True Magic

by Colin Sims

  “This is gonna look weird,” she cautioned, before pressing the key into the wood. It disappeared as if it had just entered an invisible lock, and then she turned it. A door-sized rectangle opened in the H, and there—on the other side—was not a view of the LA basin. Instead, there was a crowded city street.

  My concerns about hallucinations returned.

  “It’s a backdoor,” Cassie explained. “They’re all over the city, but this one’s special, hence the BPI guard. That’s Washington, D.C., on the other side. You can walk through it. It’s totally fine.”

  I stared a moment with a pinched face. “What do you mean, ‘walk through it?’” I said.

  “I mean walk through it. It’s a door.”

  “And then I’ll be in DC?”

  “Yep.”

  I stared a moment longer. “Do you wanna go first?”

  Cassie shook her head. “Can’t,” she said. “You’re not magic. If I go through first you won’t be able to follow.”

  “Won’t people freak out when they see me?” I asked.

  “Why would they freak out?”

  “I’ll be appearing out of nowhere,” I said.

  “Oh, that. No, to them it will look like you’re walking out of a Coffee Bean.”

  “A Coffee Bean?”

  “I mean, if you had a cup in your hand it would help, but no one’s going to care.” She looked at her watch. It had a high-tech, sci-fi look to it. “Come on,” she said. “You have that interview thing in a couple hours, right?”

  Somehow, staring into a magical portal in the “H” of the Hollywood Sign made me forget all about my future with Goodman, Sachs & Morgenstern. I’d been stressing for weeks about the prospect of sitting down to a formal interview with Meagan’s dad, yet now, the guy seemed far less intimidating.

  “So I just step through it?” I asked.

  “Just step through it,” Cassie said.

  So I did. It was like fifth grade when I jumped off the high dive for the first time. I closed my eyes, counted to three and stepped into oblivion. The next thing I knew, I was standing on Constitution Avenue, staring at the Capitol Mall.

  “See?” Cassie appeared beside me. “Nothing to it. Now we have to go through another one. It’s this way.”

  She started walking and I trotted to catch up. I couldn’t stop looking in every direction like a freshly arrived tourist. “Where?” I asked.

  “Up there.” She pointed. “We have to use the entrance to that giant phallus at the heart of your capital.”

  “The Washington Monument? Are all the backdoors inside major landmarks or something?”

  “Just the special ones,” she said. “It makes it so security people can stand around and it doesn’t look weird.”

  I accepted that with a shrug and followed her across the street. I’d never seen Washington, D.C., before. It was a crazy-looking place—really spread out and solid. All the buildings looked historical, with monumental buildings of brick and limestone. Plus, the weather was terrific. It was a bright spring afternoon that fell right in the sweet spot between winter and summer. And this—combined with the fact that we were trotting across the Capitol Mall—was the most likely reason for all the tourists. They were everywhere and stuck out like a thousand sore thumbs. Which brings me to a point I’ve never fully understood. Why is it that when Americans travel—whether at home or abroad—they feel a powerful compulsion to dress like dorks? I don’t mean that to sound harsh or anything—I’m not exactly a paragon of fashion myself—but you know exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve all seen it. I mean, I assume most of these people—whether they’re from Cleveland or Boston or Sacramento—don’t wear these clothes when they’re back home. Only when traveling do they break out the pleated khaki shorts, the Mickey Mouse fanny packs, the pastel-colored hats and the oversized orange polo shirts. Why?

  Anyway, that’s what everyone looked like who was waiting outside the monument. I also saw a foot patrol cop ambling nearby and wondered if he was an automaton. He looked like a normal guy on the outside, but I found myself wondering if there were a bunch of gears and springs on the inside.

  Cassie then broke my reverie when she informed me that I was staring and that my feet had stopped moving. I stammered an apology and followed her as she skipped to the front of the line.

  No sooner than she did, than a middle-aged guy with socks up to his knees got angry. At that point, Cassie did something I’ll never forget. She turned to him, her eyes glowing purple, and said, “You are not angry that I am cutting in line,” and he repeated dumbly, “I am not angry that you are cutting in line.”

