by A C Spahn
Drawing in magic.
More.
More.
Pain. Horrifying pain, destroying from within.
Dripping paint.
A girl’s face, scared. Grey eyes. Short brown hair. Plump cheeks, pointy nose. A thick, sinuous line poking from her shirt.
Terror. Terror. Terror.
Half-blind, I fumbled in the art supplies I’d set aside. I needed solid materials that could contain such frantic magic. I seized a shiny brass pipe coupling and a length of thick jewelry wire. My hands shook as I struggled to wrap the wire’s end around one nub of the brass. “Desmond,” I panted. “Tie this for me. I ... the magic is too ...”
Desmond swiftly knelt beside me and took over. Gasping, I grabbed the last item I needed, an electronic personal alarm for the elderly. I splayed the free end of the wire against the alarm, too frantic to worry about precision, and shoved the magic out of me.
It surged into the alarm, eagerly sucking up the sense of danger and awareness represented by the device. Under my tight control it flowed through the wire, the synthetic material containing it well, and into the brass coupling. I groaned with relief as the enchantment took hold and the magic’s fear was contained once more.
Warm hands supported me by my shoulders. Blinking, I realized I’d sagged against Desmond, my body too weary to hold me up. I didn’t like showing such weakness in front of Bane Harrow–or anybody, for that matter–but I lacked the strength to do anything else. The memory of uncontrollable fear left a tension down to my bones that only now started to fade.
Harrow’s face was taut, his lips thin. No Void liked watching magic done, even if they sanctioned it. “It’s done?”
I licked dry lips. “I tamed it, a bit. Whoever holds that piece of brass should feel heightened awareness, and a sense of alarm when danger is near.”
“It’s a perimeter alarm.”
“Kind of. It will probably give a lot of false alerts, though. The magic was ... jumpy.”
Harrow pocketed the bit of pipe. A faint quirk to his lips told me he was pleased. “What did you learn about the victim?”
I struggled to get my feet under me. Desmond, bless him, helped me to stand and kept a hand under my armpit to steady me. “Only one person was chasing him,” I said. “At least, I only saw one in the magic. And we were right that he overloaded himself.”
Desmond swallowed. “Poor bastard.”
“Was there anything else?” Harrow asked. “Anything to help us decipher the fleshwriters’ plan?”
“I saw a couple other things. Dripping paint, for one.”
Harrow’s brows came together. “And?”
“And ... another victim.”
“You mean another corpse?”
“No.” I tapped my shirt where magic circled my heart. “Another person with one of these.”
Harrow inhaled sharply. “Just one?”
“I only saw one.”
“Describe them.”
I told him what I had seen in the brief flash of the girl’s face. He frowned, apparently not recognizing the description. When I finished, I added, “If they made three of us, I’ll bet they made more.”
Harrow’s silence filled in the rest. More magical caches. More stored power to be unleashed on the world. More weapons in the fleshwriters’ end plan.
When he finally spoke, his voice was ice. “That is useful to know. We will start looking into it. You said you also saw paint dripping. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could it have been blood?” Sam asked quietly.
I jumped. I’d forgotten she was there. Normally I kept better control of myself, but that magic had left me on edge. “No,” I said, quieting my racing heart. “It was green. And it looked like it was on a wall.”
“Interior or exterior?” asked Desmond.
“I don’t know.”
“Gloss or matte?”
“Does this matter?” Harrow asked drily.
Desmond’s eyes flashed with anger before he adopted a respectful tone. “If we know the kind of paint, we can guess where it was applied, which might help us figure out what it means.”
“Matte,” I said. “The wall wasn’t textured, so I’d guess it was interior.”
“Green isn’t an industrial color. So it was probably a small business or a private home.”
“Most businesses use gloss,” I said, finding stability in the artistic discussion. “At least eggshell. I would say it was a private home.”
“Was there already paint on the wall?”
“Yes,” I said, closing my eyes to remember. “It had one coat already. The drips were from a second.”
“Was the first coat rolled or brushed?”
“It was pretty even. Probably rolled.”
“Could you see where the roller strokes overlapped?”
I frowned, recalling the vision. “I think ... I think I could see a little overlap. The roller strokes were wide.”
“How wide?”
“Wider than your typical paint roller.” I opened my eyes and smiled at Desmond. He could be so awkward and unassuming, but then he’d go and do something brilliant like this. “The paint was applied by a professional-size roller. Somehow a professional painter is tied up in all this.”
Desmond cast a “see?” look at Harrow, who had the manners to look satisfyingly impressed. “Very good,” said Harrow. “I’ll have someone start pulling background checks on local painters, to see if any of them could be involved.”
“We’ll try contacting painting companies,” I said. “As an art store, Crafter’s Haven might be able to get information from them directly.”
“Perhaps.” Harrow glanced at Sam, then nudged my scattered art supplies with his shiny-toed shoe. “Apprentice girl, tidy this up.”
Sam frowned. “Why me?”
“Because you are here, and the adults are discussing business.”
Sam grumbled to herself. But she obeyed. Again Harrow arched an eyebrow at me, and I fought the urge to slug him. That wouldn’t help anybody, though, so I held my tongue and made a note to talk to Sam later.
