Magic and the Modern Girl

by Mindy Klasky

  Melissa laughed as she clutched the roses against her velvet jumper. Rob was standing beside her. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then he leaned in and kissed her, and they both nodded their heads before the affectionate applause of all the guests.

  Gran and Uncle George’s departure primed the pump. Guests flowed away quickly, waving farewells, stopping by to plant fond kisses on my cheeks. Everyone had had a wonderful time. Everyone was so thrilled to see such a happy couple. Everyone so appreciated everything I had done.

  Clara collected Nuri and Majom, telling the familiars that they could both stay with her for the night. For all her sangfroid, I could see that my mother was exhausted; her hands were shaking as she pulled Majom close to her side.

  I scrambled at my throat, lifting the delicate chain of silver that I’d barely remembered was there. Clara’s pink kunzite glinted in the overhead light, capturing just a sliver of the blue-white moonlight that streamed through the library door. “This is yours,” I said, holding it out to her.

  “I want you to have it.”

  Our fingers met as I tried to put it in her palm, as she handed it back to me.

  “Don’t go,” I said, before I had a chance to think about the words. “Don’t go back to Sedona.”

  “Ah, Jane,” she sighed, and I almost forgot to be pleased that she used the correct name. “I’m no good here. I’m not meant to be in the big city. I belong somewhere where I can talk about crystals and auras without people thinking I’m crazy. Where I can mention the Vortex, without people rolling their eyes.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Jane, your grandmother taught you not to lie.”

  Clara was shrewd. Shrewder than I’d given her credit for. I spoke without thinking about the words. “But Gran and I need you. We—” I barely hesitated “—we love you. I love you.”

  She raised a hand to my cheek, and for the first time ever, I saw Gran’s tenderness in my mother’s eyes. Gran’s tenderness, and her steel. “Jane, I love you, too. But this is something that I have to do. It’s not about you. It’s about me.”

  My tears had to be from my exhaustion. That was it. Exhaustion. I closed my fingers around the kunzite crystal, let the pendant sink into my lap. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Clara was every bit as tired as I was; I could read her fatigue in every line of her sagging body. “David,” I said, calling him to my side with the softest of words. “Can you make sure that they get home safely?”

  “I’m here for you.”

  “You’re here for all of us. You’re their warder, too. I’m fine. I just need to walk across the garden.”

  He wanted to argue with me. He wanted to tell me I was wrong. He wanted to tell me that I was a stubborn witch, a difficult witch, the most challenging witch he’d ever heard of. I could understand all that. I could read it through the energy that sparked between us, crackling along the taut links of our recharged astral bond.

  But he had to concede. He was bound to Clara. And to my command. Stiffly, he walked across the room, gathered together all three of our companions and herded them out the door.

  I smiled. Majom would have a field day with the buttons on the sleek Lexus dashboard.

  Kit came back from a trip that she’d taken to the Dumpster, already making short work of the cleanup. “I’m just going to make sure everything’s taken care of downstairs,” she said.

  “Good idea.”

  “The last thing we need is a piece of cake left down there, bringing in mice.”

  “Always thinking like a librarian,” I said, and she laughed.

  Then I was alone in the reference room. I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath. For the first time since unmaking Ariel, I became aware of a shadow at the edge of my vision, a blank spot in my astral perception. I shook my head, trying to clear the defect, but the disturbance remained.

  I looked around the room. There was a crumpled napkin that Kit had missed. A serving plate with the remains of the wedding cake. A champagne flute on the coffee bar, half-full. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  But there, in the shadows by the stacks. Black on black. And one very pale face.

  “Neko,” I whispered.

  He slinked across the room, a curious sideway walk, as if he wanted to come to me but was afraid to do so. Despite everything that had happened that night, his leather pants were immaculate. His silk T-shirt looked as if he had just taken it from a dresser drawer. His hair was perfectly arranged, each short strand gelled to its proper place. He looked exactly as he had the night I first transformed him from a statue of a cat.

  I reached out for the bond between us, the magic bond, our link. Nothing.

  That was impossible, though. I had worked with him. I had brought him into the circle, joined him with Majom and Nuri, with Gran and Clara.

  But then I realized the true power of the working that we had completed that night. Neko had belonged to Ariel. He was not rightfully a part of our commune, and yet we had brought him in, included him in our working. We’d been powerful enough to work with anyone, even with a familiar who was foreign to us, separate from us, apart.

  I extended my powers around him. I could sense his astral strength, measure that strange, reflective power that no witch could ever master on her own, that every witch desired. He was unbound. He was available. He was a familiar without a witch.

  “What do I do to bring you back?” I asked.

  He shook his head, feinting a look at the library doors. Moonlight still streamed in, cold silver spilled across the floor. “It’s a full moon. You should wait until tomorrow. Wait until you can bind me to you fully.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t do that to him. To us. “How do I set the bond?”

  His expression was flat. “You know the spell. Nothing’s changed.” He trembled like a feral cat, tempted to snatch food from my palm, but ready to run at my first misstep.

