A Criminal Magic Page 5

  “Your mama was a sorcerer too?” Gunn interrupts my thoughts.

  I nod. “Mama had a spells license from the government. She specialized in remedial magic—ran a spell room off our kitchen, sorcering legal antidotes and cures,” I say. “It did solid business before she died.”

  Gunn nods, gives me the gift of not asking what happened to her. “What sorts of spells?”

  “Kendrick family ones, like lavender and jasmine spells to ward off the common cold, or gingerroot spells for a mind’s health and clarity. Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose, all stuff that falls under the Volstead Act concession for remedial magic.” I don’t mention the blood-spells to Gunn, since Mama warned me never to tell a soul about her family’s special magic, and I don’t think a gangster would qualify as an exception. In a time when sorcerers are public enemies, she always said, you don’t go showing the world a magic that would put the fear of God back in them.

  “So you’re a spells expert?”

  “I picked up a few things, but spells were never my strong suit.”

  Gunn glances at me. “Then you must be a performer.” He says it like it’s a fact, not a question—though I suppose if I’m in his car, it should be a fact.

  “That’s right.” I turn back to the window. I’m awful at lying, so I need to keep my answers short, and vague, at least till I figure out how the hell I’m going to earn a place in Washington. “Though truth be told, Mr. Gunn, I’ve never performed for a large audience. For as shined up as Jed always is, he’s still a prima donna when it comes to sharing his stage.” I stare at the dark trees on the side of the road, passing by in a streak of deep green, and add, “But sometimes I think it’s better not to show the world what you can do, at least all at once.”

  Gunn doesn’t answer, not for a long while, so long that I start to wonder if he knows that I’m playing him. But when I finally work up the nerve to steal a glance his way, I catch him smirking. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  There’s a point at which your body just gets too exhausted from fear to be scared anymore, and before I realize it, I’m swimming in a shallow swamp of sleep. By the time I come to, the scenery’s changed. Our two-lane road has transformed into a moonlit bridge, and then a four-lane bustling avenue. The horizon becomes crowded—short towers of man-made stars light up the sky, and row homes now line the road, pressed tight to one another like little kids heading into their lessons.

  I rub my eyes and sit upright as Gunn pops a cigarette into his mouth and lights it. He rolls his window down a sliver, and a steady stream of horns, engines, and screeching wheels overwhelms the car. He rubs his temples with his thumb and middle finger, gives a wide stretch of his mouth, and a yawn escapes him.

  I venture, “How long you been seeking out sorcerers?”

  He glances at me, looks like he’s debating whether to share. “Far too long.”

  Encouraged, I push, “You said you’re rounding us all up for an experiment?”

  Gunn doesn’t respond, so I look at my hands and add, “I never see the paper unless we go into Drummond, and even then, we don’t have a penny to throw away on news about other folks, but my cousin’s friends have told us about Washington. About these big-city shining rooms where you can drink magic all night, and get a fancy sorcerer’s performance to boot. Is that . . . is that what this is all about?”

  Gunn takes a right, and now we’re smack in what looks to be the middle of town. Stretches of chalk-white pavement start running next to the street like thin ribbons. Dames in big brimmed hats and cloches, short skirts and long dresses, spill out onto the bleached walkways, huddle around the outside of buildings sharing smokes. Men lean out of wide-open windows, shouting and laughing into the September night.

  “This is about far more than that,” Gunn answers quietly. “I have theories about magic, theories I’m quite keen to prove, theories that could turn this world upside-down. But like you, I’m a big believer in waiting for the right time.” Then he looks at me. “There’s something else you should know about me, Ms. Kendrick. I’m far fonder of solutions than questions. You understand me?”

  A strange mix of fear and shame writhes through me. “I do, sir.”

  And then it’s quiet. We cruise down a narrow cobblestone street, Gunn’s car stumbling over the bumpy stones, and then we make another turn and pull into a small parking lot pockmarked with a couple of cars. The place looks like it’s been closed for days. No lights, no music, no signs of life from the large storefront window that faces out to the corner lot.

  Gunn cuts the engine. “I need to make a quick stop.”

