A Criminal Magic Page 6

  “Are you suggesting we . . . team up?” I ask hopefully, as I face her.

  “My family’s a superstitious lot. We specialize in signs, chance twists of fate, listen to whispers of nature,” Grace answers. “I get this strong sense about you, that you and I were meant to meet. So maybe I get your back, and you get mine.”

  Her words are the first turn of fortune I’ve gotten since I stepped into Gunn’s car. “I’d like that.”

  She throws me a sideways smile and rolls over. “Get some sleep, all right, Joan?”

  I find myself breathing a little easier. “I will. You too.”

  My body’s beyond spent from the tension, the fear, the long trek up here. So I close my eyes, ready to steal some sleep to carry me through whatever lies waiting on the other side of tomorrow. It’s only when I’m a few inches away from finally falling into darkness that I realize I never actually told Grace my name.

  INTERROGATION

  ALEX

  I walk away from the Sigma Phi house fast and purposefully. My high from exposing the fraternity party has dulled, and now I’m left with the aftermath: an intense headache and a pull of regret. I try to keep Warren’s words—it’s like you’re trying to be your father, it’s like you can’t help it, you’re poison—out of my mind, but I keep going back to them, like an itch that refuses to quit, no matter how many times I scratch at it. Because Warren’s right. And no form or amount of apologizing is going to fix me, or the fragile friendship I just shattered on the ground.

  Sorry I’m an asshole.

  Sorry I’m not the man I’d like to be.

  Sorry I can’t just let the past go and move on.

  I cut in and out of the lively streets of Georgetown. It’s Friday night, and there’s a moon wild and hazy, drawn like a messy chalk circle on a slate slab of a sky. A recklessness teases from the shadowy alleys of O Street, college parties in full swing, and shining rooms that taunt with their quiet fronts and spellbound doors. A recklessness that whispers, Lose yourself, forget it all, if only for a night.

  I force myself to ignore the whispers, follow O Street until it dumps me onto Wisconsin Avenue. Tonight was a wake-up call. I need to move on, let the past lie in its grave for good. Because despite how much I wish I could, there’s no undoing it.

  As I cut up quiet Wisconsin toward its residential section, I swear I hear a scurry on the sidewalk behind me. But when I turn to investigate, there’s nothing. Just swaying trees lining the sidewalk and polished, well-kept cars parked on the road.

  But then I hear it again. As I place the sound, a panic ignites in my core. It’s not the wind, not the trees—it’s a pair of footsteps, maybe two or three—scurrying in the shadows and over the sidewalk.

  Before I can run, turn, do anything, rough hands grip my shoulders and push me forward, and I fly toward the ground. “Stop—who—what do you want?!”

  I’m pushed against the sidewalk, my face imprinting into the cement. I can’t turn my head, I can’t make anything out, it’s just a blur—dark clothes, masked faces, I—“Seriously, what’s going on—”

  “Quiet,” a voice above me whispers.

  A barrage of thoughts stampedes my mind—

  Are these Sam’s Sigma lackeys? A robbery? A mugging?

  “Listen, you don’t want to do this. I’m an officer. An officer of the law—”

  “Shut him up.”

  A thin slip of a blindfold is tugged over my eyes. Rough fingers scratch my face as another rag is tied around my mouth. A car approaches, wheels tumbling over the smooth road. Bright headlights pulse through my blindfold like two electric hearts.

  Then from somewhere behind me: “Put him in the back.”

  * * *

  We ride in silence—minutes, maybe hours. It’s impossible to keep track of time when your heart’s beating like a racehorse and your eyes and mouth are sealed shut, but at some point, the car I’ve been shoved into slows to a stop. A few doors open and close.

  “Come on, on your feet.”

  I mumble through my mouth gag in response, and a few brusque hands pull me out of the car. Another door opens—this one heavy and creaky. I must be inside now—the air is mustier and warmer, like it’s been trapped. There’s no wind. No sound.

  A new voice whispers, “Sit him down.”

