Dime Store Magic

by Kelley Armstrong

  Since the sixties, Satanic cults have been the favored group. The damn tabloids publish so much crap on the subject that it's a self-perpetuating cycle--they print one story, some psycho reads it and copies the methods described, so they print his story and so on. In 1996, the government spent $750,000 to reassure the American public that Satanic cults weren't operating in the nation's day care facilities. I sleep so much better knowing they cleared up that one.

  With this new development, I'd have been reluctant to send Savannah to school. Fortunately, it was Saturday, so that wasn't an issue. After lunch, she went down to the basement to work on her art. Yes, I know, most artists like big airy studios filled with natural light and soothing silence. Not Savannah. She liked the semidark basement and blaring music.

  When the doorbell rang, I suspected it was one of the reporters, deciding to try something more proactive than making phone calls. So I ignored it and continued emptying the dishwasher. It rang again. I realized then that it might be the police come to renew their search. The last thing I needed was cops busting down my door. They'd done enough damage already.

  I hurried to the front hall, undid the spells, and flung open the door to see a young man. He was about six feet tall, thin, with a face so average I doubted anyone remembered him five minutes after meeting him. Short dark hair, clean-shaven, Hispanic. Presumably dark eyes behind his wire-frame glasses, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. He stood there, eyes downcast, clutching an armful of papers with a beat-up satchel slung over one shoulder. Oh, did I mention he was wearing a suit? On a Saturday? Wonderful. Just what I needed. A Jehovah's Witness.

  "Lucas Cortez," he said, shifting the papers to his left hand and extending his right. "Your new legal counsel."

  "Look, I'm not interested--" I stopped. "Did you say 'legal counsel'?"

  "I'll be taking your case from here, Ms. Winterbourne." Despite his lowered gaze, his voice was confident. "We should step inside."

  He brushed past me without waiting for an invitation. As I stood, momentarily dumbfounded, Cortez took off his shoes, walked into the living room, and surveyed his surroundings, as if assessing my ability to pay for his services.

  "I assume the disarray is from the search," he said. "This is unacceptable. I'll speak to them about it. I presume they had a warrant? Ah, here it is."

  He picked up the warrant from the coffee table, added it to his papers, and walked into the kitchen.

  "Wait a second," I said, hurrying after him. "You can't just take that."

  "Do you have a copier?"

  I swung into the kitchen. He'd already established himself at the table, moved my things aside, and started spreading his papers.

  "I take my coffee black."

  "You can take your coffee down at the doughnut shop unless you tell me who sent you here."

  "You are in need of legal services, are you not?"

  I hesitated. "Oh, I get it. No one sent you. What do they call you guys? Ambulance chasers? I'm not interested. And if you try to bill me for this visit--"

  "I'll do nothing of the sort. This visit is entirely free. A sampling of my services. I've taken the liberty of acquainting myself with your case, and I've devised a strategy for defending you." He moved two papers across the table, and turned them to face me. "As you'll see, this is a simple contract stating that, by agreeing to speak to me today, you are in no way committing yourself to retaining my services and will not be charged for this meeting."

  I scanned the contract. For a legal document, it was surprisingly straightforward, a simple statement that relieved me of any obligation for this initial consultation. I glanced at Cortez, who was busy reading the warrant. He couldn't be more than late twenties, probably just out of law school. I'd once dated a newly graduated lawyer, and I knew how tough it could be to find work. As a young entrepreneur myself, could I really blame this guy for hard-selling his services? If, as the police suggested, I did need a lawyer, it certainly wouldn't be someone this young, but there was no harm in hearing him out.

  I signed the contract, then passed it to him. He said nothing, just added his signature and handed me a copy.

  "Let's start by discussing credentials," I said.

  Without looking up from his papers, he said, "Let me assure you, Ms. Winterbourne, there is no one more qualified to handle your case."

  "Humor me, then. Where'd you go to school? Where do you practice? How many custody cases have you handled? What percentage have you won? Any experience handling defamation of character? Because that may be a possibility here."

