True Magic

by Colin Sims

  “Yes,” Rosewood agreed. “However, I fear the hex works both ways.”

  “Both ways?” I asked.

  “Indeed. It may very well protect you from magic,” he explained, “but one might say it is ‘holding you back,’ as well. I trust you have never noticed anything peculiar about yourself?”

  “You mean like magically peculiar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no.”

  Rosewood sat on the edge of his desk and nodded sagely. “I would imagine that to be so. You see, François, someone put this hex on you as a child. Someone knew something that we don’t, and they did it for a reason. Perhaps to protect you. Or perhaps not. Oh, and neither of your parents are magical, am I right?”

  “My parents? I highly doubt it.”

  “Wait,” Cassie said. She bolted upright in her chair. “Boss, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Rosewood grinned. “François may very well be a wizard, yes.”

  There are certain words that have a bit of a stigma attached to them. “Wizard” is one of them. It depends on the context, but usually when a fully-grown man uses a word like wizard, he’s either a.) Really into Dungeons & Dragons, or b.) He’s an actor who’s been paid millions of dollars to sit in a booth at Comic-Con and appear genuinely interested. I’d never thought I’d hear the word applied to me. I also never thought I’d say to someone, as I chuckled awkwardly, “What? Me? Oh no, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not a wizard.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Rosewood said. “It’s up to you, of course, but I can remove the hex. You see, now that I know it’s there, it’s remarkably easy to dispel. Plus, it’s old. I imagine it would wear out on its own within the next year or two.”

  I looked between Cassie and Rosewood who both stared back at me expectantly. Cassie was tapping her foot and biting one of her nails.

  Eventually, I said, “Um,” and then clamped my mouth shut again.

  I thought: Is this really happening? Am I about to give the thumbs up to becoming a wizard? And what does a wizard even do, anyway?

  Well, as the man just said, there was only one way to find out.

  “Okay. What do I have to do?”

  Cassie’s eyes lit up as Rosewood hopped off his desk and went rummaging through his drawers.

  “Ah,” he said. “Just the thing!”

  He brought out an antique magnifying glass rimmed with gold. It was a little dusty, and he blew on it with a flourish. “Galileo himself made this,” he said proudly. “I came across it at this little boutique in Florence. The owner had no idea what he had!”

  My back was pressed against the seat again. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Oh, nothing nefarious,” he said with a little laugh. “It’s just to gauge the hue of the hex.”

  He peered at me through the lens, making his eye look triple-sized. “Hm. A light shade of indigo, I’d say. Very well.”

  He put the magnifying glass down before standing up. “Now François,” he began, “I’m going to do the ‘ball of light’ thing again, only this time a bit more intense. It should be fine, although there might be a bit of a ‘pressure.’ Just hold still.”

  With that, he brought up both hands and a blue sphere of energy—about the size of a soccer ball—materialized between them. It was transparent with little filaments of lightning that sparked inside, reminding me of a plasma globe. (My parents had like six of those things.) He concentrated on it for a moment, making tiny gestures with his fingers. Then there was a flash and the ball zipped at my chest. I waited a second, completely forgetting to breathe. A moment later I realized that nothing happened. It didn’t hurt. There was no pressure. I didn’t feel a thing.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “Let’s see,” Rosewood said, picking up the magnifying glass. “Oh yes. That did it. The hex is gone.”

  “I don’t feel any different,” I said, looking myself over.

  “Oh no, you wouldn’t. But now that it’s done, you’ll need a proper teacher. I’d volunteer myself, of course, but alas I cannot. Here.” He skipped over to a shelf and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. “Use this,” he said, and handed it to me.

  I took the dusty, dog-eared volume and read aloud, “Introduction to Magic: A Beginner’s Guide to Spellcasting by Alroy McFadden. Published 1852. New York, New York.” I looked up. “This will teach me to be a wizard?”

