A Criminal Magic Read online

  At that, the cabin’s dividing door swings open, and Ben reenters, with Uncle Jed in tow. Lord, he’s filthy. Hair matted and sweaty, lips all crusted over from a daily diet of shine. Swear I can smell him from here.

  “Ben,” Uncle Jed says, his voice cracking from disuse, “get us ready.” Jed doesn’t look at me, which is a small blessing, since rage starts beating inside me like a dark heart every time we’re this close again. He gives a yellow-toothed smile, thick with saliva, to his three patrons in the corner. “You fellas ready to have your minds blown?”

  The trio hoots and hollers, and trails Jed down to the shining room cellar.

  Ben joins me behind the bar, and we quickly gather the materials Jed needs for his sorcery performance—a deck of cards, a stack of shot glasses, and a pitcher that Ben fills with twelve ounces of water from the same bucket I use to wipe down the bar. I put everything on a tray and hand it to Ben carefully. “You gonna watch him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Make sure he gives the crowd a little bit of foreplay this time, all right? A house of cards, or maybe a midair shuffle or something.”

  Ben shakes his head. “I don’t think these shiners care about performance magic.”

  “Well, Charlie’s keeps getting busier as we keep losing customers, so I’m not sure if I agree with you.” Then I add quietly, “And don’t let Jed drink it.”

  Ben sighs. “You know what it’s like trying to stop my pop from doing anything, but I’ll try.” We share a sad smile. “Scream bloody hell if anyone gives you trouble up here, all right?”

  I nod. “All right.”

  “And send any latecomers down—here’s praying for them.” Ben exits the bar and scurries down the stairs to the shining room, and the door—which Jed didn’t even bother to conceal with a magic manipulation—closes with a snap.

  I’m about to sneak away for a second to check on Ruby, but then our entrance door slaps open again. I jump, thinking maybe Ben’s prayers have been answered, and we’ve got a latecomer shiner who wants to throw another dollar our way. When I look up, a stranger with a chiseled face and a suit worth more than the cabin is approaching the bar. He takes a seat across from me.

  He’s not from around here, I know in an instant. He’s dressed to the nines, with a butter-soft coat and a hat so white it’s clearly never been touched by a dirty hand. I catch his stare, and then can’t look anywhere else but his white-blue eyes. Cold. Unreadable.

  “What can I do you for, sir?”

  The stranger doesn’t answer right away, just studies me, then takes in every inch of our tiny bar sham—the water-stained ceiling and blisters in the walls, the smattering of bottles that pockmark our shelves, the closed doors, one of which leads to cleaning supplies, the other to illegal magic. Finally he asks, “This Jed Kendrick’s place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glances around once more. “Then where is he?”

  I remember what Ben said about forging our loan application, so I grasp at that thin thread of hope and hang on. “Are you from Drummond Savings and Loan?”

  The man takes off his fedora, revealing blond hair so stiff and coifed it looks like the top of a meringue pie. “Afraid not.” He’s about to place his white hat on the bar, but then, I guess thinking better of it, rests it in his lap. “Pour me a whiskey, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He waits a beat before asking, “What’s your name?”

  “Joan.” I pull out a tumbler from under the bar, but it takes three tries before I can actually open the whiskey bottle’s crusty cap. “And who do I have the pleasure of serving?”

  “Name’s Harrison Gunn. You Kendrick’s daughter?”

  “Niece,” I correct quickly. The notion of being Jed’s daughter sends a small current of disgust rippling under my skin. “My mama was Jed’s sister-in-law.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be tending bar?”

  I set the whiskey in front of him. “I’m eighteen. Suppose I’m old enough.”

  Mr. Gunn fingers the glass but doesn’t pick it up. “I’ve been told you have something . . . stronger here,” he says to the tumbler, then flits his white-blue eyes up at me. “Is that right?”

