Magic Brew

by T. Rae Mitchell

  Can’t say as I disagree. It’s a mystery to me why Maddox made me number two over Zulu. We all thought it would be him after we lost our last second. No one was more shocked than me when Maddox announced his decision. I’d never tell Zulu that. He’s too full of himself. Just because some Africans worshiped his demon kind as their Zambezi river gods doesn’t make him god’s gift here.

  Leaving Hurley to his business, I head out to the front room of Magic Brew–the pub’s main area. The bar’s more packed than usual, mostly with humans. Looks like one of them won Nathan’s hotdog eating contest. He’s got the winner’s shirt on and his pals are high-fiving him. The gullies love their Independence Day celebrations. They’re all excited, laughing and jabbering, and throwing back the house beer like it’s water. India’s got to be raking in the dough today. Her girls are running back and forth behind the counter nonstop with trays of sloshing pitchers and mugs.

  I’ll be glad when Fourth of July is over and things goes back to normal.

  Rainbow’s Tarot Woman is blaring in the background. I swear the lead singer’s speaking right at me, echoing this feeling that’s telling me no. Warning me of a place I won’t return from. How it’s written in the lines of my hand that I have no choice but to go. I try to block out the music, but the drums and electric guitars thrum inside my head. Every note is part of me, a side effect that’s usually an upside of Velvet Haze.

  Just not this very second.

  I stop and lean against the wall to keep the world from spinning out of control. Slowly, I come back to the room, staring blankly at the bright neon colors and patterns of mismatched tablecloths and cushions, and the wild, psychedelic posters so thick on the walls hardly any of the old woodwork is left exposed. This place is too loud for me right now.

  India’s got a serious thing for the 60’s and 70’s. That goes for the music and everything in the place. The gullies seem to like it too. They eat up that retro crap like it’s goin’ out of style, which it is.

  My gaze lands on a flickering lamp on a nearby table. To any gullie it looks like a normal kerosene lamp, but I can see through the spell’s illusion to the tiny creature trapped inside. The top of its head is a blue flame and its skinny tail coils down into the dark purple potion keeping it bound within its glass prison. India tells me they’re just malicious spriggans best kept from doing harm to the rest of us, but I have to wonder. They don’t give off that faery vibe. Either way, their sad, pathetic faces bum me out.

  A group of hipster gullies glance over at me. My scowl freezes the smiles on their faces. They turn away quickly. I really wish India would do a human repelling spell, but she’s into the whole make love, not war movement. She welcomes all kinds into Magic Brew. With John Lennon and Gandhi as her peace-loving guides, India’s put some powerful juju in place, making it impossible to rumble inside the bar. She’s made it a safe haven for anyone who enters.

  Makes it a popular hangout for us nonhumans. Magic Brew is one of only five places in New York, where supes don’t have to worry about hiding their true appearances. Except on holidays when Surf Ave’s swarming with tourists. The rest of the time, the place is ours. The local gullies don’t hang out here. Not because we’re supes. Most of them know the place belongs to our gang, and that makes them nervous.

  Turning my back to the gullies, I nod at an old satyr sitting alone in the corner. He’s too worn and ancient to hold a glamour, so he’s got his hood up to cover a pair of gnarled horns curling round his ears. As I head toward the smoking lounge at the back of the pub, my hackles raise–a reaction to the dense gathering of supes.

  I don’t even have to look to know there are four selkies to my right. We get a lot of them, being so close to the water. Opposite them, there’s a goblin yucking it up with a gnome. Lined up against the wall is a weird gathering of Glaax and Azaug demons. Most of the supes are glamoured or cloaked to appear “normal,” but I can see straight through all that pretty makeup to each and every one of their ugly mugs.

  Holding my breath against the rank odor of selkie fish-breath mingling with the sulphurous stench of demon, I reach the door to the lounge. It’s closed and locked with a sign saying, “Private Event”. “Sancitum est ut ego,” I say quietly. The doorhandle turns and I step inside. The earthy scent of galangal root incense is thick in the air and especially strong tonight. India keeps it burning to repel hexes and curses here in the inner sanctum of our clubhouse.

