The Book of Betrayal

by Melissa McShane

  “I want to buy an origami illusion so I can visit my boyfriend illicitly in the hospital.”

  Judy rolled her eyes. “The things I do for my friends.”

  “We can pick up Viv and hang out afterward. Please?”

  “All right. But I’m driving. You drive like a granny on sedatives when you’re on the freeway.”

  “I do not.” I wasn’t about to admit that I was nervous about freeway driving after the accident. I sometimes woke from nightmares of slewing across ten lanes of traffic, pulling myself out of sleep just as a mile-high wall of concrete loomed in front of me. “But you can drive if you want.”

  I called Viv as Judy headed for the freeway. “Do you have a date tonight?”

  “I don’t. Jeremiah is hunting tonight. Why? Do you have some exciting adventure planned, counter to everything I know and love about you?”

  “Are you saying I’m boring?” I said, pretending to be insulted.

  “I’m saying you’re conservative.”

  “Which is a longer way of saying boring. Well, I intend to buy an expensive piece of magical folded paper so I can sneak into a hospital and see the boyfriend I’m not supposed to be dating, how’s that for exciting?”

  Viv squealed. “Can I come? Are we going to that place in Beaverton you keep talking about? You’d better let me come or I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “That would last until Monday. You have trouble holding grudges.”

  “That’s true. Okay, come pick me up.”

  Viv was standing on the corner in front of her apartment complex waiting for us when Judy pulled up to the curb. In her turquoise peasant skirt that winked with dozens of round mirrored eyes, full-sleeved poet’s shirt, and orange quilted vest, she looked like Hollywood’s idea of a Romany, a gypsy straight out of a ‘50s Technicolor extravaganza. “I brought money,” she said. “I’m allowed to buy things there, right?”

  “It’s like Abernathy’s,” Judy said. “If you know enough to get in, you know enough to buy the merchandise. Though I’m not sure what you’d want, where we’re going. That part of the market sells mostly illusions.”

  Viv settled into the back seat. “I’ll just browse, then. You never know what you’ll find. I picture it as some kind of Arabian Nights market with all these booths and stuff. And one booth that sells nothing but pots and pans. There’s always one of those in the movies.”

  Judy shrugged. “It’s really just a strip mall. It has to look boring to keep the mundanes from interfering. But getting in is complicated.”

  Traffic was unexpectedly heavy on the way into Beaverton. It was a little after seven before we got off the freeway and headed west. “The market occupies a complicated patch of space,” Judy said. “It changes depending on where you go in, so stores overlap with each other in multiple dimensions, I guess you could say.”

  “And we’re going to the dimension where they sell illusions,” I said.

  Judy nodded and made a right turn. “This is where it gets complicated.”

  Off to the left, I saw a dispirited-looking strip mall with a wide parking lot about two-thirds full of cars. Viv pressed her nose against the glass. “Wow, is that it?” she said. “It looks empty. There’s practically no stores there.”

  “That’s what I see,” I said. “There’s nothing there that looks interesting. Isn’t there an illusion?”

  “Not the magical kind,” Judy said, and made a left turn. “We have to go in on the far side.”

  The far side turned out to be another row of dull shops with one big dollar store for an anchor. Judy passed the first parking lot entrance and slowly nosed her car over the curb between that one and the next. She pulled into a spot between a little blue Ford Focus and an ancient pickup truck that had once been white and orange. “Follow me,” she said.

  The parking lot was in need of resurfacing, its pavement cracked in long zig-zagging lines with fat-leaved green weeds growing in them. Half the store fronts were empty, and the others contained merchandise that already looked picked over. There was a barber shop with an old-fashioned striped pole attached to the wall by its door, but it had a CLOSED sign in the window. I glanced behind me at the street, and the houses on the far side of the street. They weren’t more than cracker boxes, painted a variety of colors according to the whims of their owners, but I saw a kid’s bike on one lawn and the glow of a television set through one of the windows, and it reassured me. I’d begun to feel the zombie apocalypse had come and no one had bothered to tell me.

