A Criminal Magic

by Lee Kelly

  But my twisty, almost electric anxiety has given way to a dull hum. “I might have come up with a solution, to our shine problem,” I say flatly.

  At that, Gunn stops looking at the map.

  I take a deep breath. “It was something Alex said, in passing, about our double-sided trick tonight. The one we use to enchant the glass stand.” I lean forward a few inches. “You know how you’ve talked about magic being alive, that it needs and wants things, same as the rest of us?”

  “And?”

  I study my hands. “What if we . . . what if we somehow spellbound the blood-spell? What if we tricked the magic itself?”

  Gunn’s face stays stone, unimpressed. I lose some of my nerve but stumble forward. “Before I brew the shine, we’ll spellbind the top of the bottle with a double-sided trick. Like our glass stand manipulation, or a protective wall that shows two different things to those on each side.” I try to think this through once more. “The bottle will appear closed on the inside but will be a pass-through on the outside,” I say. “And then I conjure the blood-spell over this double-sided trick.”

  I practically see his mind’s wheels turning. “Can someone besides you release it?”

  I nod. “They should be able to. Because it will only be blood-caged from the inside out, and not the outside in.” I pick up the bottle of water on his desk. “Imagine a stopper sitting right here”—I point to the neck of the bottle—“a stopper that’s separated into two manipulations: the one facing the liquid inside is a closed container, and the manipulation that faces upward is an open container. I conjure the blood-spell over this stopper”—I point again to the neck of the bottle—“but we seal the bottle with a cap up here.” I slap the top of the bottle. “A buyer can open the real cap, because the magic inside is none the wiser. It still thinks it’s trapped, blood-caged. It has no idea it’s been tricked.”

  The beginnings of a smile slowly start to pull at Gunn’s face. “But the shine would still be bound—”

  “It wouldn’t be bound, it’d be released,” I interrupt. And then I stop, take a breath. You don’t talk over Gunn. “Just because the magic doesn’t know it’s been tricked,” I start again, more tentatively this time, “doesn’t mean it hasn’t been. The bottle would be open. The shine’s shelf life would begin.”

  Gunn doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then he simply says, “Show me.”

  He leans over, takes off the cap of the water bottle in front of me, and leans back, waiting for my demonstration.

  I swallow down the nerves, the fear, the doubt. You can do this. It will work. It has to work. I take the bottle into my hands, keep my right on the glass, wave my left over the top. “Conjure and split—to the bottom enclose, to the top release.” A small glass stopper sparks alive at the mouth of the bottle. And then I close my eyes, brew my shine into the bottle, letting my magic touch flood into the glass, and transform the water into a pure red shine.

  I steal a glance at Gunn. “Moment of truth.” He passes me his letter opener without a word. I pause, then draw it quick across my arm. A flash of blood pulses out of the cut, trails over my skin, drops into the bottle and around the glass stopper I’ve just conjured. Then I slowly place the real cap on top, right over the bloodstained stopper wedged into the bottle’s mouth. “With purpose and a stalwart heart, a sacrifice.” I chant the spell. “Less of me, an offering to cage for eternity. My wish, to cage this shine forever, or until I release it.”

  The bottle trembles, accepts my sacrifice, and shudders once more before it stops.

  “When will we know if it works?” Gunn says.

  “After at least a full day. We need to make sure the caging spell has preserved the shine beyond the magic’s shelf life.” I pause. “And then someone else has to try to open it.”

  Gunn leans back in his chair again, pensive, begins to bite his cuticles. He takes a long look at the bottle. “If this works, it will blow the market apart,” he says simply.

  But I can’t let myself think about that “market,” about all the folks who could get hooked on shine if this comes to pass—their homes that might get broken, their families who might get left behind. And maybe that’s gutless, but I never tricked myself into thinking I was a hero. I’m here to do right by one small corner of the world. Besides, Gunn didn’t give you a choice. This is the warehouse clearing all over again, the house of magic manipulations.

  You or them.