  She’s the first one I see as soon as I enter. The head shop’s at the front of the room, where she’s pouring up potions and elixirs from behind a glass counter filled with shelves of crystals, bagged herbs, bongs, pipes and boxes of her hand-rolled cigars. India’s tall and slim but generously rounded in all the right places. Proud of her pixie blood, she wears her dark red hair cut short to show off her pointed ears. She likes telling the gullies she’s a pixie. Of course, they laugh, figuring she’s joking or she had it surgically done.

  She might be part pixie, but the succubus demon in her is what really rises to the surface. She exudes sexuality, and not just because of those filmy, tie-dyed tops and tight jean skirts. Watching her make her famous cigars drives every guy in the room crazy. She rolls them along her inner thigh and licks the ends to seal them with her saliva–a powerful aphrodisiac. Needless to say, her cigars are in high demand. I’ve never seen anyone take so much pleasure in everything she touches. India’s forever stroking her fingers along wet, frosty beer mugs, rubbing up against things like a cat, or kicking her shoes off to knead her feet in the shag rug.

  “Hey, Edge. I brewed up some special magic just for you,” she says, squinting through the smoke trailing off the cigar she’s always got clenched between her teeth.

  Nice. A crushed amethyst potion to calm my nerves and power me up. India always seems to know what each of us needs before any of us idiots ever do. She takes good care of us. I reach for the shot glass she slides toward me. Her finger grazes mine, shooting a wave of heat straight to my groin. “Thanks,” I say, unable to take my eyes off those wet, cherry-red lips. I’m suddenly jealous of her cigar. And Maddox.

  She pulls away, breaking her spell on me, and smiles. India enjoys toying with every dude in her presence. I’m okay with it. She can’t help herself. It’s in her nature to seduce.

  India’s half sister, Nyx, sidles up next to me as I down my shot. “I can take care of that itch,” she says, peering at me with one beautiful eye, the color of storm clouds. The other eye’s covered with a patch. For some reason, the Gray Boys had it in for Nyx and took her eye to teach her a lesson. It happened before she, India and their other sister, Pandora, joined the gang. We’ve all asked her what the deal was between her and the Gray Boys, but she won’t talk about it.

  Tempted to take Nyx up on the offer of a good scratch, I drop my gaze to her tight jeans, noting how her small frame would fit me like a puzzle piece. I’m not exactly the tallest guy in the bunch, so I appreciate the small shadow elf-slash-pixie combo she’s got going on. But I’ve always made it a policy not to partake of pixie, since the side effects are being turned into a conceited jackass. Of course, if I had to choose between going to the summit tonight or getting it on with Nyx, I’d choose her in a heartbeat. The only problem is, Maddox is set to go and he’ll be here any second to move us out.

  Dread twists in my gut all over again.

  Picking up on my anxiety, Nyx frowns. “You need to grow a pair,” she grumbles. Pulling a dagger from the holster on her thigh, she runs the sharp steel over her finger. Blood beads against the blade. Smiling, she licks it off and moves in for a kiss.

  Great, that’s all I need–to get completely fubar on the unpredictable effects of shadow elf blood and the obvious pixie spit influences on the eve of our gang’s possible annihilation. “I’ll pass,” I say, shoving by her.

  “Just trying to help,” she says.

  Nyx has a point though. I need to shake this off. It’s bad enough Maddox, Hurley and Nyx know I’m jittery, but if the rest
of the gang catches even a whiff of fear, I’ll lose all cred. I glance around, checking to see if anybody else has noticed. So far it looks like they’re all in their own heads.

  Booker’s off in his usual corner reading one of India’s spell books like it’s an action-packed thriller. His long gangly legs bounce anxiously as he feeds his face with jellybeans. Against my advice, he’s colorfully dressed–as usual–like the spilled bag of candy lying next to him. He’s got a rainbow of buttons with Harry Potter quotes pinned to his leather jacket and he’s wearing a neon orange shirt that says, “My patronus is a jellybean.”

