The Trouble With Magic

by Tania Hutley

  What I saw was a vision. No, not a vision. A memory. And I pulled it straight from Ratticus’s little rat brain.

  He saw Sylvia’s death. And now I’ve seen it too.

  Only nothing was clear. Ratticus doesn’t see like humans do. He can’t detect colors and his vision is blurred. He doesn’t understand spoken language and couldn’t make out human words.

  But he does have one thing. An amazing sense of smell. And the stench of rotting meat and dog hair is still lingering in my nostrils, stronger than the smell of smoldering wires from the burnt-out light fittings.

  That smell belongs to whatever it was that killed Sylvia.

  And that’s a clue I can work with.

  Eight

  I’m still in the chair with Ratticus on my lap when I realize Uncle Ray is probably trying to get hold of me. He would have felt me use my magic again and he’ll be pissed.

  My legs are limp because the force of the vision sucked every bit of energy out of me. Still, I drag myself up, put Ratticus back in his cage, then go to the hallway where Sylvia’s phone sits in one of her bookcases. Uncle Ray is the last person I want to talk to, but I dial anyway. Best get it over with, before he has time to get himself worked up.

  He answers his phone with an exasperated sigh, not bothering with a hello. “What happened this time, Saffy?”

  “I’m at Sylvia’s place. Ratticus hadn’t been fed since before she died. I was worried.”

  “Ratticus?”

  “Her rat.”

  “Ah.” He has animal magic too, so this explanation seems to satisfy him.

  “I was holding Ratticus when I reopened an old cut. Then I saw something through Ratticus’s eyes.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Sylvia’s murder.”

  “What?”

  “It turns out that rats can’t see very well,” I say, not wanting to give him false hope. “The whole thing was blurry. Faint shapes with sharp smells. I heard Sylvia talking and couldn’t understand a word she said. But I smelled the thing that killed her.”

  “A grimoire?”

  “I don’t think so. Whatever it was smelled horrible. Like a dead dog.”

  “A dog? That makes no sense.”

  “I know. But Uncle Ray, you didn’t see Sylvia’s chest. It wasn’t cut open, but torn. Like with teeth.”

  “And you think a dog could have done that to her?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Not yet, anyway.

  “You’re still at Sylvia’s house?” he asks. “What if the police find you there? Magnus’s spell might have worn off by now, and they’re probably already wondering why they ruled you out of their investigation so easily.”

  “I’m about to head home.” Uncle Ray is right, I need to leave. I glance over my shoulder toward the kitchen, and the grimoire. I can feel its magic pulsing, even from here. What am I going to do with it?

  “Good.” He sighs. “I’ll need to tell Magnus about what you experienced. But I’ll do my best to convince him that using magic was an accident and you shouldn’t be held responsible.”

  “Do what you have to, Uncle Ray,” I say softly. And I’ll do what I have to as well.

  In Sylvia’s bathroom, I find a fresh bandage for my hand, and then I look around the house, trying to see if there’s anything I might need. I might not be able to come back any time soon. I’ll definitely take Ratticus and his supplies with me.

  And the grimoire.

  The dark spell book calls to me, its magic alluring and seductive despite the danger, and I reluctantly head back to the kitchen. As much as I don’t want to take it with me, it’s the only choice. I’m determined to find out what that spell says, but to do that, I’ll need help.

  Though dark magic is forbidden, there’s one man who might be able to help me. An archivist, like Sylvia, though this witch isn’t part of the magical community. I’ve been out of the community for years, but before I left there were rumors he might be dabbling in dark magic himself.

  The rumors were bad enough, I wouldn’t have believed I’d ever consider willingly visiting him. But if he’s still alive, maybe he can help me read the spell.

  I gingerly slide the dark magic book into Sylvia’s backpack along with Ratticus’s food and supplies. The thing is freezing, and still giving off a low buzzing sound that makes my skin prickle. It’s a relief to zip it inside the bag.

