The Trouble With Magic

by Tania Hutley

“Oh no. Is Sylvia okay?”

  I shake my head. My face must say it all.

  “I’m sorry,” says Jess. “Was it a heart attack or something?”

  I shake my head again, unable to say the words. Jess squeezes my shoulder, then cleans up the broken bowl and spilled cat food without asking any more questions. I sip the beer and watch as she lures the cats back outside with more food. When she’s done, I have myself back under control enough that I can look her in the eyes and lie.

  “Sylvia had a chicken,” I tell her. “I brought it home to look after, but it got away. It’s on Agnes’s front porch, and I want to bring it in before it gets hurt.”

  “A chicken? Really?” She frowns, but obviously thinks better of objecting to our new feathered houseguest. “Where are you going to keep it?”

  “In the courtyard out back. It’s not ideal, but it’ll only be for a little while.” At least, I hope Agnes will only have a short stay before I figure out how to turn her back. Good thing our courtyard has a high fence and chickens can’t fly well.

  “Help me catch it?” I ask.

  “Now?” She sighs. “Okay. Let me get changed. Maybe we can lure it over with food. What do chickens eat?”

  “Um.” I think of Agnes. As far as I could tell, she got by on a steady diet of malice, gossip, and complaining. “I don't know about most chickens, but maybe I’ll microwave a TV dinner for her. Then I’m going to sleep for a week.”

  Seven

  Blearily opening my eyes, I focus on the glowing digits on my bedside table and groan. Contrary to my expectations, I didn’t sleep for a week, but for an entire day. It’s Sunday evening, and my stomach is rumbling.

  My hand aches, and the scratches on my arms are stinging. Worst of all is the way I can’t stop thinking about Sylvia. Every time I remember the way she looked, I have to fight not to break down. I wish I hadn’t seen what happened to her, or smelled that horrible smell in the air. I’d give anything to forget the way her hair had clumped together and was sticking to her face, and the awful, gaping hole in her chest.

  What did that to her? Could it really have been one of her grimoires?

  There’s only one way to keep from pulling the covers back over my head and bawling, and that’s to find out what really happened.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I head for the shower. Uncle Ray told me to lay low, and Detective Trent was pissed about having to let me go. That’s at least two reasons to remain at home. If I were sensible, I’d stay here, out of trouble.

  Who wants to be sensible?

  I don’t have a scrap of archivist power, but I need to take a closer look at the grimoire on the table in Sylivia’s athenaeum. Dangerous or not, I need to see if it could have caused her death. While I’m at it, I’ll see if I can find a way to reverse the spell I cast on Agnes, and look for Ratticus.

  Decision made, I glance out the window at the setting sun. The day is over, and although Sylvia’s place is a crime scene, surely the police will have finished doing all their forensic tests or whatever by now? Even if they haven’t, I doubt they’d work through the night.

  After washing and dressing, I go downstairs to find a note from Jess saying The Flaming Buttholes are playing a gig out of town tonight, and she won’t be back until tomorrow. Good. I was worried she might have awkward questions about the half-accurate, incomplete story I told her last night. And I haven’t thought up an explanation for what happened to the stereo.

  By the time I’ve eaten, fed the cats, offered Agnes a microwaved meal, and been viciously pecked several times, it’s dark. I leave my pickup truck at home and walk to Sylvia’s.

  Outside her house, I can’t see any cars. Crime scene tape is stretched across the door, and the place looks dark and quiet.

  I tiptoe up her front steps, alert for any sound or movement. A familiar tingling sensation tells me Sylvia’s wards are active, and should have prevented anyone from the magical community getting in if they were intending to harm her. Set into the fabric of the building by someone living in the house, wards will protect the inhabitants of a place for years, especially wards that were put in place by an earth witch.

  Trickier spells, like the one Magnus Fox used to influence the police captain, wear off a lot faster. I can’t count on Magnus’s influence holding much longer, especially if I get caught sneaking back to the scene of the crime.

