by Ava Collins
I peered into the mirror from the side, at almost a 180° angle. I could see down the street a little ways. I squinted and put my eyes as close to the mirror as possible, trying to see farther down the street. I could barely make out the street sign: 32nd and Vermont.
I smiled at Bancroft. “We’re in business.” I looked up the cross streets online. The pictures of the building looked very similar to the image in the mirror. I was excited. Not only because we were making progress on the crime, but because my spell actually worked.
“Are you ready, Banksy?”
“You’re not thinking about going now are you?”
“Why not?”
“It’s already after dark,” he said. “And that’s not exactly a great part of town.”
“We’re just going to go take a look. That’s all,” I said. “I promise, no dangerous stuff.”
Bancroft rolled his eyes. “You want to go looking for stolen merchandise? At night? In a neighborhood that even I wouldn’t walk through in the day?” Bancroft shook his head. “And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m already dead.”
“Stop being overly dramatic.”
“What do you plan to do? Knock on every door in that building asking for the thief who stole a Rolex?”
“If I have to.”
“I’m sure that will go over well,” Bancroft said.
Bancroft knew me well enough to know that once I set my mind to something, there’s no talking me out of it. I grabbed the mirror and the gemstone, and we caught a cab over to 32nd Street and Vermont.
The cab driver kept eyeing me through the rearview mirror. Not that I totally minded. He had piercing blue eyes, dark hair, and chiseled features. He wore a white tank top, and I couldn’t help notice his well toned arms flex when he turned the steering wheel. He looked somewhat perplexed, mixed with a bit of concern.
“Lady, are you sure this is where you want to go?” the cab driver asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you meeting someone there?”
“No, not really?”
“And you just want me to drop you off at the corner?”
“Yes, that will be fine.” I said. “I’ll throw in an extra $10 if you come back and pick us up in 30 minutes.”
“Us? I thought you said you weren’t meeting anyone?”
“I meant, me.”
He furrowed his brow, then shrugged to himself.
Bancroft rolled his eyes as he watched me attempt to not ogle the driver. He was good looking. What was a girl to do?
We drove another several blocks in silence. The driver kept staring at me. I began to wonder if I had a big zit, or something unsightly on my face. Why did he keep staring at me? He looked increasingly bothered as we got closer and closer to the neighborhood.
We finally pulled up to the corner at 32nd and Vermont. The cabbie’s eyes darted around nervously, like he was expecting someone to jump out from the shadows at any minute.
“Look, lady, it’s none of my business, but I’m 6’3”, 250 pounds, and I don’t feel safe around here.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, feigning confidence.
He shook his head. “You’re braver than I am.”
I stepped out of the car and handed him the fare through the passenger window. I gave him a nice tip as well. “Can you pick me back up here in a half hour?”
“Lady, you’re crazy if you think I’m coming back to this part of town. I actually value my life.”
The cab driver sped away from the curb. Above me, the pale orange glow of the streetlight flickered. The entire block was dim, and there was hardly a soul stirring. A homeless man was curled up in a nearby doorway. The buildings were dingy and covered with graffiti.
I pulled out the mirror and studied the image that still persisted in it. We were definitely standing on the same street corner. The building we were looking for should be several hundred yards to the south on Vermont.
Most of the street lights were out in that direction. It was a dark, desolate city block, lined with dilapidated buildings and blind alley ways.
I was starting to feel like this was a mistake. Bancroft looked at me, admonishingly.
“Not a word, Banksy. Not a word.”
“Sixteen murders. Forty-five robberies. Fifty-two felony assaults. Eighty-nine grand larcenies,” Bancroft recited.
“I said not a word.”
“I didn’t say a word. I said thirteen words.”
“I suppose those thirteen words are the crime statistics for the last year?”
“No. The statistics for the last month. Just on this particular block, I might ad,” Bancroft said. His tone was unnervingly calm.
The hair on the back of my neck stood tall, and a chill ran down my spine.
CHAPTER 14
BANCROFT AND I walked down the gloomy street. We were standing in the exact location where the building should be, but it was gone. As in, demolished. I was sure we were in the right place. Both the buildings to the right and to the left matched the image displayed in the mirror. But the gemstone in my pocket was cold. It should have been hot. Almost too hot to touch if we were close by.
“Well, I guess we can go home now,” Bancroft said.
“This doesn’t make any sense.” I held up the mirror, looking from the image to the empty space where the building once was. “They must have just knocked this building down.”
“That, or you’re not very good at location spells.”
“I never said I was an expert.”
The image in the mirror began to fade. All that was left was a normal reflection. In that reflection, I saw two shadowy figures behind me across the street. I slowly turned to look at them. They were staring back at us.
At the end of the block, where the cab dropped us off, two more shadowy figures were heading our way.
“I think we should start moving.” My voice was shaking a little.
Bancroft looked around. The figures were closing in on us. “I agree.”