  “If you teach the troupe, and they in turn each teach a team of hired sorcerers”—Gunn thinks through it—“we’ll be able to churn out larger shipments. We hire even more magic gofers, and we can mass-produce it.” He gives a sigh. “Ship as much of this as we can manage, anytime, anywhere. The only limitation being, as I understand it, that as soon as you open the bottle, you’ll need to drink its contents within a day.”

  I chase away my guilt and answer, “Which will still keep people coming back to us and wanting more.”

  At that Gunn pops a hard, hungry laugh. “Here’s hoping to God, Joan.” He leans forward, opens his notebook, and says, “All right. I’ll let you know.”

  I walk to the door feeling like I’ve been released from a set of shackles, and my shoulders actually feel lighter. I might have done it. Given Gunn what he wanted, secured Ruby and Ben’s future by doing what I needed to do—

  “Joan, there’s one more thing. You were asking about Alex Danfrey.” I turn back to Gunn, who’s still focused on his notebook. “Don’t get mixed up with him, you understand?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me.” He pauses. “Besides,” a smug little smile teases his features, “you need to keep that stalwart heart.”

  And just like that, I feel caged again, but by a whole different set of chains.

  Gunn’s got no right. He might control everything else, but he’s got no right to control my heart.

  “Go on, Joan,” Gunn says when I don’t move, can’t bring myself to answer. “That’ll be all.”

  * * *

  I’m a ball of nerves that my solution might fail, so I try my best to focus on other things: on throwing myself into my performance, on our show, on my crowd-pleasing trick with Alex. Alex and I just keep improving it. On Wednesday, Alex gets the idea to change my replica’s scenery, and sends my image on a swim through a lake. The next night I win over the crowd by having his replica trek through a snowstorm. Thankfully, between our heady, nightly performances and the long but delicious days of practicing side by side, the week manages to pass in its own magic flurry—and by the end of it, I’ve somehow shelved my worries about Gunn.

  But Friday morning he comes knocking on my bedroom door. “Mr. Gunn.”

  Gunn’s eyes are electric, his hands practically shaking. He shuts the door behind him, burrows through the satchel that’s thrown across his body, and pulls out my blood-caged shine. My glass bottle from Monday night is still capped, with a bloodstained glass topper wedged into the mouth. And the shine is still a brilliant, glistening, full-bodied red.

  He twists off the top easily, and then places it back on again.

  “It worked,” I breathe out.

  Gunn turns the bottle over carefully to its side. “Oh, it worked all right. I already tested a drop of the product this morning, too. Joan, it’s flawless.” We did it. I did it. “Some of the higher-ups are already on board. It’s real, this is happening. With their support, I’m meeting a distributor tonight, so I’ll need you to make another bottle,” he rushes, “see if we can’t get him committed to a partnership.”

  I exhale loudly, the words, “ten percent,” flashing like a stoplight in my mind.

  Gunn tucks the bottle of shine back into his satchel. “Might be a long night of breaking bread, ironing out details. So you need to manage the troupe tonight—pick the finale, run the floor. It’s New Year’s Eve, should be a festive crowd.”

 
; I swallow. “Excuse me, sir? You mean your meeting isn’t here?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s at Colletto’s shining room, out near Union Station—too risky to do it here.”

  Wait, Colletto—as in the D Street boss, Colletto? I might not know all of the Shaws’ inner workings, but I know that a meeting between Gunn and Colletto is far more than risky, the gangs are sworn enemies—

  “The troupe will be fine, you’ll be fine,” Gunn interrupts my thoughts, mistaking the worry that I’m sure is all over my face as concern over running the Den tonight. “Just don’t burn the house down, all right?”

  “Sir—” I leap forward to get more details, but Gunn’s already closed my door.

  I run my fingers through my hair, pace back to my bed, flop down onto it. I’m managing the troupe tonight. The show is my show. An eternal shine might be possible, shippable. D Street, the Shaws’ enemy, is somehow involved.

  Then a thought strums and rings out over all the others, a thought that refuses to be quieted: Ten percent. Ben and Ruby will be taken care of for the rest of their lives.