  Not exactly the badass gang dress code we aim for. But we take it easy on him cuz he’s only fourteen. We figure he’ll put the toys away after he gets his cherry popped. Maddox brought him in because he’s a walking encyclopedia for anything magic. Due to a weird combo of bloodlines, the kid’s got an endless amount of knowledge flowing in his veins. He’s part warlock and part imp demon. Poor kid. It can’t be easy being master and servant all wrapped up in one.

  Knox is pacing back and forth, throwing off a trail of heat waves behind him. He’s got his fight face on and he’s bashing his inked knuckles together. One fist says GAME and the other says OVER. Being part fire elemental, it’s easy to see when he’s at the boiling point. His redcap side is less obvious, unless you’ve seen him fight. I’ve watched this dude go berserker and rip guys apart. Beyond his flaming red Mohawk, a face full of piercings and a body covered in tattoos, Knox looks normal enough, but he can dislodge that iron jaw of his if he ever wants to take a massive bite out of something. Or someone.

  Constantine slams Justice’s gloved hand to the table in yet another one of their freakin’ arm wrestling matches.

  Justice jumps up. “That blows! You used that soul eater crap on me, didn’t you?”

  Constantine remains quiet, stroking the thick links of the gold chain around his neck with a handful of heavily ringed fingers. Like all griffins, he loves his golden treasures.

  “Well?” Justice demands, banging the table with his fist.

  “Pipe down, I won fair and square,” Constantine says, combing his fingers through his blonde hair with a sly grin.

  “You’re lying, just like when you said you didn’t eat my chili cheese corn chips.”

  “I didn’t. You know how chips look like there’s way less when they settle at the bottom of the bag.”

  “Your deceitful breath smelled of cheesy corn chips.” Justice’s normally calm expression darkens into a glower as he removes his leather gloves. “My sentence is for open war. Though inaccessible my lost chips are, I will have my revenge, if not victory.”

  Did I happen to mention Justice misquotes Paradise Lost…a lot? You’ll never see him without his worn, dog-eared paperback sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. The guy can’t go a day without pouring over Milton’s pages of biblical gloom and doom.

  I rush over, barring his way to Constantine. One barehanded touch from Justice can turn friends into bitter enemies or an enemy into a sycophant. He must be uptight too. These guys are best friends. Constantine’s the only one who really gets Justice. True, they fight like an old married couple, but this is extreme even for them. “Chill, man,” I say. “Save the angst juice for tonight. We might need it.”

  Justice looks at me, his eyes flaring with demonic light as his pupils narrow and sharpen like a snake’s. For a split second, I think the devil in him is winning, but he pulls his gloves back on, throwing Constantine the one finger salute.

  Damn, I wish Maddox would hurry up and get this trip underway. The tension in here is almost as thick and unbearable as a bridge troll’s fart. And that’s saying something. When I was on the streets I abandoned some prime under-the-bridge real estate due to random troll gassing.

  Just when I think I’m going to lose it, a flood of calm overtakes me. India’s amethyst potion is finally kicking in and clearing my head of Velvet Haze. I flop down onto one of the low couches, watching Fletcher and Pandora play darts like it’s a normal day. They seem to be the only ones who are relaxed.

  Small, curled black horns poke from Pandora’s messy, shoulder-length hair. Today, her platinum blonde hair’s streaked through with red. Yesterday, it was blue. She’s tall like India, and just as pretty with the same vibrant green eyes–something the sisters must’ve gotten from their pixie mother. Unlike India, Pandora hides her good looks behind long bangs and boy-cut clothes. She doesn’t trust herself to get involved with anyone she likes. Her dad was a chaos demon, which makes her bad news to anyone she talks to. None of us have ever heard her voice. If we had, we’d be dead.

  Pandora throws another dart, nailing the board dead center. Fletcher slices it down the middle with an air dagger. They high-five each other, their hands lingering before Pandora lets her hand drop. She has the hots for Fletch. He’s got that whole Native American brave thing going for him. But I think she likes him because he’s one of those big, strong silent types. The two of them have this quiet zen thing going on between them.

  Maddox and Hurley enter from the pub. The raucous sounds of the crowd and Black Sabbath’s, Fairies Wear Boots, grow louder before the door shuts tight behind them.

