The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

“Do you know where we are?”

  He looked up, one of his eyelids stiff with drying blood. “I think we’re close to Maidenhead.” He pointed weakly toward a hill.

  That was a strange name for a town, though Alvie didn’t voice her opinion.

  Mg. Praff nodded. “I’ll see if I can find help. Rest, Fred. Alvie, stay with the auto, and keep an eye on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try to be quick.” He sprinted off the road, over one of the hills.

  Worrying her lip, Alvie found a handkerchief in her bag and offered it to Fred; he was bleeding through the one he had. She stood near him as he leaned his head back on the driver’s seat, eyes closed. She could see his pulse in an artery on his neck.

  After a few minutes of being extremely unuseful, Alvie stepped into the road, peering up and down its length, praying for another automobile to come by. There weren’t very many automobile owners, but she could hope. Even a man on horseback would do. She knit and wrung her fingers together, searching, waiting, but no savior came to their aid.

  A sigh escaped her. She glanced back at the automobile. The engine. She walked over to it and peered down at it again. It was still hot, but not burning hot. Still, she was careful where she put her hands as she leaned over the thing. Her eyes ran over the pipes, valves, and casings. Her lip twisted into a frown. Whatever could have—

  Her gaze caught on something near the cylinder head outlet hose, toward the front of the engine. Something sort of roundish, like someone had made a giant pig’s nose out of very thick, opaque plastic. She racked her brain but couldn’t determine what part of the engine it could possibly be. Did Mg. Praff put any spells in his automobiles to make them run better? Pressing her lips into a firm line, Alvie carefully reached down to touch it.

  The automobile protested, one of its many parts biting her just as her fingers grazed the object. She hissed and pulled her hand back out. Black grease smeared her first two knuckles, and a long red line oozed angrily around her thumb. She shook her hand and blew on the cut before backing away from the vehicle. Her gut told her that wasn’t supposed to be there. Hadn’t Fred said something about the garage being unlocked—

  Fred. She needed to check on him. Cradling her hand, she called his name. He didn’t reply. Nearing his door, she said again, “Fred?”

  “I’m here,” he answered tiredly.

  Knotting her fingers together, Alvie continued on to the trailer. There might be a bandage in there, and if nothing else, she should make sure their equipment had survived the jerking and jarring of the automobile. She opened the door.

  Several items lay strewn on the trailer floor. Grimacing, she knelt down and examined each piece before returning it to its place, ensuring nothing had been broken. The repetitive work was almost calming enough to make her forget the sting from the shallow cut on her right hand. She checked until her knees ached. Everything put away, she stood and moved on to the Imagidome. She wanted to make sure it hadn’t been damaged before she checked on Fred again.

  Just as her fingers brushed the box, however, the trailer door slammed shut behind her, leaving her in darkness.

  She spun around, heart in her throat. “Fred?”

  The engine started.

  “Fred!” she cried. She ran to the door—ran into the door—and pounded her fists against it. Fumbled for a handle or knob, but the door didn’t open from the inside.

  “Fred! Magician Praff! I’m in here! Help!”

  The trailer jerked back onto the road, sending Alvie crashing onto her hip. She hammered against that metal door in the darkness and yelled until her throat was raw and her fists throbbed. Despite the cool March weather, the air within the trailer was sweltering. Already, loose pieces of Alvie’s hair stuck to her forehead, and her glasses struggled to stay atop her sweat-slick nose.

  She sat down as the trailer took a turn. Blinked a few times to clear her head. It wasn’t entirely dark in the thing—a little bit of light seeped in around the doors. Her mind started calculating the interior space by cubic feet, but with a groan, she silenced it. That would do her no good, would it?

  She struggled to breathe the thick air. Stood on shaky legs and felt around, but the trailer was solid Smelted metal, and the only exit was locked. Maybe with enough leverage and leaning, she could topple it and force the automobile to stop, but she’d risk damaging the trailer, its contents, and herself.

  Gritting her teeth, she did the only thing she could. She banged both fists on those doors, trying to shout over the noise of the engine and passing road. By the time the trailer stopped, Alvie was hoarse and heat sick, albeit relieved.