  Without ceremony, I took my three deep breaths. I offered up my thoughts, my voice, my heart. I could have recited the words in my sleep.

  “Awaken now, hunter, dark as the night.

  Bring me your power, your strong second sight.

  Hear that I call you and, willing, assist;

  Lend me your magic and all that you wist.”

  The flash of darkness was more stunning than usual, maybe because of my exhaustion, maybe because of the depth of longing I dripped into every word. I shuddered as the working slipped into place, as some subtle balance changed between us.

  And then I reached out with my mind. The familiar bond was there, filling the channel, filling the gap. The mental linkage was smooth and supple. I ran a mental touch along it, watched Neko stand straighter, taller. Prouder.

  “Go to Jacques,” I said.

  “You bound me. I’m here to work with you.”

  “Do I look like I’m in any condition to play with more magic tonight?”

  He smirked, snapping back to his old self. “You look like someone who needs some help with your makeup, girlfriend. Honestly, did you think that bronze eyeshadow would complement that dress?”

  “The dress is your fault. You’re the one who let Gran go with orange.” I smiled.

  “And you still haven’t done anything with your hair. You need to see Jacques more than I do.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “I really, truly doubt that. Go.”

  Neko rubbed a hand across his face, looking like he was washing away fatigue, or the memory of a nightmare. He paused by the library door, settling a hand on his hip and casting one more critical glance my way. “That dress does look better without the bow. There’s hope for you yet, girlfriend.”

  “Get out of here!”

  Before he ducked out the door, he grabbed the serving plate from the reference table, collecting the last generous wedge of wedding cake. He dipped his finger into the buttercream and sampled it before disappearing into the night.

  I staggered toward the stairs that led to the auditorium. “Kit!
” I called. “I’m ready to head home.”

  She came to the foot of the stairs. “Go on. I’ll close up. I just found a box of papers down here. I think they’re extra invoices. There’s some great stuff here—I’m just going to finish going through them.”

  “Don’t work too late,” I said, shaking my head at the enthusiasm in her voice.

  “I won’t. Sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  I pulled David’s jacket closer and ducked out of the library, making myself ignore the chill of the garden path on my bare feet. I barely bothered to strip off the horrible orange dress before I tumbled into bed. The comforter was heavy on my shoulders as I pulled my pillow over my head, determined to block out the slightest sliver of the moon’s cool light.

  20

  I turned the brilliant orange matchbook around, corner to corner to corner, tapping it against the table on each rotation. Four orange votive candles sat on my kitchen table. Three wicks stood at attention; the fourth was tilted over, leaning against the wax. With a flicker of thought, I made it stand as straight as its companions.

  Twenty-four hours later, I was still marveling at the power that filled me.

  I couldn’t say, precisely, how Ariel had grown my magic. She’d deepened it, broadened it. When I reached inside myself, there was more there, more than I had ever invested in her. It felt as if someone had ripened my powers, turned them from grape juice into wine, from simple cow’s milk into heady brie.

  I longed to ask her what she had done. Half a dozen times, I reached out to her, gathered my thoughts to question her, to learn. But then I would remember that my spell had worked, that my anima had been reduced to rune dust on the White House lawn.

  Not that anyone would ever find evidence of her there.

  The Washington Post was screaming headlines about the prankster who had broken into the White House grounds for Halloween. Details weren’t being released; there was a lot of talk about mission secrecy and national security. Rumors were already flying that the entire thing had been a training exercise, that the jets had been scrambled to test their ability to respond in a real emergency.

  Of course, Ariel’s handiwork remained behind—the Empower The Arts slogan was etched deep in the grass (at least until an official White House gardener could tear up the lawn and replace the damaged part with sod.) The Artistic Avenger was front page and center again; experts were calling her a terrorist, comparing her to PETA, to the Environmental Liberation Front, to worse.

  In other words, official Washington was stumbling on, as if nothing much had happened.

  By the time I’d gathered all the news, it was well past noon. I’d stumbled back to my bedroom, oddly hungover from the night before. I’d taken my time hanging up my bright orange dress. It seemed wasteful to leave it bunched on the floor, even if I’d never wear it again. I hung it next to David’s jacket in my closet, taking time to twitch the skirt into place.

  I stood beneath a stinging shower, chasing away a myriad of aches and pains that had blossomed while I slept. I scrubbed at my feet, making sure that no remnant of presidential earth remained between my toes.

  I knew that I should eat. I knew that I should complete the process of grounding myself, of returning my awareness to the mundane plane. The thought of food, though, turned my belly.

  I needed to talk to Will.

  Every time I pictured myself standing on the White House lawn, every time I remembered David stepping toward me, gaze bound to mine, arms lifting from his sides, every time I replayed everything that had happened the night before, I knew that I needed to talk to Will.

  I’d reverted to my old self, phoning him at his office when I knew he would be home. I’d left him a message, certain that he checked his voice mail several times a day. I’d asked him to come by in the evening. After dinner. So that we could talk.

