The Trouble With Magic

by Tania Hutley

“I need to elevate your leg,” he says, holding up the pillow. “Okay to slide this under it?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll get this backpack off you first.” He helps me lean forward, away from the wall I’m propped against, works the backpack over my arms and drops it by my side. “Now, can I shift you so you’re lying flat?”

  “I can do it.” I push away from the wall to lie on my back. With my head down, I feel a little better. Not so dizzy. And my teeth don’t chatter so much.

  “What the—?” Detective Trent points at something. “There’s a rat running toward you.”

  “Ratticus?” What a relief. I was afraid he might have been eaten by the dogs. I put out my hand, but Ratticus ignores it. He nestles into the blanket instead, pressing himself against me.

  “You were talking about a rat when I interviewed you,” the detective says. “Is that it?”

  “Poor guy has had a rough day.”

  “The rat’s had a bad day?” He sounds incredulous. “What happened to your leg, Ms. Black? You said there were dogs?”

  “Will you find a box for Ratticus?” No doubt the ambulance will be here soon, and I want to make sure he’s safe.

  “A box?”

  “In the laundry.” I don’t have the strength to argue with him, so I’m profoundly grateful when he fetches a cardboard box without insisting I answer his questions first, and follows my directions to get some food out of the backpack for Ratticus. Like a typical mundane, he doesn’t give the grimoire more than a passing glance. He probably can’t hear it buzzing.

  “Careful,” I say when he picks up Ratticus. “He’s a biter.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth before the detective curses. “He got my finger.” He drops Ratticus into the box. “The rat doesn’t have rabies, does he? I’m bleeding.”

  “Good thing an ambulance is coming. Need to use my tourniquet?” I glance at the bloody mess that used to be my leg, then try for a sarcastic eye roll. Harder than it sounds when you’re flat on your back with most of your blood soaking into the floorboards.

  He shoots me a ‘not funny’ look. “You still haven’t told me what did this to you.”

  “Give Ratticus some water and something to burrow into,” I say, though I can already hear a siren. “And check the chicken’s okay. Out the back.” I motion weakly to the courtyard.

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s important.”

  “What is it with you and animals?” He walks to the back door and peers outside. “Okay, I see the chicken. It’s roosting on the back of your bench seat. Looks like it’s asleep.”

  Phew. I close my eyes and concentrate on trying to slow my breathing. When the paramedics arrive, they put me on a gurney, hook me up to an IV, and load me into the back of the ambulance. They stick sensors over my chest before leaving, and I hear the detective say he’s going to follow behind in his car.

  At the hospital, a doctor examines my leg. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she says. “Any more and you would have needed a transfusion. The wounds are deep, but the bone isn’t broken.” She frowns. “What did this?”

  “A dog bit me.”

  She blinks. “That’s one heck of a dog bite. Are you up to date with your tetanus shots?”

  I shake my head. I’ve never been in hospital before. Since my magic was bound, I guess I’ve been lucky.

  “Do you have anyone I can call?” asks the doctor.

  Jess, maybe? But she’s playing a gig out of town. I shake my head again. “Nobody.” Most of the time I like it that way, but right now the word sounds like an admission of failure. Like I must have screwed up my life pretty badly to have to face the cold white walls of the hospital alone.

  “What are you going to do to my leg?” I ask.

  “I’ll have a nurse clean the wounds and give you a tetanus shot and antibiotics. Then I’ll stitch you up.”

  “Then I can go?”

  Detective Trent appears in the doorway of the small room, and the small leap my heart makes when I see him is a measure of how low I was feeling. At least he’s not a complete stranger, even if he’s not exactly on my side.

  “I’ll send the nurse in.” The doctor’s already turning for the door. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  “How are you feeling?” asks the detective, after the doctor leaves.

  “Peachy,” I say with a grimace.

  “Will you tell me what happened now?”

  “I was walking home when some dogs chased me. I ran for my door, but one latched onto my leg before I could get inside. I fought them off, then you arrived.”

  “What about the torn-up sidewalk in front of your house?”

  “Maybe the dogs wrecked it.”

  He gives me a skeptical look. “Whose dogs were they? Have you seen them before?”

  “I don’t think so.” I think of Mrs. Jenkin’s poodle and feel bad for lying. But the dogs were under a spell. It wasn’t the poodle’s fault.

  “I saw some dogs at your door when I arrived. One was a real monster. Biggest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s the one that got me.”

  “They scattered when I got close. They didn’t try to bite me. So why you?”

  I shrug.

  “Could somebody have set them on you?”

  “Maybe.” Clearly somebody in the magic world was directing them. Might they be the same dogs that attacked Sylvia? But it wasn’t a pack of dogs in Ratticus’s memory, just one snarling shape. And it had a human voice, for all that it was deep and raw and had a definite snarl to it. Besides, the dogs that attacked me didn’t smell like they were rotting.

  “Who might want to hurt you?”

  “I wish I knew,” I say, frustrated. I shift a little, then wince.

  “It hurts?” he asks.

  “Like a Disney musical.”

  “A Disney musical?” he repeats with a puzzled frown.

  “The most painful thing in the known universe.”

