by Colin Sims
“I don’t know. Some kind of alchemist thing that heals bruises.” She tossed it to me. “Try it.”
Ordinarily, I would’ve been a little hesitant, but given my current state, I was happy for any distraction. The liquid inside the vial was thin and clear like water. I rubbed a few dabs on my cheeks. At first, I felt nothing. But then it grew steadily warmer until it was hot—really hot. Suppressing a horrified shriek, I jumped toward the nearest mirror. It’s always a very disquieting thing to see magic being done to your face. The black eye, the swollen cheeks, they were all deflating like day-old balloons. Before long, they were entirely gone and everything went back to normal.
When I turned to Cassie, she flashed me an enthusiastic smile. “See?” she said. “Good as new. Now you owe me a favor.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “What could I possibly do for you?”
“A lot of things, actually. But I’ll keep my favor in reserve. So.” She bounded to her feet. “Are you ready for your tour of LA’s magic side?”
• • •
There was a time when downtown Los Angeles—DTLA—was the lamest part of the city. All it had were banks and a bunch of old warehouses. Now, it’s one of the coolest parts of LA. My own personal theory for this is that Los Angeleans have a strange obsession with New York. There are examples of it everywhere. West Hollywood is called WeHo, mimicking New York’s Soho. (North Hollywood goes by NoHo as well.) And when you visit DTLA, it looks like a miniature version of Brooklyn, with artsy loft apartments in converted warehouses with lots of rusty, fire escape charm. I’m not sure why, but I think the obsession stems from the unique layout of LA, which is distinctly un-city-like. It’s more flat and suburban, with no central spot that everyone can point to and say, “That’s where the action is.” Thus, the idea of New York as a real city, with skyscrapers and history and dark alleyways, holds a certain appeal—and a bit of jealousy.
Thus: DTLA.
I’d only been downtown a few times for parties, yet Cassie clearly spent a lot of time there. She navigated its overcrowded streets like a native. Before long, we found ourselves in one of the back alleys still untouched by gentrification. The buildings on either side were crumbling brick and had the aforementioned fire escapes dangling overhead. They also had something else—something I wouldn’t have seen if Rosewood had never removed that hex. Certain bricks, as well as certain objects on the ground—like half-broken crates, trashcans or a stray penny—glowed. Not bright enough to be distracting, but definitely enough to notice. The colors were all different, too. One of the bricks to my left was bright violet. A discarded shoe to my right was muted yellow. Cassie explained that everyday objects like these were called “imbued.” Imbued meant that they had some sort of magical quality that could be used for a variety of purposes. Some of them, like the violet brick, opened a doorway to another part of the city. (In this case, it led to the ladies’ room on the tenth floor of the Capitol Records Building.) Other objects, like the shoe, didn’t do anything—unless they were mixed with other imbued objects, which was the province of an alchemist.
“It’s why I like to think there’s sort of a city within the city,” Cassie explained as we left the alley for a crowded street. “Imbued stuff can lead to all kinds of places, and only magic people can see it. Does that make any sense?”
I nodded, still thinking about the violet brick and the ladies’ restroom.
“So who put that there?” I asked.
“Who put what where?”
“That brick,” I said, pointing to the alley. “Who decided they needed to go from there to Capitol Records on short notice?”
Cassie shrugged. “Could’ve been the other way around, you know. It could’ve been a rock star looking for a quick getaway. Anyway, it’s always been there as far as I know.”
A rock star … I thought.
That made sense.
I got a mental flash of a young Mick Jagger getting caught in the ladies’ room with an adoring fan and making a frenzied escape. It made me chuckle for a second until something hit me. There were imbued objects all over the place. If people created them, then they were like little echoes of the past dotted across the city. And in thinking about that, I suddenly understood the layout of magic on Earth. It left little imprints everywhere, like snapshots of tiny histories. Mick Jagger making a hasty retreat. A magician levitating a penny. A shoe … well, I’m not sure what happened with the shoe. Either way, the glow of imbued objects told the untold story of magic in Los Angeles. It’s hard to realize something like that and not feel like a part of it. I wondered what violet bricks my life would eventually leave behind. Perhaps someday in the future, some young wizard might find a secret doorway to the broom closet of the Sriracha hot sauce factory, and say to himself, “I wonder who did this? And why?”