  When I pick Ratticus up again, he runs up my arm onto my shoulder and curls himself into my neck. Probably a good place for him to stay, hidden by one of my thick pigtails.

  The walk back to my place isn’t far, but the darkness, the grimoire I’m carrying, and the stink of dead dog in my nostrils make it unnerving.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I say to Ratticus as I stride along the sidewalk, trying to keep my voice at a low murmur. “We’ll be home soon. I won’t let any rotting killer dogs get you.”

  When I first catch the faint sound of dogs baying, I assume I’m hearing things. The soothing nonsense I was murmuring to Ratticus must have made me imagine the noise.

  But as I round the final corner to my house, it gets louder. Somewhere in the distance, dogs are snarling, growling and barking. The sound’s coming from behind me, and quickly rising in volume. As soon as I turn my head, my heart lurches into my throat.

  There are lots and lots of dogs galloping toward me. They’re a few blocks away, but closing in fast.

  My heartbeat kicks up, and the grimoire’s magic hums a little louder.

  I turn and run. The thundering of paws on concrete, barking and snarling comes closer and closer. Their baying is high-pitched and excited, like they’ve just caught the scent of their prey.

  Me.

  The noise is terrifying. An image of Sylvia’s torn-open chest flashes in front of me and I put my head down and sprint. Ratticus chitters in my ear and his claws scratch painfully into my skin. He’s trying to burrow into me to escape our pursuers.

  I race as hard as I can toward my house, which is only a couple hundred yards away. The noise is so close now that I glance back, even though it slows me down. The first of the dogs is just behind me. A huge Rottweiler with a foaming mouth and glowing eyes.

  On its heels are other dogs almost as large, their powerful legs thrusting them forward. They’re all focused on me and their eyes have the same chilling, magical glow. They’re running so fast, they’ll be on me in no time.

  I piston my arms up and down, running for my life. My muscles are burning, my breath comes in painful gasps and my backpack is thumping painfully against my back, but I keep running as fast as I can.

  It’s going to be close.

  The wards around my house are designed to stop magical threats, and magic must be what’s compelling the dogs to hunt me. If I can make it onto the front step, the dogs won’t be able to follow. But if the old, fading wards fail, and the dogs manage to break through, I’m dead. I’ll never get my front door open before they tear me apart.

  My lungs feel like they’re going to explode and my vision is blurry. I’m almost there, but I can hear jaws snapping right behind me. Just three yards to my front step. Two yards…

  Pain explodes in the back of my leg, just below the knee. I tumble forward and land hard on the step, twisting as I fall.

  The Rottweiler’s jaws dig into my calf, his fangs tearing through my jeans. Behind him, the other dogs leap forward, baying with excitement.

  The other dogs hit the wards and the invisible barrier knocks them back as though they’ve landed against a force field. Most of my body is inside the protection, but one lower leg is still outside. And the Rottweiler still has hold of me. It’s pulling me, trying to drag me back into the street.

  Desperately, I grab hold of the stair rail and yank myself away from the Rottweiler, lashing out with my heavy boot. The dog doesn’t even flinch when my boot slams into it. Another dog tries to latch onto my foot, but its teeth can’t penetrate the thick leather of my Doc Martins. I kick it a
way, desperation adding weight to the blow.

  With all my strength, I pull myself toward the house, trying to jerk my leg away from the enormous dog’s mouth. I let out a scream of agony as the Rottweiler’s teeth tear through my flesh. Blood pours from my calf and my magic almost gleefully surges free.

  It’s weaker than before, used up by the vision I just had at Sylvia’s. But with so much of my blood flowing, it’s out before I can think about trying to control the power.

  My animal magic pours into the lead Rottweiler. The beast yelps. Its jaws loosen and I scramble onto the next step. Amazingly, my legs are free and my whole body is inside the protection of the wards. I gasp out a relieved breath.

  And then I look up.

  My magic is changing the dog.

  It’s making it bigger.