  You run until you win, or until you fall, Gunn had said of me, all those mornings ago, in this very room. At the time, the words felt almost like a shaming, especially coming from a man like him. But I’m committed to seeing the other side of them. I’ve given everything I have, things I didn’t want to give, things that weren’t mine in the first place—but I’ve done what I came here to do. I’m taking care of Ben and Ruby, changing their lives for the better, in a way me and my family never could have dreamed of before. And for once, I give myself permission to feel pride over that—not regret, or shame or fear.

  I let myself relish the victory.

  * * *

  The day only gets better. I go down to practice expecting a heap of hell from some of the troupe for playing boss, but when I announce that Gunn’s on the road and they’re going to need to deal with me, I barely get a grumble, not even from Tommy or Rose. Our practice even reminds me a little of our days back in the clearing, when our only real worry was figuring out how to make our magic all it could be. No blood, no back-office deals, no secrets.

  So in honor of the troupe, I suggest our immersive finale be a garden, like the one that Billy and Ral built in the clearing, on that first day Gunn was testing us.

  Because there’re some things that you can’t speak, but that magic can say.

  “The finale is perfect, Joan,” Ral says, after we break a little early, all share a smoke outside the Den’s door, the winter breeze a welcome change from the trapped air of the show space. His smile has returned, as has his normal olive skin, the aftereffects of his shine bender gone. It relieves me, and I nod and touch his shoulder. I guess we all need to escape once in a while.

  “The garden might be one of our best finales yet. It’s beautiful.” Grace blows a steady train of smoke circles that she somehow enchants into a parade of smoky flowers. I laugh as I attempt to grab them.

  “They’re right,” Alex whispers beside me. He’s so close our arms are touching, his forearm putting the slightest pressure on my recent blood-magic scars. He looks up at me with his perfect smirk. “The crowd’s lucky that Gunn got called away—that it’s you at the helm. Tonight’s going to be extraordinary.”

  And when the doors open tonight, I taste things I’ve never tasted so exactly before, though of course I’ve gotten whiffs of them—pride, and ownership. Like the Red Den really could be my show. Like I was made to dazzle and win over a crowd, and make them fall in love.

  “Let’s light this place on fire, Joan,” Alex says, as the first wave of patrons in their black-tie best and dazzling dresses floods the cocktail bar.

  I match his smile. Not going to lie: when he came back to the show space wearing a tux, I almost wrapped myself right around him. Alex reminds me of what magic can feel like. He reminds me of the best kind of performance, one that taunts and teases and slowly sneaks up on you, until it has you completely.

  “I’m ready,” I say. “Just hope you can keep up.”

  “Getting a little cocky, aren’t we, considering last night I had sixty-three percent of the crowd on my side of the mirror?”

  “Sixty-three percent? You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive,” he teases, as he takes his place on his side of the glass stand. “You might need to step up your performance, Joan. I daresay the pupil is eclipsing the master.”

  A group of older women dressed to the nines in furs and red lipstick settle into the front row on my left, while a few couples in matching silky black sit down on my right.

  “Put your magic where your mouth is, Danfrey.” I nod to my side of the glass stand. “Prediction: I’ve got the whole crowd by the end of the show.”

  He gives a put-on, theatrical gasp. “She raises the stakes,” he says. “Challenge accepted.”

  Alex warms the crowd up with a manipulation of my replica that must be impressive, but not jaw-dropping. I can tell by the whispers of the ladies on the front bench, the ones ogling and whispering about Alex, instead of his magic.

  When it’s my turn, I go for broke and light Alex’s replica up from the inside, as if I’m turning him on like a jack-o’-lantern. His face, suit, skin—they glisten. He looks otherworldly as he glows from the glass. A few audience members on his side actually stand up because of the whispers on my side and angle around to see. Alex even breaks our protocol, takes a few steps toward me instead of returning my trick with another of his own, and peers around to spy on what I’ve done.