“So check this out,” Cassie said, pointing ahead to a broken down Honda perched on the curb. It was missing half its wheels as well as most of its paint. I didn’t see any imbued glow, but as she later explained, not every magic thing is imbued. (It was complicated.)
“What does it do?” I asked.
“I use it all the time,” she said. “It’s one of the entrances to the Magic Bank. Which is kind of boring, but it’s a good example of a Secret Room. You wanna go inside?”
Cassie had just explained that Secret Rooms were a big part of the Magic Community, and one of the main reasons they were able to stay off society’s radar. They were little planes of existence, sometimes no bigger than a bedroom, that were separate from the rest of the world. My Solitar was sort of like a Secret Room, but not exactly, according to Cassie.
“The Solitar is a wizard thing that you can carry around with you. Secret Rooms stay put. And you can’t do whatever you want in them. They have rules,” she’d said.
When she opened the door to the Honda, the metal groaned in protest like it hadn’t moved in a hundred years. Cassie hopped inside and the moment she crossed the threshold, she disappeared. It was just like the cornfield in Field of Dreams. So just like James Earl Jones, I cautiously tested the waters a few times with my fingertips before following.
Once I did, I didn’t feel a thing. I sat down on the worn upholstery, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on a gilded chair in the enormous, vaulted lobby of a bank. It had a serious Roman Pantheon vibe with lots of marble and columns holding up an impressively domed ceiling. A row of tall countertops lined the walls with only a few employees standing by. The rest of the place was totally empty, giving it the hushed ambience of a library.
“It’s actually really dangerous in here,” Cassie whispered. “This is just the lobby, but if you go through those doors,”—she pointed to a huge set of them across the room—“you enter the maze. It’s endless and if you get lost, you’ll never get out.”
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“The maze? Everything,” she said. “Valuables and money and whatever you want. Like me, for example, I have a bunch of ready cash and weapons stored there. It comes in handy when I’m on the run.”
“So it’s like a Jason Bourne type thing,” I said.
“Who?”
Damn. I really needed to show Cassie some movies. They were practically the only subject I knew anything about.
“Anyway,” she said. “I just wanted to show you a Secret Room. There’s all different types. Some are shops, others are hideouts—a bunch of stuff.”
“Are we going in the maze?” I asked.
The idea seemed to shock her. “No way. I mean, I can’t show you any of my stuff—it’s all top secret—and if we go in there without a direction we’ll never leave. The whole thing is like an endless set of hallways with safes lining the walls. And no numbers. Everything looks the same.”
“Sounds kinda creepy,” I said.
“That’s because you’ve never seen a Larva Mage before. That is creepy.”
After we left the Magic Bank, we got back in Cassie’s car and headed for Silver Lake. If you’re unfamiliar with LA,
Silver Lake is like the Hollywood Hills, but for young people who aren’t millionaires. It has the same narrow, winding roads, which snake their way through a series of steep hills. The houses, however, are less “mansion-like” and more “gentrified-like.” This is because the neighborhood mostly caters to LA’s dwindling supply of hipsters.
We were there to visit Cassie’s friend, Quentin, who was also her personal alchemist. Now, if you’re anything like me, when you hear the word, “alchemist,” you think of a guy playing with a chemistry set. Yet in the real world of magic, alchemists are more like inventors, dreaming up new technologies and gadgets. They can’t perform magic like wizards, but they can manipulate imbued objects to create crazy stuff.
Quentin’s house was a standard Silver Lake home, built on a steep slope and ensconced in thick foliage like it was trying to hide. Out front, there was a tiny driveway that led to a red-painted garage that opened automatically for Cassie’s car.