  “You are happy about it,” she said.

  “I am happy about it,” he repeated.

  “And you will lose those socks.”

  “I will lose these socks.”

  She smiled and motioned for me to follow. I paused, though, and waved my hand in front of the guy’s face. He didn’t react.

  “And these are not the droids you’re looking for,” I said.

  Cassie grabbed my arm and pulled me to an employees only door. “That’s mean,” she giggled. “He’s gonna be totally confused now. Anyway, this is it. There’s a really scary-looking guard on the other side, but don’t worry. You’re fine if you’re with me.”

  “I still don’t know where we’re going,” I said.

  She looked at me and said, “To find out who you are,” and then turned the key.

  The door opened to a small, drab room with a gated elevator on the far wall. Beside it stood an old man in a starched conductor’s uniform of red and navy with brass buttons and white gloves.

  Some “scary guard,” I thought and stepped inside.

  Cassie followed and closed the door behind her. The moment it clicked shut, the old man gained an extra two feet in height, his head became a ball of blue fire and his uniform transformed into an oversized suit of medieval armor, complete with a six-foot greatsword. He also sprouted wings made of solid flame. I’ll admit … he was a little scary.

  “Hi George,” Cassie said, and pressed the button for the elevator.

  George didn’t say anything.

  In a weird way, he reminded me of one of those British Royal Guards who don’t react no matter what you do—unless of course you do something bad and then you suddenly realize they have guns.

  Once we were safely inside the elevator, I asked, “George?”

  Cassie shrugged. “I just call him that to give him personality. He’s … not from around here.”

  “What is he?” I asked.

  She gave me a hesitant look. “You’ll get the wrong idea if I tell you.”

  “The wrong idea?” I said. “In the past twelve hours I’ve been chased by vampire spawn, rescued by a succubus, and traveled through a mystical portal in the Hollywood Sign. I can take it.”

  “It wasn’t a ‘portal,’” she scoffed. “You went through a backdoor. Totally different. But fine. He’s a Guardian Angel.”

  “You mean like from Heaven?”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “See? I told you you’d get the wrong idea. There’s no such thing as ‘Heaven.’ Don’t be a weirdo. He comes from an Eternal Plane. Anyway, I don’t know much more than that. I don’t really study that kind of stuff.”

  “What stuff?” I asked.

  “Wizard stuff.”

  The elevator traveled a solid mile underground—at least it felt like it did—before it finally stopped. Cassie opened the grated doors with a squeaky lever. “This is it,” she announced. “Welcome to the Supernatural Intelligence Agency. SIA for short. Obviously.”

  When I stepped out, I figured I’d traveled through a time warp to the era of World War II. A large open space stretched in front of us, cluttered with old wooden desks piled with antique equipment. And by antique equipment, I mean typewriters, rotary telephones, clunky radios and men wearing tailored, three-piece suits. The walls were lined with the type of old doors you see in P.I. movies with a square of wa
vy glass and some guy’s name written on it. The ceiling was made of solid concrete and supported by regular columns made of brick. Altogether, the place had the feel of a bunker. (Or—in an example that hits closer to home—the terrifyingly old-fashioned dentist office my parents used to drag me to as a kid.)

  “The Supernatural what?” I said after a pause.

  “Intelligence Agency,” Cassie said. “This isn’t the headquarters, though. That’s in London. This is just the American Office. My boss works here.”

  She led me out of the main room and down a long hallway. I noticed absently that all the doors on either side were closed and I couldn’t hear a peep coming from any of them. That’s weird, right? I mean, I don’t have a lot of experience in office buildings, but wouldn’t you expect to see at least a few doors open—maybe with some guy chatting in the doorway holding a coffee or something?

  Cassie stopped in front of a door labeled:

  Agent Thomas J. Rosewood

  Deputy Assistant Director of Protective Services

  She knocked twice and I heard the clinking of multiple locks and deadbolts coming undone. The door swung open and Cassie skipped inside.

