Magic Spark

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Yeah, great, just in time for me to have to kill someone.”

  “You were born with a destiny—”

  “Daddy, please, can I just eat my oysters, get a good night sleep, and I’ll dig into these names tomorrow morning?”

  Her father nodded and gestured for another beer. “Sure, honey.”

  Except, after finishing her oysters, Cyan didn’t go home. The rain having finally stopped for the day, she started walking—her apartment was only about thirty feet away—and kept walking. She mulled over the attack on the trolley, what she’d actually seen, which had been very little before the blast of red light. She considered, briefly, what it might mean if the War had just begun and even wondered what it would feel like to finally hone the Craft like the rest of her family. By the time she was done thinking, she was standing outside Charleston Memorial Hospital.

  She wasn’t invisible like her father, but she was sneaky. Years of self-defense training had taught her how to be quiet, so it was really no problem at all getting past the front desk and up to the second floor.

  The doorway to Zoe’s room was partially open, and Cyan heard the sound of plastic hitting plastic from inside. When she stuck her head in the doorway, she found Zoe, still unconscious, and Liam, dropping little circles into a Connect Four.

  “That game’s a lot more interesting if you play it with someone else.”

  He turned and stood at the sound of her voice. “Probably. I was just spelling out letters of the alphabet.” He gestured to the letter L in black, surrounded by red, down the center of the board. “They have a whole room of games. I guess for kids that get sick.”

  Cyan leaned against the doorframe.

  Liam stood with his hands in his pockets.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” she said. “I meant to walk home.”

  “You knew I needed an adversary for Connect Four?”

  She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and smirked.

  “I’m glad you came. I, um…” He glanced toward the bed, and then pressed his lips together in an extremely tight smile. “Her silence. It’s weird. Zoe was never very quiet.”

  Cyan pulled a second chair beside Liam’s and sat. She pushed the little button at the bottom of the Connect Four board. The plastic circles bounced into the cardboard box below, and Cyan picked up a black one, dropped it into the bottom of the center row.

  Liam sat next to her and put a red circle in the far right row. Cyan added a black one to the right of her original. Liam added a red one to the top of his. Cyan added a black to the left of her original. Liam added another red to the row on the right. Cyan dropped a final black one.

  “I win.”

  “What?” He studied the board.

  “It’s the oldest trick in the book.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the uncomfortable hospital chair.

  “Devious.”

  “Simple.”

  He leaned back, too, eyes still on the game.

  “Why haven’t they brought you a cot?” She didn’t even ask if he planned to go home to sleep, as she knew the answer.

  “I guess they forgot. After the accident, I don’t think a healthy guy needing sleep is a priority.”

  “Sleep’s overrated anyway.”

  His brow furrowed. “I completely disagree.”

  “It’s eight hours that could be used in a much more fruitful manner.”

  “It’s eight hours of bliss.” He turned sideways in his chair to face her. The dim bedside lamp lit his lips. “I once took a three hour nap. It was one of the best days of my life.”

  She chuckled.

  “So how do you use the hours spent not sleeping?”

  “Reading. Walking. Charleston’s a very good walking city. I like the cemeteries. My grandmother is buried in one on Meeting Street, behind St. Agnes. I visit her sometimes.”

  “Your family is from here?”

  “Pretty much.” She paused. “You don’t think it’s weird that I like cemeteries?”

  He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Probably good places to catch a nap.”

  She yawned despite herself.

  He reciprocated.

  “You can’t sleep in a chair again,” she said.

  “And you can’t sleep on the floor.”

  “I’m getting you a cot.” She stood, but before she started walking to the door, his hand wrapped around her wrist. Cyan looked down at him to find his eyes on Zoe.

  “Do you think she can hear us?” he said. “Do you think she knows I’m here?”

  Cyan knelt at the side of his chair. His grip on her wrist loosened until their fingers melted together, hand over hand. There was no spark of the Craft with this man, no, but Cyan certainly felt her cheeks warm at the innocent intimacy of the gesture. “I think she can feel you, yeah.”

