Spell Games

by T. A. Pratt

  Her brother offered her his arm in a gesture of exaggerated courtliness, and she took it, shaking her head a little. Ah, Jason. Once upon a time it had been them against the world, when the scope of the world had been limited to a little town in Indiana and the assholes who dwelt therein. It would be so easy to fall back into the old pattern, when he was the all-knowing savvy sophisticate of sixteen and she was a gawky, worshipful fourteen-year-old. But that was half a lifetime ago, and their dynamic had started to sour even before she'd run away from home, when she got a glimpse of what her brother was truly capable of.

  But then, she was capable of some pretty awful stuff herself, so who was she to judge?

  Jason's car was a brand-new Mercedes, a sleek black piece of precision machinery that seemed sent back in time from a classier future. Her Bentley made it look like a rent-a-wreck, of course, but if Jason wanted to play the big rich man with his rented car, she wouldn't piss all over him. He opened the door for her and she slid in, the leather seat more luxurious than any of the furniture she owned. She popped open the glove compartment and started rifling through the papers inside. By the time Jason got into the driver's seat, she had the registration in her hand. “Shit, bro, you own this car? You must have plucked some big pigeons lately.”

  “I'm doing all right.” To his credit, he didn't sound a bit smug. “And while I won't lie and tell you no pigeons were plucked in the making of this fortune, the grift is all about acquiring capital these days. Once I get a nice chunk of ill-gotten gain, I invest, and that's where the real money comes from. Hell, at this point I could probably retire, but what would I do with myself? Take up golf?” He navigated out of the seedy quarter of nightclubs and strip joints and bail-bonds offices and quickie check-cashing centers, driving east toward a trendy area near the financial district. Marla didn't come over here often, except when she needed to meet with Nicolette, the chaos magician, who had her headquarters in a skyscraper nearby.

  “So you're just in it for the thrill of the con?” Marla fiddled with the climate controls. They made the console of a space shuttle seem intuitive.

  “It was ever thus, sis. Money's just a way of keeping score, isn't that what they say?”

  Marla hesitated, but screw that—she wasn't the girl who hesitated anymore, hadn't been for a long time. “And the heavy shit? Can I assume that's a thing of the past, too?”

  Jason went stiff and still, then let out a long hiss of a sigh between clenched teeth. “One time, Marla.” His voice was low. “One time, things got out of control, I admit that, and you'll hold it against me forever? It's not like your hands never got dirty, and when they did, I stood by you—”

  “Truce.” Marla held up her hands. “Ancient history. I'm sorry.”

  “You're not sorry You wanted to know.”

  “Okay. You got me there.”

  “Fair enough. But no, no heavy shit, not since that one time. That was never the way I preferred to play it anyway, but I was a dumb kid, and things just happened. I've come a long way We both have. Look at you. I hear you're doing pretty well for yourself, running a thriving business.”

  Marla grunted. She did have business interests, legal and otherwise, but they were basically a side effect of her real job—it was hard to be chief sorcerer and not make money Hamil and, to a lesser extent, Rondeau looked after her affairs for her, and made sure she could concentrate on killing monsters and not on signing payroll checks. “What exactly is it you think I do, Jason?”

  “The word is you're a crime boss with a great line of bullshit about all your scary magical powers, which keeps the peons in line and potential enemies scared shitless. I must say, I'm impressed. I knew a guy in New York, he ran a little immigrant neighborhood, and he had everyone convinced he was a badass voodoo priest. The guy would kill a goat or a chicken in an alley every once in a while and people would just crap themselves with fear. It was a good scam, but your operation, it's on a whole higher level.”

  “What's the guy's name?”

  “Hmm? He calls himself Papa Legbone.”

  “Never heard of him.” Which meant he probably was a liar, whereas Marla was the real thing. But she was more than pleased to let Jason go on believing magic was a fake bullshit moneymaking stratagem. He might be her brother, but he was still an ordinary, and ignorance was safer for him. “Anyway, I can't confirm or deny any rumors you might have heard, but you know how important it is to have a reputation.”

