Spell Games

by T. A. Pratt

  B caught sight of himself in the mirror. His nose was bleeding, which was not unprecedented—he sometimes woke from particularly strong prophetic dreams with a bloody nose. But there was blood welling from the corners of his eyes, too, and as B wiped the bloody tears with the back of his hand, he felt horribly mortal. Was his death coming now? Did he have some kind of supernatural Ebola?

  Something moved in the forest. Trees shivered and deliquesced into pillars of rapidly collapsing slime as it approached. B couldn't make out details—there might have been a human shape beneath it, but all he could see were fans of fungus, gilled mushroom caps, strands of mossy lichen hanging like misplaced beards. The thing extended an arm, pointed at him, and said—

  Nothing. Before it could speak, the vision vanished—overwritten, pushed out, replaced by blotted clouds of darkness. He couldn't see anything at all, and that cursed voice thundered in his head about oblivion and darkness and the end of everything. B gasped and flailed, sounding the car's horn accidentally and grabbing on to the wheel in the desperate need to hold something solid. I'm blind. Fuck me, I'm blind, I'm—

  A man's voice cut into B's consciousness: “Dude, did you have a stroke or something?”

  B blinked. He could see again. He turned his head, and the man who'd spoken was knocking on the Bentley's driver-side window, looking in with concern. B took in the scene outside his windshield. Two cars had collided around B, one swerving to avoid B's sudden stop, probably, and slamming into a car in the next lane. Judging by the people standing around talking, nobody had been seriously hurt—B was the only one with blood on his face and hands.

  “I'm sorry,” B said, rolling down the window. “I'm really sorry. Is everybody okay?”

  “You're the one with blood coming out of your eyes.” The guy backed away once B opened the window. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

  B shook his head. “I don't know, man. I really don't.” He thought about calling Marla, but did he really want to interrupt her meeting? He flipped open his cell and dialed another number instead. “Hey, Hamil? This is B. I could really use that other kind of sympathy, if you've got a moment to spare.”

  ou never heard of a hit-and-run?” Marla said as she entered Hamil's apartment.

  B grunted from the couch. “I thought you were a law-and-order chief sorcerer. I really should have hauled ass out of there?”

  “No, but police records regarding my Bentley aren't welcome, B. I'll have to make a whole phone call to get that shit expunged, and I hate talking to bureaucrats.”

  “It's taken care of.” Hamil brought her a drink. “I paid off those involved generously, in cash, in exchange for their discretion.”

  She sniffed the glass. “What's this?”

  “Scotch, neat. I thought you might need to relax.”

  “True enough.” She flopped onto the other end of the couch and took a drink, grimacing. “Even the good shit tastes bad to me. Why didn't you call me, B?”

  “You were in a meeting, and I'd already pissed off the Chamberlain, so I didn't want to make it worse.”

  Marla sighed. “You can always call. I would've probably just told you to call Hamil, but still, I don't like it when shit happens I don't know about. What did happen? Hamil said you managed to wreck two cars.”

  “The Bentley didn't even get scratched, at least,” B said.

  “Of course not, it's magically protected. You think I'd ever let Rondeau drive it if it was possible for the thing to get wrecked? Stop avoiding the question. Why did you make cars go boom boom against each other?”

  “I had a vision. Like a dream, but I was awake, and it kind of… overwrote reality. I could still hear the cars and stuff around me, I just couldn't see anything except trees, and this thing made of mushrooms and moss and fungus coming toward me.”

  Marla grunted. “Was this an ominous vision, or a happy, tasty-delicious-truffles-in-our-future vision?”

  “Definitely ominous. I'd try to interpret it, but every time I call up an oracle, I just get that ‘darkness and oblivion’ stuff.”

  She leaned back in the couch, considering. “Think it's a safe bet the two are connected? Fungal apocalypse equals darkness and oblivion?”

  “It's a working theory, at any rate,” Hamil said from his giant armchair. “Since Bradley's powers are… behaving erratically, perhaps we could consult some other seer?”