  I look at the dark corner lot and say slowly, “Sir, I don’t think anybody’s home.”

  “The place is spellbound. It’s just a magic manipulation.” He opens his car door and steps outside. “Don’t move. I’ll only be a minute.”

  Gunn slams his door behind him, sidestepping around an old Model T. But before he can get to the door of the place, an older man just appears, out of thin air, like he materialized from the darkness to stroll over and greet Gunn.

  Spellbound, Gunn called it. There must be some kind of large-scale force field protecting the entire property from the eyes of the law. I wonder if Jed could pull off something like this. Then again, the only magic he’s cared about for a long while is the kind that’s transferred into a bottle.

  My nerves return again, that panicky, gut-wrenching feeling of being in way over my head. Despite the secret magic that Mama and the women in her family might have conjured in our neck of the woods, sorcerers in Washington clearly have their own tricks. Big, bold, awing sort of tricks. Makes me wonder what special magic Gunn’s other sorcerers might have up their sleeves.

  The older man who just appeared out of nowhere is at least twice Gunn’s age, around fifty if I had to guess, with thick silver hair as shiny as a polished nickel and a suit on that manages to put Gunn’s to shame.

  Gunn’s window’s still rolled down a couple inches, so I angle closer to his driver’s seat, strain to catch anything of what they’re saying—maybe what the heck is going on, what’s in store for me—

  But I only catch bits that I can’t make sense of or string together—shutting down the Red Den for a while to switch things up, sir . . . Understood, just making my rounds. You’re doing your part. Danny would have been proud of you, son. . . . Any leads for the street? . . . Just some dame . . .

  At that, the older man looks into Gunn’s car, searches till he finds me inside it, then laughs and slaps Gunn on the back before turning around and sliding into a car on the other side of the lot.

  I scramble away from Gunn’s seat before he gets back. He plunks down next to me, settles in, and starts the engine again.

  And I know Gunn’s warning about too many questions, but I can’t help but ask, “Who was that, sir?”

  Gunn grips the steering wheel tighter as he navigates out of the lot. “The Boss,” he concedes.

  “Your boss?”

  He gives another little smirk but doesn’t meet my gaze. “Boss McEvoy is everyone’s boss. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

  We take a wide turn out of the lot, down a back alley, and through a quieter part of town. Whatever way we’re heading—north or south, east or west—the city soon falls away and then we’re over the same bridge, back on a lonely two-lane road, surrounded by a forest so thick and dark it swallows the moon and eats the stars. The suspense, the nerves, it all keeps rising, up my throat and through my lips, forcing me to speak.

  “Mr. Gunn, you said you were taking me to DC.”

  Gunn doesn’t answer.

  “And we were in DC.”

  Again, nothing.

  “So where . . .” I take a deep breath. “Where are we going?”

  The car gives a little stutter of exhaust and then keeps chugging forward on the long stretch of forested
road. All he offers: “This little theory of mine, it needs privacy, room to be tested. It’s an experiment that needs to develop on its own.”

  Gunn throws on his turning light and drops the car into a lower gear, and we take a slow turn into the trees. In all directions, there’re only twisty dark branches and black-emerald leaves. It’s beyond spooky, and I keep having to remind myself to breathe.

  A block of cold cement takes shape amid the forest. It looks like a prison, maybe a warehouse, with a narrow stitch of windows running like a border around the top. There’s a little gravel lot surrounding the place—a small white island shining under the hazy moon—but no cars besides Gunn’s.

  “We’re here.” Gunn nods to the backseat. “Grab your things.”

  We crunch across the gravel lot and approach the warehouse entrance. Gunn takes off a block of wood that’s barricading the door on our side, props it against the concrete wall. Then he opens the door and offers me his hand. I just think Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ben, Ben, Ben, and I force myself to grasp it, to allow this gangster to lead me by the hand into a locked warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

  It’s too black inside to see anything, and so I step carefully, the scuff of my work boots against the concrete floor the only sound through the dark lofted space. It takes a near minute for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I see the floor is littered with at least a dozen occupied cots.

  “Who are they?” I whisper.

