Dirty Magic

by Jaye Wells

  Morales blew out a breath. “None of this adds up. Why would Bane go to such lengths over a stupid community center?”

  Relieved to have the conversation centered on Bane again, I shrugged. “It’s not really about the community center at all.” I toyed with a frayed thread on my jeans. “It’s about principles … and turf.”

  Morales snorted. “Spare me the street wisdom, Prospero. Sociopaths like Bane don’t have principles.”

  “Sure they do,” I said, looking up. “It’s not conventional morality, but covens are guided by their own codes. The first of which being that a wizard’s turf is sacred. Volos isn’t just sending some guys to sell on the Sangs’ corners. He’s using the legitimacy he earned by lining the mayor’s pockets to drive Bane out of his territory altogether. That’s the ultimate insult.”

  He pursed his lips and seemed to think it over. “If that’s true, then Volos knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “He knew.” I nodded. “In fact, I’d bet he was counting on it.”

  “So do you think he’s doing all this because he wanted Bane’s territory for himself?”

  I nodded at him. “Maybe. Maybe not. But he definitely knew his plan would piss off Bane.”

  “I just wish we had more time on this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Or that LM had a location for Bane so we could end this today.”

  “I think LM liked you,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Yeah, sure. Before you know it we’ll be trolling the titty bars together.” He shuddered at the thought. “I hear homunculi are real pussy magnets.”

  I choked on a laugh. My head filled with an image of Mary hunkered on a stool sipping a Shirley Temple while LM played wingman to Morales. Beside me, Morales’s deep baritone echoed my own higher giggles. After the stress of the case, it was cathartic to laugh over something so ridiculous. Finally, I wiped the tears from my eyes and let out a contented sigh. “I needed that.” I looked at him. “Thanks.”

  “I do what I can.” He smiled genuinely. It hit me then that without really meaning to, I’d started to actually like the ass. “You want some company? I could come in for a while.”

  The words hung there in the air between us like a big neon question mark. His gaze was too frank to misunderstand his meaning. If he came in we’d probably share a few beers, some war stories, maybe a few more laughs. And then, we’d share a few pleasurable hours in my bed. A few merciful hours when I wouldn’t have to worry about Danny or Bane or Volos or any of the hundred other problems weighing me down.

  He waited patiently while I weighed my options. He hadn’t made the suggestion from any sort of emotional place. It was almost as if he’d thrown it out there because having sex was what all guys and gals did together eventually.

  No doubt he’d be a firecracker in the sack. And I wasn’t worried about romantic complications. He was too practical for that, and I wasn’t naive enough to let a couple of orgasms make me stupid over a man.

  “I’m thinking it’s better if you don’t,” I said finally.

  Idiot! The voice in my head sounded disconcertingly like Baba’s, which did nothing to spark my libido. But I knew the only reason I’d be inviting him in was because I was afraid to be alone, and I refused to let fear guide my actions.

  “You sure about that?” He tilted his head in a way that I’m sure would have changed the minds of most women.

  But I wasn’t most women. “Yeah.”

  He looked surprised and disappointed, but also a little impressed that I’d somehow managed to resist his charms. “If you change your mind, I’m just a phone call away.”

  You had to give the guy points for persistence. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I opened the door and climbed out of his truck. “Have a good night, Morales.”

  Just before the door shut behind me, I heard him mutter, “Yeah, right.”

  He waited for me to get inside before his truck roared off into the dusk. I watched until the red lights disappeared, and then I went inside to face the silence.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I was drinking a beer at the table in the kitchen, wishing it were something stronger. The can was cold and wet in my hand. The clock ticked agonizingly slowly in the background.

  My eyes were on the phone in front of me, willing it to ring. I’d already called Pen and chatted with her for a few minutes. But the strain of pretending I was keeping everything together became too much so I’d ended the call quickly.

  The idea of calling Morales to come back flirted with my bad decision sensors. But before that thought could gather much steam, something sticking out from under the fridge caught my eye.