  “Oh, I certainly do. In fact, the whole I'm-a-mystical-wizard shtick looks like it could make me some serious money. I was hoping I could pick your brain tonight, see if you can help me make my story a little more plausible.”

  “And here we go.” Marla slapped the dashboard. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

  “You're so dramatic. You think I wouldn't have looked you up anyway, once I found out this was your town? It's just a coincidence I've got a beautiful mark dangling on a string. He's rich, he's credulous, and he's totally obsessed with this occult bullshit. It's all Aleister Crowley this and Hermes Trismegistus that and ancient mystical order of the transcendental whatever the fuck with this guy I've read up, but I'm hoping you can give me some nice juicy buzzwords to really knock his socks off.”

  “The new mark's a wannabe, huh?” All sorcerers encountered such people from time to time, ordinaries who were convinced there was magic in the world, and who wanted more than anything to become part of that magic themselves. Clueless people who thought magic—real magic—would make their lives better, when what magic really did was make your life profoundly more complicated. They also tended to think magic was like a wish-dispensing never-ending cash-and-sex machine, without any understanding of the dangers or precarious balance such endeavors entailed and required. The ones who actually did stumble into real magic wound up nervous wrecks more often than not, when they didn't get used up completely in some dark ritual by practitioners even less moral than Marla was. Some thought they were angels or dragons trapped in human bodies, or change lings from the faery realm, or that their mutant powers would kick in any day now. “What, some trust fund kid who hangs out at goth clubs and pretends to be a vampire, like that?”

  “I'm not in the business of taking surly teens for their allowance money, Marlita. Nah, this guy's in his forties, and he's stone cold serious, a real obsessive case, just perfect—he's desperate to believe, and I can be very convincing. But it's okay if you don't want to talk about my job. We're here, so let's have a nice dinner, catch up on the past too many years. That valet parking guy look trustworthy to you? I think he's got shifty eyes.”

  “What, you think he might be pretending to be a valet, looking for cars to steal? Like a certain someone I could name did once at a country club back home? I wouldn't worry about it.”

  “I guess you're right. Sometimes you have to trust people, or you can't get anything done at all.”

  They gave up the car and went into the glossy darkness of Étienne's, which occupied the first floor of a venerable historic building with dignified points of architectural interest, most of which Marla considered baroquely hideous. Jason gave his name and flashed his grin at the graying maître d’, who looked Marla up and down with frank disapproval. She returned his gaze with the kind of stare that made even Rondeau quit fucking around and take her seriously, and the host bowed his head to the reservation book. He escorted them to a secluded table in a dark corner, surely less out of a desire to give them privacy and more from a wish to hide Marla and her workaday wardrobe from casual view.

  They were barely seated when their waiter appeared, a middle-aged career type who brought a gravity and willingness to serve that would have done a good undertaker proud. After he introduced himself and told them the specials—including a loin of veal with truffle sauce that sparked Marla's interest despite herself—he asked if they had any questions.

  “Yeah, Michael,” Marla said. “How much can you pull down in a year waiting tables in a joint like this?”

&nbs
p; If he found the question crass or inappropriate he didn't show it. “I am adequately compensated, ma'am.”

  “No, seriously, I don't need hard numbers, I'm just trying to figure out which ballpark we're in. Come on, I'm a good tipper when my whims are gratified.”

  Michael looked briefly skyward, then allowed himself the faintest smile. “My sister is a doctor with a healthy private practice. When one takes into account the amount she pays each month for insurance, and the cost of paying off her student loans from medical school, I generally have an income somewhat in excess of hers.” He paused. “It is a subject we often laugh about.”

  “Ha! I figured as much. Rich people are cheap, but even a lousy tip on a bill as big as the one we're going to run up would be a pretty good size. Thanks. We'll be ready for you in a few minutes.” She shooed him away

  Jason burst out laughing. “Ah, sis, you haven't changed a bit.”