  “The other sorcerers,” Gunn answers. “Fifteen of you in total, though only seven will be staying beyond my experiment.” Seven. I look around at the smattering of satchels littered around each cot, each sorcerer thrown over a thin mattress like a twisted bag of flour. Old, young, men, women, from what I can make out. I wonder where they’re from. I wonder what they can do. I wonder if they’ll all perform circles around me in whatever “experiment” awaits us tomorrow.

  Stop. You will succeed. You must succeed.

  Gunn clutches his keys in his palm, and the sudden jangle prompts a few of the sleeping sorcerers to grunt and roll over. “I need to go. It’s late, and we’re starting nice and early tomorrow.”

  “Wait—” But the word hangs there alone. There’s too many other ones to choose from—where are you going you gonna leave me here where the heck are we—that I can’t figure out where to start.

  “That one’s yours.” Gunn points to the one empty sunken mattress in the corner. He tips his white fedora, a cotton ghost floating in a haunted warehouse, and turns on his heel. “Get some rest.”

  “Mr. Gunn—” I whisper, but he’s already back out the door. He closes it and gives a faint grunt as he slides the block of wood over the door to lock it on the other side.

  Nerves on fire, I force myself to tiptoe around the minefield of sleeping sorcerers and lie down as quietly as possible on the empty cot. The thing’s all coils and sharp edges, but I just close my eyes, wrap myself around my knapsack, and pray for a sleep as deep and dark as sleep can get.

  Long ago there was a sorcerer who walked to hell for her family, and in the pits of fire, the devil saw her remorse and let her walk back—

  But I can’t fall asleep. I’m too wound up. One of the men a few feet away shifts with a squeak in his cot, and I give a gasp before I can help it. Another wheezes—whispers?—while a nearby cough nearly sends me jumping off my mattress.

  I turn over, close my eyes, pinch out the warehouse. I need to calm down. I need to cut my fear out, bottle it, and put it on a shelf.

  But then I feel something warm and soft slip up against my neck. I give a startled yelp and whip my head around. “Who’s there?”

  No answer. And no one has moved. But I feel it again, this time on my arm, that brush of softness like a large paintbrush. No, softer, almost—almost like fur, and then the quickest slap of something else, like the whip of a tiny tail.

  Out of the darkness molds something half the length of my forearm and twice as wide, whiskers prickling my skin, little feet pattering over my fingers. Fur. Tail. Rat.

  I push the animal away as hard as I can, and the thing goes squealing, flying to the border of the next cot, but it doesn’t skitter away. Instead it comes back at me again, bounds forward like a hell-spawned rodent and starts climbing over my right leg. I sit up, kick at it, hear myself whimpering. Do not cry Joan do not cry Joan—

  I attempt to push it into the fuzzy dark that swallows the back of the warehouse, but the slippery bastard manages to squirrel out of my fingers, bounds up my arm, and races over my stomach, its dirty paws pressing into my shirt as it attaches itself to my other arm. I writhe away, swat at it as it runs over my shoulder, into my hair. “Get off!” I command the small monster. As soon as I say it, I hear a soft, muffled chuckling.

  And then, to my immediate right, a woman’s voice: “Leave her alone, Stock.”

  “Mind your own business, Dune, I’m just having some fun with her. She’s as jumpy as a cricket.” But the rat disappears, like dust in the wind. My shoulders relax, but that creepy-crawly feeling that came with the rodent still needles me under my skin.

  The woman in the cot on my right side sits up, facing away from me. “Tell me if this is fun, Stock,” she says flatly. Then she whispers so soft I can barely hear her, “Breathe and slither.”

  A boy in a cot a few beds down immediately leaps out of his bed and lands bum-first on the floor, swatting and cursing. He gets onto all fours and starts scrambling away from his cot. “Knock it off, hell, Grace, stop!”

  Under the patch of light the moon casts onto the floor, I make out something shimmery and fluid. A snake, three inches wide, about two feet long, slithers through the puddle of moonlight, its green and gold scales glistening under the light, before it retreats into the darkness. The snake, just like the rat, I guess, the work of sorcery. Even though the rat and snake are gone, they leave behind a larger, far more unsettling fear.

