Summoning the Night

by Jenn Bennett

  He paused dramatically, arching a brow, as if reading the tagline for a movie featuring a nefarious conspiracy theory.

  “That’s . . . interesting, but I think my halo is related to magical ability,” I said, “and not some long-lost Æthyric race.”

  “Have you met other magicians with halos?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “You know,” he said, “many ancient cultures didn’t believe in a distinction between demons and gods. They saw them as a higher level of beings. About twenty years ago, I read an essay theorizing that the origin of magick stemmed from godlike beings called Sekhmets, who taught their skills to a select group of ancient Egyptian priestesses.”

  “Sekhmet is an early Egyptian war goddess,” I corrected.

  “Or”—he leaned low over the desk, eyes dancing with intrigue—“was she merely named Sekhmet after another race of beings? A race who shared with humans their specialized knack for harnessing Heka, to prepare them for a prophesied future war between the planes?”

  He slowly nodded his head, as if he was certain that he’d just blew my mind. He hadn’t. I’d already heard every crazy crackpot esoteric theory out there. Most of the people in my order went a step further, proclaiming that magicians were gods, or at least descended from them. A King Kong–size ego was necessary for at least two positions of power in this country: presidential candidates and upper-echelon officers in any magical organization.

  I shrugged my shoulders high. “I doubt it’s something we’ll ever know, but I didn’t mean to get us sidetracked,” I said, generously, since I wasn’t the one who’d gotten us on this tangent. “I’m sure you’re busy, so let’s talk about Jupe.”

  Dr. Spendlove grinned, then enthusiastically slapped his palm on the edge of his desk. “Yes, certainly, my dear.” He pulled the computer keyboard toward him and typed as he talked. “So, the last time I saw Jupiter, he was three years old—but little Jupiter isn’t so little anymore, is he? I ran a few standard tests on him . . . coaxed some truth out of him . . . and it appears his knack is manifesting a year or so early. Not unheard of. About ten percent of Earthbound children manifest before the age of fifteen. On the other hand, a quarter of all Earthbounds never even manifest a talent at all—did you know that?”

  I certainly didn’t know the percentage was that high. Lon didn’t either, from the way he shook his head.

  “These figures are based on my own studies, mind you, combined with figures from a few of my colleagues.” Spendlove typed, squinting at the screen in front of him. “However, what’s more interesting about Jupiter isn’t the timing but rather the knack itself. Now, you are an empath, Lon. And according to Jupiter, his mother was a beguiler.” He paused and looked up. “I do remember her. Was she really that lovely, or was it all ‘allure’?”

  Lon grunted.

  Spendlove didn’t seem to notice. “Well, as you know, Earthbound offspring almost always manifest one or the other parent’s knack. But there are rare cases in which this doesn’t occur. In those, the anomalous knack can usually be traced further back on the family tree. Let me just look at your records. . . .”

  “My parents were both empaths, though not as strong as me,” Lon volunteered.

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that,” he said with gentle amusement. “Your father and I were friends, you’ll remember. I was looking up your in-laws. The Giovanni family, from Oregon . . .” he read off the screen.

  “On Yvonne’s side, her father had no ability. Sister doesn’t either.”

  “Yvonne’s mother?”

  The woman who talked Lon into leaving her own daughter. Ballsy. And kind of awesome that she was still actively involved in Lon and Jupe’s lives after all these years.

  “Her mother is clairaudient.”

  “Oh? That’s not common. What kind of range?”

  “About ten feet or so, but she can hear through walls.”

  Wow. I was certainly glad Jupe hadn’t inherited that knack. According to Jupe, Gramma Giovanni was the bees’ knees and could do no wrong—same as her other daughter, Jupe’s aunt Adella. Jupe talked to them every Sunday and saw them several times a year, apparently. Multiple photos of them were scattered around Lon’s house.

  “Hmm. Interesting, but that doesn’t give us Jupe’s knack, does it? What about great-grandparents?”