We started a brisk walk south on Vermont, into the darkness. The two men across the street paced us, stride for stride. Every time we marched faster, they sped up as well. I looked over my shoulder. The two men following from behind were gaining on us. This wasn’t looking good. Maybe I should have listened to the cab driver.
The street was desolate, apart from the brutish men closing in on us. It seemed that most people had enough common sense to stay off these streets at night. I was beginning to question my sanity.
A chase always starts out the same way. The predator pretends they aren’t following you. You rationalize that you aren’t being followed—it just happens to be coincidental that big scary men are walking behind you, in the same direction. You walk faster, they walk faster.
At this point, you are still deluding yourself that you’re not being followed. You’re holding out hope that this is all just your vivid imagination. Panic sets in. Your heart races. You start to sweat. Your fight or flight instinct kicks in. Adrenaline courses through your veins. But you don’t run. Not just yet.
If you run, it will insight an obligatory chase. The predator doesn’t want to run just yet because it might spook you. So, the inevitable chase looms overhead with unbearable tension.
Finally, you can’t take it anymore, and you launch into a full on sprint. Which is exactly what I did.
I ran as hard as I could. And so did the predators. My heart was thumping. My pulse was pounding. I sucked air in and out of my lungs until they hurt. My thighs burned with lactic acid. I ran faster than I had ever run before. But it wasn’t fast enough. I craned my neck, looking back over my shoulder. The four brutes were closing in.
My legs were starting to feel like mush. I was gasping for air, but it wasn’t enough. Up ahead, at the next block, traffic rambled by. An orange vapor light illuminated the street. If I could make it out of this darkness, to the corner, to the traffic, I might have a chance. Surely no one would mug me with witnesses passing by? Surely a passing car w
ould stop to help, wouldn’t they?
But I never made it to the corner. I was tackled by a figure lunging out of the darkness as I passed an alley. I felt like I had gotten hit by a linebacker. With the wind knocked out of me I gasped for breath. But it was like my lungs didn’t understand the concept. I was telling them to inhale, but they just said no.
Rough hands dragged me into the pitch darkness of the alleyway. Suddenly, I was surrounded by all five goons. I tried to scramble to my feet, but my face crashed into a massive fist. The punch felt like slamming into a concrete block. The force of the impact spun me around, back down to the ground.
My lip was split, and my nose was trickling blood down onto the grimy concrete. In all my years, I had never been punched in the face before. My head throbbed, and I was seeing two of everything. I was dazed and it took a second for my eyes to refocus. When I could see straight again, my eyes fixed on a shiny silver blade gleaming in the moonlight.
It dawned on me that I had never really been scared before. Sure, I had been startled, or worried, or unnerved. I’m a wimp when it comes to scary movies. But I had never been in fear for my life before. Not like this.
For the first time in my life, I became painfully aware of my mortality. I wasn’t entirely sure that I was going to make it out of this alleyway alive. In fact, I was quite sure that I wasn’t.
Bancroft was punching and kicking and swinging at my attackers. But it wasn’t doing any good. His punches passed right through them. They hardly reacted at all—occasionally swatting, like a bug was buzzing around their ear. Nothing Bancroft could do would stop them.
The blade in front of my face was a large hunting knife. One edge was beveled and razor-sharp. The back edge was jagged. The knife was attached to a thick, meaty hand. The hand was attached to a thick, meaty forearm. That forearm was attached to a massive bicep and broad shoulder. A thick neck supported a square head. He reminded me of an ogre, only less attractive—if that’s even possible.
“Your money and your jewelry,” the blockhead’s gruff voice grumbled.
I nodded, but my body was shaking so much I don’t think it registered with him.
He said it again, “Your money and your jewelry.” His anger was brewing.
I handed him my purse, then pried the rings from my fingers. I dumped them into his massive palms.
“And the necklace,” he snarled, like I was trying to cheat him out of it.
I didn’t even think of the necklace as being jewelry. It was an extension of myself. It was something my father had given me for my ninth birthday. A sterling silver pentacle cradled within a decorative crescent moon. He told me the pentacle represented the four elements—earth, air, water, fire, and the spirit. The moon symbolized purity and strength. It was the only thing I had to remember him by.
I reached behind my neck and unclasped the pendant. I held it out to the blockhead, dangling from my fist. The pentacle swung back and forth, like a pendulum. The blockhead’s eyes were transfixed, following the motion of the pentacle.
The other goons circled around me. If all they wanted was my money and my jewelry, I’d consider myself lucky.
CHAPTER 15
I WAS SOMEWHERE between abject terror and utter despair. The five thugs lorded over me, like towers of doom. I thought for an instant that I might be able to mesmerize the savage brutes. But that proved to be wishful thinking. Though, it never hurts to wish.
The blockhead’s gaze was fixed on the pentacle for only a moment. Then he broke free of it’s magic. I lacked the power to keep him mesmerized, much less four other hoodlums. But something became clear—the pentacle, in itself, held an immense amount of power. I just needed to learn how to focus it.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen in the time frame at hand. The blockhead snatched the necklace from my grasp. The five thugs closed in. It was claustrophobic.