  She heard footsteps outside the trailer. The door opened. The light was blinding.

  But it wasn’t Mg. Praff or Fred who had come to her rescue.

  It was Mg. Ezzell.

  CHAPTER 17

  HE LOOKED JUST AS surprised to see her as she was to see him.

  “Bloody hell,” he spat at the same time Alvie cried, “You!”

  He moved forward. Alvie skittered back against the Imagidome, tangling up in her skirt in the process. “You! You thief!” She looked past him. There were trees. How far had they gone? They must have driven for an hour—

  Mg. Ezzell put a knee up on the rim of the trailer and reached for Alvie’s legs. She kicked at him, but he snatched her ankle and dragged her out of the trailer. In her flailing, her glasses slid to the very tip of her nose, and chunks of hair slipped free of Emma’s handiwork and fell into her face.

  “Hold still!” Mg. Ezzell grunted, wrestling with her. She peeked between locks of hair, trying to figure out where she was. A dirt road, trees. The automobile and trailer were parked outside some sort of old log house. A retreat home? An abandoned cabin? Something far away from witnesses, that was certain.

  “Help!” she cried, and Mg. Ezzell’s hand slapped over her mouth. His other arm wrapped around her arms and across her chest, and he hauled her away from the road, kicking open a door on the side of the house and dragging her inside.

  “No one will . . . hear you,” he said with effort. He cursed again, hesitated, then pulled her around the corner and down a flight of stairs. Alvie grabbed the rail and screamed for help. In his efforts to loosen her grip, Mg. Ezzell nearly fell down the stairwell. He took one hand off her to grab the rail himself. With an arm free, Alvie dove into her bag to find her plastic quick cuffs. When Mg. Ezzell moved to grab her again, she dropped her weight and turned to bring his wrists together, then slapped the cuffs down on them.

  He growled and ripped them off with ease. Alvie watched as the only defense she had toppled to the stairs beneath her.

  Mg. Ezzell grabbed her arm and yanked it behind her, sending a sawlike pain across her shoulder. She cried out, then screamed again.

  “Shut up!” he shouted. He threw his weight against her and shoved her into the wall. Her forehead hit the painted wood, and for a moment the stairwell spun. She fumbled for the rail and found only air. Mg. Ezzell got her down the rest of the stairs and into a room that was empty except for a simple desk and a white boxy set of shelves scattered with a few pamphlets. Only one window let light into the place, and it was little more than a narrow slit peeking above ground.

  Mg. Ezzell released her. Alvie tumbled to the floor, hair and skirt flying everywhere. Her forehead pounded. She flipped her hair back and pushed up her glasses, heart distending. “What are you doing? Fred! Fred’s hurt, and you . . . you’re the one who broke into the polymery!”

  Mg. Ezzell scoffed. “Please. I seldom do dirty work.” He frowned. “Seems I should have kept my hands clean a little longer. You are . . . unexpected.”

  He pushed his knuckles against his mouth, blocking the door, thinking as he stared at her.

  “Unexpected?” she repeated. She looked out the window. It faced away from the road. At least, she couldn’t see the road or the trailer through it.

  What was expected, then? The theft of the trailer, but withou
t an apprentice inside. And yet . . . how would he have known the vehicle would break down just then?

  Her blood ran cold, remembering the plastic something in the engine. “You did something to the automobile.”

  “‘You did something to the automobile,’” Mg. Ezzell repeated in a childish, singsongy voice. “Of course I did something to the automobile, idiot. Just my luck that it took out your driver and Praff went for help. I didn’t think you would be there. What kind of fool brings a fledgling apprentice to the Discovery Convention? Blast.” He grabbed his thinning hair with his hands.

  She understood then. Mg. Ezzell must have gotten into Mg. Praff’s garage last night. Put something in the automobile to make it crash—a spell, something he could control so the vehicle would crash away from city limits, or something that would activate after so many miles. That plastic thing in the engine, probably. Fred was incapacitated; Mg. Praff was missing. No witnesses, except for her.