  “I’ll ask Yvonne’s mom.”

  “Yes, good idea. Let me know when you find out so I can update Jupe’s file.” He swung the computer screen around to show us a color-coded diagram. “I’ve divided up all known knacks into seven main families: sense, transform, move, repair, destroy, illusion, and miscellaneous.”

  I saw abilities I knew, and many more that I’d never heard of or could even begin to guess. All told, he’d documented more than fifty verifiable knacks. Most of those had varying levels of skill, including Jupe’s—persuasion.

  “I’ve only run across persuasion twice in my practice, and neither manifestation was quite like Jupe’s. One patient was only able to persuade other males, and another was able to influence people only temporarily. Based on Jupe’s answers to my questions, his influence appears to be lasting. However, to determine exactly how lasting, I’d suggest that you do some supervised experiments with him at home. If you aren’t comfortable with that, he can undergo some tests here, of course. But it’s less stressful in an environment where he’s relaxed and comfortable. It’s important that children coming into their knacks are encouraged to use them in a positive, healthy manner, without shame or pressure.”

  “What kind of experiments?” Lon asked.

  Spendlove shrugged. “Ask him to use his knack to influence your favorite color, perhaps. See how long you continue to believe it. Things like that.”

  Lon grunted again, this time more thoughtfully. Changing someone’s favorite color sounded far less stressful than forcing a carnival ride operator to put people in danger.

  Spendlove continued. “Persuasion is grouped under the ‘Sense’ family of knacks, you might be surprised to learn. Which makes it related to abilities like your empathy. I believe it to be the next step up, so to speak. For example, if you can sense people’s emotions, the natural progression is the ability to manipulate emotions. Just as being able to sense honesty is a step below those who can foster honesty, like me.”

  “Yes,” Lon said quickly, dropping his eyes.

  We both knew Spendlove’s theory was on the mark because of Lon’s ability to transmutate. Speaking of which, neither that nor the bloody Hellfire Club had come up yet, so I was assuming Spendlove didn’t know about either.

  “Anyway, that’s why I’m more inclined to think Jupe’s knack is something inherited from your side.” Spendlove settled back into his chair. “Still, it’s hard to be certain.”

  “I’m worried about it going to his head, getting out of control,” Lon said.

  “Sure, that’s a legitimate concern. It certainly has more potential for greater consequences than psychokinetics, say. But it’s like anything else that can be abused—money, good looks, status—all you can do is teach your kids right and wrong, provide positive reinforcement, and lead by example. The rest is up to them.”

  This seemed to calm Lon’s nerves. He unlaced his fingers from mine, rearranging our hands to clasp palm to palm, and gently stroked my knuckles.

  “Jupe’s ability might undergo some changes as it manifests,” Dr. Spendlove said. “Growing pains. It’s not uncommon for a young knack to be easy one day, harder the next, and for the results to vary wildly. He might experience headaches or other side effects after using it.”

  I could relate to that. I knew all too well about side effects and varied results from using magick.

  “By the way, he has a bit of a ‘tell’ when he’s using his knack,” Dr. Spendlove said.

  “Squeezing whatever he’s holding in his hands with a viselike grip?” I guessed, thinking of how he acted at the carnival.

  The doctor laughed. “That will pass whe
n he’s able to better master it. I’m talking about the rapid eye movement—REM, like when you’re dreaming. If you watch his eyes, they flick like this.” He moved his finger back and forth like a pendulum to demonstrate.

  Lon and I looked at each other and nodded. Good to know. Very good. Worth the whole damn doctor visit, if you asked me.

  “The best advice I can give you is to be patient, and to pay attention to him,” he concluded. “Have him practice the right and wrong way to use it around you, and monitor his behavior carefully. Severe shifts can be warning signs. If he becomes withdrawn and depressed for no reason, or if he becomes inappropriately wild and begins taking too many risks, you might want to bring him in to talk to me.”

