The Uncanny Raven Winston

by Tammie Painter

  To save him from any toxic fumes, I pushed Alastair out of my apartment and through the portal. After cleaning the box, I flung the windows wide open and lit a dozen candles. I then settled down and tried to get back to my book, but not a single sentence made its way from my eyes to my brain.

  I suppose I should have been filling my head with packing lists, what sights I’d get to see in London, and where we’d be staying, but unlike the Great Stink of Pablo, the reality of the trip refused to take hold.

  Knowing I needed some sort of distraction as well as practice, I worked on a Light Capture Charm, a spell that allowed you to draw in photons even in the dark. It was a strange bit of quantum physics that relied on entangled light particles whose partners might be bouncing around on the other side of town, or even the other side of the universe.

  Fiona, while she’d been adding extra protections around my apartment to keep my magic from being detected, had told me the spell worked best if you didn’t concentrate too much on it, otherwise you risked blinding yourself with a sudden surge of brightness. Which meant my thoughts were free to circle a country dance around the topic of Alastair.

  How could I like him in that way and suspect him at the same time? Was I on skeptical overload out of my own fear of emotional involvement? After all, from every experience I’d had, liking someone, caring for them even just a little bit, ended up with one of you getting painfully hurt. Or was my resistance some sort of magical instinct kicking in, warning me away from a wizard who might be plotting to deliver me on a platter to the Mauvais?

  I know, it’s complicated. What relationship isn’t? But when you toss in a side of magic fries with that shake, it makes a tangled mess of everything.

  I hated myself for these thoughts. But like the photons streaming in to form a shining cloud that hovered over me as I stretched out on the couch, the questions wouldn’t stop flowing.

  Betty Everett’s "Shoop Shoop Song" — the one from the 1960s that declared if a guy really loves you it’ll be revealed in his kiss — kept running through my head. The eyes deceive, the face charms, but the kiss will let you know. With Betty’s back up singers shoop-shooping and images of me and Alastair smooch-smooching, I eventually released the photons. Not long after they dispersed back into the ether, I drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  As much as I hated the idea of going anywhere near Morelli’s apartment, I had to collect Mr. Wood the next morning to prepare for Mr. Green’s funeral. It took me several stunned moments to get over the shock that Morelli’s apartment was clean, didn’t smell like the wrong end of a donkey, and was filled with modern furniture softened with color-coordinated, hand-crocheted accents.

  I then waited while Mr. Wood finished his breakfast of two eggs sunny-side up, three strips of bacon (no surprise there), and two pieces of what looked like homemade bread. With a bright glow to his cheeks and the familiar sparkle back in his eyes, Mr. Wood was looking more lively and acting more chipper than he had since his attack.

  "Cassie, you would not believe how wonderful BLATs are," Mr. Wood said, then nipped off a piece of bacon. "The avocado, it just…" He stopped talking, a look of pure culinary bliss on his face. He swallowed the bacon and mopped up some egg with his bread. "And look, I’ve been trying my hand at crochet. I think I’m a natural."

  With the yolk-coated bread he pointed toward some mounded clumps of knotted yarn on the table. I had no idea what they were meant to be. Yarn rocks? Bird nests? Mangled heads? But he seemed too proud of them for me to burst his creative bubble.

  "They’re lovely. Now, hurry up, we’ve got a show to put on in a few hours."

  Which was the wrong thing to say. Mr. Wood dejectedly pushed his remaining slice of bacon around on his plate.

  "And after that? Has anything been scheduled?"

  As I’ve mentioned, Mr. Wood took the calls, he made the appointments, he consulted the families. He had to know no work had come in since yesterday. Or did he think I’d been out hustling funereal services last night to surprise him?

  "No. Not yet. But I need to take off for a little while, so it’s good timing."

  "You’re leaving?" Morelli asked.

  "Don’t get too excited. I’m coming back." Well, I hoped I was coming back. "You’ll be okay staying here while I’m away?" I asked Mr. Wood.

  "Where are you going? What if we have a client?"

  "I have to go to London for some special training."

  "HQ?" Morelli asked, his voice lowering with concern. I nodded. "You be careful there, Black. They don’t go easy on trainees. And you aren’t exactly known for winning people over," he added snidely.

  "London? HQ? What’s this about, Cassie?"

  "It will help with our little problem."

  "I’ve heard that one before," Mr. Wood said, sounding strangely like Morelli with the comment. I could not let these two hang out any longer than necessary.

  "This really will work. After I get done, you’ll be feeling better and we can take on more work. In the meantime, I’m sure Morelli would be glad to help you with any clients. Won’t you?" I asked my landlord, placing a hint of threat behind my words.

  "I don’t know mascara from eyeliner." I gave him a warning look as Mr. Wood sopped up the last of his egg. "But I suppose I could figure something out."

  After he finished his breakfast, I wheeled Mr. Wood to the funeral home. An hour later, he was rolling alongside the florist, chatting non-stop as they worked together to get a dozen floral arrangements in place. Meanwhile, I dealt with Mr. Green’s Kershaw-inflicted injury.

