Heist

by Kezzy Sparks

  Glimpsing around farther outside the case, I don’t see students or researchers in lab coats with microscopes at hand. What I catch rather is a curious litany of objects, some looking like wands of a sort, plus some vials containing liquids and powders. All of them are contained in a big black bag that suspiciously reminds me of witches’ type. The most alarming thing, however, is that there is a human finger at the bottom of the bag.

  This isn’t great. A witch went before me and made a score. Or could it be that someone who works in the lab keeps with them a magic bag, and then they just went down to the freezers to pick up the thing. No, that’s not very likely. So what is it?

  Honestly, it’s bad, but there is nothing I can do, save to abort the trip and sleep. The séance has come to nothing.

  Sixty-seven

  Many hours earlier, prior to Mel’s reveal, The Mage has collected her loot and left the receptionist and guard at the Woodsman speechless. She then does something she hasn’t done in a long while: walk to the library at Lafayette Square to spend a good part of her day in there. Like an apprentice, she searches for magic books and piles several tomes onto her desk.

  She wants to check on a host of things, but most important is to research on that thing closest to her heart: that flying broom contraption. She studies intensely, but the unfortunate result is that what she tried at home is exactly what needs to be done, and so there can’t be any improvement to what she already attained. The earth is spoiled, its lands and waters defiled, and some things with mighty magical potential are never going to come back, confirms the tomes.

  It’s that bad, but she at least is able to rise ten feet on her broom, and that should cause jaws to drop because nobody else can do it.

  The Fiends said they want real magical substance though, and so she must continue questing for other things that might wow an audience. She reads some more but again discovers that most of the recipes for spells and charms are the same as she already knows. Nonetheless she does come across a few tantalizing obscurities and is able to copy those.

  The time to make her entry at the address she has been given is no earlier than ten, but not after midnight—and so just before five, when warnings are sounded that the library doors are to close, she still has lots of time to idle.

  She leaves and jumps onto a bus, the Genesee line. Most busses on this route are headed to the airport, but she will get off at Union. As she goes, it’s great fun to achieve what she failed to do that night she neutered Casey: ride in transit with his genitals in a case in her bag. No one on here smells them, just like the librarians and book readers she came across at Lafayette didn’t.

  “Fuck The Breaker, fuck Casey, this is now my thing.”

  After getting off at Union, she walks down to the Crooked Uncle and sits down with some juice before ordering her dinner. In no way can the Breaker ever dream The Mage is here. And even if she does, The Mage has the poltergeist spell to activate if needed.

  She sips her juice and takes bites from a plate. Apart from the barman and some of the waitresses she remembers from that epic Monday night, the only interesting person she sees is Casey. He comes in holding the hand of a young blonde who has a band on her finger. No need for introductions there—that is Megan. The two never stay for long; they pick up two takeout bags and then slip out, but about that, The Mage isn’t surprised. Neither of them is prepared to stand this noisy place with its drunk, horny patrons. Worse for Casey, without a dick in his pants, and parading this sexy blonde—he can’t trust what could happen with all those other guys present.

  Her bag with the heist is right on the table, and none of the star-cursed nonlovers picks a thing. Privacy is an honored thing in America, as everywhere else pretty much, and you just don’t go about looking into people’s bags. And human eyes are only what they are—they don’t see through cloth. How nice.

  “Pieces of shit.” The Mage swears as she sees them leave.

  It’s lucky that they found her in a slightly forgiving mood. Otherwise had it been another time, she would have cast a spell that caused all the single men in here to start hitting on Megan, flaunting their prowess.

  How great are things for some people and bad for others. Life certainly isn’t going to be kind to that pair. Their fate is sealed; they are going to break up. Because the secret behind any successful marriage is obvious: a good penis, and Casey doesn’t have one.

  ***

  Later when it’s almost ten, and the Crooked is now packed since today is a Saturday, The Mage thinks it’s time to go. The Fiends beckon and reinvention time is here. She calls an Uber. Fred would have been happy to take her to Eden, but she still doesn’t want him to know.

  The ride that comes is a small Suzuki SUV driven by a woman in a blue dress and purple hat. The Mage hops in with her broom, which apparently all this while at the bar had been magically disguised into a walking cane, and that’s what everyone saw. Now there is no need to hide it.

  As they race down the I-90, her hopes rise, and anticipation fills her. What is it going to be like in her new witching home? Are they going to open new doors?

  Soon enough, they have left Buffalo proper, and one after another are hitting the small outlying rural communities. Forty minutes later, they arrive in Eden and turn off the highway. She watches out for the road signs and not long after, they reach Madonna.

  “This is it,” says the driver, coming to a halt.

  An unknown feeling spreads through The Mage as she gets out. She peers at the house bearing the address. An unusual hum is sounding, and the ground seems to shake under her feet. She ignores it for a bit, and then says bye to the Uber woman, who speeds off.

  She stares at the house again. The hum doesn’t stop, and then she realizes it. Wards! That home is a great magical fortress, protected in all sorts of exotic ways.

  “It’s nice if it’s like that,” she says, because Guillermo’s poltergeist spell will wane soon, and she will need to remain protected.

