Enchanted, Inc.

by Shanna Swendson

  “You’d think I would have noticed one of these things,” I said as we swooped up Broadway.

  “How often do you look up?” he asked. He had a point. That had been part of the safety lecture Marcia and Gemma gave me when I first moved here, and since I knew they weren’t trying to scare me away from the city, I’d listened. Staring up at the skyscrapers was a sure way to brand yourself as a tourist and was an open invitation to pickpockets. No matter how much I wanted to gawk at all the tall buildings, I forced myself to keep my eyes straight ahead.

  “We also have designated routes to take,” he continued. “That lowers the chances of anyone seeing us.” Once I got him started by asking a question, he talked nonstop through the rest of the journey, telling me about all the retailers who’d tried to pull one over on him. The way he talked, you’d think he didn’t even need a verifier. We came to a stop on the Upper East Side, in a neighborhood that looked pretty ritzy. Once we’d both climbed off the carpet, Selwyn rolled it up, tucked it under his arm, and led the way to a gift store.

  It was the kind of place that sells cards for every occasion, gift wrap, and things classified as “gifts” because they had no other discernible purpose. But this store had a rack labeled “Special Occasion Cards” in which there were items that didn’t quite look like greeting cards.

  They were shrink-wrapped booklets with labels on the front, grouped under headings like Household Spells, Transportation, Workplace Convenience, and Masking Illusions. So, that’s what a spell looked like on the market. Selwyn had me read all the headers off to him, and he nodded. “Okay, looks like they’re in good shape. There isn’t anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, just anything different. Anything that doesn’t look like it belongs.” He didn’t look me in the eye as he said this, which made me wonder what was going on.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Everything has a similar look to it, like it’s all from the same company.”

  “Good. Good.” He looked more relieved than seemed reasonable in that situation, but after a moment he got the same blandly pleasant salesman’s look on his face and pulled a notepad and pen out of his pocket. “Give me a count of what’s in each category.”

  I noticed that the pen wrote the numbers without any help from him, and that made me lose count in the Household Spells category. Just as I was finishing the last category, a woman came from around the cash register and said, “Selwyn! What brings you here?”

  “Madeline, you’re lovelier than ever,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand. “I’m just making sure you have everything you need.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about everything,” she said with a saucy wink, “but I’m well stocked on spells. The subway summoner is doing particularly well. I may need a restock on that one soon.”

  While they talked I looked around the store to see if there was anything else that should be out of place in a small gift shop, but it all looked pretty normal to me, mostly ceramic cat sculptures and candle holders shaped like angels. Once Selwyn and I were back outside, he shook the rug out until it hovered in place and we climbed on for the trip back to the office.

  “Do you really get cheated that often, or are you people just paranoid by nature?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “It happens often enough that it’s wise to take measures.”

  “So, even though you have this no harm decree, magical people like to see what they can get away with?”

  He pointed a finger at me like he was firing a gun. “Bingo. Otherwise, what’s the fun of having this kind of power?”

  I had to admit that he had a point. If I were magical, what would I try to do? I might be tempted to adjust the expiration date on a grocery coupon or tinker with the bank’s computers so my rent check wouldn’t clear as quickly. There were times when I’d wished I could turn someone into a frog—like Mimi—or give the snooty popular girls a bad acne attack, but that probably fell into the category of doing harm. I winced at the thought. Did it make me a bad person that one of the few things I could think of using magic to do involved hurting someone else? Maybe it wouldn’t count if it was just a practical joke, something that wasn’t real, such as an illusion that would wear off in a few hours.

  Otherwise, there wasn’t much I could think of. I might get away with something, but my own conscience wouldn’t let me rest. I’d probably even run back to the grocery store to pay them the thirty cents I’d had taken off with the expired coupon so I could sleep at night. Unfortunately, I knew there were far too many normal people always out to see if they could beat the system. Why should it be that different for people who could do magic? The degree of paranoia certainly wasn’t a good sign. I’ve found that the most paranoid people are that way because they know what they’d do to others, given the chance.

  It was lunchtime when we made it back to the office. I got my lunch out of the refrigerator and ate while reading, making sure not to get crumbs on Owen’s books. The Camelot story was fascinating. I’d seen many versions of King Arthur’s story, but this was different. It was history rather than fable, supposedly, and instead of focusing on the feats of Arthur and his knights, it focused on the activities of Merlin, the king’s magician.