“I’m on his list,” she explained.
Once inside, the garage floor descended like an oversized elevator. There was total darkness for a few seconds until we emerged in a second garage that was the size of an aircraft hangar. It had tons of empty floor space, but there were also a dozen different workbenches scattered throughout—all littered with heavy tools and strange machines.
When we got out, I discovered that Quentin was a lot younger and better looking than I would’ve liked. (I was picturing an old guy for some reason.) Basically, he was a cooler, much tougher-looking version of me. He was medium height, which still put him several inches below Cassie, had dark wavy hair and wore a faded black T-shirt that drew attention to his rippling biceps. After a second, he looked up from welding something that looked like an Iron Man suit, and broke into a broad grin.
“Back for more?” he asked.
The cockiness in his voice made the innuendo unmistakable.
Cassie, I noticed, blushed. “Shut up,” she said and brought me up beside her. “Q, this is François.”
“Hey,” I said.
He frowned and gave me a once over. “So you’re the ‘wizard,’ huh?”
“I guess,” I said. “Yeah?”
He raised his eyebrows like he wasn’t impressed. He then turned to Cassie with a scowl. “So,” he said. “You just wanted to show off your new boyfriend or what?”
“Come on, it’s not like that,” she said. “I actually need some stuff.”
In a flash, Quentin’s good humor returned. “In that case, come with me. I’ve got some shit that’ll rock your world. I was thinking of you when I made it.”
“Really?”
“No. But you’re still gonna like it.”
We followed “Q” to another workbench along the far wall of the garage. Along the way, I was thinking two things: 1.) This guy is an asshole, he’s obviously had a thing with Cassie, and I don’t like him. 2.) His nickname is Q??? He builds high-tech gadgets for an attractive super agent and his name is Q???
A veritable blizzard of James Bond references was coming to me, but Cassie with her “I’ve only seen Cars 2” wouldn’t understand!
Q reached the workbench and picked up a sleek metallic case. “So the first thing,” he said, “is a new watch. Check this out. It’s got a grappling hook and a laser.”
I had to stifle a snort as he continued with his demonstration, but eventually I couldn’t help but ask if the watch could also detonate explosives.
He turned to me. “What explosives?”
“Never mind.”
It was one of those times where if I tried to explain myself I’d just sound even stupider. Q gave me a look like I’d just succeeded anyway.
“Moving on,” he said, picking up a new case. “I’ve got some next generation Ice Grenades—totally new design. Even the latest protection charms won’t be able to stop these bad boys.” He took one out of the case. “You throw one of these at a villain and he’s gonna be an ice statue no matter who he is. Guaranteed.”
Cassie immediately snatched the case and stared at it wide-eyed. “I’ve been after you for a year to make these.”
Before he could answer, she pounced on him, giving him a massive hug. It lasted a long time and Q’s hands wandered south a bit. He then gave me a happy look over her shoulder.
“Thought you’d like that,” he said.
I grimaced at him.
Once Cassie let go, he told her he had one more surprise and that he’d been saving the best for last.
“I call it a micro disc,” he said, picked up a small square of clear plastic. It had a tiny black dot in the middle that I could barely see. “It works just like your standard holding disc,” he explained, holding it up to a light. “It can store one small-sized weapon at a time. My recommendation is a Walther PPK.”
Before I could stop myself, I asked, “What’s a holding disc?”
Q turned, looking annoyed, but before he could say anything, Cassie said, “Remember that little poker chip thing you handed me with the sword painted on it? That’s a holding disc. Each one can store a piece of gear. Mine are all full of weapons.”
“Yes,” Q said. “Only this one is much smaller.” He indicated the tiny dot. “You can stick it anywhere on your skin and it will look like a freckle. Plus, it’s invisible to any magic detection technologies. If you need to sneak a gun into a really secure place, then this is the tool for you.”
Cassie took the micro disc and gazed at it admiringly. “It’s so small,” she whispered. “I could stick it anywhere.”