  “Hey boss!” she chirped happily, letting me follow behind her.

  I don’t know why, but I expected the office to look messy for some reason. I thought there would be stacks of papers everywhere, open file folders, dog-eared books and maybe one of those wooden globes that hides a liquor cabinet inside. Instead, the room had the scholarly opulence of a royal library. Everything was polished oak, mahogany and fine leather. Bookshelves that required a ladder lined the walls, while plush sitting chairs with emerald reading lamps dotted the immense floor space. At the far end was a large, ornately carved desk fit for a king. Behind it sat a man I assumed was Agent Thomas J. Rosewood. He wore a finely tailored three-piece suit like everyone else we’d seen, yet somehow he wore it better. It fit him more naturally—like he was the man who had designed the original and everyone else was a copycat. Or … he was British.

  Which he was.

  “Ah. Cassandra!” He slapped his desk before bounding to his feet.

  I put him somewhere in his mid-fifties with soft features and grey hair. He had a breezy, cheerful demeanor that made me think of Santa Claus. I liked him instantly.

  Cassie seemed to have similar feelings and bounded over to give him a hug.

  “My dear girl,” he said as he squeezed her. “How are you?”

  “Everything went great,” she said, pulling back to admire his suit. “Have you put on some weight?”

  “Ha! At my age it’s a losing battle, I’m afraid. By this time next year, you’ll have to roll me into this office.” He stole his eyes from her a moment to look at me. “And who’s this?”

  Cassie skipped over and pulled me closer. “This is François Lemieux,” she said. “He’s why I came to see you.” She turned to me. “François, this is my boss, Agent Rosewood.”

  Rosewood put out a hand. “Delighted,” he said, giving me a firm shake. “Any friend of my dear Cassandra is a friend of mine.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced around and added, “You have a really nice office.”

  “Oh, this place?” He frowned and waved a hand around the room. “It is a silly contrivance of magic, I assure you. Truth is, I always fancied myself a bit of an old-fashioned chap, you see, so I built it like this. It’s modeled on an actual room in Buckingham Palace.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, but I nodded. “It’s really nice,” I said.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you. Come. Sit.” He motioned to a pair of chairs opposite his desk. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said, taking a seat.

  I realized that this was my first encounter with a real life English person. And even though we were at the Supernatural Intelligence Agency, he was—somewhat disappointingly—more Downton Abbey than James Bond. Still, there was just something about that polished accent that immediately made me want to imitate it. For example, notice how I told him, “Oh, no thank you?” I wouldn’t usually say “oh” like that. But now I rather feared it was only the beginning …

  “So it’s kind of a weird story,” Cassie began, and grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the desk. “I’d just finished the thing in Tokyo when Greta called me.”

  “Greta, you say?” Rosewood perked up. The name seemed to shock him.

  “It was definitely her,” Cassie went on. “She told me I had to find François Lemieux in Los Angeles. She told me where he lived and then to keep him close until it was no longer necessary. And that was it. She didn’t say anything else.”

  Rosewood gasped. “She called you out of the blue? How did you manage to find him?”

  “He showed up on my GPS.”

  “Hmm. Very unusual. Did you notice anything odd, or perhaps out of place?”

  Cassie shot me a wary look. “Well, three vampettes were about to make a meal out of him …”

  Rosewood blanched and wheeled on me with wide eyes. “Dear me! Are you alright, François?”

  “They bit me a few times, but I feel okay.”

  For the past hour, I’d been indulging in a panic-inducing thought that at any second I was going to turn into a “vampette” myself. I was hoping Rosewood might assure me otherwise.

  “Oh, not to worry,” he said. “It’s not like the cinema, it’s not contagious. It takes a full vampire and a long, tedious process to make another one. Still. Nasty business. I do apologize.”

  “He did really well,” Cassie said. “Most non-magic people wouldn’t have lasted five seconds.”