  “You never learn things if you don't ask.” She perused the menu, amazed, as always, that people voluntarily ate rabbits, which she considered essentially photogenic rodents.

  “So what do you recommend?”

  Marla looked at him over the top of her menu. He appeared to be sincere, but with Jason, it was tricky to tell. “Why ask me? I've never eaten here before. This isn't my kind of place.”

  “Marlita! You shouldn't deny yourself the finer things in life. I know you can afford to eat well. Or do you spend all your money on monocle polish and big sacks with dollar signs printed on the sides?”

  “I do whatever I want, Jason. Don't worry about me. I've just never seen the thrill of eating in a place where the waiter puts your napkin in your lap and has a special tool just for scraping up stray breadcrumbs.”

  “I'd heard you were into the whole ascetic thing, but I figured that was just good PR on your part. I also heard you drive a vintage Rolls-Royce, so who knows what to believe?”

  “You heard, you heard—who are you hearing all this shit from?” Being even slightly famous, even in very specific circles, was more annoying than gratifying.

  “Oh, you know. People like us.”

  “Criminals, scoundrels, and rogues, you mean?”

  Jason winced theatrically “People of mercurial mo ral ity, let's say. I heard your name a few times here and there before I even entertained the possibility that people were talking about my sister. You might've looked me up, you know, when you got into the business. I could've given you some advice. Not that you seem to need any.”

  “We didn't part on such good terms.” She suppressed the urge to touch the daggers hidden up her sleeves. “I wasn't sure you'd want to hear from me.”

  He grunted. “About that. Our parting. I just want to say—and you know I almost never say this—I'm sorry I was a stupid kid, and I made an even stupider mistake, and then I compounded the stupidity by trying to drag you into my problems. Looking back, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Putting that kind of burden on my little sister… it's no wonder you got upset and took off. If it's possible, if you can take it as a compliment, I want you to know…when that bad shit went down, you were the only one I felt I could reach out to. The only one I really trusted. My family. You know?”

  Marla shifted in her seat, unable to hide her discomfort. “You asked me for help, and I… didn't help you. I figured you'd been holding that against me all these years.” Just like I've been holding the fact that you even asked against you.

  He shook his head. “No. I've just been pissed off at myself for screwing up the one nonpoisonous family relationship I ever had. I thought I'd lost you forever, Marlita.” He reached across the table and, lightly, touched her hand. She didn't pull back. “Finding you again, sitting here across a table from you… it feels like magic.” He sat back and grinned. “You know. Real magic. Not like the bullshit you peddle.”

  They could have probed the old wound of their separation more thoroughly, and Marla was tempted to do so, but Jason had apologized—never easy for the men in her family—and some of the tension was broken, so she decided to let it lie, for now. If she kept seeing him (which seemed likelier than it had ten minutes ago) she might revisit the subject, try to explain her own motivations, but for now, she decided to accept this strange situation for what it was: she was having dinner with her brother, and it was pretty nice. “That bullshit magic has done all right by me, Jason.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. How the hell did you end up in Felport anyway, much less running the place?”

  “It just worked out that way. I took the right buses and hitched the right rides, and here I am. I was aiming for New York, because I was a fifteen-year-old runaway, and what the hell did I know? Missed my destination by a few degrees of latitude, but it worked out okay”

  The waiter returned, and after they ordered and Jason finished consulting with the sommelier, they fell into a silence that was not so much awkward as inevitable. Having dinner with a friend you hadn't seen in a few weeks was easy—you could talk for an hour just catching up on things that had happened since you last met. But talking to someone you hadn't seen in almost twenty years was, paradoxically, far more difficult. It was impossible to know where to start, and with so much time to cover, it was hard to find common ground.

  Jason had already confronted the elephant in the room, and what else did they have to discuss?

  Finally, tired of seeing Jason fiddle with his flatware, Marla sighed. “All right, out with it. Tell me about your latest operation.”