  “Oh yes.” Rosewood nodded merrily. “Old Alroy is a marvelous teacher. Now you’ll also need this.” He went back into his drawer and pulled out a gold Zippo. It was worn and scratched like an antique. “Solitarius Tractus!” Rosewood announced proudly. “A vital tool for any wizard. Watch this!”

  He flipped open the cap and sparked the flint.

  What happened next can be described in two ways. First, his entire body got sucked into the lighter like a bed sheet into a vacuum. Second, he became an open Word Document that just got moved into the toolbar on a MacBook. Whichever helps you visualize it best.

  Either way, he vanished and the lighter dropped onto the desk with a heavy thud. An odd silence ensued for a couple seconds—though it seemed a lot longer—before I turned to Cassie and asked what in the heck just happened.

  Her eyes were glazed over slightly and she didn’t answer right away. “Hm?” she said. “Oh, that. He’s fine. He’ll be back in a second.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Inside the thingamajig,” she said.

  Now, I know I already mentioned how pretty Cassie was, but I feel like I need to mention it again. The reason for this is that right at that moment, with her leering at me, I couldn’t help but squirm in my seat. I actually had butterflies in my stomach. I hadn’t felt this nervous around a girl since high school.

  After a moment, Cassie asked, “You okay?”

  I told her I was. She smiled back without saying anything.

  Then—before things got even more awkward—the Zippo sprang into the air, snapped open, and out came Agent Rosewood.

  “See?” he said. “Perfectly harmless! The Solitarius Tractus—known colloquially as a ‘Solitar’—is where you will learn magic. You can go inside it and create any environment you wish, so as to provide yourself with a safe, spacious ‘dojo,’ if you will. There, you will learn magic spells without fear of harming yourself or others.”

  “So … if I open it and then light it, I get sucked inside it?”

  Rosewood laughed. “Ah, well the magical physics of it all is rather complex, I’m afraid. But yes, in effect, you will get pulled inside. In wizarding parlance we refer to it as a ‘micro plane,’ but you don’t need to concern yourself with that now. The most important thing for you to understand is that the Solitar is a wizard’s most sacred, private place where he can study the ancient arts of magic. In time, you will build a whole world inside, and I implore you to guard it carefully and keep it on your person at all times. In the wrong hands, it could be very dangerous indeed.”

  “How?”

  “Ah.” He chuckled again. “I’m afraid that’s a lesson you will have to learn on your own, dear boy. Just trust an old chap, and keep the Solitar safe. You will not regret it. Now,” he added with a sharp breath. “It just so happens, I have an important assignment for the two of you—that is, of course, if you will be working together?”

  Before I could answer, Cassie told him that we definitely were.

  “Very good.” Rosewood then pulled a file from his desk. “This,” he said, slapping it in front of us, “is of utmost importance and must be kept strictly off the books. The fate of the world depends on it.”

  • • •

  After climbing back in the Mustang outside the Hollywood Sign, Cassie drove way slower than before. She was like a normal person, even using her blinkers. The time was 10:43 and we had to make it downtown for my interview at eleven. In LA traffic, that meant that getting there on time was as likely as driving to the southern tip of Argentina and the
n back in roughly the same time frame. Still, no one likes a backseat driver, so I kept quiet and hoped that she knew what she was doing. What amazed me most was that I actually still cared about the interview. Even after learning I was a wizard—and then getting handed an assignment to save the world—I was still nervous about sitting across a table from Meagan’s father. I was even worried about the sorry state of my suit. It was covered in dirt from collar to cuff. How was I going to explain that? And would it even matter? There was no way I was getting there on time.

  I brooded on this, trying to remember some of my practice questions. None of them came. It was like my brain was a blank sheet of paper. Then Cassie broke the silence.

  “So … do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.

  Of all the questions in the universe, I wasn’t expecting that one. I told her that I did and asked, “Why?”

  She gave a little shrug, and with all the nonchalance in the world, stated, “Because I like you.”