  My escorts shove me into a seat. My blindfold and gag are ripped off, and light sears my eyes. I steal a glance at a man sitting across a small table, though the aftershock of the light clouds his face. “What’s all this about?” I squint. “Why am I here?”

  “Thank you, boys,” the man across the table says. “That’ll be all.”

  A smack of metal rips through the room, and I jump and look behind me. Four black-clad men slither out the door and close it with a BOOM.

  My eyes dart from corner to corner of the room, trying to find some answers. This place is clearly some kind of storage facility—boxes and overflowing bins clutter the far corners, and there are no windows. I’ve been seated at a cheap folding table in the middle of the mess—one lonely lightbulb hangs down over it like a glowing teardrop.

  “Alexander Danfrey.”

  I look at the man across the table, study him, from his kempt, parted gray hair right down to his beat-up briefcase. And I relax, a little. The chap’s definitely some sort of government man—he’s got that tame, approachable look about him despite the dramatic introduction: cheap suit, soft features. Thanks to the late nights spent helping my father run his remedial spells scheme for D Street, I’ve seen enough hard-nosed gangsters to know this man most certainly isn’t one.

  Still, government man or not, I was just kidnapped, stuffed into a car, and shuttled to a hidden storage facility.

  “Who are you?” I ask carefully. “What’s all this about? Why am I here?”

  The man unbuckles his briefcase, removes a single manila folder. He places it on the table but doesn’t open it. “I’m Agent Frain, a captain within the Prohibition Unit.” He gives me a lukewarm smile. “Apologies for the subterfuge in bringing you here, but there are bought men everywhere in the Unit. Here we’re safe from prying eyes and ears.”

  A different fear starts to take hold. If this Frain chap is with the Unit, those men who just left are likely junior agents . . . maybe they were following me . . . maybe they saw that sorcering move I pulled outside Sam’s fraternity party. . . . Christ, maybe I’m going to get kicked out of the Unit before I even truly start.

  “You’re a trainee, am I right, Alex, within our Domestic Magic division? You’ve been at the academy for around three months now. Set to graduate in a week.”

  I give a slow nod. “Yes, that’s right, sir.”

  “Your superiors tell me you’re smart. Good marks in your Shine Transference and Dangers of Performance classes, and you’re adept in field exercises. No red flags, other than several notes about your attitude problem, in and out of training class.”

  I blush. “What exactly did my superiors say?”

  “Despite its terrible reputation, there are still some discerning folks in the Unit, Alex. Ones that don’t miss a trick.” The loaded way he says this makes my insides twist and fold. He finally opens his folder. “My records indicate that you joined us in early summer, a couple months after your father’s trial ended, is that correct?”

  A familiar chill crops up at the top of my spine at the mention of my father, but I manage to answer, “That’s correct, sir.”

  “My understanding is that your father’s judge, Judge Hoehling, personally recommended you to the Unit, after you met with him before your father’s jury deliberation. He said you asked for his advice. He said that he’d never met a, quote, ‘more sorrowful son for the sins of his father,’” Frain says. “And Hoehling thought the Prohibition Unit would be the perfect answer for you. A career that allowed you to fight men like your father and atone on beh
alf of your family.”

  “Judge Hoehling was invaluable, sir,” I say. “He helped me gain perspective and clarity.” But my father’s three-week trial for running his remedial spells scheme is nothing short of a nightmarish blur. For over a year—since my father had found out I’d gotten the magic touch—I had been his right-hand man. He took me out of the boarding program at St. Albans, and I spent most nights conjuring protective force fields for clandestine meetings and brewing my sorcerer’s shine for his gangster guests. And of course, helping build the Danfreys’ legacy: creating elaborate manipulations that allowed my father to break into his own Danfrey Pharma Corporation storage facilities, then flip the legal spells to D Street so the gang could move them into the black market. Our remedial magic scheme wasn’t unusual, but given the access to cures my father had because of his company, it was wildly successful.