  I stop myself before I glance at the door to our shining room like a reflex. I try to figure out which way this fella’s angling: his vague questions, his three-piece suit, his city accent. Another fear starts to sink in. “Sir, we don’t want any trouble.” Last thing we need is some sort of bust for sorcering, on top of the shit storm we’re about to weather. “Down here, we deal with Agent Barnes,” I say, despite the fact that we can’t afford to pay off the local Prohibition agent anymore. “Mr. Barnes handles everything related to magic. He’ll explain, set you straight—”

  “Relax, I’m not with the government. Far from it.” Gunn studies the doors on the far wall. “I just wanted to make sure I had my information right. I was told Jed was a first-class sorcerer. That the Kendricks were known for a special magic.”

  I let out a breath. “Yes, sir. Jed’s shining room’s downstairs. We’ve got two performances every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, as well as by request, from reliable sources.”

  When he doesn’t answer, I add, “It’s a dollar for the performance and a shot of sorcerer’s shine. Jed’s no joke—the high’ll last an hour, blast you to another universe.” I cringe as I recite Ben’s canned sales line. “I promise you won’t be disappointed—the performance started a couple minutes ago. If you hurry—”

  “I’ve come a long way to meet your uncle,” Gunn interrupts. “Drove straight from DC. Think you could arrange a special solo performance?”

  A solo performance. I’m about to tell this man that these days, Jed barely makes it through one show without getting lost in a shot of his own magic, but something about Gunn’s coat, his hat, his stare, makes me bite my tongue. “Aren’t there sorcerers up in Washington?” I say slowly. “Pity you had to make such a long drive for a shot of shine.”

  Gunn reaches out and touches the rim of his whiskey. “My plans concern a much grander scale.” He flits a smile at me, a smile that changes his face, makes it softer, more attractive. Younger. “I’ve got a business proposition for your uncle.”

  A business proposition. Meaning dollars, more money, our home. I don’t want to sound too eager, too desperate, but I can’t help but blurt out, “Involving what?”

  Gunn pauses a long time before answering. “I’m something of a sorcery connoisseur,” he finally says. “I believe in the power of magic. Don’t have the touch myself, but I’ve read almost everything on magic out there. And let’s just say I have a theory, one I need several sorcerers to prove.”

  This guy definitely doesn’t look like a scholar, or a scientist. But I don’t let that pierce the hope that’s slowly ballooning inside me. “You mean, like an experiment?”

  “Of sorts,” he says tightly. “I’m scouting the entire country for the best of the best, bringing any sorcerer with strong talents, a taste for performance, and a mastery of shine transference up to Washington. I’ll be keeping the ones who prove themselves a cut above the rest.” His eyes flicker to our sad walls again, to my face that I’m sure reads wide and eager, to the water stains on the bar. “And if my little theory pans out, there’s going to be more money floating around than any of us know what to do with.”

  I gulp, my heart now flying. “You think Jed could be one of these sorcerers?”

  “Hard to tell without seeing his magic, or tasting his shine.” Gunn shrugs. “But your uncle comes highly recommended from an acquaintance who used to come here a while back. If Jed’s even half the sorcerer my source claims he is, I’d say we have a lot to talk about.” Gunn shifts forward in his seat, and the sound of creaking wood fills our silence. “I can say for certain there’ll be more money in it than some crook of a loan officer could eve
r offer you.”

  This feels like a gift, a dream, a chance. There’s no way in hell I can let us lose this chance. “You ain’t pulling my leg?”

  “I never joke about business.” He downs his whiskey in one gulp. “Now let me meet the man.”

  Panic clamps a rein on my heart, heavies my chest. Should I bring Gunn down to Uncle Jed now, hope that Jed hasn’t started brewing his shine, that Gunn can catch him before he’s shot to the moon? Or am I too late? Should I stall until Jed comes down off the worst of his shine-high?

  It’s a crapshoot. But this needs to happen. Jed needs to be in this slick man’s slick car, winding his way up to Washington. He needs to brew the strongest sorcerer’s shine of his life. He needs to look clean enough to do it again, and again.

  “He’s . . . he’s in the middle of a show.”

  “A show in the middle of Shitsticks, Virginia,” Gunn says. “I’ve got a long drive back, and I guarantee the chance I’m offering your uncle is worth millions of these low-rent backwoods performances. Interrupt him.”