  I honestly wasn’t expecting that either. I also didn’t know how to respond to it. Hence, the following:

  “Um, thanks?”

  It was times like these when I wished I were a “cool guy.” If that sounds shallow, let me explain. To my mind, a “cool guy” knows exactly what to say in all situations. If a pretty girl tells him she likes him, he says something right back that makes her laugh, and then he laughs, and then she laughs and then everything works out. I’ve never been that guy. I’ve never known what to say. I only know what to say about twenty minutes later when she’s long gone and may as well be on the moon. Which is why, I was all too familiar with the “look” that Cassie gave me.

  “Thanks, huh?” She then gave an exaggerated sigh. “A girl puts herself out there, and all she gets is a thanks …”

  “Sorry?” I tried.

  “That’s worse! Jeez, how did you get this supposed ‘girlfriend,’ anyway?”

  I had a quick flashback to when Meagan introduced herself. Everything after that was kind of a blur.

  “I honestly can’t say,” I said.

  She looked over and raised an eyebrow. “So what’s her name?”

  “Meagan.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  I blinked and told her that yes, yes she was. I also mentioned that tomorrow was our 1.5-year anniversary.

  “Who has a 1.5-year anniversary?” Cassie asked.

  I shrugged in response.

  The car was strangely quiet a moment before she suddenly blurted, “Okay fine. I lied, okay? I’m sorry, it’s just … I didn’t want to spook you. But you’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

  I didn’t know what the heck she was talking about, but usually when someone emphasizes out of the blue that you’re “perfectly safe” it means that you’re not. Thus, I found myself slowly edging away. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She paused, chewing her bottom lip, and then said guiltily, “So remember how I told you I was a succubus?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Well, I actually, sort of, do ‘drain the essence’ out of people. Or actually, it’s not their ‘essence’—that’s a weird word. It’s just their magic. Even non-magic people have a little of it. And without it, they die. So I guess it’s like their ‘life force’ or something. But I can’t help it. It’s what succubi feed on. ”

  “So …”

  “Yeah,” she said flatly. “I’m a monster.”

  She glanced at me again and must have noticed my hand slowly inching toward the door handle because she quickly added, “But I don’t! Er … what I mean is I hold myself back. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  My hand stopped. “So what do you do then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For food,” I said.

  “I don’t know. I eat … food. Like, cheeseburgers and stuff. It’s just that for me, sex is way, way better. Although chocolate ice cream comes in at a distant second.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I just told you about the succubus thing because …” She paused again and looked at me. “I don’t know. You’re kind of cute. And you’re a wizard, so you’re immune to the whole ‘dying when I kiss you’ thing. And your ears stick out.”

  Cute. Wizard. Dying. Ears.

  For some reason I focused on the “ears” part, and reached for them self-consciously.

  “No they don’t,” I said.

  “They do. But I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think you’re hot. And I have … how do I say this? Impulse control issues? Like when I see a really cute guy it makes me super hungry and I go a little crazy. But you don’t have anything to worry about. I have years of practice with this.”

  Slowly, my non-cool brain began to put two and two together. Unless I was mistaken—which has happened in the past—Cassie was saying that because I was a wizard; that meant that somehow she could sleep with me without killing me, and that possibly she kind of wanted to. (Sleep with me. Not kill me.)

  “So what you’re saying is—” I started to say.

  “We’re totally gonna have sex,” she finished. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Ever give one of those snorting, awkward laughs that makes you wish you could rewind time a few seconds so you could not do it? I gave one of those. “Ha ha, yeah. Maybe,” I said. “I actually do have a Meagan, er … a girlfriend, and I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

  And yet even as I said those words, I was already imagining Cassie climbing onto my lap and lifting her top over her head and then—

  “I think it would be a great idea,” she said.

  I swallowed. “You know my interview is in like five minutes. Do you know a faster route?”

  She glanced at me. “Are you worried?”