  During the Spanish flu epidemic, even the most adamant of anti-sorcery activists realized there was a need for a medicinal exception to a blanket prohibition on magic, so sorcerers willing to work for the common good were eventually offered government gigs, or jobs with pharmaceutical companies to work toward breakthrough magic cures.

  Of course, the underworld figured out a way to exploit this medicinal exception. Gangs get ahold of magic remedies, then cart them off to mom-and-pop operations that redistill a portion of the natural elements out of the spells in order to get them closer to pure-magic sorcerer’s shine. But it’s a true racket. The redistilled spells might last longer on the shelves than shine because of the residue of natural elements—a few weeks, long enough to be transportable—but the high is weak and muddled. Besides, some of the redistillers have been known to add crap like red paint to their product in an attempt to make it look closer to real-deal shine, which has led to poisonings across the city.

  Not that I ever thought about what I was doing, what it meant, or hell, what I’d have to give up if my father was ever caught. I just did what he required, let my magic flow through me, reveled in being needed, powerful. No, invincible.

  And then it all came crashing down back in March—two D Street thugs ratted to the Feds, my father was indicted, my home was sold for legal fees, and my senior year at St. Albans cut short. My father on the stand, lying about my involvement in order to save me and my mother—and in a last-ditch effort to partially redeem himself. Before I could blink, I became Poster Child Alex Danfrey, Remorseful Alex Danfrey, Just-Want-to-Make-Daddy’s-Wrongs-Right Alex Danfrey.

  Needless to say, I didn’t know who this Alex Danfrey was—I still don’t.

  But convincing Judge Hoehling of who he was had been a piece of cake.

  “Judge Hoehling told me that I could direct all the anger and frustration I had for my father toward the criminals of this city,” I add, selling the same story I’d given to the head of the Prohibition Unit, to my lieutenant, to the guys who had questions in my training class. “He explained that I could take my hatred for magic and make it work for this country. I’m forever indebted.”

  Frain gives me a tight-lipped smile. “That’s exactly what our notes say as well,” he says. “In fact, nearly word for word.”

  My heart has started to push against the insides of my chest, like it’s got hands, like it’s ready to rumble. I’m honestly not sure which way this Frain chap is angling, which annoys as much as it scares me.

  “I know your mother told the papers that you were both completely in the dark about Richard’s remedial magic scheme, but I’m sure you learned some facts from his trial.” Frain keeps his eyes on his file. “I take it you know the name Anthony Colletto, the D Street Outfit boss? The man your father was ultimately working for?” I nod, as the name will forever be seared like a brand in my mind. “My understanding is that your father agreed to steal his own company’s government-sanctioned spells right off his shelves and funnel them to D Street, in exchange for Boss Colletto’s forgiveness of some pretty exorbitant gambling debts. Maybe in late 1924, early 1925?”

  It was January 1925. I remember because my father had been on a shine bender since the holidays, and after a week on the stuff was barely recognizable. He’d come home lit out of his mind on New Year’s Eve, thrown me against a wall, all the while barking at me with shined-up, pinprick pupils, sputtering that our lives were over. “I’m not too familiar with the details, sir, but that all sounds right to me.”

  “And from your training class, I’m sure you know the name Erwin McEvoy.”

  I nod, still not sure where this is going. “He’s Colletto’s sworn enemy, has been boss of the Irish Shaw Gang for almost a decade, a position he assumed after D Street killed his predecessor and cousin, Danny the Gun. McEvoy’s nickname: Jackal of the District. A nickname well-earned, from what I understand,” I say. “Our Unit instructor estimated McEvoy’s killed over a hundred men since he took over the Shaws.”

  “Very good.” Frain looks me in the eye. “I also understand, from our inside sources, that McEvoy’s in need of a new right-hand sorcerer.”

  Right-hand sorcerer. I think back to training class. “You mean his magic protector on the street, his personal sorcerer?” I ask. “What happened to his old one?”