  I hurry through the door, down the shadowy flight of stairs into the dark cellar, nearly collide with Ben keeping watch on the bottom step. He stands up, looks at me curiously. I never, ever come down here.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a man here”—I catch my breath—“from Washington to see Jed. It’s about an opportunity.” I drop my voice as I crane my neck around the staircase to steal a glimpse at Jed’s show. “Potentially loads of money.”

  Ben shifts uncomfortably. “You serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “What is he, some big-city sorcerer? A gangster?”

  “Who cares,” I whisper. “He could save our skins.” I take another step down to the cellar floor, nod into the darkness. “You need to get Jed.”

  Ben looks behind him, shakes his head. “He’s already shot to Sunday, Joan.”

  My stomach drops, sending my hope plunging with it. But before I can think up a way to salvage this chance, footsteps clamber toward us on the stairs.

  Gunn sidesteps me, offers his hand to Ben. “Harrison Gunn,” he says simply, as Ben, shocked, numbly accepts his hand. “I’m here for Jed Kendrick.”

  And then Gunn barrels his way into Jed’s shining room.

  Helpless, Ben and I trail him into the tight alcove behind the stairs. The alcove is littered with lit candles, giving the scene a hazy, otherworldly glow. The three patrons and Jed sit around on four dirty cots that have been arranged into a circle. William’s twitching, moaning on one in the corner, while his two buddies hug their knees tight into their chests. One empty shot glass sits in front of each of the patrons, a thin, sparkling red film still coating the inside of each glass. And farthest away, there’s Jed.

  He sits cross-legged like some magic Buddha, his head pressed into his hands, faint, haunting laughter escaping through his fingertips, his own empty glass in front of him. I don’t think about how much I want to slap him, shake him. Instead I go into damage control, a weird, numb-like state just like I did the night of Mama’s death, where I’m not really processing things as they’re happening, ’cause I’ve already moved on to trying to undo them. Maybe if I start talking, maybe if we can keep Jed quiet—

  But then Jed peeks out from his hands. “You’re a lost man,” he declares to Gunn. Then my uncle collapses back onto his thin, ratty mattress, laughs high and long, like some devil from a dream.

  Gunn’s face twitches, but he doesn’t say a word.

  I force myself to speak to Jed for the first time since that night. Even after all these months, I can still barely train my eyes on him. “Uncle Jed, this man’s from Washington,” I say as calmly as I can, as my mind shrieks, Lord God, Jed, get it the hell together. “He’s impressed with your sorcery. He wants you to sorcer for him up in the big city. Tell him, Mr. Gunn.”

  But Gunn says nothing.

  “There’s money in it,” I keep rambling, look around the room, to Ben, will him to do something not to blow this chance. “Loads of it. More money than we could ever dream—”

  “Money,” Jed mumbles, “funny money, silver money, silver fox . . . precious silver.” He looks at me, for the first time in a long time, and with wide eyes whispers, “She was my silver. . . .”

  A strange, cold rush washes over me as Gunn snaps, “He’s a mess. Fucking waste of a six-hour trip.” He barrels out of the alcove as Jed’s three patrons start cackling like hyenas in the corner.

  “He can’t leave, we need to fix this,” I tell Ben, but Ben’s already yelling up the staircase, “Sir, wait!” We hurry up the steps after Gunn.

  “Mr. Gunn, please, we’re going to lose our home. I swear, if you just give us a couple days. We’ll deny my pop straight, he’ll be better in a week—”

  “If the withdrawal doesn’t kill him.” Gunn shrugs Ben off and walks to the cabin’s door. “I’m not taking any chances on a washed-out shiner.”

  “Mr. Gunn, you don’t understand,” I say. “We need this, Jed can make it work—”

  “Save it.” Gunn throws on his fedora and pushes open our screen door.

  But as he crunches over the gravel, the cold, hard truth of our future starts pummeling me, raining down like sharp hail. Jed is lost. Jed is killing himself, slowly. Mama is gone. Our home will be gone in weeks. I pledged my life to Ruby and Ben in penance, but I’m going to fail. This man Gunn, our last chance, is walking out our door.