  “Sure, but who? Since Gregor died, we've been strictly small-time when it comes to future-seeing around here. Hell, that's part of why I was so happy to get B on our team. Langford is good at divination when he knows what he's looking for, but if I brought this to him, he'd just say ‘insufficient information to proceed.’ We need somebody with a deep connection to the mystic. What ever happened to Sauvage's crazy seer, the one who giggled all the time?”

  Hamil shook his head. “He vanished after Sauvage died.”

  “Would you sniff around for him a little? He's not as cute as B, but he's got a line on starry wisdom. It's not a major priority, but…”

  “I'll see what I can do,” Hamil said. “I did hear a rumor, years ago, that he was in Gregor's service, but Gregor denied it.”

  “Gregor was a big fat liar.”

  “Indeed,” Hamil said. “But in the meantime…”

  “We're flying blind,” Marla said.

  “Oh, yeah,” B said. “And my eyes bled.”

  Marla whistled. “Fuck, B. Okay, we're taking you to Langford. He's the closest thing to a doctor for magical malfunctions we've got. If you picked up some kind of mystical parasite, he'll be able to figure it out.”

  “I'm so sorry, Marla. I'm supposed to be saving you work, making your life easier, and instead I'm dragging you down.”

  “Eh, I'll just work you twice as hard once we get your wires uncrossed. Don't worry” But she was worried. A seer with bleeding eyes? That couldn't be good symbolically, and in magic, symbolism mattered.

  * * *

  Campbell Campion, last scion of one of Felport's oldest families (though not, to his dismay, one of the founding families), paced up and down his cavernous but sparsely furnished living room. This was the moment. If he did this right, if he made the proper impression, he might finally—

  The doorbell rang. He'd sent the maid home, of course—this wasn't a meeting he wanted overheard by a domestic—so he hurried to answer it himself.

  Jason Mason was tall and handsome, if a little tired around the eyes, and wore a suit of immaculate cut. He radiated confidence and power, and Cameron had no doubt he was a powerful sorcerer in his own right, in addition to his close familial connection to the elusive Marla Mason. The Hispanic man standing behind him, sniffing the summer damask roses in their oversized planters, was far less impressive—he wore a hideous brown suit with wide lapels that might have been fashionable for fifteen minutes in the ’70s.

  “Mr. Campion?” Jason looked at his watch. “I can only spare you a few minutes, so …”

  “Of course, please, come in, Mr. Mason, and your… associate?”

  Jason glanced behind him. “Oh, this is Rondeau.”

  Cam-Cam—as his mother had always called him and, to his eternal shame, how he automatically thought of himself—stood, stunned. Jason and Rondeau—Rondeau!—went past him into the foyer. Rondeau was said to be Marla Mason's right hand, though Cam-Cam didn't know much else about him. He must be a person of tremendous power, too. Cam-Cam ushered them into the living room and offered them seats, though only Jason sat. “Thank you, both of you, for agreeing to meet with me.”

  Rondeau laughed. “I'm not meeting you. Pretend I'm not here. I'm just along for the ride.” He wandered over to a tall bookshelf that contained first editions of H. Rider Haggard novels—one of Cam-Cam's reliable pleasures—and began thumbing through the volumes. Cam-Cam bit back the urge to tell him not to manhandle the books, that they were valuable, but snapping at the man would hardly serve his purpose. His assertive-ness had ruined his other attempts at finding entry into the society
of sorcerers, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake again.

  “Rondeau and I have a meeting after this.” Jason looked at his watch again. “There wasn't time to go back and get him after, so I had to bring him along. Now, what did you want to meet with me about? I have to say, I've never been pursued quite so aggressively.”

  “Yes, well, I… I'm not quite sure how to say this…. I am a man of some means, Mr. Mason.”

  Jason raised an eyebrow and took an ostentatious look around the huge living room with its expensive works of art and antique furniture. “Yes, so it seems. Good for you.”

  “My family's money comes from mining, mostly, but I've never had a great interest in precious metals, so I leave things in the hands of my employees, many of whom have been with the business since before I was alive. My interests… lie elsewhere.”