  “I’d like to hold her hand, but she’s so cold. It freaks me out.”

  Cyan begrudgingly let go of Liam’s hand and faced Zoe. She reached down and picked up the unconscious woman’s limp hand—which was really quite cold, in fact—and held that cold hand between her own. “Come here,” she told Liam, and she then rubbed Zoe’s hand between hers until a semblance of warmth trickled into the tips of Zoe’s fingers. “Hold her hand now.”

  Liam took Zoe’s hand, warmed by Cyan’s body heat. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed. “Zoe. It’s Liam. Wake up, huh?”

  Cyan turned her back on them, her eyes stinging with an emotion she couldn’t identify. She’d said she would get him a cot; she was getting him a damn cot. But when she reached the door, he said her name, and she stopped.

  “Why are you so kind to me?” he asked.

  “You seem like a man who deserves kindness.”

  “Have we met before? Some other time, other place. You’re so familiar.”

  “No,” she said quickly and left the room. She didn’t think about the folded picture of him in her wallet as she tracked down a nurse and found Liam a cot. She certainly didn’t think about him as she hid beneath the covers of her bed at home. She dreamt of a flash of red light.

  The next morning, it wasn’t a friend or work colleague who kicked him out of Zoe’s room; it was her doctor. “You need to get some air,” she told him.

  Liam couldn’t bear the thought of going back to their quiet condo alone, but he did go, long enough to throw on jogging pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Due to the scalded remnants of his cell phone, he had no music, but he decided he would make a stop at the Apple store on King following his run and pick up a new phone.

  But what if something happened to Zoe? What if they couldn’t reach him?

  He changed his mind halfway into his usual five-mile jaunt and swung into the store to get a new phone. Standing outside, sweating, he called the hospital and left his number with the receptionist. Then, he took off again, at a speed he didn’t usually utilize unless racing. Yet, he didn’t race toward the finish line; he felt like he was running away not toward.

  He turned the corner onto Broad and, mind half at the hospital, ran into someone. He was prepared to profusely apologize, but whomever he ran into grabbed his arm, twisted, and hurled him onto his chest on the pavement. His bruised ribs exploded in pain. His face, unfortunately, also caught a bit of concrete and he thought, fleetingly, What amazing injuries I’m acquiring this week. He felt a knee in the center of his back as he gasped for air. Sheets of paper peppered the sidewalk.

  “Liam?”

  He heard Cyan’s voice but couldn’t respond, the wind knocked entirely from his lungs.

  She stopped kneeling on him at least. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  He rolled onto his back, choking. His face felt wet but not with sweat—with something thicker.

  “Your nose is bleeding.” She said it as though angry at him. She knelt by his side and guided him to sitting before collecting the dropped pieces of paper surrounding them. “Come on.” She dragged Liam to standing with strength he never expected her to have and p
ulled him down the sidewalk by his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I ran into you.”

  “I’m sorry I just kicked your ass.” She hugged the papers to her chest while continuing to pull him along. “You surprised me.”

  “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  “It’s a hobby.” She dragged him across the street and into a shop—a bookshop. The interior was lit by gold, glowing lanterns. Several pieces of aged but homey furniture sat between shelves. The place smelled of incense, reminiscent of Liam’s “experimental” days back in California.

  He used his shirt to wipe his nose and found his shirt stained bright red. Cyan, meanwhile, put down her messy stack of papers—some of them looked like hospital forms—and told him to sit.

  “Cyan, I’m covered in sweat.”

  Lips pressed tightly together, she forced him into a cushioned seat that smelled like honeysuckle.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  She pulled a dust rag from behind the point of sales counter. “I’m not angry at you.” She gently held the cloth to his face just as a voice echoed from a back room Liam hadn’t even noticed was there.

  “Cyan? Is that you?”

  “Damn it,” Cyan hissed.