Harrow didn’t seem to notice my annoyance. “Miss Morales, I have a few more words for your ears alone.”
After wrestling with so much magic, I wanted nothing more than my bed. I dragged my feet after him into a corner of the room. Desmond followed. Harrow gave him a longsuffering look. “Reserve Desoto, I am hardly going to harm your girlfriend while you are in the room. Give us some privacy, please.”
Desmond glanced at me.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m sure this won’t take long. Right, Harrow?”
“Of course. I imagine you want to rest after that magical display.” Somehow Harrow made needing sleep sound like a moral failing.
Desmond backed off a few paces, but watched us warily. I turned to Harrow and lowered my voice. “You’ve put me through about all I can handle for one week. What else do you want?”
“Only to warn you to be careful.” Harrow’s eyes were hard as glaciers. “You recall what we discussed in my office. My warnings go doubly now.”
I understood. If the fleshwriters really were about to start a war, the last thing we wanted was for them to know we knew. “I’ll be discreet. I’ll keep your secrets classified.”
“Good. I will be assigning a guard to patrol your neighborhood when you’re at home. I assume you and your friends can protect yourselves at your craft store. I do not want to risk openly protecting you, not when that might draw the fleshwriters’ attention your way. But do try to keep yourself out of danger. It would be ... awkward for the Union to have to rescue an enchantress.”
“If I’m caught, you’ve never heard of me?”
“Not quite so cold as that. If you find yourself in trouble I may be able to send some Union assets to your aid. But if I do, I will have to answer to the other Union legionnaires, who may not be so sanguine about my association with you.”
I nod
ded. “Remember I’m still the enemy, got it. Can I go now?”
“One more thing.” I suppressed a groan as Harrow reached into his shirt pocket. He withdrew a cream-colored piece of cardstock and unfolded it before handing it to me.
I stared down at the flyer, which proclaimed in an elegant font: Art Contest. Open to all residents of the San Francisco Bay Area. My frown transferred to Harrow. “What’s this?”
“I saw it on the Embarcadero and thought of you. It’s from the Dayfall Gallery in Mission Bay.”
“I’ve heard of them. They’re fairly new, supposed to host all the biggest up-and-coming names.”
“Well, that could be you.” He nodded to the flyer. “The winners of their art contest get to have a show there. Ten pieces each, displayed alongside works by established professionals. Some would call that a career launcher.”
I handed the flyer back to him. “I can’t attract publicity. I’m being hunted, remember?”
“One of the Union’s front businesses would be happy to give you an alternate name to use.”
My eyebrows climbed. “You’ll make me a fake identity?”
“Only for this purpose. Call it an artistic pseudonym.”
“Why would you do this for me?”
Harrow smiled. I was surprised to see it touch his eyes. “I’m not your enemy, Adrienne. Consider this a peace offering. A promise that working with the Union doesn’t have to be onerous.” He held the flyer toward me.
Slowly I accepted it. “I’ll consider it.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“I’m done,” Sam said, brushing dust off her torn jeans. “Are you adults done? Or should I go find a doll to play with, too?”
“We’re through,” Harrow said, still smiling. As he let us out, he met my eyes. “I do hope you accept the offer. I only have your best interests at heart.”
He clicked the door shut behind us. My shoulder blades itched. It troubled me how much I wanted to believe him.
Chapter 9
AS IT TURNED OUT, I didn’t get to rest. I convinced myself to go back to Haven and get a little work done instead, and by the time I was preparing to leave, Axel called with reports of another ghost sighting. That meant we had to trek out to another graveyard after the store closed for the night, and wrestle another restless spirit. Fortunately this one went smoothly. Kendall scouted and gave the all-clear, Desmond pinned the ghost with his silver knife, I disenchanted its corpse, and it dissipated without manifesting any impossible strength or other unexplained abilities. I could almost believe I’d imagined the previous ghost’s powers.
I stayed faceplanted on my pillow until noon, when Desmond called to see if I was still alive. Despite the late night, he had gotten up in the morning to open the store for normal business hours, and I could hear his yawns through the phone. I threw on some paint-spattered jeans and a t-shirt with a graphic of a cat holding knitting needles. Once I slipped on my purple tennis shoes, I hopped into my aging car to pick up coffee on the way to the store. The bobble-head wizard on my dashboard bounced as I drove over the pothole outside my building, and his head fell off and rolled beneath the passenger seat. I grimaced. He just hadn’t been the same since Maribel had broken him months earlier.
On the way to the coffee shop I pulled over twice to pick up bits of roadside junk that cried out to become art. A short, gnarly tree branch and a fancy metal table leg joined the ever-present art supply pile in the backseat. Maybe one of them would give Sam the needed inspiration to finish her tire project. If not, I could always make her dig through the other stuff I’d collected. At the moment my backseat was relatively empty. The tree branch and table leg were the only large items, but I always carried yarn, colored pencils, neat-looking rocks and buttons back there.
With four cups of coffee balanced in one of those cardboard carriers, I pushed my way into Crafter’s Haven and inhaled the comforting aromatic mélange of potpourri, fake plants, polystyrene foam, yarn, and hot glue.