  More paper gazing. Some paper shuffling. I was two seconds from showing him to the door, when he turned, eyes still downcast.

  "Let's get this over with then, shall we?" he said.

  He looked up at me. I dropped the contract. Lucas Cortez was a sorcerer.

  CHAPTER 9

  SPELL-BOY

  "Get out of my house," I said.

  "As you can see, I'm quite qualified to handle your case, Paige."

  "So now it's 'Paige'? Did Savannah hire you?"

  "No." He said this without surprise, as if the thought of a child witch hiring a sorcerer lawyer wasn't at all peculiar.

  "Then who sent you?"

  "As you've already determined, no one sent me. You called me an ambulance chaser and I didn't argue the point. Though, admittedly, I find the phrase reprehensible, the motivation it implies can be accurately applied to me. There are two ways for a lawyer to rise in the supernatural world. Join a Cabal or gain a reputation for successfully fighting them. I have chosen the latter route." He paused. "May I have that coffee?"

  "Sure. Just go out my front door, make a left at the end of the road, and look for the big neon doughnut. You can't miss it."

  "As I was saying, being a young lawyer seeking to make a name for myself outside the Cabals I must, unfortunately, chase down my cases. I heard of Mr. Nast's intent to seek custody of Savannah and, seeing an opportunity, I followed it. I understand Mr. Nast has not yet abandoned his challenge?"

  "He refuses to submit to DNA testing, meaning he can't prove he's Savannah's father, meaning I don't see a case and don't need a lawyer. Now, if you'd like those directions again--"

  "While his refusal to surrender a DNA sample may seem advantageous, let me assure you, it doesn't eliminate the problem. Gabriel Sandford is an excellent lawyer. He'll find a way around this, likely by bribing a medical laboratory to provide phony test results."

  "And willingness to bribe officials makes one an excellent lawyer?"

  "Yes."

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. How could I answer that?

  Cortez continued, "If he does attempt such a maneuver, I will insist that the court supervise the testing." He returned to his papers. "Now, I've prepared a list of steps we should take to--"

  Savannah walked into the kitchen and stopped short, assessing Cortez and his accoutrements.

  "What's with the salesman?" she asked. Then she looked Cortez in the face. She didn't even blink, only tightened her mouth. "What do you want, sorcerer?"

  "I prefer Lucas," he said, extending a hand. "Lucas Cortez. I'm representing Paige."

  "Repres--" Savannah looked at me. "Where'd you find him?"

  "The yellow pages," I said. "Under 'U.' For unsolicited, uninvited, and unwanted. He's not my lawyer."

  Savannah sized Cortez up. "Good, 'cause if you want a sorcerer lawyer, you can do much better than this."

  "I'm sure you can," Cortez said. "However, since I am the only one who's here, perhaps I can be of some assistance."

  "You can't," I said. "Now, if you've forgotten the way to the door--"

  "Hold on," Savannah said. "He's pretty young, so he's probably cheap. Maybe he'll do until we can get someone better."

  "My services are extremely reasonable and will be agreed upon in advance," Cortez said. "While it may seem at this point as if Nast doesn't have a case--"

  "Who's Nast?" Savannah asked.

  "He means Leah," I s
aid, shooting Cortez a "don't argue" glare. "It's O'Donnell, not Nast."

  "My mistake," Cortez said without missing a beat. "As I was saying, Leah has not withdrawn her petition for custody and shows no signs of doing so. Therefore we must assume that she plans to pursue that endeavor. Thwarting her efforts must be our primary purpose. To that end, I have drawn up a list of steps."

  "The twelve-step program for un-demonizing my life?"

  "No, there are only seven steps, but if you see the need for more, we can discuss making the additions."

  " Uh-huh."

  "Who cares about lists?" Savannah said. "All we have to do is kill Leah."

  "I'm glad to see you're taking such a keen interest in this, Savannah," he said. "However, we must proceed in a logical, methodical manner, which, unfortunately, precludes running out and murdering anyone. Perhaps we should begin by going over the list I prepared for you. Step one: Arrange to have your homework brought to the house by a teacher or student known to both you and Paige. Step two--"

  "He's kidding, right?" Savannah said.