  “Oh, I'd hate to bore you—”

  “Don't bullshit me, I'm immune to you. You want to pick my brain, so lay the groundwork already”

  Jason leaned across the table. “I've got a big fish on the line. His name is Campbell Campion.”

  Marla groaned. “Cam-Cam? You're going to rip him off? Join the club.”

  “You've heard of him?”

  “Sure. Rich as hell, old family money, lives in a big house out by the beaches. He's king of the wannabes, Jason. Every small-time operator around has taken him for a little dough. Fake psychics, fake séances, fake occult rituals, the whole deal. He's an idiot.”

  “He's no idiot. He's just so rich he doesn't think twice about throwing away a few grand on the outside chance he'll find somebody who really knows magic. So what if he pays a hundred fakes, if he manages to find just one who's genuine? I could scam him out of a couple thousand before breakfast, but I want to take him for more. A lot more. And that means I need more than a crystal ball and a fake Transylvanian accent.”

  “Ambitious. But even Cam-Cam must be suspicious of more impressive claims at this point. If you're going to clean him out, you'll need a pretty powerful convin-cer. What's your play? How can you get to him?”

  “Oh, well.” Jason examined his manicured fingernails. “As far as that goes, I am your brother.”

  Marla closed her eyes. She counted to ten. It didn't help. She still wanted to leap across the table and assault Jason vigorously with her butter knife. Before she could give in to temptation, Michael returned with their soup course, and by the time he'd peppered the dish to Jason's liking, Marla had squeezed her rage down to a manageable little ball. “You traded on my name?”

  “It's my name, too.” Jason sipped his soup. “Better to say I traded on your reputation. Listen, I couldn't even get in to see the guy, he's been burned too many times, but once I let word slip that I was the famous Marla Mason's brother, well…What could I do? I saw my in, and I took it.”

  “I'm not going to meet with him, if that's what you're driving at. I'm not even going to talk to him. Don't try to drag me into this.” Cam-Cam was the worst of the wannabes. Every once in a while some hard-luck alley wizard or ex-apprentice gave him some genuine intel about the magical world, and he came blustering and bribing his way into things he couldn't begin to understand. Trying to buy transcendence, trying to boss people who were used to bossing around the natural world. He was insufferable, boorish, and stank of desperation. Once or twice he'd been in the r
ight place at the right time and seen seemingly impossible things, and had his memory erased as a consequence. Most sorcerers had a little forget-me-lots potion on hand for just such situations. Eventually somebody would probably get irritated with Cam-Cam and kill him.

  “Don't worry, Campion knows you're a busy lady I'm pretty sure he's having me followed, though, and his spies will report that I was here with you, and he'll be totally convinced I'm on the level.” He shrugged. “That's all I really needed.”

  She threw her napkin down in her soup, splashing a little onto the clean white tablecloth. “Fuck you very much, Jason. I actually thought you wanted to see me, out of good old-fashioned brotherly love.”

  He wiped his mouth. “I could have hired a woman to pretend to be you, Marla. Hell, I would have dressed her in that white-and-purple cloak people say you used to wear, that would have been nice and recognizable. Come on, I did want to see you. But you blame me for multitasking? You've never sacrificed sentimentality for efficiency?”

  She sighed, then gestured for the waiter. “Can I get a new napkin? Mine committed suicide.” Marla laced her fingers together and rested her hands on the tabletop, hoping that would suppress her desire to wring Jason's neck, because godsdamnit, he was right. She would have done pretty much exactly what he'd done, in his position. “All right, fine. So what's the scam?”

  “Oh, that would be boring, all those details. Let's just say I'm going to make him think he's neck-deep in a plot involving various powerful sorcerers, warring factions, yadda yadda. It'll be a big production, lots of extras, lots of juggling, but if it works out, he'll beg to keep writing me checks.”

  “I wish you well. Maybe you can retire to an island in the South Pacific and send me Christmas cards on odd-numbered years?”

  “I was hoping for a little advice. You know, some ideas to lend the operation some verisimilitude, since this magic stuff is your line of patter, not mine.”