  Rosewood nodded in agreement. “I should say so. Very impressive, François.”

  “I owe it all to the Toasted Walnut,” I said.

  He stopped, suddenly bemused. “Toasted what?”

  I gulped. “I feel stupid for saying that out loud. It’s my car. It’s brown. Or it was brown. It’s gone now.”

  He frowned a second longer in confusion and then shrugged. “Well the important thing is that you are safe and sound. Now, Cassandra,”—he turned to her—“vampire spawn do not operate on their own, you know. They had orders. Did Greta say anything—anything at all—about who might wish to harm François?”

  She shook her head. “She just said to keep him close and hung up. It was weird. She’s usually cryptic, but not that cryptic.”

  I raised my hand. (Yes. I felt very stupid after I did it.) “Who’s Greta?” I asked.

  For the briefest moment, there was a pause—like Cassie and Rosewood were wondering if they should tell me the truth.

  Rosewood spoke first. “Greta,” he said, “is an astrologer.”

  “An astrologer?”

  Cassie leaned over. “Real astrologers are no joke. When one of them tells you something, you listen. They’re super rare and can actually see the future—something even the greatest wizards can’t do.”

  “Not for a lack of trying.” Rosewood smiled sheepishly. “I dare say I’ve tried it once or twice myself. It is quite difficult.”

  I turned to Cassie. “And she told you to come find me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  She gave me a look. It lasted for a couple seconds until a cartoon light bulb suddenly appeared over my head and I snapped my fingers. “Yep. Stupid question. That’s why we’re here. Got it.”

  “There’s something else,” she said, turning back to Rosewood. “When I took him back to his apartment, I tried a basic enchantment, but it didn’t work.”

  Rosewood turned on me again and furrowed his brow. “Hm. Unusual, yes,” he said. “And I trust you were fully focused while casting the spell?”

  “A hundred percent,” Cassie said a little defensively.

  “In that case, there is but one thing I can think of.” Rosewood stood and made his way around the desk. “François, if you’d be so kind as to permit me, I’d like to try a little experiment.”

  “What
kind of experiment?”

  “Oh, it’s quite harmless, I assure you. But if I am correct, you will most certainly thank me.”

  “Trust him,” Cassie said. “He’s the best.”

  “I’m not sure about all that.” Rosewood grinned. “But I try my hardest. Now, François, you’re going to see a little ‘ball of light’ in my hand and I’m going to throw it at you. Don’t be alarmed. You might feel a bit of an odd tingle, but that’s all quite ordinary.”

  I noticed that my back was pressed firmly against the chair. What kind of “ball of light?” I wondered. And what “tingle?”

  Truth be told, I’d had just about enough magic for one day. Yet for some reason, in certain situations, you can’t just say “no.” It’s awkward. Plain and simple. So instead, you mutter something like, “ … yeah … okay, sure.”

  “Very good,” Rosewood said and gave a curt nod. He held out a fist and opened it face up. A ball of light—about the size of a softball—hovered a couple inches above his palm. It was bright, but not blinding, and had a tinge of blue to it. “Now hold still,” he said with a firmer tone. He then flicked his wrist and the ball shot at me like a bullet. I didn’t even see it. I also didn’t feel a thing. There was no tingling at all.

  “Just as I suspected!” Rosewood declared. “Marvelous!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You have been hexed, my boy!”

  “Hexed?” My back pressed tighter to the chair. “Is that like cursed?”

  “Oh heavens, no! A hex can be a good thing, it all depends on its nature, you see? Now if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say this hex has been with you a very long time. Perhaps since birth. Extraordinary.”

  “What does it do?”

  “If my suspicions are correct,” he said. “It is designed to shield you from the uncanny. No magic, of any sort, will work when applied to your person. That is why Cassandra’s enchantment wouldn’t work. I also suspect this gave you a terrific advantage against those devilish vampire spawn. None of their strength could affect you. It undoubtedly saved your life.”

  “That’s why he was so heavy!” Cassie blurted. “I knew there was something weird going on!”