  And not only could she testify to his thievery, but he’d unknowingly abducted her as well. A twofold setback. A long jail sentence, for sure.

  Her hands rushed to her mouth. Gooseflesh prickled her skin like the pricks of a thousand cold needles. “You killed Fred.”

  “He was breathing when I hauled him out of the cab.” He growled. “None of this is your business.”

  His beady eyes darted around the room. He snarled and unbuckled his belt, then whipped it off. He came for Alvie. She backed up, not stopping until she had almost reached the wall. “Help!” she screamed, then tried to duck around him. His hand came out and seized her hair, yanking her back with a pop of her neck.

  “Hold still!” he muttered, wrestling with her. Alvie kicked and screamed, but Mg. Ezzell was too strong for her to physically best. He scooted her toward the desk and looped the belt around her wrists, sitting on her to minimize her flailing. He secured the belt around the desk leg, tying her down.

  He jumped off her swiftly, before Alvie could kick him. “I’ll figure out what to do with you later.” He smirked. “I have a convention to attend.”

  “It won’t work!” Alvie shouted, twisting and trying to get a better look at him despite the awkward position of her arms. “You can’t take credit for Magician Praff’s work. He already submitted the abstract!”

  The Polymaker barked a laugh. “What do you take me for? Praff never submitted an abstract.”

  Alvie stopped squirming. “But he . . . he showed me the confirmation.”

  Mg. Ezzell rolled his eyes. “I intercepted it. I sent the confirmation. The convention doesn’t even know Praff is coming. This time he will understand what it feels like to be made a fool.”

  Her body grew heavy as she stared at him. If he got away with this . . .

  Mg. Ezzell fished around in his pocket until he retrieved a pocketknife. Pulling out the knife, he walked toward Alvie.

  “Help! Help!”

  “Idiot girl. No one will hear you.” He steered clear of her legs and grabbed her bag, then slid the knife under the strap, cutting it. Bennet’s Mimic spell was in that bag—her one chance to get out of this mess.

  “Please, let me keep it,” she squeaked.

  “You read too many bad books. You imagine yourself the hero of the piece, no doubt, but do you really think I’m some overzealous villain ready to slip up so you can gain your freedom?” He snorted. He tossed the bag toward the door and pocketed the knife, then crouched by Alvie’s side to check her skirt pockets. He pulled a few pounds from the left, a pen from the right. There was nothing in the apron. She squirmed under his clammy hands. He patted down her waistband, then checked her stockings for anything else. His hand rested on her knee for half a second before dipping beneath her skirt and up her thigh.

  She twisted away from Mg. Ezzell, the leather of the belt digging into her wrists, and kicked his shoulder. He cursed and jumped back. Eyed her shoes. Wrestled those off, as well.

  “Like I said.” He retreated to the door, his breathing heavy. “I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

  He gathered her things and slammed the door shut. The sound of the lock clicking echoed through the vacant space.

  “Help!” Alvie screamed. “Help!”

  She heard another door shut upstairs. Curling her legs up, she turned and balanced on her knees as best she could, though the position cut off the blood supply to her hands. She jerked hard, gritting her teeth as the belt dug into her flesh. She moved the desk a centimeter. The desk might have been simple, but it was heavy, despite its two drawers being empty.

  She attacked the belt with her teeth, trying to loosen its knots.

  She heard a motor start outside.

  A tear ran down her cheek. She blinked it away and steeled herself. She needed to stay calm. She needed to get out of here.

  She focused on her breathing—keeping it even, pushing the excitement from it. She needed to focus. She couldn’t be here when Mg. Ezzell got back. She had to help Fred. She had to warn Mg. Praff. She had to do something.

  She bit and pulled, jerking like a dog. The belt loosened a little, then stuck.

  Alvie turned on her hip to let blood seep back into her strangled fingers. She looked around, searching for anything to help her, but the room was truly empty. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, focusing on her breaths, forcing them to go long and deep. Then she rolled onto her side and tugged, tugged, tugged until her thumb threatened to break from the strain.

  So she rolled onto her other side, putting pressure on a different hand, and pulled. When that failed to work, she shoved her shoulder into the desk.