  “You’re such a wet blanket, Dune,” says my rat-tormentor, Stock. “Skirts stick together, is that it?”

  The woman—Grace Dune, I take it—says, “Just save the magic for Gunn. You keep sorcering in here, and we’re all likely to blow each other up.”

  Some of the other sorcerers have roused awake from the hushed argument, and there starts a chorus of “Shut it,” “Come on, it’s late,” “Enough bickering,” before the whispers finally fade, like the rat and the snake, into the deep folds of the night.

  I lie back down. But the quiet is loaded. I wait a little while, then whisper to Grace’s back, “Thanks. But you didn’t have to do that. I can take care of myself.”

  Grace turns slowly to face me. Thanks to the moon and the prisonlike windows at the top of the warehouse, I can make out her face just fine. Nice straight features, dark hair. Not young, but not old—somewhere around Mama’s age—maybe late thirties, early forties. “That was as much for Stock as it was for you,” Grace whispers. “For a boy who has a chronic fear of snakes, he’s awful quick to conjure pests in the night. Living on top of each other, there’s got to be rules, or we’re all going to kill each other.”

  Her comment just brings my simmering panic to an all-out boil. I am in over my head. Drowning-water depths over my head. But I force myself to say, “Absolutely.”

  Grace studies me. “You’re as young as Stock, aren’t you? Now I understand his power play.” She gives me a little lopsided smile. “Where’d Gunn bring you in from?”

  “Norfolk County. Little town called Parsonage,” I say. “What about you?”

  “Outskirts of Alexandria. Came in with Gunn and one of his associates a couple nights back, along with a few others,” Grace says. “Fifteen of us total, though I’m sure you know that only seven of us are expected to stay.” Grace’s smile thins out. “With those kinds of odds, you don’t want to pick the wrong enemies, or the wrong allies.”

  I assume she’s talking about me and the rat-boy. �
�I’m not afraid of Stock.”

  Grace rolls onto her back, looks at the ceiling. “Maybe you should be,” she says. “Lots of sorcerers here are from families that have never shared their gifts or special strengths with the world, before now. Lots of powerful magic previously kept behind closed doors.”

  And of course I’m afraid—the fear is like a living thing, breathing and humming inside me. But I can’t let it paralyze me. I need to focus on what I’m here for, why I can’t fail. Immediately the image of Ruby, standing at our door, calling “Joan! JOAN!” as Gunn’s car drove me away—it flashes like a bright, clear burst of fireworks onto my mind. “I just don’t have the luxury of being scared.”

  “And what’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The little girl in your mind,” Grace says. Wait, can Grace hear my thoughts or something? So was her earlier warning about Stock, or about her? “You were thinking about her so clearly, I almost couldn’t ignore it.”

  Finally I concede, “Ruby.” I roll over, suddenly feeling exhausted and exposed. “Thanks again for your help, Grace, but it’s been a long night.”

  It’s quiet for a while, and I assume she’s dozed off, same as the rest of them. But then I hear, “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to get you upset. I just . . . I know what it’s like, to be against the odds. It’s been tough for me, too, past couple days. Some of the sorcerers are small-minded, expected an all-out boys’ club. They’ve been giving me and the other girl, Rose, a lot of heat—but Rose has her brother to stick up for her,” she says. “Plus, my family’s got a bit of a . . . strange reputation around northern Virginia, which doesn’t help.” Grace’s cot squeals and squeaks as she gets comfortable. She waits a moment, then adds, “Was just trying to say this place isn’t an easy corner of the world, to try and navigate alone.”

  There’s no sound but the soft chorus of snores and wheezes as her words settle around me. Maybe I’m dreaming, but it almost sounds like Grace is offering some form of friendship, or a pact. Not completely sure why she wants to team up with the likes of me, but that’s not a question I’m going to ask and give her the chance to second-guess now. Gunn’s taking exactly seven of us for some reason, a little less than half. I’ve got a crushing amount to learn to get into the top half of this crowd. And allying with a sorcerer like Grace, who can conjure snakes and delve inside minds, can only help.