  I pulled the item out and realized it was The Alchemist’s Handbook. It had been there ever since Danny had thrown it at me. Jesus, that night felt as if it had been months ago instead of just a few days. I snatched it off the floor and sunk back into the chair. Heaving a big sigh, I opened the cover to a random page. Despite myself, a small smile tilted up the corner of my mouth. The chapter I’d landed on was called “Practical Tips for Cleansing Tools.”

  And just like that I was transported to a time fifteen years earlier when Uncle Abe was giving me yet another one of his lectures on the importance of cleaning my beakers and burners between batches. “A lazy wizard is a dead one, Katie-girl.”

  Back then I had definitely been lazy, but now? Laziness was a luxury I couldn’t afford. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had the house to myself for a night to do nothing. I should appreciate the time, but instead all these fucking thoughts about Danny kept poking away at my brain.

  Like, most of the time when I sat by Danny’s bed, I wished it had been me potioned instead of him. That’s what I was supposed to feel, right? As if I’d gladly trade places so he could live a healthy, full life?

  On the other hand—and I’d never admit this out loud—sometimes I was relieved it wasn’t me. I tried not to even acknowledge that thought. It was more like a shameful itch at the back of my skull. If I’d been the one hurt, Danny would be dealing with the worry and the fear. And the thought of being hooked up to hoses and a bag to collect my urine made my spine shrivel.

  And then there was the third kind of thoughts, the dark ones, when I really resented that it hadn’t been me. Not out of any sense of nobility. Quite the opposite. Sometimes I wished I were the one always being taken care of and worried about for a change. Not the caretaker. Not the doer. Not the one spending every moment fighting. Not thinking, thinking, thinking all the fucking time. And that’s why I never talked about it. Because the shame of that selfish train of thought made me want to put my revolver in my mouth and pull the trigger.

  A rattle sounded as my phone danced on the table. I jumped out of my self-pity and scrambled to grab it. Some stupid part of me hoped it would be Morales trying to change my mind. I picked it up, not sure I’d say no this time, but when I saw whom it was from I cursed.

  The offer still stands. Don’t let pride make your decision. Let me help Danny. —John

  “Fucker,” I said to the phone. I wanted to throw it, but with the mounting medical bills, and the extremely recent threats of unemployment, I didn’t have enough money to replace it. Instead, I set it on the table with slow, deliberate movements.

  I couldn’t blame Volos for sending the text—actually, yes, I could—but for some reason the wording of it was what really got to me. Who texted with perfect grammar? I mean, really? He might as well have been engraving an invitation to a fucking ball. And how the hell had he gotten my phone number?

  For lack of anything else to punish, I picked up the book again and began flipping pages. Every now and then I’d find hastily scrawled notes I’d left in the margins. That earnest girl, the one with nothing but potential ahead of her, felt like a stranger now. If I hadn’t detoured her off her original path, she’d probably have had no problem coming up with the potion we needed to save Danny. Because that girl, despite all her faults, was talented. “
My little miracle worker,” Uncle Abe had called me.

  Where was my miracle now?

  I took another long swallow of beer. Miracles didn’t happen for the wicked, no matter how righteous their current path. But then my conversation with Pen the other day when she told me about that little girl dying floated to the surface.

  “You can’t save them all,” I’d said. And then she looked at me with a mixture of despair and resolve. “I have to try.”

  Shit, who was I kidding? The minute Volos had walked out of that room, a tiny voice in the back of my brain had begun whispering. I’d managed to ignore its words until now, but in the silence of that house, which already felt haunted by a boy who wasn’t even dead yet, I listened to it.

  Maybe I can save him if I cook.

  I ran my hands through my hair. This was crazy. When Morales arrested Bane, he’d make the asshole give up a cure for Danny.

  “Don’t be naive,” the voice whispered.

  Bane had pulled Danny into his plans because he knew it would handicap me. For some reason, he wanted me in pain. He’d gladly do a longer sentence for not offering up the antipotion if he knew I’d be suffering outside the cell.

  So what was the alternative? Sit around, wringing my hands and hoping that my principles would keep me company after Danny died?