  "It doesn't matter," I said. "I'm not hiring you, Cortez."

  "I really do prefer Lucas."

  "And I'd prefer you found your way to my front door. Now. I don't know you and I don't trust you. You might very well be what you say you are. But how do I prove that? How do I know Sandford didn't send you here? Hey, Paige's lawyer quit, let's send her one of ours, see if she notices."

  "I don't work for Gabriel Sandford or anyone else."

  I shook my head. "Sorry, no sale. You're a sorcerer. No matter how hard up you were for a job, I can't believe you'd offer to work for a witch."

  "I have no quarrel with witches. The limitations of your powers are hereditary. I'm sure you endeavor to use them to their full potential."

  I stiffened. "Get out of my house or I will show you the limitations of my powers."

  "You need help. My help. Both as legal counsel and added protection for both you and Savannah. My spell-casting is not outstanding, but it is proficient enough."

  "As is mine. I don't need your protection, sorcerer. If I need help, I can get it from my Coven."

  "Ah, yes. The Coven."

  Something in his voice, a nuance, an inflection snapped the last restraint on my temper.

  "Get the hell out of my house, sorcerer."

  He gathered his papers. "I understand you've had a difficult day. While we must go over this list soon, it's not necessary to do so immediately. My advice would be to rest. If you'll allow me to listen to your telephone messages, I can return calls from the media, after which we can review this list--"

  I grabbed the paper from his hands and ripped it in two.

  "If that makes you feel better, by all means, go ahead," he said. "I have copies. I'll leave you a new one. Please add any concerns that may have escaped my--"

  "I am not going through any list. You are not my lawyer. Want to know when I'd hire a sorcerer to represent me? Ten minutes after being hit by a transport and declared a vegetable. Until then, scram."

  "Scram?" His eyebrows rose an eighth of an inch.

  "Leave. Go. Get lost. Beat it. Take your pick. Just take it with you."

  He nodded and returned to his writing.

  "Listen," I said. "Maybe I'm not making myself clear--"

  "You are." He finished his note, then put the papers into his satchel and laid a card on the table. "In the event that you reconsider--or experience an unfortunate collision with a large trucking conveyance--I can be reached at my cell number."

  I waited until he was gone, then cast fresh lock spells at all the doors and vowed never again to answer the bell. At least not for a few days.

  After Cortez left, Savannah decided to watch TV, so I slipped downstairs for some spell-casting. After what happened last night I could hardly let my neighbors catch me sneaking into the woods to cast spells. The forest is my preferred location for spell practice. Not only does nature provide peace and solitude, but something about the very primordiality of it seems to provide an energy of its own. From the earliest times, shamans and spell-casters have trekked into the forest or the desert or the tundra to reconnect with their powers. We need to. I can't explain it any better than that.

  My mother taught me to spell-cast out-of-doors. Yet, as strongly as she believed in it, she was never able to impose that belief on the Coven. For several generations now the Coven has taught its children to practice indoors, preferably in a locked room with no windows. By forcing neophytes into locked rooms, it seems to me that they reinforce the idea that we are doing something wrong, something shameful.

  That idea is also reinforced in neophytes by the way the Coven handles their first menses ceremony. First menses marks the passage into true witchhood, when a witch comes into her full powers. A witch's abilities increase automatically, but she must also undergo a ceremony on the eighth day, which fully releases her powers. Skip the ceremony and you forever forfeit that extra power. The Coven's stance on this was that if a mother wished her daughter to go through the ceremony, she had to find the ingredients, study the rituals, and perform them herself. Understandably, few did. My mother had performed it for me, though, and when the time came, I would do the same for Savannah.

  I headed down to the basement. It's a large, unfinished single room that stretches the length of the bungalow. The far corner, under Savannah's bedroom, was the spot she'd staked out for her art studio. So far, I'd only thrown down an area rug for it, but eventually I planned to finish it into a separate room for her.