  Judy headed for the dollar store, which was brightly lit and had posters in its windows declaring the day’s bargains. I almost protested that I didn’t need anything there, thanks, but remembered in time that it was a front for something else. The illusion—man-made, not magical—was so convincing I’d forgotten for the moment why I was there.

  Inside, it still just looked like a dollar store. The bright fluorescent lighting cast a glow over the store’s aisles, filled with cheap merchandise. Viv walked away from us toward the craft aisle. “I could really use—”

  “This is just the front, remember?” Judy said. “Back this way.”

  We followed her to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and pushed through it. Instead of the storage area I’d expected, full of overstocked items, there was a short hallway extending right and left. I caught a whiff of rubber, like we’d entered a tire store, but the hall was completely empty. “I don’t know where to go from here,” Judy said, “so I was thinking we could just ask around.”

  “Ask who? There’s no one here,” I said.

  Judy pointed to the left. “This is how we reach the stores,” she said, and pushed through a pair of glass doors that squeaked as they opened.

  The hallway beyond was much wider, as broad as a two-lane road and paved with speckled vinyl tile. Above, the roof curved in a great arc set with skylights that had certainly not been visible from the outside. It looked like a regular mall—a boring mall with only one level and no bright lights or canned music. Storefronts opened on the hallway, and I saw a couple of people far down the hall exit one of the stores and come toward us. They walked past without acknowledging us and went through the glass doors, which squeaked again.

  “So this is like the back side of all those stores?” Viv said. “And there’s illusions that make them look empty?”

  “Not illusions. The fronts of those stores are exactly what they appear to be.”

  “Right, because otherwise I’d see through them,” I said. “Why not illusions, then?”

  “Too expensive to maintain. It would be like covering the whole front of the store with hundred-watt bulbs and letting them burn 24/7.” Judy started walking down the hallway. “Let’s see what’s here.”

  Once again I felt I’d stumbled into some weird post-apocalyptic world. The “mall” was brightly lit above, but each store had its own lighting as well, and sometimes the two clashed. I’d never realized there were different shades of white light. The place smelled clean, not fresh exactly, but not musty either—more like a room that’s been shut up for a few days after a good scrubbing. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I felt uncomfortable, out of place and awkward, like I’d entered an unfamiliar church and it was just a matter of time before the minister threw me out.

  Judy passed the first store, which reminded me of Abernathy’s, it was packed so full of books. I trailed behind a little to look at them and discovered none of the books had titles printed on their spines. They were organized in a rainbow swath of color, subtle shades blending into other shades, and I was so fascinated I didn’t realize at first that Judy and Viv had walked on.

  “You in the market for a prefab magnifica?” A young man emerged from between the shelves, dressed casually in jeans and a faded blue T-shirt with a Captain America shield on it. His lank blond hair hung around his face, which was long and had a prominent chin.

  “Um…no. I was just looking.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t wait too long. The best ones sell
out quickly.”

  “Helena, come on,” Judy said, startling me. She grabbed my elbow and tugged me along. “Those places don’t have reputable sources for their illusions,” she whispered. “I’m not saying they’re illegal, but I wouldn’t want to take the chance. Besides, that’s not what you need.”

  We caught up to Viv, who was staring raptly at a display of dangling silver balls the size of large apples. “These are incredible,” she murmured. “I want one.”

  “They don’t last long. No more than a couple of days. Probably way overpriced, too,” Judy said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Look at—oh, right,” Viv said. “They’re like Christmas balls, only with little scenes inside. Like looking into a tiny house. You can watch the people making dinner, or playing games, or there’s one with a young man dancing…they’re so pretty.”

  “Let’s ask here,” Judy said, so I followed her into the store, which to me looked bare and empty except for some stacked shoeboxes and a wall filled with smaller ones. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?” said the shopkeeper. She was a middle-aged woman with glasses hung round her neck on a beaded chain that glittered in the low light of the store.