  Rondeau wandered over to stand behind Jason's shoulder, yawning. “That's a great story.”

  Flustered, Cam-Cam said, “The occult. I'm interested in the occult. I always have been.”

  “The occult,” Jason said blankly.

  “Yes. Magic.”

  “And this involves me how?”

  “You're Marla Mason's brother,” Cam-Cam said. “I know about her. I paid a lot of people very good money to find out about her. I've never been able to arrange a meeting with her, which is why I was so happy to hear you were in town, and amenable to a talk.”

  “You know what about my sister?” Jason was frowning, and Cam-Cam felt it slipping away. He was going to be stonewalled again.

  “That she's an important person. A powerful person. That she's… a sorceress.”

  Rondeau snorted. “Call her a ‘sorceress’ and she'll kick your ass. She's a sorcerer, just like a woman who acts is still an actor, not an ‘actress.’ I'm guessing you're not much of a feminist?”

  “What Rondeau means to say is, what are you talking about, there's no such thing as sorcery, don't be ridiculous.” Jason's voice was perfectly level.

  “Mr. Mason, I know about… people like you. I don't know why you all persist in pretending I'm crazy”

  “Crazy people never think they're crazy,” Rondeau offered. “Listen, Jason, we should go, that guy's not going to hand over sacks of gold if we disrespect him by showing up late. He's serious people.” Rondeau looked scornfully at Cam-Cam, who shriveled a little inside.

  “Okay.” Jason rose. “Mr. Campion, I'm sorry we wasted each other's time, I think you've got the wrong idea—”

  “You need money?” Cam-Cam said desperately, falling back, as always, on the one thing he could offer most freely. “You're going to meet, what, an investor? I have sacks of gold. Literally, even—my family has gold mines.”

  Rondeau made a thpppt noise. “You think you can buy us?”

  “Rondeau.” Jason looked at the ceiling as if doing math in his head. “You know, that other guy's only good for half, and if we can't afford to buy this thing soon—”

  “No,” Rondeau said. “You know what Marla would say if we brought in an outsider? What she'd do? Nuh-uh. This isn't some ordinary business deal.”

  Jason nodded, but regretfully, Cam-Cam thought. “You're right. I'm sorry, Mr. Campion, we should really be—”

  “I can help you. Let me help you. Gold. Currency Anything you need.”

  Jason looked thoughtful again. “You know, Rondeau, I really don't know who else we're going to tap—Marla doesn't want word about this to spread too far.”

  “Sure, but if we take his money, he's an investor, he'll think he's got the right to tell us what to do and how to do it.” Rondeau shook his head.

  “I swear, I won't make any demands, I just want to be involved. I'll swear a sacred oath, with blood, anything you want. I know real magic exists. I just want to be part of it.”

  “The man says he knows,” Jason said. “If he knows, he knows.”

  Rondeau scowled. “I don't think it's a good idea.”

  “I'll give you everything,” Cam-Cam said. “Cancel your other meeting, I'll supply all you need, just tell me how much, and what it's for.”

  “A single investor would be a lot simpler,” Jason said. “And we can make excuses to the other guy, he won't mind as long as we're polite about it.”

  Rondeau sighed. “We should call Marla.”

  “Nah, nah,” Jason said. “Leave her to me, she's my sister, I can make her see how this is a good thing.”

  “It's your funeral.” Rondeau shoved his hands in his pockets. “I guess if he gets out of hand we can always erase his memory.”

  “That won't be necessary!” Cam-Cam cried. The thought of learning about magic, finding real proof, only to have it unlearned, was horrifying. “I am utterly discreet and trustworthy.”

  “What, you won't tell your girlfriend, your wife, your mommy and daddy?”

  “I have no family left. No close connections. I've dedicated my life to the study of magic, as the two of you have also, I'm sure.”

  Rondeau chewed his lower lip. “Okay,” he said finally. “You're in, chump.”

  Cam-Cam blinked. “Did you call me a chump?”

  “He said ‘champ,’” Jason said. “He calls people champ. That's his thing.”