  Turns out, duct tape can hold a split foot together well enough for you to get said foot into a highly-shined loafer. You know, just in case that’s something that ever comes up as one of your life’s challenges. The funeral went off without a hitch, meaning Mr. Green stayed in his coffin despite the smell of bacon lingering on Mr. Wood’s shirt.

  After the funeral, I tidied up while Mr. Wood finished some paperwork. Without anyone waiting for their final show and without any prospect of new clients coming in, the funeral home felt quieter, emptier than usual. I was sinking this mortuary ship and I knew, despite his stern words the day before, that Mr. Wood wouldn’t have the heart to fire me to save it. For him, if for no one else, I had to get my magic under control. And if I couldn’t, I had to quit my job.

  During the walk home, we both remained silent. The only sound was the rumble of traffic and the hum of Mr. Wood’s wheels rolling over the sidewalk pavement.

  10 - PACKING UP PABLO

  THAT EVENING, AS the scent of bacon and the sound of male laughter wafted up from Morelli’s apartment, I crammed toiletries and clothes and a few books into a bag. A message from Mr. T came through on my phone, and I wondered if he was texting from home or if he had some sort of magical cellular plan that allowed him to truly talk and text anywhere, even in Rosaria.

  After you drop your cat off at Lola’s, meet us at Runa’s at 9 a.m. Reply to let me know you received this.

  I replied with a smiley-face cat emoji and a thumbs up. I wasn’t in the mood for words.

  * * *

  The next morning, knowing he wasn’t going to like what was soon going to happen to him, I buttered up Pablo with a can of his favorite wet food, which looked and smelled as disgusting as every other type of cat food.

  While he ate, I went down to say goodbye to Mr. Wood. Despite Morelli’s hulking frame, when he answered the door, I could see just past him. Mr. Wood was standing on his cast-bound leg, not steadily, but standing nonetheless.

  "What is he doing?" I demanded as I barreled past my landlord.

  "Standing," Mr. Wood said with pride as he plopped back into his chair.

  "Well, you shouldn’t be. Your leg. Your back."

  "Feel wonderful. Strong."

  I whipped around to Morelli.

  "What did you do?"

  "Told you I worked for
the Medi Unit."

  "You can’t magic a Norm back together," I said under my breath as Mr. Wood picked up his crochet hook. "It’s illegal, isn’t it?"

  "So is changing rental agreements." He raised his thick eyebrows to drive home his point.

  I didn’t push the matter. If Morelli got fined by the Magical Morality folks, it was no skin off my nose. I made my goodbyes to Mr. Wood and told him to stay in touch, then went back upstairs full of trepidation of when I might see him again.

  The cat dish was empty when I got back, which meant it was time to get Pablo ready for a little vacation with Auntie Lola. I took a deep breath, preparing for the fight ahead.

  I picked up the lanky cat, cooing at him and stroking him behind the ears. Trying to be gentle, trying to do all this with one hand in a cast, I pointed him head first into the carrier he’d come with. He hadn’t had the best experience his last time in that carrier and his body instantly tensed. He scrambled backward, splaying his legs like a cartoon character that refuses to be shoved through a door, and howling like a demon all the while.

  "Please, Pablo," I begged him as he dug his claws into my forearms. I probably could have magicked him into the carrier somehow, but the sound of his yowling pushed aside all my magical instincts. Instead, I just kept hold and kept pushing. Stubborn brawn won out over feline fury and the moment he was in, I slammed the metal cage door and latched it tight.

  And he wailed even louder.

  "Black," Morelli shouted, pounding on my door, "what is going on in there?"

  I jerked open the door. Morelli stepped back half a pace at the sight of me.

  "Morning exercises," I said through clenched teeth as I smoothed down my hair. Pablo shrieked and clawed at his cage. Morelli looked over my shoulder. He then snapped his fingers and Pablo keeled over. "What the hell! Did you just kill him?"

  "Of course not, you dolt. He's just asleep until you get him settled. Unless you're enjoying that sound?" I shook my head no. "Have a good trip, then. And remember what I told you about keeping your toe in line. Also, wash your arms so they don’t get infected."

  I glanced at the six thousand or so scratches on my forearms and mumbled a thanks. As I washed up, I reminded myself to be a very quiet tenant from then on.

  With my bag slung over my shoulder and the carrier for my zombie cat in my good hand, I entered MagicLand. My first stop was Chez Lola. I’d spent the majority of my previous lessons with her, serving time as her personal maid. Now that I couldn’t lift a broom without sending it through the window, she was having to do her own tidying. The place wasn’t a mess, but let’s just say that Lola clearly preferred to have someone come in and do the dusting and vacuuming for her. A woman right up my alley.

  The moment she opened the door, Lola’s cumin scent filled my nostrils and I was surrounded by the aura of warmth and comfort that radiated from her. Not for the first time I wondered what my life would have been like if I’d been raised by this woman, as I might have been if I hadn’t been stolen from MagicLand as a child.