  He gives me a startled smile. A sincere smile. The first one I’ve seen him give. It changes his face, stripping away the stern detective and revealing the less-complicated man underneath. I was right about the laugh lines around his clear blue eyes: they fit him perfectly. I’m not completely sure how the deepening of laugh lines can make an already-handsome man look even more so, but it’s something about the way they soften the hard, masculine angles of his face.

  “Come on, everybody likes those movies. What’s wrong with them?”

  “The singing. And the animated princesses with the giant doll eyes and perky button noses. But mostly the songs with the relentlessly peppy lyrics that make me want to carve out my eardrums with…” The rest of the sentence fades as he cocks an eyebrow in a way that makes me wish he wasn’t a homicide detective who thinks I’m a killer. That much hotness should be against police department rules. “Never mind,” I say, mostly convinced the blood loss is making me hallucinate.

  “Let me see what I can do. Wait here for a minute.” He turns toward the door.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “To find the nurse and ask her to give you something for your pain.”

  “Are you coming back?” I hate how needy that sounds, but I don’t want to be by myself. He’s no friend, but he’s better than nothing. Talking to him distracts from the pain.

  And the fact he’s wearing snug blue jeans and a white T-shirt that molds to the shape of his muscles? That has absolutely nothing to do with it.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

  “Okay. Whatever,” I manage.

  The look he gives me seems to say he’s got me all figured out. Dammit.

  After he leaves, I close my eyes, telling myself to relax. I feel simultaneously exhausted and wired. How late is it, anyway? It feels like the middle of the night.

  Eventually the detective comes back in with a nurse pushing a trolley.

  “I’ll give you a shot first, love, then clean that
up,” she announces, peering at my leg.

  She takes something from her trolley and holds it up. It’s a needle, only much bigger than I expected. Surely not human-sized.

  “That’s not really the needle, is it?” I ask. “That’s a trick one you use to scare children.”

  “It’ll be over in a second.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles?” asks Detective Trent.

  “Ask her where she found that thing. I bet it was at the top of a magic beanstalk.”

  “Lift up your sleeve,” says the nurse.

  I do what she asks. My leg is already throbbing, so how much worse can it get?

  To my surprise, Detective Trent gives me a reassuring quirk of his lips. He draws up a chair so he can sit by the bed, and I catch a hint of his aftershave over the smell of hospital antiseptic.

  “Okay, all done,” says the nurse after a moment. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She picks up a bottle and swab. “Now I’ll clean your wounds.”

  She bends over my leg, and I wince when the swab touches the raw cuts. Pain shoots up my leg. I feel cold and a little faint, and I’m not looking forward to having the deep cuts stitched.

  The detective reaches out to rest his hand on my arm. My eyes flick up to meet his blue gaze and I breathe in oaky aftershave.

  “You’re a mystery, Sapphira,” he says softly. “I thought you were a tough nut to crack, but look at you, scared of having your wound treated.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “You’re pale.”

  I don’t feel pale. In fact, I’m pretty sure my cheeks are flushing.

  “I was dizzy for a moment,” I say. “Massive blood-loss, remember? I’m fine now.”

  He nods as though he believes me, but as the nurse drags her swab over my wounds, his hand stays on my arm.

  And I don’t ask him to remove it.

  Ten

  I wake up slowly the next morning. I’m in my own bed, with the sun shining in through the curtains, and I have a raging headache that’s only overshadowed by the pain in my leg.

  How did I get here?

  I lie still for a moment, trying to remember what happened last night. After the nurse gave me something strong for the pain, my memories are hazy.

  Wait a minute. Did Detective Trent drive me home?

  Flashes of memory include visions of him carrying me to bed and tucking me in. I shake my head. That can’t be what happened. I seem to remember running my hand over his chest, and that’s clearly impossible. Must have been a dream brought on by the medication they gave me.

  I want to get up, but when I move, pain shoots up my leg.

  Shit. I need to pee.

  Dishes clatter downstairs in the kitchen. Jess must be home. That’s a relief. When she plays a gig out of town, she doesn’t usually get home until late the next day.

  “Jess,” I call. “Can you help me get up?”

  The clattering stops. “Be there in a minute,” calls back a male voice. Definitely not Jess.

  Surely not the detective?

  No, it can’t be. Maybe it’s Uncle Ray? But why would my uncle be clattering around in the kitchen? And if he were here, wouldn’t he have healed me by now?

  Footsteps sound on the stairs and I struggle up to sitting, wincing and biting my lip.

  The door opens.

  It’s Detective Trent. He’s carrying a plate of food and a glass of water, and wearing the same jeans and white T-shirt he had on last night.

  As he walks in, he glances around my bedroom. I look too, suddenly a little self-conscious about my treasures from the past. I grew up in this room, and I haven’t had the heart to change everything. The desk in the corner is the one I used to do homework on. My track and field trophies are still on a shelf, and there are some old band posters on the walls. There’s even a Flaming Buttholes poster I put up the year before I met Jess.

  “I made toast and fried you an egg,” says the detective. “There’s almost nothing in your fridge except beer. How do you get by with no food?”