  It hurt. A lot more than it should have. It took Alvie a moment to remember she was using the same shoulder she’d hurt in the near crash in the automobile. “You can do this,” she told herself, blinking to keep her eyes dry. “You’re a Brechenmacher, damn it.”

  She shoved the desk again, swallowing a whimper as the bruise on her shoulder deepened. Then again, digging her feet into the matted off-white carpet. They slipped. With some effort, Alvie swung around and brought her knees close enough to her throbbing fingers to unhook her stockings. She shimmied out of them, kicking and rubbing her legs together. Feet bare, she had a little more grip.

  She shoved, pushed, groaned.

  The desk tipped back, hitting the floor with a loud crash.

  Laughing, she tugged the knotted belt off the desk leg, loosening it enough to pull her hands free. She rubbed them together, flexing wrists and fingers. The cut on her right thumb bled from the struggle. She blew on it a moment, then dabbed it on her apron.

  She hurried to the door. Turned the knob. It turned and stuck, of course. The door—and it looked like a well-built, heavy door—was held to its frame by some sort of chamber lock. Or so she guessed, pressing her finger against the keyhole.

  Turning around, she went to the window. It didn’t open, and her head would never fit through it, let alone her chest and hips. She climbed atop the toppled desk and stood on the very corner of it, grabbing the window’s sill to peek out. Her eyes were level with the ground, though overgrown grass obscured her view. Trees and grass. That was all she could see.

  If only she were a Gaffer, maybe she could do something.

  Gaffer. Magic.

  “Plastic,” she whispered, jumping off the desk. She spun slowly, scanning the room twice. Plastic. Anything plastic. She saw nothing.

  She opened every drawer of the desk, finding only a nub of charcoal. She checked the shelves, hoping to feel something tingle under her fingertips, but there was only paper—a pamphlet on Rome, another with detailed instructions on how to use a telephone. A few scraps of paper without anything written on them.

  The shelves were wood. The desk was wood and metal. The window was glass.

  She checked Mg. Ezzell’s belt. Leather and metal. She checked her pockets. Empty.

  Dropping on her hands and knees, Alvie scoured the carpet, running her hands over its matted pile, searching for something lost in it. She
found a staple, a bit of hardened food. Nothing else. Even her blouse had no buttons on it, and her skirt fastened with a metal snap.

  She jumped on the desk again and pounded her fist against the window. “Help!” she cried. “Help!”

  After several minutes, she stopped. Mg. Ezzell had been utterly confident that no one would hear her. She’d only gotten a glance at the exterior of the house, but she’d seen no other houses, no buildings, not even a shed. How far was his nearest neighbor? What were the chances of someone coming by here, and close enough to hear her through this little window?

  She plopped down atop the desk, her stomach rumbling as if it, too, wanted to commiserate. A tear spilled over her eyelashes. She wiped it off, smearing her glasses.

  Her glasses.

  Her glasses.

  “Oh, Magician Praff, I could kiss you.” She pulled the spectacles off her face. The black frames instantly blurred in her hands. Everything blurred, but such was the ailment of Alvie Brechenmacher. She pushed her thumbs against the right lens; the tingling from the plastic filling her with hope. The lens came free with a satisfying pop.

  She put the glasses back on. It disoriented her, having one eye blind and one eye with sight, and her glasses tilted a little to the left with the uneven weight. Still, it was better than no lenses at all. Better than no plastic.

  She stared at the half-blurred lens in her hand. Plastic. Excellent. Now what?

  Her mind ran through all the spells she knew. Image Memory. Harden, Soften. Melt. Adhere, Conform, Encompass. Clarify, Haze. Flex and Unyielding. Compress, Propel, Heed: Pattern. How were any of those to help?

  She stared at the door, tilting her head so she saw it more with her corrected left eye than her blind right. What she needed was a key. Could she make one?

  She hurried to the lock and studied the keyhole. It was a narrow opening, and not one that could be looked through, either. If only Alvie were a Smelter. Smelters could unlock anything made of a mixed metal, unless the lock was specifically enchanted to resist it, like the locks Mg. Praff had installed on the polymery.