Sam was already here, once more hanging around my workshop and fiddling with the severed half tire. “Homework?” I asked as I passed over her caramel latte, extra whip.
She took a sip. “Done.”
“Report card?”
“You can see it next week. I’m getting B’s in both summer classes. I’ll pass them this time around.”
I nodded. One benefit of Sam’s apprenticeship was an improvement in her grades. I wouldn’t let her practice magic with me unless she’d studied already, so she’d taken to completing her schoolwork early.
“Did you call the jewelers about returning that bracelet?”
“I figured out which shop it came from when I looked through the store logos online. I dropped it off this morning.”
“You’re telling the truth?”
“Yes.” She met my eyes, no trace of a lie on her face. Her desperation not to drive me away was almost a scent in the air.
I gave her a smile. “Good job.”
“Thanks.”
“One other thing. I noticed you obeyed Bane Harrow’s orders at headquarters.”
“Well, duh,” said Sam. “I don’t want to get executed.”
I smiled grimly. “Neither do I. But be careful. The Union likes to control people. Don’t make it too easy for them to tie their threads to you.”
“Is that what the cults do, too?”
I nodded.
Sam looked somber. “I’ll try to put up more resistance next time.”
“Good. Hopefully we can keep Harrow from paying too much attention to you.” I patted her on the shoulder, then headed across the entryway to the registers. “Don’t steal again. And don’t break my stuff.”
“Can’t break what’s already broke,” Sam retorted.
Kendall finished ringing up a quartet of smiley teenagers, all carrying canvases and acrylic paints. The Brush Rush, we called them. They had a monthly painting club and came in all the time. One of them waved to me as they headed out, jingling the bells on the door.
Kendall snatched her black coffee and guzzled half of it without a breath. “Desmond made me come to work this morning. On time. After a night of ghost hunting. Who does that?”
“The guy who pays you,” said Desmond, grinning as he emerged from the aisles. “Sleep well?” he asked me.
I blushed. “Sorry I wasn’t here with you.”
“It’s okay. Your sidekick showed up about half an hour ago.”
“Not her sidekick!” Sam yelled.
“And you’ve had a heck of a week,” Desmond continued. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?” My eyes lingered on his arms, where he’d taken a few more bruises from last night’s ghost.
He shrugged, and winced. “I’ve had worse.”
“What, you chop off a finger playing with power tools?”
“A few, but my Voidness makes me immune to saws and hammers.”
I laughed. “Really, though. Are you all right? I’m not talking only about the ghost injuries.”
His ears flushed, and his dark eyes found the floor. “Um ... yeah ... I’m, uh, okay.”
“Liar.”
He sighed. “Axel barely said two words when I called to report our success last night.”
“He barely says two words normally.”
“That’s ... a fair point, actually.” He chuckled ruefully and scratched the back of his neck. “Anyway. I’m coping. You?”
“I’m fine.” I smiled, making sure it looked genuine.
Desmond studied me. “I don’t think you are.”
“Really. I’m okay. I’m ... coping.” My fear was under control today. I intended to keep it that way.
Desmond picked up his dark roast with two sugars, a twin to my own. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” We clinked paper cups and drank.
After swallowing the hot liquid, I changed the subject. “I’m going to start calling painter companies while I work today. See if we find any leads abou
t my vision of dripping green paint.”
Kendall finished inhaling her coffee with a loud gulp. “I can make calls too, between customers. And I can write an algorithm to narrow down companies we search online.”
“Good, that will save a lot of time,” said Desmond. “I would help with the calling, but I have to finish this commission out back.”
“The big chest of drawers?” I asked.
“That one. The customer called again and wanted even more detailing on the side panels. Got to give the people what they want.”
“You should take up glue-gunning. Less chance of a lost finger that way.”
“I prefer real art, thanks.”
We tried to glare at each other, but I was smiling almost before I finished speaking. Desmond flashed a grin before taking his coffee and retreating to the rear of the store. He glanced back once, checking on me again. I gave him a reassuring wave. The back door clicked open and shut as he let himself out on the loading dock where he did his woodworking.
“Voids aren’t really immune to saws, right?” Sam called.
Between gluing together some fall wreaths for my regular customers, enchanting myself a new shield ring, and doing repair work to a scratched painting someone had brought in, I made phone calls. At first I just went through the phone book I kept for use as a mini step-stool, but after some time Kendall presented me with a spreadsheet listing every painting company in the greater Bay Area, sortable by location, years in business, and a dozen other things. She’d written a program to cull information from search engines, then let it do the work for her. We divided the companies up, starting with those closest to the graveyard where we found the body. The first dozen calls led nowhere. So did the second dozen.
On number twenty-eight, I paused. Something about the name prickled my memory. Unable to recall what, I shrugged it off. They’d probably ordered something from Haven before. I dialed the number and pinched the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could bend a bundle of sticks into a circle to make my next wreath.
“Color Me Impressed Painting, this is Zach, can I help you?” a man’s voice said.
I dropped the stick bundle in shock. It sprang straight, launching sticks every which way around my workspace. Sam cursed behind me. I barely heard.