  “Yeah,” Rondeau said. “It's my thing.”

  “Ah. Well. Gentlemen. What will I be helping you buy?”

  “A big fucking box, and that's all you need to know right now,” Rondeau said. “I don't care what you say, Jason, I'm calling Marla.” He stalked off.

  Jason stepped close to Cam-Cam. “Don't mind him. He gets a little touchy. And don't worry. I'll tell you about the details later. Wait for our call.” He patted Cam-Cam on the shoulder and departed.

  That's it, Cam-Cam thought. I'm in.

  “You know, I bet we could've gotten him to write a check for pretty much any number we cared to name right then and there.” Rondeau fiddled with the passenger-side window in the Mercedes, powering it up and down, up and down.

  “No doubt, but I don't want to take him for a hundred grand, or even a million. I want it all, and that takes a deeper game and more finesse and a perfect blow-off. If we'd done a take-the-money-and-run tonight, he'd just hire some hard guys to chase us down.”

  Not if we erased his memory, Rondeau thought, but didn't say it, because Jason didn't know magic was real, and anyway, Marla would kick his ass if he tried something like that. Apparently scamming people was more acceptable than straight theft, in her eyes—it gave the victims a sporting chance.

  “This magic shit's great, though,” Jason said. “Nor mally you have to predicate a scam on something illegal—you know, fake stock tips the mark thinks you got from insider trading, like that, so they can't run to the cops and tell on you without implicating themselves in a crime. But this magic thing is cop-proof. Even if Cam-Cam twigs to the fact that we're ripping him off—which he won't—what's he going to do? Call up the attorney general and tell him the money he gave to a couple of wizards was obtained under false pretenses? I guess he could try to get us with fraud, but that would require admitting he was dumb enough to believe we actually had magical powers, and nobody that rich and well established likes to look like an idiot in public.”

  “Pretty good. So what happens next?”

  “We let Cam-Cam stew for a day, then give him our regrets. Tell him Marla vetoed our idea, and we can't take his money, after all.”

  “But why pull back? He's so gung-ho now!”

  “Buyer's remorse, Ronnie. I guarantee, next time we see Cam-Cam, he'll be all narrow-eyed and suspicious. People are easily dazzled in the short term, but give them a night to sleep on it, and they worry. Cam-Cam will start mulling it over and thinking about how he likes his money, and how all his past attempts to cozy up to sorcerers have failed. He'll ask us difficult questions, and he'll be on high alert for fishy answers. But if we short-circuit all the moaning and wailing by telling him he's out, it'll take the wind out of his sails, and reinforce the impression that we're on the level. Pret
ty soon he'll beg us to let him back in.”

  “This is more complicated than I'd expected,” Rondeau said. “When do we agree to accept his money again?”

  “Alas, that decision is out of our hands, as we are mere underlings. It's Marla's call, so the best we can do is set up a meeting with my little sister, so he can try to convince her personally.”

  “Um, Jason, I don't think Marla's going to go along with that.”

  “Ah, but Cam-Cam has never even seen Marla.”

  Yes he has, Rondeau thought, but his memory of the meeting was erased, so I guess… “Ah.”

  “If he meets some woman wearing a cloak in a dark and suitably occultish location, her face shrouded in shadow and so forth, why wouldn't he think it was Marla?”

  “Heh. Who do you have in mind to play the part?”

  “Nobody. I figured, you're local, you know people, I can tell you probably have a lot of ladies on speed-dial. Bring me a prospect—somebody who can keep her mouth shut.”

  “That I can do. But I have to say, it strikes me as kind of elaborate.”

  “Remember that old con I mentioned, about the Frenchman who thought he was buying a crate of uranium? The guys who scammed him milked him for about two years. All the while they were taking his money, they made the guy feel like he was in the middle of a spy novel, fighting off the commies. They strung him along, and yeah, a scam like that, it's elaborate. That's the kind of thing I'm working on here, Ronnie. I want to squeeze Cam-Cam long-term. I'm not looking to burn the lot.”