  Principles were nice in concept. But in practice, they were real sons of bitches.

  I set down my beer and followed my gut to the place where I knew I’d find what I needed. Down the stairs. Past the Mount Doom of laundry and into Danny’s room. His scent—a combination of funky gym socks and the cologne I’d given him last Christmas—lingered in the air. I ignored the painful scent memories and soldiered on. Pushing aside an avalanche of clothes, sports equipment, and other tools of the American teenaged boy, I finally reached the door at the back of the closet.

  I’m not sure why the previous owners had built the hidden space. I assumed it was for added storage since the original construction had no attic and they’d converted the basement into a bedroom. It was more of a small closet set behind another closet, but we called it “the attic” anyway. Probably they’d used it as a convenient space for old clothes and photos and precious memorabilia. But me? I used it as a dumping ground, a hiding space—a cemetery?—for all of the skeletons I didn’t want to see anymore but couldn’t bear to destroy from my old life.

  The instant I wedged open the door, the musty scents of dried herbs and essential oils gone rancid hit my nose like a punch. The fist to my gut wasn’t caused by the scents so much as the realization that part of me was eager to go digging through those boxes.

  “Jesus, Kate,” I said out loud. “Get a grip.”

  Cardboard boxes were shoved in haphazard piles along the walls. I groped for the string I knew was hanging from the ceiling and pulled. The single, bare lightbulb exploded with light too close to my eyes. Tracers and dust motes danced in my vision for a moment, playing tricks on my mind. I imagined I saw Uncle Abe’s smirking, too-knowing face in the corner. I blinked and rubbed my lids to clear away the specters.

  This room was where Danny had gone to find the potion manual and the old pictures of our mother. Evidence of his snooping was everywhere—from the torn lids on a few boxes to a sticky puddle of soda and the footprints he left in the dust.

  “At least I don’t have to worry about him turning into a criminal mastermind,” I muttered to myself. The sarcasm felt forced and overly optimistic given the fact that at that moment my brother needed the help of machines and tubes to breathe, eat, and piss.

  I swallowed the bile that rose at that thought and moved forward with a determination borne from denial. Going through those old boxes suddenly felt a lot less scary than contemplating the idea that my brother might never wake up from his nightmares.

  The first box was a loser. Nothing but some old clothes. The acid-washed denim jacket I’d worn my entire fifteenth year after Volos told me I looked cool in it. Next came some old CDs from bands no kids today had ever heard of. Hell, they’d barely even heard of CDs.

  The second box revealed I was getting warmer. Some old beakers and a few tools of the potion trade. But the third box presented the mother lode: a heavy marble mortar and pestle, an empty olive-wood saltcellar, and a ceremonial athame. I ran my thumb over the edge of the blade, which was dull and curled over as if it had simply lost the will to hold its edge. Mama had given it to me for my twelfth birthday. At the time I thought it was the most precious thing in the entire world. The jeweled handle and shiny metal made it seem like a rare treasure. But looking now with adult eyes and the tarnish of maturity, I realized it was little more than cheap brass and aluminum, now browned and pitted from time. And as for the “precious jewels,” they were little more than paste gems glued into the handle.

  My fingers rubbed dust from my nose and brought with them the sour stink of the brass on skin. Much like the future Uncle Abe had promised me, the athame had proven little more than a glittering illusion. In reality the promises of power and happiness were worth less than that cheap brass knife.

  I jerked myself out of those memories and threw the knife back in the box. A quick wipe of my hands on my jeans didn’t dispel the scent, but it made me feel a little better. That was another benefit of being older: I realized my emotional connection wasn’t to the cheap metal or the paste jewels, but to the woman who’d given the knife to me. Funny how I’d used it every day as a girl, but now it might as well have been an alien artifact.

  I grabbed the box and stacked the other on top. The cubbyhole wasn’t large enough for any potion work. I stopped and considered my options. Doing magic in our home seemed sacrilegious somehow—not to mention dangerous. That left one option: the old garage-turned-storage shed out back.