  Before my horrified eyes, its body grows, its hair lengthening as its eyes glow even brighter. Without conscious intent to drive the magic, my fear must have powered it. Now the dog truly is a monster. It pushes against the wards and they start to bend under the strain, their magic pulsing unsteadily. The big Rottweiler’s growl is loud enough to shake the ground, and its eyes glow like a hellhound from a horror movie.

  My earth magic is still searching for a release. It slams into the sidewalk beneath the dogs, smashing it and throwing chunks of concrete into the air. The dogs don’t so much as flinch as the stones rain down on them, but the wards shudder and spark at the unexpected burst of power.

  The glowing eyes of the dogs are fixed on me, foam dripping from their mouths as they yip and snarl and bay, hurling their bodies against the invisible barrier. With a shock, I recognize one of the dogs. Mrs. Jenkin’s poodle lives a few doors away, and the gentle old dog has always wagged its tail madly when I’ve stopped to pat it. Now it’s snarling and leaping against the barrier with the rest, its eyes glowing red as it batters against the wards.

  My blood is splattered everywhere, the leg of my jeans soaked with it. The denim is torn, my wounds gaping open and my flesh mangled. But even with my blood still flowing, my magic is spent.

  I push myself backward up the steps until my backpack hits the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The dogs won’t stop. They’ll throw themselves against the house’s already-shaky wards until they break through. I don’t know how long it will take—two minutes or two hours—but sooner or later the wards will fail under the pressure.

  I need to get inside as fast as I can and call for help.

  But when I drag myself up, my head swims. I’ve lost a lot of blood, and it’s still gushing out of me. The bottom half of my leg is all chewed up and when I try to put my weight on it, searing pain screams up my leg. Balanced on one foot, I dig my key out of my pocket and force it into the lock with shaking hands. Then I stagger inside and slam the door, spattering blood as I go.

  The closed door doesn’t do much to muffle the sound of the dogs. They’re going mad outside, fighting to get through the barrier.

  Help. I need to get help.

  My vision is blurry. I use the wall for support as I half-hobble, half-fall toward the living room. The pain is intense. It’s dark inside, but my mother’s ring is glowing so brightly it lights my way. I’m leaving blood everywhere. On the wall, on the floor. My hands are wet with it.

  The living room feels a million miles away, and by the time I get there I’m sobbing with the effort. I must have blood in my eyes because I can barely see. All I can hear is my own ragged breath, and the frenzied barking from just outside.

  Is it getting louder? Could the dogs have broken through the barrier? Are they about to start hurling themselves against the door?

  Grabbing the phone, I peer at the numbers, blinking to clear my vision. Then I start punching in Sylvia’s number before realizing what I’m doing. Shit. I’ll have to call Uncle Ray.

  My finger hovers over the buttons, but I can barely see them now. They’re blurry smudges and I don’t know which ones to press.

  My good leg gives way and I slide down the wall and land heavily on the floor, sending a jolt of agony through my bad leg.

  Dial, Saffy.

  But how can I dial when I’m so dizzy, I see three phones instead of one? A wave of nausea hits me and I retch.

  Something huge and heavy hits my front door with a mighty crash. The wood cracks.

  The house’s magical wards have given way. Now the only thing protecting me from the dogs is a door that’s already breaking under the strain.

  Another loud slam against the door, and it’s all too easy to imagine the wood splintering. Whatever compulsion the dogs are under, it must be a strong spell.

  I should shut myself in a room to put another door between the dogs and me. But every movement sends such a fire of pain up my leg, I’m afraid I’ll pass out.

  Blood has pooled on the floor under me and is smeared on the walls. The glow of my ring lights it up, gives a glint of red to the black liquid. So much blood. I probably would have passed out already except for the cold, stark terror that’s making my heart beat like the hooves of a galloping horse.

  The dogs slam against the door again and again. It’s going to give way any minute. The dogs are going to come charging in here, jaws snapping and eyes glowing, set on tearing me to pieces.

  I need to do something. And there’s only one more thing I can think of.