  I tried not to imagine the unease I knew those words would bring.

  I spent the rest of the day in the basement. All of my books were normal; I could read them without destroying their pages. My crystals hummed with energy, drawing me into an hour of dazed contemplation as I basked in their vibrating concert. Alas, the runes remained a lost cause; I’d need to procure new ones. I made a little ceremony out of dumping the dust from the ruined tiles, scattering them around the dead flower beds outside my front door.

  At eight o’clock, I put the kettle on, telling myself that I’d have a cup of tea, even if I couldn’t eat. I was waiting for the water to boil, sitting at the table, fiddling with matchbooks and candles, when there was finally a knock at the door.

  Will had his own key, but he’d chosen not to use it.

  “Hey there,” he said, ducking past me to enter the living room. The moonlight was bright behind him—only my magic told me that we were actually one day past full.

  “I was just making a cup of tea,” I said. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  I led the way into the kitchen, painfully aware that I hadn’t waited for him to kiss me. I stood in front of my cupboard as if it held all the secrets of the universe. “Is mint okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  There were things I was supposed to say. I was supposed to ask him how his day had been. I was supposed to tell him what I’d done with mine. I was supposed to chat, lightly, easily, the way we’d talked for months.

  I couldn’t think of a single complete sentence.

  I didn’t bother with a teapot; I just poured water directly into our mugs, dropping in separate, lonely tea bags. Will was sitting at the table when I turned around. Silent. Waiting.

  He picked up his mug obediently, raised it to his lips. The steam immediately fogged his glasses, and he sat back as if he’d been slapped. “I’m sorry!” I said, jumping up for a hand towel.

  He waved me off, pushing away the traitorous mug of tea. He wiped his lenses clean with a handkerchief, then settled them back on his face, crooked as always. “I’m not going to like this conversation very much, am I?”

  “Will…” I’d had all afternoon to think, and I still didn’t know what to say.

  “Something happened last night, didn’t it? Something magic?”

  I nodded. He deserved more than that, though. He deserved the truth.

  “I’ve got my power back,” I said. “All of it. And then some.”

  Swallowing hard, he said, “Tell me what happened.”

  And so I did. At least, I tried to. I told him about David spiriting us away. I told him about appearing on the White House lawn. I told him about fighting with Ariel, about working with Gran and Clara, about finding a new balance for power, a new way of being in the magical world.

  I could tell that he didn’t really get it. He didn’t really understand. Each individual word made sense, but he would never grasp the wonder in my voice, never understand my longing, my aching amazement as I spoke of the power that had flowed through me.

  He tried. He asked questions. He expressed concern about Gran, about Clara. He said that he was happy that Neko was back, that my familiar was safe and sound and appeared not to have suffered any lasting harm.

  “And?” he said when I was finished.

  “And what?”

  “And what are you not telling me?”

  I shrugged. There wasn’t any easy way. There weren’t any easy words. “It’s not enough for me to tell you about all this after it happens. I need someone who can share it with me. Be there with me.”

  “Be with you in the middle of the White House lawn?” he said wryly.

  I shook my head, recognizing the question for what it was, a delicate deflection of pain. “I’m sorry, Will. I need more. I need someone who can be there in the magic, who can work with me, weaving power with power.”

  “I love you, Jane!” That was the first time he’d said the words. They lay in the room between us, stark. Raw. Edges all the sharper because they were true.

  “And I love you, too,” I said. That was true, as well. “But, Will, I can�
��t share my magic with you. Having it separate, having it apart, makes me feel like I’m lying. Like I’m cheating.”

  “Are you?” I couldn’t blame him for the anger inside his question. I couldn’t be surprised when he asked what I’d been bracing for all along. “Have you slept with David since we met?”

  I closed my eyes, then forced myself to open them, to meet his challenge. “No. Not since we met.”

  He heard the full accounting. He heard the truth. He heard what I didn’t tell him, what I hadn’t thought he needed to know.

  He stared at me, and I watched the rigid anger slowly crumble in his jaw. I watched his shoulders slump. I watched him recognize reality. Absorb it. Accept it. He even managed a cracked half laugh. “It’s really not me. It’s you.”

  My heart swelled with love for him. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. And then I reached across the table with both hands. I touched his eyeglass frames, adjusted them to sit evenly on his face. “I’m really, truly sorry.”

  He pulled away, as I had known he would. He pushed his chair back from the table. He jumped to his feet, shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “Call me,” I said.

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “I mean it,” I said. “When you’re ready. When you want to talk.”

  “Right.”

  I didn’t follow him to the door. It would have felt too much as if I was chasing him out of my cottage, out of my life. He didn’t slam the door. He shut it gently, carefully. I waited until I was certain that he wasn’t coming back and then I stalked into the living room. I put my back against the oaken door and slid down slowly, letting it catch me as I started to cry.

  It took a long time to get all of the tears out. These weren’t mojito therapy tears that could be laughed away with a best friend. These weren’t child tears that could be wiped dry by a caring mother, a dedicated grandmother.