  I headed that way, hefting the two boxes with me. After I’d dumped them outside the door, I went back in to grab a few more supplies: candles, matches, and a couple more beers because it was never a good idea to do dirty magic sober—blocked the flow of energy.

  Naturally, I was aware that all my prep work was its own form of procrastination. Truth was, it wasn’t the early autumn chill that made my hands shake. But once I had everything hauled to the dusty, old shed, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I pried open the double doors and was immediately assaulted by the scents of gasoline from the old lawn mower and fertilizer I’d bought for the flowers I’d never gotten around to planting.

  I dragged in the boxes and set to work, clearing space on the old workbench. The small lantern from Danny’s fifth-grade campout went on the shelf. The meager light wasn’t much to brag about, but once I lit a few candles visibility would improve.

  Next came the bag of ceremonial tools. Lots of wizards these days scoff at the old ways. They see the ceremonial traditions as little more than superstitious mumbo jumbo. I wasn’t sure I disagreed, but the routines had always helped to relax me and get me into the right frame of mind for cooking up a potion. I wasn’t sure they did much to help the magic work, but they sure made me feel better. Or they had—back when I did magic regularly.

  After I made sure the doors were shut, I went back and prepared the initiating rituals. First, I lit four candles—one for each direction on the compass. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. My lungs hitched as if they were congested. I cleared my throat and tried again. This time the air flowed more smoothly into my lungs until my ribs expanded. On the exhale, I tried to release all my stress. I blew for a long time. Felt as though I could have exhaled for a year and I’d still have tension to spare.

  The wind kicked up outside. Leaves scuttled across the lawn and pelted the side of the shed. Inside the garage, every noise was amplified, which did nothing to calm my jittery nerves. I did the inhale, exhale thing again.

  It didn’t help. So I took a swig of beer instead.

  “All right,” I said to the empty room. “Start with something easy.”

  I dug around in the box of equipment and pulled out a glass dish and a
hot plate. I took a step back and chewed on my lip.

  I knew I didn’t begin to have the proper equipment to formulate a complex antipotion. Especially since getting it right would require my getting ahold of a sample of Gray Wolf and reading its energy to break down the components. Plus, many alchemical processes—even the down-and-dirty ones used on the street—took time.

  My main goal that night was just to dip my toe back in those old, familiar waters to make sure I could handle it. The thought made my stomach quicken and my face flush. I licked my lips and tried to remind myself it was just this once—for Danny. If I failed no one had to know. In fact, even if I succeeded no one could know.

  I had a bottle of vodka in the house and could probably scrounge up some herbs to make a basic Spagyric elixir, but distillation would take up to a week. And even then, after I’d filtered the solution through a pair of panty hose, it would have to sit an additional twenty-four hours before it was usable.

  On the other hand, I found an old vial containing some sort of herbal extract. I opened the stopper and sniffed. The astringent scent of concentrated rosemary brought back memories of the cleansing bath salts I’d made for my mother one Christmas. Smiling at the memory, I decided I could manage a simple operation to make a “salt of salt” preparation of rosemary.

  Salt of Salt requires a basic calcination procedure—basically, burning something down to white ash. I poured some of the thick, brown rosemary extract onto the dish. Next, I struck a match and touched it to the solution. The alcohol in the extract caught immediately, and soon the heat intensified the sharp pine scent inside the space. The mixture of infused alcohol and rosemary needles turned into a thick, black resin after a few moments. I took a small metal wand and stirred it, humming to myself as I worked.

  As far as alchemical operations went, this was about as simple as they came. But, then, simple was exactly what I needed. The steps kept my hands busy and my mind quiet, and that alone was a blessing.

  To speed things along, I lit the camp stove under the glass dish so it was burning from all sides. I sipped my beer as I kept one eye on the flames. If there had been a large quantity of extract, burning it down to ash might have taken hours or days even, but that night it took only about half an hour for the first round of heat to reduce the resin to a dark gray ash. I scraped the powder into my mortar and ground away at it for a few minutes with my pestle.