  A woman stepped out from behind a dark blue curtain. She had blonde hair like Cyan and similar eyes. She was older, though, frail-looking in her thinness, with sharp-edged cheekbones. Behind her came a woman with frizzy, red hair and freckles, wrapped in sheets of colorful fabric. She nibbled her fingers.

  The two women stared at Liam until he said, “Hi.”

  The blonde grew a wrinkle between her brows. “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing,” Cyan said. “We ran into each other, and I may have overreacted.”

  He took the blood-soaked cloth from Cyan. “It was kind of cool, actually, like a superhero.”

  The women from the back room stepped forward and circled his chair.

  “Liam, this is my mother, Rue, and my Aunt Sybil. This is Liam.”

  “Nice to meet you both.” He pulled the cloth away from his face. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  Cyan crossed her arms in response but looked as though she stood on the tips of her toes. She might have taken off running at any sudden movement.

  “Where are you from, Liam?” Rue asked, still circling.

  “I grew up in Ireland. Moved to California when I was eighteen. I thought the accent was kind of gone, but Cyan says it’s not.”

  Sybil stood next to his chair and actually looked friendly. “Don’t your parents miss you, dear, so far away?”

  “They’re no longer with us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cyan whispered.

  He looked up at her, in her usual leather jacket and boots, white-blonde braids a bit more of a mess than usual due to her ninja moves outside. “It’s all right. They’ve been gone a long time.”

  “I suppose you were raised by wolves then?”

  “Mother.” Cyan scowled.

  “No, boarding school… which, depending on the teacher, was comparable.”

  Sybil giggled, and Rue seemed to soften a bit. Well, she stopped circling his chair at least.

  He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sybil above him. “There’s a washroom through that curtain. Why don’t you go rinse the blood off your face so we can see you properly?”

  An odd way to put it, but he smiled nonetheless and did as she said. There were more books behind the curtain, older ones, and a cluttered desk. He ducked beneath amulets and wind chimes that hung from the ceiling. In the tiny bathroom, he finally got a look at himself. Not only did he still have a big Band-Aid on his head from the car crash, but his lips and chin were now covered in red. He looked like a wild beast.

  Quickly, he rinsed his face and spit a bit of blood into the sink. He hadn’t noticed the dark circles under his eyes until that moment.

  When he returned to the front of the bookshop, conversation stopped, which made him assume they’d been talking about him. He glanced around. “This is going to sound odd, I assume, but are you witches?”

  The three women froze.

  “Who said anything about witches?” Rue asked. Her voice was even, calm, cold.

  “It’s kind of a joke at the Bistro, I guess, but since there’s no such thing as witches…” He shrugged and would have gotten the hell out of there before he said anything else completely inappropriate.

  But then, his head.

  He gasped as bolts of lightning invaded his brain. Luckily the chair was nearby, because his knees crumpled, but he stayed on his feet with the help of some antique furniture.

  Vaguely, he heard the sound of his name from Cyan’s lips. Then, her hands were on his face, his forehead, fingers curling against his scalp.

  “Liam,” she said, closer this time.

  The pain dwindled, faster than it ever had before. Even with his eyes closed, he felt her right in front of him, and he leaned his forehead against hers, taking deep breaths. Her small hands cupped his jaw, and she breathed with him… in, out, in, out.

  “What the hell was that?” she said.

  He stood up straight, and her hands fell away. “Headaches. I get headaches.”

  “Since the accident?” Rue asked.

  “No, longer. Since we moved here. I think it’s just allergies.”

  “Didn’t look like allergies,” Rue said.

  “Well, I feel better now. Maybe you are a witch.” He smiled and looked down at Cyan, whose skin was the color of the paper she’d dropped earlier.

  Rue suddenly pushed him toward the door. “Liam, it was very nice to meet you, but we really need to get the shop open for business.”

  “Sure. I need to get back to the hospital.” He paused before he could be shoved into the street. “Cyan, I got a phone today, so if you don’t recognize the number, it’s probably just me, waiting to have my ass kicked at Connect Four.”