  “About the internship?” My voice cracked. “No, it’s just, um …”

  “You know, you don’t have to be scared of me,” she said. “I told you. I’m a nice succubus. And I’m only half, anyway.”

  “No, no, that’s not it. I just can’t be late.”

  Beads of sweat were starting to drip off my brow. Cassie noticed and looked me over with an amused smirk. “Are you always like this when you’re flustered?”

  “I’m not flustered,” I said.

  “Are too.”

  “It’s been a crazy day,” I said, then loosened my tie a bit. “It’s really hot in here. Can I roll down the window or something?”

  “You’re asking my permission?”

  I gave another snorting laugh. “Ha. It’s just my first time in a Batmobile.”

  She giggled and made a gesture toward the door. “Go right ahead.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I rolled down the window as we turned onto Hollywood Boulevard. The traffic was surprisingly light, yet I still wondered why she was taking this route. There were at least three others that would’ve been quicker.

  “We’re not going to make it,” I muttered absently. I hadn’t intended for Cassie to hear, but she did. She flashed me a wicked smile and asked, “Is that a challenge?”

  “What? No. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “I think you did. I think you want me to drive fast again.”

  Memories of this morning raced back into my head—the diving Elvis, the flying Tour de France guy, the poor souls scrambling off the sidewalks …

  “No, it’s cool,” I said. “I can be a little late.”

  In truth, if I was even a little late I’d lose any chance of impressing Meagan’s dad. But I didn’t want any casualties on my conscience.

  Cassie shrugged, disappointed. “If you say so.”

  Then there was an awkward silence.

  We pulled up to a red light on Hollywood and Highland. I stared at it, doing my level best to look anywhere besides the beautiful succubus sitting next to me. Cassie, meanwhile, drummed her fingers happily on the steering wheel. From the corner of my eye, I saw her shoulders rocking almost imperceptibly in a little dance. I
t was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I mean, she was barely moving and yet I couldn’t help but slowly turn and stare. Every curve seemed to melt into the next and my eyes traced from her midriff to the straining fabric of her tank top to her … shoot. She was looking at me.

  “Hi,” she said.

  I then pulled a move that every hormone crazed eighth-grader is all too familiar with: The Sudden Look Away.

  There are few things in life more embarrassing than The Sudden Look Away, but sometimes it’s all you can do. It’s also a matter of instinct. There’s no time to think, “Gosh, this will look ridiculous when I do it.” Instead, it just happens.

  In my case, it snapped my gaze out the passenger window in time to see a black and white police cruiser pull up beside us. My first thought was that somehow Johnny Law had caught up to the infamous black Mustang that had been tearing across the city a few hours ago. My second thought was that there was something a tiny bit off about this police cruiser. Its windows were tinted. I’d never seen a cop car with fully tinted windows before. I was about to mention this to Cassie when the officer’s window rolled down. I was so focused on the dark glass; I didn’t even notice the face behind it. Or at least, I didn’t notice it right away. Once I did, however … there was no turning back.

  The cop—wearing an old-style police cap—was staring straight ahead. He then turned very slowly to look at me. Or perhaps “look” isn’t the best word. He didn’t have any eyeballs. He didn’t have any skin either. He had a skull. A skull face.

  And so he and I sat there, staring at each other for a good, long two to three seconds. Then, as if breaking from a trance, his jaw fell open all the way. What came out was a sort of roar/screech that sounded as far from human as a sound can possibly get.

  Cassie suddenly took notice. “Oh, fuck,” she sighed and stomped on the gas. A growl erupted from the Mustang’s engine as it blasted forward like a rocket. The police cruiser—not to be outdone—screeched its tires as it shot after us. It was like a scene straight out of The Fast and The Furious—two cars drag racing off the line in a cloud of burnt rubber smoke.

  I looked forward, feeling an eerily placid calm. “That police officer was a skeleton,” I said numbly.