  “We’re looking for origami butterflies,” Judy said. “I know you don’t sell them, but I was hoping you’d know who would.”

  The woman smiled. “I might.” She inclined her head toward a stack of boxes with a SALE sign atop it.

  Judy rolled her eyes. “Thanks for your time.” She turned and headed out of the store.

  “Wait!” the woman said. “Hey, you can’t blame me for trying, right? I have a business to run.”

  “It’s smarter for you to generate good will by helping us so we’ll come to you first when we need a delica illusion.”

  “I need a delica illusion,” Viv called out. “Can I get the one with the ballet dancer? He’s amazing. It’s not too expensive, is it?”

  “Fifty dollars,” the woman said.

  Viv whistled. “I have no idea whether that’s too much or too little. Judy?”

  “It’s reasonable.”

  “Then I’ll take it.”

  The shopkeeper, smiling more broadly, climbed a short stepladder to reach a box high on the wall. It was pink and looked the right size to hold a pair of My Little Pony sneakers for a six-year-old. She took Viv’s money and gave her a receipt. “Activation instructions are on the box lid,” she said. “And you can find origami butterflies at Mirage or Fata Morgana. Stores 843 and 821 respectively. Thank you for your purchase, and have a wonderful evening.”

  Judy scowled, but thanked the woman. Viv danced out of the store, clutching her box to her chest and twirling like the ballet dancer in her delica ball. “I love this place. Let’s always come here.”

  “I don’t think my bank account can take it,” I said. “Derrick said the butterfly illusion costs a thousand dollars.”

  “I’m glad you know that, because some of these places may try to cheat us,” Judy said. “I think that’s Fata Morgana up ahead. Let me do the talking.”

  Fata Morgana, as I might have guessed, had an Arabian Nights feel to it. It was dimly lit and the air was filled with spices, cinnamon and cloves and something sweet I couldn’t identify. It also looked tacky, with a couple of fake palm trees outlined with neon in tubs flanking the door. A woman dressed like Jasmine from Disney’s Aladdin came to greet us, putting both palms together and bowing. “As-salaam-alaikum,” she said in a bored voice. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for an origami butterfly,” Judy said.

  “Come this way,” the woman said. I’d expected her to sound like the character from the movie, but her voice was flat and a little nasal. It was disconcerting.

  There was origami of all shapes displayed throughout the store, and by the sound of Viv’s exhalations, the illusions they produced were on display as well. I found it interesting that a shop with a Middle Eastern theme to it sold Asian magic, but then Olivia Quincy wasn’t Asian and she was a master of the art, so probably there weren’t rules or restrictions saying you had to be Asian to do origami illusions.

  Jasmine stopped in front of a display cabinet with mirrored doors and picked up something small from the counter. “Is this what you were thinking?”

  It was a butterfly identical to Olivia’s, though in purple polka-dot paper, and it sat in the woman’s hand as if trembling to take flight. “How long will it last?” Judy said, sounding bored.

  “Half an hour.”

  “We need something longer than that. An hour, maybe two.”

  “Those are way expensive.”

  “So you don’t have them.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Jasmine put the butterfly down and picked up a different one. It was slightly larger and the paper shimmered in the light. “This one’s guaranteed for ninety minutes.”

  “That’s more like it. How much?”

  “For you, $1500.”

  Judy glanced at me. I shook my head. “Too expensive,” Judy said.

  “I don’t set the prices.”

  “Too bad. I guess we’ll try our luck at Mirage.”

  “Mirage’s quality isn’t nearly as good as ours. They don’t guarantee theirs like we do, either.”

  “But the price is better.”

  Jasmine let out a put-upon sigh. “I can let you have it for twelve. That’s my lowest price.”

  Judy once again looked at me. I thought about it briefly, then nodded. Jasmine put the butterfly down and opened the mirrored cabinet, removing a ring box and popping it open to reveal a butterfly that was the twin of the one she’d showed us. “You know how to activate it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t touch it with your hand or the magic is null. We don’t do refunds if you void the warranty.” She snapped the box closed and handed it to Judy. “We take cash or card.”