  I wondered if the incident on the amusement park ride would be considered “inappropriately wild,” but said nothing while the appointment concluded. On our way downstairs to retrieve Jupe from the waiting room, Lon stopped short in front me.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just had an epiphany.”

  “About Jupe?”

  “About the Snatcher investigation.”

  I paused. “About the image in the Polaroid?”

  “No. Something better.”

  I watched him stare at the wallpaper for a long moment, then leaned in and whispered against his ear. “Tell me.”

  Something mischievous danced behind his eyes as they met mine. “If it’s not Bishop, then who would be able provide the Snatcher’s real identity?”

  Where was he going with this? I became frustrated, then realized what he meant. “Cindy Brolin. But she won’t talk.”

  “She won’t talk to us. But what if someone . . . more persuasive . . . asked her nicely?”

  WE ARE HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  The text lit up my phone screen with thirteen exclamation points. Coming into the city on a Friday night might be mildly interesting to some kids. To Jupe it was like he’d been given shore leave. I untied my bar apron and told the new bartender that my half-shift was over. Amanda waved good-bye as I headed outside.

  Just after ten and already freezing. I zipped up my coat as I climbed the belowground stairs to street level. Lon’s SUV idled at the curb out front. Before I cleared the last step, Jupe jumped from the passenger seat and bounded across the sidewalk to greet me. “So this is what it’s like at night, huh? Wow! The neon looks so cool lit up like that. How many people are inside? You look tired—is it busy in there? Who’s working tonight? Is Kar Yee in there? ”

  “Hello to you, too. You think you could maybe ask me about thirty more questions before you let me answer any of them?” I said, poking him in the stomach.

  He laughed. “Oops.” Then he did the strangest thing. He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. Just a casual peck. Something most people would expect from a brother or a friend. Only, I don’t have a brother, and I certainly didn’t have any friends who did that. Amanda often tried to hug me, but she once said I was unhuggable. That hurt my feelings, but not enough to start getting all free-love and touchy-feely.

  Jupe, however, definitely had the potential to be excessive with PDA. He liked to hug—a lot—and that’s fine, I suppose. We’d also cuddled up together and watched TV in his room, and yes, he fell asleep in my lap on the couch the other night. And once he’d tried to insert his big toe up my nose; if that’s not affection, I don’t know what is.

  But he’d never kissed me.

  And it was so casual, like he’d done it a billion times. I guess that’s why he didn’t seem to notice when I froze up on the sidewalk like some socially awkward recluse. He was too busy trying to peer down into Tambuku’s stained glass windows from the top of the stairs. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure if I was mortified by the kiss, or if I was going to break down sobbing in some weirdo family-bonding moment. The horror of doing just that was enough to snap me back to reality. I tried to play it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal. This is what normal people do. It doesn’t mean anything. Thankfully, Lord Empath was in the car, out of range.

  The door to Tambuku swung open and Kar Yee emerged, hiking up the steps. “You might need this,” she called out, holding up my cell. “You left it in your apron.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes fell on Jupe. “Well, well, well. Look who it is—my future boyfriend. What are you doing in the city? Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

  Jupe’s eyes inflated into giant cartoon peepers in response. “I’m on a mission,” he managed to get out.

  “A mission?” Kar Yee’s voice flattened in genuine suspicion. “Is that a religious thing? You’re not one of those irritating door-to-door people, are you?”

  “No! I’m—”

  “We’re going to the grocery store,” I said, covering up for Jupe’s loose tongue as she handed me my phone. Not a lie, exactly. Dr. Spendlove wanted Jupe to practice his knack in supervised situations. I don’t think what we were about to do was what he had in mind, but it was a situation. And we were supervising . . .

  “Hey,” Jupe said to Kar Yee. “You speak Cantonese, not Mandarin, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you say ‘beautiful girl’ in Cantonese?”

  Oh, brother.

  “Leng lui.”

  Jupe repeated it. She corrected his pronunciation, then added, “We would also say something more casual that translates to ‘your beauty shatters the mirror.’”