  “Homicide said it looked like a trick gone wrong, from what they could tell. Some elaborate manipulation backfired, and apparently the young man ended up half-charred.” Frain pauses. “Unless, of course, McEvoy just decided to set him on fire.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my thin metal chair. “Sir, all due respect, what’s this have to do with me?”

  “As you know from the Unit, McEvoy is on our most-wanted list.” Frain gives me a wan smile. “He’s a man synonymous with magic, who uses sorcery in nearly every way you can to break the law. Force fields to assist in robberies. Manipulations to coerce enemies. Elaborate smuggling rings to bring the haunted island brew, obi, and this newer product, fae dust, in from overseas. He’s even got his hand in performance—owns a few middling shining rooms across the city, where I’m told you can get a shot of shine and a little sorcery show any night of the week.” Frain leans across the table. “We’ve been tracking McEvoy for a long time, but we’ve never had an agent worthy enough to plant by his side, who can keep us informed about the Shaws’ dealings, who can help us hit them at the right time.” Frain pauses. “And we want that someone to be you, Danfrey. We want to send you undercover.”

  Undercover. With McEvoy? The boss of the most dangerous gang in DC? “Sir, I’m sorry, what—how would that even be possible?”

  “We’d do it nice and slow, make it look credible,” Frain says. “We’d get you in at the lowest level, hook you up with someone junior, on the periphery of McEvoy’s operation, and you’d work your way up the ranks. Like I said, McEvoy’s looking for a new right-hand sorcerer, and someone like you, who’s talented, smart, and savvy about the underworld? You’ll find your way to him, I’m sure of it. Besides, McEvoy’s had a vendetta for Colletto since Colletto took out his cousin, Danny the Gun. We’re positive McEvoy would take you into his fold just to spite the D Street boss. It’s perfect.”

  But I’m still stuck on Frain’s description of me. Talented. So Frain knows I can sorcer. At least, he has a suspicion that I can sorcer. It doesn’t matter, there’s no way I’m doing this. For one, I despise gangsters, can’t even imagine rubbing shoulders with them again, much less trying to win them over—their whole magic racket ruined my life. For another, it sounds like a death sentence.

  “Sir, you just said McEvoy’s last sorcerer pretty much ended up burned at the stake,” I say slowly. “So thanks for the offer, but I think I’m better cut out for the field.”

  Frain studies me. “The field.” He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one. He doesn’t offer one to me. “And are you proud of what you’re doing with the Unit, Alex? How you’re setting yourself up ‘for the field’?”

  Warren’s words from earlier—it’s like you’re
trying to be your father, it’s like you can’t help it, you’re poison—they start gnawing at me again. But I manage to answer, “I’d like to think so, sir.”

  “Mmm.” Frain sits back in his seat. “So hitting up illegal magic parties, serving sorcerer’s shine to minors, casting prohibited magic in public . . . that’s all part of your plan to end the manipulative, coercive sorcery and addiction that has cursed this country? To put men like your father behind bars?” He gives a put-on laugh. “We’ve got a lot of corrupt men within our ranks, Alex. But I have to say, corrupt sorcerers? You’re a special breed.”

  The walls feel like they’re closing in, the overstocked boxes and bins of this cramped storage room are slowly inching forward. So the Unit was following me at Sigma Phi. Did they trail me into the party? Or is Frain bluffing?

  “If you want to accuse me of something, why don’t you just say it, Agent Frain? I’ve got nothing to hide.” I paste on a smile and push out from my seat to stand. “I appreciate your offer, but getting myself killed isn’t something I’m interested in. So with all due respect, I’d like you to take me home.”

  “Sit down, Danfrey.” Frain’s face hardens. “Let’s spin this another way. The same D Street thugs who sold out your father for poaching his own company’s cures? They went on record when we first brought them down to the station, claimed they saw someone else in the shadows of your father’s cellar when they made that final exchange.” He pauses. “Neither of them caught a face, of course. But they described him as tall, young. Not enough to build a case on, but enough to raise some eyebrows.”