  The key for Sylvia’s front door is still on my keyring, so I quietly let myself in and shut the door behind me, leaving the lights off. My heart beats faster as I start down the hallway. At least the smell from last time is gone. It’s a different smell now, a strong chemical tang that I’d probably hate if it wasn’t a million times better than the alternative.

  Moonlight filters in through the windows. On the floor is a pair of latex gloves the police have left behind. I’ve been in this house so many times, I can’t help expecting Sylvia to call from another room, or appear from around a corner. I can’t believe she’s not here anymore. That I’m never going to see her again.

  I can feel the magic coming from her books as though they’re tickling under my skin. Each has its own voice. Not that they make any kind of sound I can hear, at least not with my ears. They have the kind of voices that make my breastbone vibrate and my hairs stand on end.

  Usually I can’t hear them so well, but the books are loud tonight, probably because of what happened to Sylvia. I wish they could tell me how she died. It would be so much better than having to go back into the athenaeum where I found her. With every step I take, my dread grows stronger.

  The living room is so dark that I need to switch on the light to find The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe. When I open it, and the portal appears, I almost lose my nerve.

  But this is the only chance I have to find answers.

  Sucking in a deep breath to brace myself, I push through the glowing air, into Sylvia’s athenaeum.

  My gaze goes straight to the blood on the floor. So much blood. One thing for sure, my uncle was wrong about Sylvia’s wards. They must be working, or the grimoires would be bursting out of their bindings.

  Apart from the blood, the small magical room looks just like it used to. The reading chair with wide arms that Sylvia liked to balance mugs of hot cocoa on is still in place, as though waiting patiently for its owner to return. Knowing she’ll never sit there again makes my chest feel tight.

  The only thing out of place is the grimoire on the table. Sylvia would never have left it out like that.

  Stepping carefully around the blood on the floor, I creep closer. The book is completely and disconcertingly black. Like a black hole kind of black. There are no words on its cover.

  Staring at it, I swallow hard. The last thing I want to do is touch it.

  If my hunch is right and it’s a dark magic grimoire, its power is malevolent. And even benign spells can be tricky things. When a witch casts a spell, it’s the magic in their blood that powers it. The stronger a witch’s magical lineage, the more potent their blood, the more spells they can perform.

  Grimoires amplify magic. The instructions, the potions, the runes described in the grimoires…they’re not always necessary to cast spells, but they can amp an ordinary witch up to be more powerful.

  Dark magic gets its power from releasing other people’s blood. Not just the blood, but the whole process of extracting it. Its power comes from pain and death. Using it is strictly forbidden.

  I grit my teeth, sure that I’m not going to like whatever horrors the grimoire holds in its pages. But I need to know.

  I reach out slowly toward the book. Good thing I bandaged the cuts on my hands. It’s bad enough that there’s so much blood in this room, but touching a grimoire with an open wound would be like climbing a lightning conductor during a thunderstorm wearing a tinfoil hat.

  Moving gingerly, I brush the cover of the book with the tips of my fingers, then draw back. The book feels icy cold and sends a shiver through me. But no dark magic bursts out of it.

/>   I drag in a breath, gather all my courage, and ease the book open.

  All I see are pitch-black swirling pages. No words. No symbols. Now that the book is open, its pages lift and fall softly as though it’s breathing.

  A terrible sense of menace radiates from it, and it’s all I can do not to close the thing.

  But I’ve come this far. I can’t back out now.

  “Show me,” I tell it, picturing Sylvia’s hollowed-out chest.

  The book sighs, and the noise sends a chill down my back. It sounds wistful. Then the pages flutter, turning themselves. They settle on what I suppose must be the right page, and the blackness swirls like smoke across the paper. From beneath the black, a few words emerge, though they’re difficult to read. I sweep my hand back and forth above the surface of the book trying to wave the blackness away.

  It clears slightly, showing me a single line of a spell. The words I can see on the page vibrate with so much power they’re practically clawing their way off the paper. They’re written in reddish-brown ink.

  No, in blood.