“Is this all you have?” one of the thugs said, rummaging through my purse. He wasn’t happy with my lack of funds.
I nodded.
The goon snarled. “You made me run all that way just for this?”
The alleyway reeked from the stench of the overflowing dumpsters. Paper and trash scraped across the concrete with the cool breeze. I heard a dog barking in the distance. Was this going to be the setting of my death?
The blockhead cranked his arm back, ready to punch me again. Another goon grabbed the blockhead’s wrist before he could spring his fist into action.
“Don’t ugly her up just yet,” the goon said. His ferocious eyes had a despicable glint in them. This was it. I was going to be beaten and left for dead in this alley—if I was lucky.
The night air was suddenly shattered with the thunderous blast of a shotgun. The muzzle flair flashed an amber glow across the slimy brick walls. The goons scattered quickly. At the mouth of the alley stood the man with the shotgun. He looked like a superhero, his muscular silhouette drenched in shadow. He marched toward me and extended his hand.
I clasped his hand and he pulled me from the ground. The details of his face became clear. It was the cab driver.
“I told you this was a bad neighborhood,” he said.
“I’m a little stubborn, sometimes,” I said. “I thought you weren’t coming back?”
“Well, it’s against my better judgement. But I seem to have a soft spot for wayward witches.”
My eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Your pendant gave off a lot of energy.”
I clasped my neck where my pendant once was. My face tightened with fret. I was lucky to be alive, but I sure didn’t want to lose that pendant. Besides it’s power, it held a lot of sentimental value. I scanned the ground, frantically. Much to my surprise, I found my purse, my rings, and my pentacle necklace. The goons dropped everything and ran when they heard the shotgun blast.
I snatched up my belongings and sighed with relief.
“We should get out of here,” the cabbie said. “Those thugs will be back, and with guns of their own.”
Bancroft and I climbed into the cab, and we drove off into the night.
“I should thank you for saving my life.”
“What were you doing out here anyway?” the cabbie asked.
I told him about the murder, the stolen merchandise, and the location spell. He thought about this for a moment. “Did you use a mirror for your location spell?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
He shook his head. “Rookie mistake. Don’t you have a mentor or anything?”
I shook my head. “I’m kind of on my own.”
“That’s dangerous. Magic isn’t something to dabble with lightly.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do,” he said. “It’s against the rules to practice magic without going through an apprenticeship.”
“Rules? What rules?”
“THE rules,” he said.
“Who makes these rules?”
“The League of Sorcery. How do you not know this?”
I shrugged. “My grandmother was a witch. But she passed away before she could really teach me anything. Besides, my mom wouldn’t let her.”
“The League of Sorcery is the governing body of witchcraft.”
“Why does witchcraft need a governing body?”
He looked at me, surprised that I was unaware. “Not everyone uses their talents for the greater good. Without the League of Sorcery, the world would be run amuck with black magic.”
“So, they are like the witch police?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The cabbie frowned. “It’s best not to run afoul of the League. They have a penchant for making problems disappear.”
“You mean, they make witches disappear?”
He nodded.
My heart jumped. I thought about all of the ill advised magic I had attempted in the past. It’s a wonder I didn’t break any of the rules. In fact, I probably did. But I had no idea what the rules of magic were.
I began to wo
nder about my father. I never believed that he would have abandoned us. But I always chalked that optimism up to me being young and naive. Not wanting to admit that he just didn’t love us anymore. Mom didn’t talk about it much, but the implication was that he left for another woman. But maybe he never left us at all? Maybe he was taken? Maybe the League of Sorcery made him disappear? But why?
“And how do you know all of this?” I asked.
“Let’s just say, I know my way around a spell or two.”
“So, you’re a wizard?”
“Retired, so to speak.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be retired,” I said.
“Politics,” he sighed. “The League started with good intentions. Over the years, they’ve become more corrupt. Focused on maintaining control and power.”
“So, they forced you to quit?”
“In a roundabout way.” He frowned. “Like I said, it’s best not to get crossways with them. One might end up in the Dark Nether.”
“What’s the Dark Nether?”
“You really don’t know anything, do you?”
“I know enough,” I said, defiantly.
“Then tell me why your location spell didn’t work?”
I wracked my brain for a moment, then shrugged.
“It did work,” he said. “You just didn’t know how to interpret what the mirror was showing to you.”
“Care to elaborate?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid that part of my life is all behind me.”
“So, if you are a,” I started. Then corrected myself. “If you were a wizard. Can you see my friend Bancroft?”
“Who’s Bancroft?”
“He’s with us right now,” I said. “He’s dead.”
“I don’t like to think of myself as dead,” Bancroft said. “I prefer the phrase on another plain of existence.”
“Excuse me, on another plain of existence,” I said.
Bancroft smiled.
“You can see the dead?” asked the cabbie.
Bancroft rolled his eyes.
“Only Bancroft,” I said.
“Unusual,” the cabbie murmured.