  The Mage cradles her bag in one arm, clutches her broom in another, and starts to cross. The hum increases for a bit, but when she reaches the porch it fades, and then starts again even more loudly when she reaches over to knock. The temperature around her rises, too, and then she remembers something important. The hum is a warning, and she was told to give a sign. She raises her hands as though in surrender, then she utters the magic code in the form of a Quimglich chant.

  Right away, the sound dies, and the heat dissipates. And in a moment she has realized it: the ward type that behaves in this way is the Hellfire! Anais must be a great witch if she can install those. That kind can literally throw fire around and burn an enemy.

  “Come right in,” says a youngish man who opens the door. “You are The Mage, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Serge, nice to meet you.” He offers her his hand.

  Suitably so, Serge doesn’t offer to help hold The Mage’s broom or bag. He is well trained—you try never to touch another person’s magical things.

  A short hallway leads into a very large living room. A few people, middle aged men and women, sit on couches. On one end of the room is a square table, ornate, with four grand chairs. Two women, witches by what they wear, sit on one side while next to them is a big man who looks out of place. He doesn’t ooze any magic power of any sort. He wears a shiny black shirt with a red tie, and projects more the image of a regular but pompous businessman.

  The witch in the middle is truly mystical and radiates a feisty and unrelenting authority. She must be Anais, the grand dame of the Fiends. The other sorceress seated to her left exudes lesser power and, agewise, might be in her midfifties.

  Awed, The Mage waves to them at their table, and the three nod to her their acknowledgement. She soon is whisked to another room.

  This new one is smaller. There are only three people inside, and judging by the relative uneasiness on their faces, they must also be mages looking to be inducted into the Fiends. Two are female and the
third is male.

  “We wait in here,” says Serge, the young man. “By the way, I am a trainee warlock.” He introduces himself further.

  The door isn’t closed all the way, and a gray owl flies in, then out, then back in. It hovers in the air focusing its dark liquid eyes at The Mage.

  “A familiar,” says the young man, but The Mage can already tell this. “She is only here to greet you.”

  As he says that, the owl hoots freakishly.

  “Her name is Missie.”

  While everyone else smiles or gives a wave, The Mage doesn’t. A pain is rippling through her as she remembers her felines and Ratan, the three great ones who are never to come back. “Damn The Breaker,” she rages silently. When she settles in this coven, she shall raise a small army to go and attack her.

  Oblivious to her thoughts, Serge continues. “While we are in here, crew, why don’t I regale you with the history of our great sect.”

  With much flourish, he goes on to tell about the Fiends formation, going way back to the New England of the mid-seventeenth century. “We survived intact the purges of 1692 to ’93.” He speaks of America’s famous witch trials of Salem, Massachusetts. “We soldiered on despite the setbacks that time plagued us with.”

  It’s a nice story to listen to, but The Mage is more interested in the surroundings. This Anais witch must be very powerful. A finely distributed magic power hangs on the ceiling, almost like a fine dust. She noticed this in the living room, and it’s also present in here, and wait, there is some on the walls, too.

  Soon, however, it’s time to go and make presentations to the gurus at the high table. The Mage’s heart pumps a bit, how is she going to fare? If she fails, it means going back to Savage Road, and she doesn’t want that.

  “I want you to impress,” Serge says. “But one word of caution,” he goes on. “Magic to us is not just an art or a calling, but a road to real wealth and fame. Indeed I tell you, our coven is the undoubted leader when it comes to using the dark powers to build huge bank accounts. So whatever you do to charm us, show how that can be turned into cash.”

  The Mage thinks with a little trepidation. Will that broom trick she so much worked on be enough? It’s beginning to look like it might not, but then something crops up. She has a backup: that little business of two weeks ago, one she wanted to do before she got raided by The Boss and the client. DB4R—Dick and Balls For Rent. Yes, that might do.

  First to go into the big room is the male wizard, and then he is followed by one of the females. Serge doesn’t permit them to watch what one prospect is doing to win admission, and he closes the door tight.

  The third turn is The Mage’s. Will she be able to make the kind of splash that leads to money like the Fiend maestros want? Her heart jumps to her throat for an instant. She can’t ever remember a day when she had to stand before a panel and get judged.

  Not much later, she is then ushered back into the living room. All eyes are on her.

  “Yey, what have we got here?” a male voice booms from the head table. It’s the businessman’s.

  The Mage flicks him a glance, no longer wondering what he is needed for. Young Serge said something very telling about this cult—magic must equal money.

  Introductions are properly made. The fearsome witch in the middle is confirmed to be Anais Jones. “It’s better you call me Anarchy,” she says.

  The older witch to Anais’s left is named Pegi, and the businessman simply likes to be called The Partner.

  Nervously, The Mage soaks in Pegi’s welcoming smiles. The older witch has a rather gentle exterior but could be hiding a caustic and unforgiving underlayer that one might be better advised to be cautious of.

  “What’s your name?” Pegi asks.

  “I am The Mage.”

  “No, you can’t say that,” Anarchy retorts. “All of us in here are mages, except for this esteemed gentleman.” She indicates at The Partner. “We need a more specific name.”