  “Really?” Jupe was definitely into that colloquialism. It had just the right dose of violence for his tastes. “How do you say that?” he asked with great urgency, then added, “I have to know.”

  “You say it like this: ‘Your beauty shatters the mirror,’” she deadpanned.

  “N-o-o-o,” Jupe groaned. “In Cantonese.”

  “Does this look like Hong Kong to you? No. It’s central California. I didn’t travel halfway across the globe to speak Cantonese.”

  “Why did you move here, then? Hong Kong seems cooler than Morella, that’s for sure.”

  “My father is American. He moved to Hong Kong and became a permanent resident a few years after marrying my mother. When I turned eighteen, I decided to go to college in Seattle. That’s where I met her.” She tipped her head in my direction. “I liked the States, so I stayed. Cady and I moved down here because it’s sunnier and we wanted to make money. End of story.”

  “Your dad was American?” Jupe asked.

  “A Jewish lawyer from Seattle.”

  “What? Wait a minute . . . is he white?”

  “As a snowflake.”

  Jupe’s mouth fell open. “You’re biracial? Like me? Cady, you didn’t tell me!” It was too much for him to process. Joy overload. Then his brow furrowed, as if he were checking himself; it was, surely, too good to be true. “You don’t look it.”

  She crossed her arms over her middle and held her head high. “I got my mother’s good looks and my father’s knack.”

  “Wow,” Jupe raved, his eyes pinwheeling in happiness.

  A car door slammed behind us; Lon emerged from the SUV and then stood near it in a manner I can only describe as hulking—I wasn’t sure if he was pissed about being forced to wait, or if he sensed his son’s overactive hormones from the car. Kar Yee watched him as he approached. “So that’s your dad, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mmm-hmph. Better looking than my father,” she observed.

  I made introductions between Grunt and Glare, two people with some of the worst social skills on the planet. They eyed each other silently. For several moments. They’d heard all about each other; I wondered what they were thinking. Finally, Kar Yee remarked to Lon, “Your halo is almost as strange as hers.” To me, she simply said, “Good for you.” Then she retreated back down the steps to the bar.

  Starry Market wasn’t a chain. It was the largest and oldest independent grocer in the city as well as a hybrid of disjointed ventures—dry-goods liquidator (this summer’s potato chip flavors that went nowhere), gourmet ingredient procurer, and international farmer’s
market. Amanda refused to shop there, claiming that all the produce was irradiated. I, on the other hand, had more to worry about than death by radioactive zucchini.

  But we weren’t there to buy vegetables. We were there to track down Cindy Brolin. Again. Though we’d failed the first time, we were determined to find out what she was hiding about the original Snatcher.

  The market was in the middle of the university quarter. The squat, ugly building occupied a small block that also housed three businesses in a strip of leased storefronts on the sidewalk. The main entrance was inside the attached parking garage. Jupe was wary when we entered, remembering the last time we were in a city parking structure together, but I pointed out that the Starry Market garage contained only half the amount of hobo urine of the Metropark, which I have found to be a surprisingly accurate indicator of lower crime statistics.

  Halloween candy, cinnamon brooms, and bins of pumpkins crowded the store entrance. Not many shoppers. Yacht rock from the 1970s floated over the aisles like a bad storm cloud, dumping torrents of Christopher Cross and of the band that gave me sweaty nightmares, Steely Dan. Once we’d meandered past the spicy scents of the seasonal display, the store’s natural oppressive smell reared its head—day-old fish and transpacific shipping containers, dusty and perfumed with petrol.

  Lon left me with Jupe while he combed the store looking for Cindy. We wasted time waiting for him while perusing a selection of unusual canned-good delectables from Russia. Jupe was enchanted. “A cartoon squid? What the hell is in here?” Jupe murmured, turning a dented can in his hand and trying to guess the Cyrillic letters. “Is it soup? It says ‘herring’ on the shelf label. That makes no sense. Squid-herring? What is this?” he whispered in wonder.