  No, comes hot and relentless from deep within my core, a voice not mine, one stronger, more powerful, resilient. No no no no no—

  “WAIT!”

  Gunn stops.

  But he doesn’t turn around.

  My body is humming, my nerves shorting out. It doesn’t feel like real life right now. It feels like a dream, a dream skating right on the edge of a nightmare.

  “Give me the chance,” I rush. “I can sorcer. And I won’t disappoint you.”

  At that, Gunn laughs. He slowly turns as Ben whispers, “Joan, what? Don’t bluff this guy,” behind me on our cabin’s outside stoop. But Ben never found out that I got the magic touch. In fact, no one knows, except Jed and me—since Mama took her knowledge to her grave.

  Gunn tucks his hands into his pockets. The sharp light of the moon transforms him into something otherworldly, almost ghoulish. “Prove it.”

  I nod, ask him to wait, and before I can second-guess myself, I race out to the yard behind our cabin.

  It’s started to rain. A thin twine of mist has begun to coil above the earth, but I collapse down onto the dirt, at the same spot I’d pleaded that night for relief from the treacherous magic inside me. Where I brewed all the magic I had, felt, and wished gone into a bottle of sorcerer’s shine, then took a blade to my arm as I’d seen Mama do when she was demanding extraordinary things from sorcery. I begged the gods of this world, then its demons, then the magic itself, to relieve me of my magic touch and cage it away forever. Not sure what finally took pity on me, but something answered my call.

  My fingers paw at the dirt, the soft mushy soil worming its way under my fingernails, up my arms. I dig until my nails scratch against something hard and rough. I quickly scoop the soil out from around the four sides and unearth the wooden box I buried that night, six inches long, one foot wide. Just on touching it, the memories come flooding back—show me, Eve—Mama NO—all the magic in the world can’t undo it—

  I shut my eyes to quiet the noise, unclasp the box’s lock, and open it. With shaking hands, I take out the bottle that somehow cages my magic touch—the glass prison that prevents my toxic “gifts” from destroying anything else. I hold it, this cursed bottle. This opportunity. This chance. I close my eyes. My magic touch is to blame for all of it—it doesn’t deserve to be released.

  My magic touch is all I’ve got to save my family.

  Heart pounding, I grip the
glass and force myself to say the word, “Release.”

  I unscrew the top of the bottle, which is smeared with my dried blood from all those nights ago, and a flaky red dust settles onto the ground. As soon as I remove the cap, my magic touch floods back into my body in a rush. I feel it consume me, flesh me out like it’s pushing hard against my skin, making me whole. Lightning courses through my veins, sizzling, whispering this is where it always belonged. The sorcerer’s shine left behind in the bottle sighs and crackles, like it’s been awakened from a long sleep.

  A history of distrust and fear drove America to the Prohibition of magic, but most folks still don’t know the half of it. This country’s got no idea how many secrets magic keeps, the darkness it can create, the possibilities that lie waiting in the shadows.

  I clean off the bottle quickly with the bottom of my housedress and the rain, cap my hand over its top, and sprint back around the cabin. Gunn’s still standing in the gravel, and Ben’s still on the stoop. “What about this?” I collect myself, trying to keep my voice steady as I hand Gunn the bottle. “Is this impressive enough to get me to Washington?”

  Gunn slowly turns the jar around, looks at the back, the front, studies the way the moonlight hits the sparkling, deep-red sorcerer’s shine inside. Finally, he says quietly, “When’d you make this?”

  “This morning, before the sun came up,” I lie in a rush. Gunn doesn’t need to know about Mama’s blood-magic, and what I somehow managed to carry out on the night she died. No one does.

  Gunn sticks his pinkie finger into the shine bottle and brings his finger to his lips. He winces, closes his eyes, rubs his tongue along his teeth. “Perfect aftertaste. I’d bet money that the shine’s quite a ride.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Unlike my uncle, I keep the shining to the customers.”