  With my teeth clenched, I grab the wound on my leg. My blood is hot, pulsing between my fingers. Closing my eyes, I reach deep inside myself. For the first time in years, I urge my magic to come out, coaxing every last scrap through the gap in the bindings.

  The magic is all but spent. But even the small amount still inside me feels like holding twisting strands of fire.

  I don’t know a single spell for my animal magic, and without a rune or incantation to focus the energy, any magic is difficult to direct, especially the tangled chaos mess inside me. I picture the dogs yelping and afraid, trying to change their bloodlust to terror and drive them away. But my animal magic feeds on my fear. Instead of working on the dogs, it amplifies my panic.

  Dogs appear around me, black snarling creatures with bright, glowing eyes.

  My heart stutters with fear. I didn’t hear the door break. How did they get inside?

  They lunge at me, but their mouths go through me like ghosts. These dogs aren’t real. They’re just shadows, a magical manifestation of my fear. They bark and snarl and salivate, trying to tear me to pieces, and I screw my eyes shut, willing them away.

  Even as the animal magic fades, my earth magic is still alive, still searching for an outlet.

  With the last of my strength, I silently scream a single word, forcing it into my earth magic as it arcs toward the ground.

  HELP.

  Amazingly, my earth magic catches the word. It carries it into the ground, sending it out in a physical ripple. The word is a shockwave, radiating out from me, twisting rock into sound. Sending my desperate plea through dirt and stone.

  The force of it empties me.

  But the animal magic is empty too.

  The shadow dogs are gone now, thank god. Both types of magic are exhausted and I’m as weak as a newborn. If–when–the real dogs get through the door, I won’t be able to lift so much as a finger to stop them.

  The best I can do is try not to pass out.

  Only my best isn’t quite good enough.

  Nine

  I’m drifting in and out of consciousness when I realize the noise has stopped. No more barking. All I hear is one of the dogs whining.

  Could the spell have been broken? Or is something worse about to happen?

  I hear the door handle turn. The door creaks open.

  Footsteps echo from my hallway.

  I want to call out, but my voice is stuck and won’t come out of my throat. Who’s there? Could it be whoever was controlling the dogs?

  “Ms. Black?” It’s Detective Trent’s voice.

  A surge of relief floods through me. “I’m here,” I manage to say
through teeth that chatter with pain.

  A light clicks on in the hallway and I blink in the sudden brightness. Then Detective Trent strides into the living room. The light is behind him and my vision is blurry, so he’s little more than a silhouette. Still, from my position on the floor, he looks like an enormous avenging angel.

  An angel with a gun.

  “Is there somebody in the house?” he hisses.

  “No. Just me.”

  He holsters his weapon, then goes down on one knee beside me, his gaze raking over my wounds. “What happened?” Without waiting for an answer, he glances around, grabs a painting rag from next to the pile of paint tins, and binds it tightly around my thigh.

  “The dogs,” I say. Talking is an effort. I’m shaking, and can’t get out more than a couple of words. I’m freezing too. Probably because of the blood loss.

  “There’s blood all over your door and front steps.”

  “What are you doing here?” I manage.

  He frowns, tying the rag in place. “I’m not sure. Somehow, I knew you were in trouble. I guess the notification must have come over the police scanner. I must have half-heard it.”

  Police scanner, my ass. He felt my magic. But how on earth did he feel it? He’s not a witch.

  He tugs his phone out of his pocket and dials. “Send an ambulance,” he says into the phone.

  “I don’t need—”

  He’s already giving them my address.

  When I got hurt as a child, my mother always healed me, smoothing away scrapes or bruises with a touch of her hand. But I can’t heal myself with magic, and I don’t want to ask Uncle Ray for another favor. Going to a hospital might be my only option.

  The detective hangs up, then disappears upstairs. He comes back with a blanket and pillow I recognize as Jess’s. He must have taken them off her bed. But I don’t get time to object before he’s tucked the blanket around my body, leaving my chewed-up leg sticking out. And truth be told, I’m glad for the warmth. Hopefully the blood will wash out of the blanket.