  “You’re supposed to wait until the end of the round,” I stage-whisper, and the patrons closest to us laugh.

  “I couldn’t.” His actual face looks almost as radiant as his replica’s.

  We’re flirting, sparring, pushing each other with our magic—we both know it. I want to beat him so badly. A very small part of me wants him to beat me.

  Truth be told, I want us both to soar.

  And then I block out Gunn’s warnings about Alex with everything I’ve got. Because Gunn’s not here right now. For once, I focus not on what I should do, but on what I want. And maybe, just tonight, I deserve that. I want to lose myself in this. . . . I want to lose myself in him.

  We run through it again and again, and before I feel like I’ve fully settled into the trick, the clock chimes its hourly bell, nine chimes for nine o’-clock, marking the end of the performance hour.

  “I’ll meet you over by our spot on the right after the intermission, okay?” I say to Alex, once I reach him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m working the floor tonight, remember?” I wink at him. “Pretending to be Gunn? I need to check in with the rest of the team.”

  Alex folds into the crowd for the parlor trick intermission, and I start making the rounds, checking in on the troupe, making sure everyone has their part to play in the finale. To me, it sort of feels like our first show.

  “I know you’re nervous, but this is going like clockwork, Joan,” Grace says when I find her near the front. “And I’d sure as hell rather answer to you than Gunn.”

  “Billy and Ral all right?”

  She smiles. “Think they’re honored about the tribute to their garden.”

  I feel myself beaming. “And Tommy and Rose?”

  She throws a glance across the show space, where Tommy leans over Rose in the corner, whispering. “As hard to read as ever.” She laughs. “I think they’re fine.”

  I laugh with her, squeeze her hand. I’m grateful for her, for everything, and for just one minute I let myself pretend that this really is my place, that there is no Gunn.

  I walk with purpose, confidence, through the crowd, excited to get back to Alex and begin the finale. But then I spot him on the other side of the show space—and I realize he’s been pulled aside by Boss McEvoy.

  I can’t h
ear them from here, even if I attempted to use magic, but Alex looks upset. His brow is creased, and he’s using hand gestures, speaking to the floor, as McEvoy keeps interrupting him heatedly, like he’s barking. Even from halfway across the room, I see the deep-purple bruises underneath McEvoy’s eyes, the dull-gray polish to his skin. He’s either hankering for something magic, or he’s coming down. Then he grabs Alex’s collar and yanks him closer.

  Panic grabs me and I start cutting through the crowd, though I’m not sure what the heck I’m going to do when I reach Alex. Tell the boss of the Shaws to calm down? Get some air? Gunn’s not here, none of the higher-ups are here to calm McEvoy down—

  Thankfully, before I reach them, McEvoy stumbles away from Alex, swimming upstream against a crowd now gathering in the center for our finale.

  I tap Alex on the shoulder.

  He whips around, looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

  “What was that about?” I say breathlessly.

  “It’s fine, it’s nothing,” Alex says slowly, runs a hand through his blond hair. “He’s just taking the night off, and he’s all hopped up on dust. I’ve seen him like this before. I’m used to him taking it out on me.”

  But I don’t know how someone like Alex can ever get used to being treated like that, can learn to accept it. It makes me hate McEvoy just a little bit more. It also makes me wonder what Alex’s father was like, if this wonderful boy has learned to smile in the face of being browbeaten. “Was it strange seeing him here, in this world, instead of out on the street?”

  “Strange, but in a good way,” Alex says. “Reminds me how lucky I was to get out from under his shadow.”

  “Come on.” I take his hand, pull it gently. “I think it’s time we got you your own breath of fresh air.”

  And our magic immersion finale is just that. Trees sprout up and bloom along the aisle. A huge crisscrossed lattice of ivy runs one story above the floor, from the double doors to the back stage. Birds fly, darting across the two-story space, and grass begins to grow up from the cement floor. And as we watch our troupe’s magic unfold around the audience, Alex takes my hand and squeezes. Long ago there was a sorcerer who met her match, who finally understood all that magic could be—