  It’s a spell, but I can’t make out what the spell’s called, how to cast it, or what it does. All I can make out is the spell’s first ingredient.

  The beating heart of a witch.

  My stomach clenches into a hard ball as realization washes over me.

  Sylvia and my parents were killed because a dark witch wanted their hearts to perform this dark spell.

  But what kind of spell is it?

  Using dark magic comes at a high cost. It’s not just that it’s a crime, forbidden by the council. When a witch uses the blood of others they become much more powerful, and a lot of people are drawn to that. But the dark magic corrupts their minds. It turns them insane, and the Blood Council are forced to eradicate them.

  It’s basically a self-imposed death sentence.

  I wave harder over the book, desperately trying to see more of the spell, but the book sighs and the blackness thickens. The page is dark again.

  Maybe the wards in my cousin’s athenaeum are dampening the magic, keeping the book from revealing its secrets? Perhaps outside this room, I’d be able to see the spell. Problem is, I’ll never know, because only Sylvia could take any grimoire out of the—

  Wait.

  Didn’t the detective say I’m Sylvia’s sole heir? If so, these grimoires belong to me now. Does that mean I can take the book out of here?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  But even if I can get the book out of the athenaeum, taking it out of the room’s wards is so risky, it’s probably the worst idea ever. But it’s my only clue as to who killed three members of my family.

  Too bad about the danger. I have to try.

  Without letting myself think too hard in case I lose my nerve, I ease the book off the table. It weighs nothing, like it’s made of air, but its icy chill seeps into my bones.

  With it in my hands, I touch the wall I came in through. It dissolves for me, just as it’s supposed to. Stepping out, back into the real world, I clutch the book as tightly as I can, terrified it’s going to open on its own, that its dark magic is going to leech out and the spell will seep out of it like toxic black smoke to rip my heart right out of my chest.

  All that happens is that a low-pitched hum emanates from the book, like it’s charged with electricity. The sound makes my skin prickle. I don’t like holding the book, don’t want it anywhere near me. I take it into the kitchen, switch on the bright overhead fluorescent lights to banish as many shadows as possible, and dump the grimoire on the island in the middle of the room.

  The last thing I want is to touch it again, but I need to read that spell.

  Still, I clench and unclench my unhurt hand a few times, summoning my courage before I reach toward the book.

  My fingers brush its pitch-black cover. It feels even colder out here, without Sylvia’s protection spells. So cold, it bites.

  My heart speeds up as I flip the grimoire open.

  The pages still swirl with an inky blackness, and I lean in closer, trying to see through it. My pinky finger touches the open page. Immediately, it’s like I’m attached to a vacuum cleaner that’s determined to suck me up. My finger feels like it’s about to have its bones pulled apart. I can’t pull it back out of the book, and the suction is winning the war to drag the rest of my hand down into the page.

  “Shit.” Panic fills me. A burning blackness steals up my arm, and I lean back, trying to wrench my finger free. A second finger joins the pinky, and there’s a moment where it seems like it could go either way. My heart pounds, and the burning sensation makes it to my eyes. As my vision starts to blur, I give one last panic-filled tug on my hand, straining with every muscle in my body. With a grinding pop, my fingers come free and I stagger backward.

  I gasp in air to recover my breath. My arm feels heavy and I flick it frantically to get the feeling of darkness off me. I should know better than to be careless around a dark magic grimoire. And now the bandage is hanging off my hand, all but ripped loose by the book. One tug is all it takes to get it right off, and I shove it into my pocket.

  The book is still open, humming with energy. I really don’t want to touch it again, but

  I can’t just leave it there, especially not lying open. Who knows what could happen.

  Steeling myself, I inch forward and reach for it with my uninjured hand.

  Something scratches my foot.

  I jump back, letting out a strangled curse as I kick out, desperate to kill the horrifying dark magic monstrosity that must be attacking me.

  Ratticus squeaks and takes off toward the living room.

  “Ratticus,” I gasp, pressing my hand over my thumping heart. “I scared you even more than you scared me, huh?”