“That’s the idea,” Q said.
She examined it a moment longer before her eyes flicked back to Q. “Can I try it on?”
“Be my guest.”
Cassie skipped off, disappearing through a nearby door. Right before she disappeared though, she chirped, “You two be nice!”
And that was how I found myself standing awkwardly next to Q in a giant empty room. It took several seconds of tense silence before I said, “So, uh, how long have you known Cassie?”
He looked at me with a resentful glower. “You’re not hooking up with her, are you?”
I did my best to look shocked. “What? No. Hey man, no. I have a girlfriend.”
“Then what are you doing with her?”
I told him that it was a long story, but he didn’t buy it. He just stared at me until I started speaking again.
“Apparently her astrologer told her to find me,” I said. “And then this guy Rosewood lifted a hex off me and now I’m a wizard. Beyond that, I really don’t know. I’m kinda new to this whole ‘magic thing.’”
“You don’t say?” he said.
Right then, Cassie skipped back into the room. “This thing is awesome!” she declared. “I dare either of you to find it!”
There was an awkward pause.
“Uh, I’m good,” I said.
“Yes,” Q agreed.
Cassie frowned. “You two are no fun. Anyway, Q, I’m taking it. Just put it all on my tab.”
“Already done,” he said. “I only have one micro disc for now, but I’ll start making more. I’ll give you a call.”
Cassie hugged him again, kissing his cheek. “Have I ever told you that you’re the best?” she said.
Q gave me another look over her shoulder. “I believe you have,” he said. “Many times.”
Once they separated, he surprised me by saying, “François,” and stuck out a hand.
I shook it. “Quentin.”
He gripped my hand a split second longer than necessary. Then—with a heavy sigh—he said, “Alright, hold on,” and walked off to a nearby workbench. He plucked an old, leather bound book from a pile.
“Here,” he said, handing it over. “Read this and you won’t be so new to magic anymore. If you’re going to be hanging around Cassie, you better know what you’re doing.”
I looked at the book. There was nothing written on the cover. “What is it?” I asked.
“It’s what wizards used before smart phones an
d the Internet. It’s called a Vicipaedia, which is just Latin for encyclopedia. It has a thousand volumes inside it, each one giving you information on magic, foreign realms, types of creatures, hidden histories, etc … It’ll get you up to speed.”
“Whoa,” I said, and turned the book over in my hands. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks.”
Q gave Cassie—who was beaming at him—a brief look. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “And in case you’re worried about reading a thousand volumes, it has a photo-memory spell attached to it. You’ll be able to read each one in a matter of minutes.”
• • •
After leaving Quentin’s place, Cassie said she had one last thing to show me. We dipped back onto Sunset and she pulled the Mustang into the back parking lot of the Guitar Center. She pulled me over to the rear exit and took a small key from her pocket. I recognized it from earlier. She’d used it with the backdoor in the Hollywood Sign. Instead of putting it in the door, however, she handed it to me.
“This is yours,” she said. “It’s really easy to use. Watch.” She took out her own key, and said aloud, “Paris.” When she opened the door, there was Paris—a nice view of the Eiffel Tower and a guy in a beret playing an accordion. (No shit.)
“So this is a basic key,” Cassie explained. “This will take you to any major city. All you have to do is say the name aloud.”
I continued to stare at Paris until she closed the door and I was looking at the back of the Guitar Center again.
“So I just say any city?” I asked.
She nodded. “Give it a try.”
I put the key in the lock and said, “Boston,” and the door opened to a field-level view inside Fenway Park.
“Wow,” I gasped.
“I know, right?”
Cassie then took out another key—this one bright pink—and told me to close the door.
“This is a special one,” she said. “But you have to be a total badass like me to get it. Watch this.” She twisted the lock and the next thing I knew I was staring at Wilshire Boulevard a block from my apartment.
“See?” she said with a grand gesture. “Total badass.”
I stared a moment before asking, “So that one can take you anywhere?”