  “Everyone’s here?” Maddox asks, his gaze moving over each of us. “Where’s Zulu?”

  “Right where I’m supposed to be, Mad Dawg,” Zulu calls out from the back of the lounge, having just ducked in through the alley door. The beaded curtain rattles as he slides past, his leather coat slung over his shoulder and monster afro dripping water. The dude’s built like a bull and he’s powerful strong. When he enters a room, there’s no missing him. He fills it with his massive bulk.

  Maddox narrows his eyes on him. But does he rake him over the coals? No. Zulu’s an old timer like Maddox. He cuts him way more slack than the rest of us young bloods. “Time to bust a move,” Maddox says, his tone all business.

  Everybody jackets up and heads out the back door.

  Maddox lingers behind, glancing at India. His icy mood shifts to something softer. Something sad. “See you later tonight,” he tells her.

  India leans over the counter, tracing a finger down the length of her long neck to the deep cleft of her cleavage. “I’ll be waiting,” she promises. “With nothing on.”

  The ghost of a smile crosses his face before he turns and strides across the room.

  I bring up the rear, watching my crew march out into the night.

  We’re the Forsaken. The thorn symbol painted on the backs of our blood-red jackets unites us under one color, but it’s really the pain of banishment, rejection and abandonment that binds us. We’re the throwaways of our kind, despised for our mixed blood. Yet that’s what makes us powerful, and it’s what drives us to be the baddest gang this side of Southwestern Brooklyn. It’s why we’ve held Coney for as long as we have. Alone, I am aimless. Put me with my brothers and sisters, and I am unstoppable. We stand together. Ready to kill for each other, ready to die for each other. That’s our strength, and that’s always been enough.

  But now I’m not so sure. I can’t shake the feeling our gang will be a lot smaller the next time we walk back through Magic Brew’s doors.

  3

  End Of The Line

  THE SUBWAY SUCKS.

  We’re crammed on the D train like cattle, bumping up against human flesh slick with the reek of armpits, barbeque smoke and potato salad. It’s enough to make my nose hair fall out. Instead of kicking our feet up, me and my squad have been standing for almost an hour. Normally, the gullies are skittish around us. They usually leave plenty of empty seats, but they’re too caught up in their bogus festivities.

  What is it about gullies and their stupid celebrations? Do they really think picnics, parades and dressing up in ridiculous combinations of red, white and blue means anything? If they knew who really runs the show, Independence Day sure as hell wouldn’t be a big party anymore.

  My urge to teleport out of here’s stronger than ever. I offered to smoke
ahead to make sure everything’s cool, but Maddox said it would piss off the Bad Hats, so I’m stuck here with the gang.

  A big sweaty dude with stars and stripes painted across his forehead bumps into me, knocking me up against the wall.

  That does it. I shove him back. “Watch it,” I growl.

  He turns with an angry frown. But then he looks me over and laughs. “Hey sorry, little buddy.”

  My hands curl into fists and go hot with fire. Maddox shoots me a warning glare, so I put a lid on it and suck in a deep breath. “No problem,” I say, patting his arm with a touch of my Djinn flame.

  His big, dumb gullie face goes blank.

  “What’s up with that?” I ask, pointing at the third-rate cobra tattoo coiled around his bicep.

  He takes one look and squeals like a little girl, slapping at the snake like it’s come to life, ready to bite him. It’s pretty funny, but the effect wears off within seconds. His clueless friends point and laugh as he turns redder than the stripes on his face.

  Hurley elbows me. “That was priceless, man.”

  “More like sixty bucks,” I say, flashing him the greenbacks I lifted off the guy while he was freakin’ out.

  That feels better.

  Hurley leans in so the rest of the gang can’t hear. “You picking anything up yet?”

  I glance out the window, seeing the ugly backsides of old brownstones as we rail by. That’s weird. I don’t feel a thing. It’s like every gang between here and Coney just disappeared. “Nope, nothing.”

  Hurley bounces nervously on the balls of his feet. “They must all be at the summit. What if they’re all there to ambush us?”