  I drag in a breath, then quickly flip the grimoire shut. “Stay,” I mutter, before turning to take care of Ratticus. The poor rat might not understand what’s going on, but I’m pretty sure he’s hungry.

  Grabbing some rat food from the cupboard under the sink, I follow him into the room where Sylvia was killed.

  “Ratticus,” I call. “Come on, boy. I have food for you. I’ll take you home and look after you.”

  I catch a movement under the couch, and bend to put my hand on the floor, palm upturned and open, some pellets temptingly displayed. Though my animal magic is bound, faint traces of it run through me, the way a strong scent will permeate everything around it, and Ratticus is scared and looking for comfort.

  Moments later, I feel whiskers tickle my palm. Ratticus sniffs my hand, then cautiously emerges from under the couch to pick up and eat one of the pellets.

  “Good boy, Ratticus,” I whisper, reaching out my other hand to gently pat him. He jerks away, clearly still freaked out, and I make soothing noises. “It’s okay, little guy. You want to come home with me? It’s safe there, and there’s plenty to eat.”

  When he moves forward again, I grab him, standing up with him in my hands. He holds completely still for a moment, then cuddles against my chest, chewing on his pellets.

  “Must have been a bad day, with lots of policemen here scaring you,” I murmur. “You found a hiding place though, didn’t you? Shame you can’t talk and tell them I didn’t kill Sylvia. Let us all know what really happened.”

  I look over to his cage, trying to figure out what I’ll need to take with me. I can’t carry the whole cage, but perhaps the wheel and his food bowl? Cradling Ratticus against my chest with one hand, I drag Sylvia’s backpack out of her closet and put his food into it. Oh, and I’d better take his water bottle.

  Ratticus is scratching my palm with his small sharp claws, his nose twitching as I reach for the bottle at the back of the cage with my other hand. He makes to dart out of my grasp, and I jerk to one side without thinking, trying to keep him captive.

  The open wound on my palm scrapes against the wire that usually holds the cage door closed, pulling the flesh apart again.

  “Ouch.”

 
As I snatch my hand back, blood wells in the tender wound. Both types of magic surge, swift and brutal. Before I can stop them, they’ve forced open the gap in the council’s bindings.

  My mother’s ring glows, suddenly bright. Its glow surrounds Ratticus, filling him with animal magic.

  Suddenly I can smell dog. But not just any dog. Dead and rotting dog. The stench is so thick it makes me gag. It envelops me, closing in and suffocating me.

  All I can see are blurry shapes I can’t make sense of. No colors, just black and white. A couple of people, perhaps? A large animal? The shapes are too distorted to make out, as though I’m seeing them through a strange lens.

  A snarl comes from the thing that stinks like decaying meat and dog hair. No, it’s a voice, isn’t it? But it’s deep and raw, like no voice I’ve ever heard before.

  Then I hear something else and realize with a jolt that someone’s talking in a weird language. Are two people talking? Arguing? The sense of threat coming from the rotting dog is unmistakable.

  Wait a minute, do I know one of the voices? Could it be Sylvia? Why does she sound so strange?

  Then she screams, the shrill sound stabbing painfully into my ears. I hunch over, every hair on my body standing on end. Fear makes my throat close. I have an overwhelming urge to run, or to dig a deep burrow and curl into it…

  As suddenly as it began, it’s over. The world returns to normal, and I’m once again standing beside Ratticus’s cage, the rat clutched in one sweaty hand.

  The animal magic is spent, but my earth magic still arcs through the air, sizzling like a live electrical cable, searching for a release. When earth magic was all I had, it was far less violent, and I knew enough spells that I could focus and control it. But the animal magic has made it a lot stronger, and I’m trembling all over, about to drop. I barely make it to the nearest chair before every light fitting in the house explodes. The BANG is so loud it shakes the house. Glass showers down like rain.

  Instinctively, I curl in the chair, Ratticus nestled against my chest. Sylvia’s rat is shaking as hard as I am. His black eyes watch me and a strange sensation rolls up my spine.