  I blink at him. Maybe the dream I had wasn’t a dream after all, and he really did carry me up the staircase and put me into bed. That would explain why I’m still wearing my bra and yesterday’s T-shirt. They cut my jeans off in the ambulance, but I was in too much pain to worry about modesty. Besides, my panties are the sensible cotton boy-leg variety.

  Come to think of it, I’ve lost two pairs of jeans in as many days. If I lose any more I’ll have to start wearing sweatpants to work.

  “How are you feeling?” the detective asks, crossing to my nightstand to put down the plate.

  “You brought me home?” I raise my eyebrows. “No offense, but what are you still doing here?”

  “You were groggy, nobody else was home, and I didn’t think it was a good idea to leave you alone. I slept on your couch.”

  “Thanks.” It’s weird that he didn’t leave, but if he hadn’t brought me home I’d still be in hospital. And he made me breakfast.

  I reach for the plate, then frown at the fried egg which is sitting on one of the pieces of toast. “We have bread,” I say. “But where did you get the egg?”

  “You have a chicken.”

  “Um. You mean the chicken in the courtyard? Agnes? She laid an egg?” I pull my hand back from the plate, a horrible mental picture flashing through my mind. “I...uh...don’t like eggs.”

  “You’re not allowed any more painkillers on an empty stomach.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll have something later.”

  “Here, take the toast. That piece doesn’t have any egg on it.”

  Seeing as he’s not going to take no for an answer, I pick up the piece of toast.

  “I may as well eat the egg. No sense in wasting it.” He motions to the bed. “Mind if I sit?”

  I shake my head and he sits on the edge of my bed, being careful of my sore leg. He puts the plate between us. He’s going to eat it right here in front of me.

  I swallow.

  It’s fine.

  Agnes is a chicken now, not a person. Chickens lay eggs. People eat eggs all the time.

  But when he puts a mouthful of egg between his lips, my stomach turns over. As much as I want to, I can’t look away.

  “Let’s talk about what happened last night,” he says, after swallowing.

  “What happened last night?” I have a sudden, vivid image of my face nestled against his T-shirt, his scent enveloping me as he carried me up the stairs.

  Oh. My. God.

  This can’t be happening. I can’t have the hots for the detective who thinks I killed Sylvia, and probably my parents too. No, that’s ridiculous.

  “The dog attack,” he says with a frown. “Now you’re feeling better, let’s go through it again. What happened, exactly? Because I checked, and there were no other police reports about vicious dogs. You were the only person attacked.”

  “That’s why you stayed the night? So you could keep interrogating me?”

  “I told you why.”

  “But you think I’m a murderer?”

  He puts his knife and fork down, and licks egg yolk off his lip. “Whether you did it or not is what I’m trying to find out.”

  “And anything I say could be used against me?”

  He tilts his head a little, studying me. “In my line of work, I see all kinds of messed-up things. Once I attended a scene where a man had beaten his mistress to death, then went home to tuck his kids into bed and read them a bedtime story. And there’s been worse than that. People who do things you’d never think them capable of.” He shakes his head. “But when it comes to you, I don’t know. Your cousin was killed in a particularly brutal way, but last night you were scared of getting an injection. It doesn’t fit. And I have a lot of other questions. Why call the police after murdering your cousin, when you were still covered with her blood? What did you do with her heart? And this morning, there were a dozen stray cats on your doorstep. There’s barely anything in your fridg
e, but you have a cupboard full of cat food. Why is that?”

  I let out a breath. “I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  “That’s what everyone says.”

  “What would make you believe it?”

  “Tell me everything you know. Anything that might be useful.”

  “I already—”

  “We both know there’s more going on here than you’re telling me. Please don’t lie to me, Sapphira.”

  I stare into his blue eyes, the early morning sun making them seem even lighter than before. How much can I tell him? Am I really considering breaking all of my rules?

  “You can trust me.” His voice is soft. And dammit, those eyes. What am I supposed to do when he looks at me like that?

  “Help me get up and I’ll show you something,” I say, cursing myself for being a fool even as I say the words.

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Okay.” He nods at the plate. “Finish your toast first.”

  “Bossy, aren’t you?” Still, I want the painkillers, so I eat the toast. Then I really do have to pee, so I push back the covers. “Can you get me some sweatpants out of that drawer over there?” I ask, pointing where I want him to go.

  He helps me put them on, averting his gaze while I pull them up. Then I grab some clean underwear and a faded Public Enemy T-Shirt, and hobble to the bathroom.

  After cleaning myself as best I can with a bandage on my leg that I’m not supposed to get wet, I emerge from the bathroom feeling a little better. The restorative powers of clean clothes and brushed teeth are highly underrated.

  I’m still going to have to call and postpone the masonry job I was supposed to start today, though. There’s no way I’ll be moving any rocks until my leg heals.

  Detective Trent is downstairs in the kitchen, and I can hear him cleaning up.

  “Detective,” I call. “Is my backpack down there? The one from last night?”

  “It’s here.”

  “Would you please bring it upstairs? The thing I want you to see is up here.”

  “Xander,” he says, when he joins me at the top of the stairs, backpack dangling from one of his big hands.

  “Huh?”

  “My name is Xander.”