  She nodded and looked away before Rue pushed him onto Broad Street, into the morning sun, and slammed the door at his back.

  Cyan slumped onto the crooked wooden floor of Sea Books. Sybil knelt and put her hands on Cyan’s shoulders, and Rue leaned down to grab her face none too gently.

  “You healed him,” her mother all but shouted.

  Cyan tried breathing, but it didn’t work.

  Sybil pet her hair and made soothing “shh” noises.

  “Hypatia!” Rue yelled.

  “Mother,” she panted, “you’re not… helping.”

  “Okay.” Rue pulled her hands back but stayed close.

  Cyan tried again to breathe and was at least able to suck a mouthful or two of air into her lungs before the room started spinning. Rue was right, Cyan had stopped Liam’s headache. She’d felt the power go out of her like an invisible vampire sucking life from her veins. She’d felt her palms warm against his scalp. She slumped against Sybil.

  “Did you heal him?” Rue asked, arms crossed, thin face pinched in frustration.

  “Yes.”

  Rue put her hand to her mouth and tried to look serious but soon smiled, then chuckled. Cyan looked up at her mother and did the same.

  “I have powers,” Cyan whispered.

  “You have powers,” her mother confirmed.

  Sybil continued petting her hair. “Then, the Dorcha arrives and War is close.”

  Both Rue and Cyan stopped smiling.

  Sybil leaned forward and kissed Cyan’s forehead before disappearing silently to the back room, behind the dark blue curtain.

  “I need to call your father,” Rue said. She took her phone out the front door of Sea Books and onto the still recovering sidewalks of Charleston’s beautiful Broad Street.

  That left Cyan alone, legs folded beneath her, on the floor. She lifted her hands and stared at her palms. They appeared the same as they had twenty minutes earlier, and yet, they weren’t. They had just healed a man, which meant her powers were manifesting—which meant Sybil
was right. No matter the moment of celebration, the Dorcha was somewhere near, which meant Cyan would soon have to fight and possibly die. She was, after all, the Loach of prophecy, and it was her destiny to stop a big, bad dark witch from covering Earth in shadow. Days earlier, she wouldn’t have minded dying in battle, but now, after finding Liam?

  She covered her face with her hands and was surprised when her palms warmed yet again, the increase in temperature bringing with it a memory of him, his forehead pressed to hers, mouth so close she could have kissed it. And she wanted to—Cyan wanted to kiss Liam. She closed her eyes and focused on the picture painted by her palms: his green eyes staring down at her, his lips parted, and the scent of him, a bit of sweat but mostly remnants of a crisp, clean deodorant or maybe cologne. She wanted to reach beneath his clothes and touch his skin. She wanted his skin on hers, which made her blink and remove her hands from her face.

  Rue stepped back in from the street and paused in the doorway, looking down at Cyan as if she had spiders on her face. “You were thinking about him.”

  “Jesus, Mother.” Cyan stood. “Can you not see everything all the time?”

  “I didn’t need magic to see you were thinking about him,” Rue snapped. She cleared her throat. “He’s a very attractive young man.”

  “Don’t.” She needed some of Sybil’s tea, preferably her Cruinn blend, which promised clarity and focus. She needed to think about the scattered papers nearby and not about Liam’s mouth, which was lovely, in fact, and looked soft and full and… She shouted Sybil’s name.

  Her aunt yelped in response but agreed to make the tea.

  “What did Daddy say?”

  Rue sighed. “That you have a job to do today and that we will work on the Craft tomorrow.”

  “Good.” She went for the hospital records, turned her back on her mother, and joined Sybil in the silence of the back room.

  Cyan spent the afternoon going through ancient Craft family trees. She compared the names she found in Sybil’s dusty books to the names of victims from the trolley—and survivors, of which there were a few. She found no correlations, but as Rue so helpfully pointed out around noon, a light witch in hiding would probably alter his or her name, especially if they suspected a dark witch was on the hunt.