  I won't say I understand Savannah's art. Her dark-themed paintings and cartoons tend toward the macabre. When her choice of theme began to worry me last fall, I talked to Jeremy Danvers, the werewolf Pack Alpha, who's the only artist I know. He looked at her work and told me not to worry about it. In that, I trust his judgment, and I appreciate the encouragement and help he's been giving Savannah.

  This past year has probably been a nightmare for Savannah, and she's been so strong about it that sometimes that very strength worries me. Perhaps here, on canvases covered with angry splotches of crimson and black, she finds an outlet for her pain and, if so, then I must not interfere, however strong the temptation.

  When I spell-cast in the basement, I do it in the laundry area, right near the bottom of the steps. So, I settled myself on the floor, then laid the grimoire before me and leafed through the yellowed pages. I had two such spellbooks, ancient and ripe with the stink of age, a smell that was somehow simultaneously repulsive and inviting. These did not contain Coven-sanctioned spells. Yet they were Coven property.

  That might seem like the Coven was asking for trouble, having these books around where any rebellious young witch could get hold of them. But the Coven wasn't worried about that. Why? Because, according to them, the spells didn't work. And, I fear, after three years of tinkering with them, that they were mostly right.

  Of the sixty-six spells contained in these tomes, I'd managed to successfully cast only four, including a fireball spell. Admittedly, with my fire phobia, I'd been nervous about the fireball spell, but that very fear made it all the more alluring, and made me all the more proud of myself when I'd mastered it. That bolstered my determination to learn the rest, convinced me that all I needed to do was find the right technique.

  Yet, in the ensuing two years, only one other spell had showed any sign that it might work. Sometimes I wondered if the Coven was right, that these were false grimoires, passed down only as historical oddities. Still, I could not put the books aside. There was so much magic in here, magic of true power--elemental spells, conjuring spells, spells whose meaning I couldn't even decipher. This was what witch magic should be, what I wanted it to be.

  I worked on the wind spell Savannah had seen mentioned in my practice journal. That was the spell that had shown signs it might eventually work. It was actually a spell to "wind" a person. That is, to deprive someone of oxygen. A lethal spell, yes, but my experience in the compound last year had t
aught me that I needed at least one lethal spell in my repertoire, a spell of last resort. Now, with Leah in town, I needed this spell more than ever, but the added determination didn't help. I still couldn't cast it.

  After thirty minutes, I gave up. Knowing Savannah was alone upstairs, even if she was protected by security spells, played havoc with my concentration.

  Savannah was watching television in the living room. I paused in the doorway, wondering what she could have found to watch on a Saturday afternoon. At first, I thought it was a soap opera. The woman filling the screen certainly looked like a soap opera actress--a sultry redhead in her late thirties who'd been outfitted in glasses and an upswept hairdo in a laughable attempt to make her look scholarly.

  When the camera pulled back, I saw that she was walking through an audience with a mike clipped to her blouse, and revised my assessment. An infomercial. No one smiled that much unless they were selling something. From the way she was working the crowd, it almost looked like a religious revival. I caught a few sentences and realized she was selling a different kind of spiritual reassurance.

  "I'm getting an older male," the woman said. "Like a father figure, but not your father. An uncle, maybe a family friend."

  "Oh, please," I said. "How can you watch this crap?"

  "It's not crap," Savannah said. "This is Jaime Vegas. She's the best."

  "It's a con, Savannah. A trick."

  "No, it's not. She can really talk to the dead. There's this other guy who does it, but Jaime's way better."

  A commercial came on. Savannah picked up the remote and fast-forwarded.

  "You have it on tape?" I said.

  "Sure. Jaime doesn't have her own TV show. She says she prefers traveling around, meeting people, but The Keni Bales Show has her on every month and I tape it."

  "How long have you been doing this?"

  She shrugged.

  "Oh, hon," I said, walking into the room. "It's a con job, don't you see that? Listen to her. She's making guesses so fast that no one notices when she's wrong. The questions are so open--did you hear that last one? She said she has a message from someone who had a brother die in the past few years. What's the chance that nobody in the audience has recently lost a brother?"