  I was constantly filled with questions about how she could have managed to lose me and who had taken me right from under her nose. But whenever I got near her, her very presence enveloped me in cozy feelings and I promptly forgot my quandaries.

  Pablo woke the moment Lola took him from the carrier. He too must have sensed her power, and immediately began purring. As she cuddled him to her ample bosom, she promised him they were going to have a great time together. To which he purred even more loudly.

  I was a little miffed at this behavior. I mean, who kept him brushed? Who fed him treats and scooped his stinky box? Who brought the ungrateful wretch back to life? Me, that’s who.

  After my traitorous cat made himself perfectly at home on an overstuffed armchair, I handed over his bed and his favorite toy, Fuzzy Mouse. Unable to avoid it, I allowed myself to be pulled into one of Lola’s nostalgia-inducing hugs before heading off to Dr. Dunwiddle’s, and to whatever awaited me at HQ. My stomach twisted so tightly with nerves, I didn’t even consider tearing into the packet of coconut-almond cookies Lola had slipped into my pocket.

  Cassie Black without an appetite? That says all you need to know about how much I was looking forward to my first trip to London.

  11 - PASSENGER LIST

  THE BELL ABOVE the door chimed its cheery greeting when I entered Runa’s clinic. Dr. Dunwiddle, who’d been arranging boxes on her shelves, turned at the sound. Her hovering glasses — always a little slow to keep up — followed along with the movement of her head as best they could. I was surprised to see her look of consternation when she caught sight of my travel bag.

  "Sorry," I said, "you’ll have to magically lobotomize me some other time."

  "I have never wanted to lobotomize you."

  "That’s not really true, is it?"

  She actually produced a little chuckle at that. "Maybe just the once. Or twice."

  "So why the grim face? I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me."

  "Just promise me that once you get to HQ, you will be very serious about your studies."

  Runa said this, not with her usual disdain, but with true concern. First Morelli, now her. My least favorite people were worried for me. That could not be a good sign.

  "Yeah, sure."

  "There’ll be no ‘yeah, sure’," she snapped. "You will study and you will—" She cut herself off, signaled for her glasses to go to the counter, then said in her no-nonsense way, "The others are in my office. They have something to discuss with you."

  That didn’t sound promising and her tone seemed even more ominous when I entered the office to see only Fiona and Mr. Tenpenny waiting. Alastair hadn’t shown up to this little gathering, which bothered me more than I cared to admit. I wondered if maybe they objected to him joining in on this trip to HQ. But I didn’t think he would volunteer to go if it was going to be an issue.

  Maybe they’d wised up, realized they didn’t want me out and about in the magic world, and had changed their minds about the trip altogether. I mean, even I’d be the first to say I wasn’t exactly the best representative of the Portland community. Uncertain what insults were going to come out of their mouths, I once again stepped into what felt like an interrogation room. A feeling that was enhanced by the disconcerting way they watched me as I took a seat.

  "So what’s up?" I asked tentatively.

  Fiona and Busby exchanged a glance, as if deciding who should speak.

  "A couple days ago you seemed unwilling to go to HQ," Fiona said. Before I could respond, she added, "So why have you decided to go?"

  "Because you me told me I should," I said, my voice rising into a question.

  Dr. D snorted. "Since when have you done what we wanted you to do? Out with it, we need to know why you really want to go."

  "Maybe we ought to start with our concerns," said Mr. Tenpenny in a more reasonable tone.

  "Look," I said. "I promise not to intentionally do anything to embarrass you. I’ll even wear a t-shirt that says, ‘Don’t judge Rosaria by my behavior’."

  "No, we think you’ll do well. We hope you will." I didn’t have time to dwell on the vague way Fiona said this because she quickly added, "And Busby’s going so you’ll have an ally there."

  "Alastair’s going too, right?"

  "He is," Fiona said tersely.

  "I’m still not seeing the concern, then."

  "The Mauvais has always had a close tie to London," Runa explained. "His lair, for lack of a better word, was very near HQ. And prior to the Mauvais turning up again here in Rosaria, his last strike was in London."

  "By last strike, you mean my parents," I said pointedly to see their reactions. Fiona shifted uncomfortably. Why wouldn’t they just tell me about the contents of HQ’s letter? Why not give me some hope? I guess Magics could be just as big of jerks as normal people. "Mr. T has already told me about the Mauvais-London connection."


  "Then you’ll also have considered that you might be placing yourself near to the Mauvais when you should be doing everything possible to stay away from him," Fiona said.

  "But the Mauvais doesn’t seem all that strong. I mean, I know it would be bad if he got his hands on me, but I beat him once."

  "Once," Busby said emphatically. I was still impressed that his speaking abilities had come so far in so little time. When he first came back to life he could barely put two grunting syllables together. "And that was after he’d spent months fooling us with a Morphing Charm — a spell that takes a fair amount of strength. He should not have had that much strength." I furrowed my brow in confusion. I thought the Mauvais was supposed to be this all-powerful wizard who struck fear into the hearts of Magics. Mr. T continued, "When your parents took the watch from the Mauvais, they weakened him."