  The Mage winks defiantly, and to the surprise of everyone, the panel relents by lowering their gazes.

  It’s left again to The Partner to break more ice. He ogles the broom she clutches, and his lips quirk up. “Never seen that—oh did you bring us a little mop?”

  All others in the room guffaw. The Mage hates it when people with no magical abilities make sick jokes of her like that, but she hides her rage and is ready to get ahead with her act. She whispers an incantation, and her broom sails up into the air. She jumps onto it and sits. She could take it higher, but then her head would hit the ceiling. Jaws drop. Literally.

  “Fantastic,” says Pegi.

  “Phenomenal,” exclaims The Partner.

  Anarchy’s black eyes go wide, glazed with admiration. Serge gasps and starts to clap.

  “Very nice,” Anarchy says finally. “Where did you learn that?”

  Before The Mage can respond The Partner interjects. “Is that something our coven could make much money out of, though?” His tone is unmistakably commercial. “Certainly not without further enhancement, I imagine. Anything else, please?”

  The Mage ignores him. Pumped up instead, she goes for a bigger hit. She reaches into her bag and grabs at the little finger, which with a little choreography she throws toward the table, and it lands with a plop. The digit immediately twitches as it touches the wood.

  The Mage watches as the reactions come in: horror cascading on young Serge’s face, and his stumbling as he tries to run away. The Partner exhaling sharply, and then his jaws locking to leave his mouth open like a cave. Pegi shivering and clutching her jaw.

  “Really extraordinary.” Anarchy, whose body visibly shakes, gives a pum-pum at last. “You scare me. Truly, you are The Mage.”

  Still seated on her suspended broom, The Mage readies to deliver the final blow. She digs again into her bag, and then she retrieves the monogrammed brown case. Her rapt audience wonders. She throws the case onto the table.

  “Open, I say.” Her voice assumes a commanding tone.

  Not used to being given instructions, Anarchy opens. Her fingers suddenly snap back as she glimpses the contents. She almost falls out of her chair.

  On seeing the same, too, The Partner jerks his head back and hits the drywall with a thud. He winces from the pain and shock.

  Serves you right, Partner, The Mage whispers to the air.

  Pegi sits frozen, momentarily unable to move. However, much to her credit, she is first to release a big sigh and then recovers. She places her hand on the phallus. “Ah, it’s alive and hot, Jove,” she cries out.

  “Yes, it’s alive,” says The Mage. “Very, very, much alive.”

  Sixty-eight

  My sleep after the reveal is at first troubled and full of nightmares, but as the hours elapse, and I tell myself there will be another break, I calmly fall into a real slumber. The minutes pass by quietly to become hours, yet as fate would have it, I am jarred awake by a call at sunrise.

  Who is this?

  Hopeless as I am, my mind first grasps at the idea that someone at the research center found the case and is now calling me to come and get it. It’s a happy fantasy that immediately sets me on fire—and I would like to hold on to it for long—but common sense dictates that I must confirm who this actual caller is.

  Surprise, it’s the pet shelter place. I wonder why they would phone me on a Sunday morning like this.

  “Melanie is that you?” a man with a youthful voice asks.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “You have to know what happened. We put down one of your pets.”

  Well, he is talking of The Mage’s familiars that we ended up depositing at that place. Now he calls them my pets; how ironic: me, owning things so evil like that?

  “What did they do?” I ask.

  “They killed a puppy, imagine, and started to eat it.”

  “Jesus, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s nasty, and we had to take action.” The young man sounds needlessly apologetic.

  �
��I don’t blame you,” I reply for lack of anything better.

  This is all Zed’s fault. The main reason I had temporarily spared those felines was to help me trap The Mage when she would walk into the Alcatraz. And then another, though minor, reason was that I could study them in order to gain a better understanding of how evil magic operates. Surely it’d never been my intention to nurture evil at all.

  “Are you still there?” the young man prompts.

  “Yes, I am,” I say bewildered.

  “We have had to let the other one go,” he adds. “Your pets are too violent, especially at night.”

  He sends me pictures of the gutted dog. The puppy must have been an English mastiff, with straw-colored fur and a much darker muzzle—a cute abandoned thing it was. The way it’s torn up reminds me of those cows of Dayton’s that were mauled by that gator familiar from Butch’s farm. The puppy’s guts are ripped and eaten. Bloody bones show where the flesh has been chewed off with razor-sharp teeth. Strangely, I am also reminded of the bites on that warlock in Medina who called himself The Boss.

  I learn a big lesson: things of black magic should never be kept.

  For that reason, I make up my mind that I will destroy everything of The Mage’s, starting with the demon I left tied to that tree. After that, I will go to her house and smash anything magical I can find there. I now believe I can tackle her on my own since she is weakened. And I can arrest her, too, if the situation permits.

  That last thought—of succeeding to bring the evil Mage to court—powers me up, and I pack my Pendle wand into my tote. Unfortunately however, there is one procedural hurdle that stops me in my tracks: all that I intend on is better done at night.

  I, therefore, must wait.