  I paid for my little treasure, and we left the store. “What other stores are there?” I asked as we headed back toward the entrance. “I mean sets of stores, I guess. Other than illusions.”

  “There’s weaponry,” Judy said. “Security items like alarms and things. Body-altering magic.”

  “What, like plastic surgery you do on yourself? Ew,” Viv said.

  “Nothing so coarse. A lot of it is first aid, but there’s diet supplements, cleanses. A lot of that stuff is sketchy. And then there’s the flea market. Magi bring stuff, non-magical stuff, to sell to other magi. That’s…there are some magi who would prefer never to deal with non-Wardens, ever, and here’s where they contract with other Wardens for services. It’s a busy place.”

  I nodded. “Why isn’t it a Neutrality?”

  “It’s not on a node.”

  “And yet Nicolliens and Ambrosites probably do business with each other here all the time.” The thought irritated me. “Why didn’t the Board use this as a model?”

  “Who knows how they think?” Judy tapped the box I held in both hands as if I feared it might leap away from me. “When do you plan to use this?”

  “Tomorrow night. Derrick said Sundays were quieter.”

  “Then let’s hit the mall and do some real shopping,” Viv said, “and get pedicures.”

  “You’re sort of obsessed with pedicures,” Judy said.

  Viv hooked her arms through both of ours. “When will both of you learn,” she said, “that pedicures are the solution to all of life’s problems?”

  “They are sort of relaxing,” I said to Judy.

  Judy sighed. “The things I do for friends.”

  8

  I picked up the shimmering origami butterfly with my tweezers and gingerly dropped it into the locket. It twitched, then lay still, and I closed the locket and settled it under my shirt, between my breasts. I’d watched the hospital for about half an hour until I was certain it wasn’t busy, and now I was ready to make my move.

  I locked my car and trotted down the incline to the front doors. They didn’t open for me, and I reali
zed to my dismay that the emergency bars were on the inside. It made sense—they didn’t want people to be trapped inside, not to have free access from the outside—but at the moment it was just frustrating. I walked back and forth in front of the door, waving my hands and occasionally jumping, but the doors stayed shut.

  I let out a deep breath, then froze, because the air was cold enough for my breath to show in a thin stream of condensation. I breathed more shallowly and slowly, grateful no one was nearby to see my little mistake. The average person wouldn’t think a little cloud of steam meant an invisible person was nearby, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

  I looked through the doors across the lobby and saw a couple of women headed my way. I backed up and to the side to stay out of their way—then an idea struck. I stepped back in front of the doors, bouncing on the balls of my feet, readying myself. The inner door slid open, then the outer door, and I raced past the two women, one older, one about my age, and slid through the inner door just as it was closing. My heart pounding, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. Then I strolled off toward the stairs, feeling very proud of my cleverness.

  The second floor was as quiet as before. I slipped down the hall and into Malcolm’s room. This time, the door was slightly ajar. Malcolm was awake and sitting on the edge of his bed. “You look so much better!” I said.

  “Helena?” Malcolm looked up. Astonishment swiftly turned to fear. “Get out of here, now.”

  “What—why?”

  “Can’t explain. Just get out!”

  I turned to go. The door burst open fully and a couple of men in black fatigues came running in. I had to flatten myself against the wall by the door to avoid being run over. “Sir, the alarm,” one of them said, but I didn’t hear any more because as soon as the door was clear, I was out and running. I didn’t get very far. More men and a woman, all dressed in black fatigues, came trotting down the hall toward me. I pressed myself flat against the nearest door, which opened slightly behind me, so I slipped inside, leaving the door ajar so I could hear and see a little.

  The room I’d entered was empty, the lights off, and it felt safe—a false feeling, I was sure, if those men decided to search the floor for the intruder who’d set off whatever alarm was in Malcolm’s room. They had to be Campbell Security. Why had they set an alarm, anyway? Not for me specifically, because there was no way they could know of my existence. But if there had been some sort of threat to Malcolm…