picked up the perp’s evil scent, it's ready to use.

  I move onto the lawn and get ready. Wiggling my hand while holding the wand, I give it some spin. Something must be wrong; the wand should be heavier, but it isn’t. The reason suddenly becomes apparent: the dropper is not charged.

  I wasn’t expecting a problem like Casey’s, so I hadn’t placed it in morning light to give it directional energy. This charging requirement is one of the biggest drawbacks of this otherwise phenomenal tool. Sadly, it’s no longer morning, so I can’t charge it. Which means I will have to wait till tomorrow.

  I sigh dejectedly, but it’s not the end of the world. There is still a lot to be learned at the bar, which will be our next stop.

  “Let’s go, Casey.” I put the dropper back into the bag.

  Seven

  Reality does bite, Casey is beginning to learn. He shakes his head in disbelief. All along it has been just like a dream, one he thought he’d soon wake up from, but sadly that’s not going to be. This thing isn’t going to be solved anytime soon.

  This morning, as soon as he set his eyes on the horror, his first go-to person was a workmate of his, Tina. She was the one who advised him not to waste time going to the doctors. “They won’t do anything for you,” she said over the phone. “The problem you describe is one caused by a malicious entity, and you will need the help of someone competent in solving black magic mysteries.”

  She didn’t take long to suggest Mel. “She is very able,” she said.

  Back in the day, when Tina used to speak of paranormal activity and things that go bump in the night—including the works of bad witches and warlocks—Casey would think it was all drivel, a product of crazy, superstitious minds. To him, life was only made up of things he could see. No invisible powers existed anywhere. There were no people with any ability to perform supernatural acts, and it had only been out of politeness that he listened to Tina.

  But today he couldn’t afford not to remember her.

  Mel is waiting for him, standing on the porch. “Now you’ll show me where the Crooked is,” she says.

  Casey sighs, realizing he has to take her there, though he is unwilling to face the guys who saw him in that state last night. “It’s on Union,” he barely whispers.

  They head back into the warm interiors of the Vic. Mel backs up onto the road and positions the car the right way.

  “It will help to find someone else to talk to,” she says as she speeds up.

  “I wish we could stumble on it,” he mumbles a thought. The Crooked is the last place he has a sure memory of last seeing his dick, and feeling the balls, but hoping they could find anything there is stretching the imagination too far.

  “Yes, you never know.” Mel humors him but only to be polite. More sensibly, though, she soon instructs, “When we get to the bar, please remember as much as you can, so we cover every angle. That is how problems are solve
d.”

  At that, his hopes soar somewhat; it will be nice when he gets back to normal.

  They arrive at the Crooked Uncle, whose patio isn’t packed yet because it’s too early in the afternoon. The bar’s yellow and black signage reflects back the clear sun. Guilt seeps into Casey. If only he hadn’t decided to come to this place yesterday, then this whole thing never would have happened.

  As they reach the patio entrance, thoughts flash inside him, and the image of a woman becomes etched right in the center of his brain. Shouldn’t he tell Mel of this, he wonders?

  “I see something.” He nudges her. “A woman, in red.”

  “A woman really?” Mel’s eyes suddenly twinkle with interest. “How young, old? Pretty?”

  “Very young.”

  “Is that right?” Thoughts cross her face. “And how is the red? Is it the same as you spoke of at the house?”

  “Yes.”

  Mel’s face scrunches deeply, showing anguished brain racking. “What’s the woman saying or doing? Is she acting friendly or hostile?”

  “I can’t really say, but I’m beginning to have a clue she is the one I met here. The details are fuzzy, but I certainly ended up getting entangled with her somehow.”

  “And what else do you remember about this, um, woman wearing red?”

  “Not much I’m afraid, but the red hue of her clothes shines vividly in my brain.”

  Mel seems to think. “Apart from her, who else were you with? We could ask around in case someone else has a better memory.”

  Casey fights to recall more. “I was with my regular guys at the start, but then the place got packed. That woman did come to me, though.”

  “Maybe if we could get hold of the person who gave you a ride, he might know better. Was it a cab; do you remember the driver or his car’s make?”

  “I can’t even recall any of that. I am so sorry, Mel.”

  “Keep trying, man.”

  He says nothing. The shame of the excessive drinking weighs down on his being, pulverizing him.