  While Arthur was forming his round table, Merlin was forming his own society, an organization of magicians dedicated to advancing and policing their craft. A footnote said this was the beginning of what was now known as the corporation Magic, Spells, and Illusions, Inc. That was cool. To think, I was working at a company founded by Merlin himself.

  With that revelation, I decided to put the history of magic on hold and read the company history Owen had sent. It picked up the story from Merlin’s time, telling how once the organization was established, he had gone into a deep sleep in a cave of crystal as a form of retirement. He was to be awakened when Arthur returned to lead a victorious Britain, or when the organization he founded had dire need of him.

  That triggered a memory in my brain. They’d talked about the big boss coming out of retirement because the company needed him. But that couldn’t be the same thing, could it? I switched over to the magical biography book and looked up Merlin. The book gave many forms of his name. The Welsh form was Myrddyn Emrys, which meant Emrys from Myrddyn. And that translated into modern English as Ambrose Mervyn. The name “Merlin” seemed to have something to do either with Latin or a mistranscription of the Welsh.

  “Holy cow,” I whispered to myself. It couldn’t be. He’d have to be more than a thousand years old, but I supposed it was possible that he didn’t age while he was in that cave. I remembered bits and pieces of conversations, his stating what his name was in modern English, as if that meant something, talking about the New World, adjusting to the bustle of the city.

  If Mr. Mervyn really was Merlin, it was a miracle he was coping as well as he was. I couldn’t imagine the difference between Britain in the Dark Ages and New York City today. Had they at least let him wake up in England before bringing him here, or had he awakened in the middle of Manhattan and found himself suddenly at the helm of a multinational corporation that bore little resemblance to the organization he’d founded?

  It was a measure of how my last couple of weeks had gone that I was more concerned with how he must be coping than I was startled by the revelation that I was working for the real Merlin.

  I read the rest of his biography. The last paragraph said, “Merlin was recently brought out of his cave to steer the company he founded through a challenging situation that threatens the very fabric of the magical community.” That sounded ominous, and far worse than dealing with a bad economy. You brought your founder and CEO out of retirement from his cottage in the Cotswolds or his cabin in Vermont for a bad economy or a corporate scandal. What would be so desperate that you’d revive an ancient and legendary enchanter from more than a millennium of magical slumber and bring him across an ocean to a world that must be as foreign to him as another planet? Whatever it was had to be bad, and tha
t could be the reason they were so paranoid and so badly in need of verifiers like me.

  I felt dizzy. I’d have breathed into my paper lunch sack if I didn’t think it would draw unnecessary attention from my coworkers. I couldn’t resist pinching my thigh under my table. Maybe I was stuck in a long, elaborately detailed dream. This sort of thing didn’t happen to me, Katie Chandler. My life had been so very, very normal—boring even—up to this point. I’d managed to make even a magical job seem ordinary, with the drab verification office that was as bad as any secretarial pool I’d seen during the desperate days of temping I’d gone through when I first got to New York. Only I could turn working at Magic Inc. into a dull nine-to-five job.

  They’d said repeatedly that verifiers were important to them, but what could someone like me possibly do in a situation bad enough to bring Merlin—the Merlin—out of a magical coma? I could run a small business and track the details of launching a marketing campaign. That was the extent of my skill base. If they were counting on my help, they were in bigger trouble than they realized.

  After the confusion came anger. They’d left out that minor detail about the challenging situation during the hiring process. It would be like getting a job and then finding out on your second day that the company and its executives were under federal investigation, the company had just filed for bankruptcy, and its pension fund had been drained.

  I needed to get to the bottom of this. I went back to the company history and flipped to the end. There were several blank pages at the back of the book. The last page with printing on it was only halfway complete. It mentioned the revival of Merlin and the challenging situation, but didn’t give a lot of details. I flipped a few pages before that and was just starting to read when Gregor called my name.

  “She’s on lunch,” Angie said before I could respond.

  I ignored her and said, “Yes, Gregor?” She stuck her tongue out at me and went back to eating her lunch.

  “Got a verification request for you, from R and D. They asked for you personally. You’ll be seeing Mr. Palmer.”

  Owen. I needed to have some words with him. I could see Rod trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but I expected more out of Owen. He’d acted so concerned about my well-being. How could he have let me take this job, knowing there was something going on, without telling me there might be trouble?

  I closed my book and stood up. “I’m on my way.” I noticed as I headed for the door that both Kim and Angie were glaring at me. Kim was probably jealous of me getting so close to someone whose star was clearly on the rise, while Angie envied my chance to cozy up to the hottie. I just hoped I had the chance to ask him about my discovery and get an explanation.

  I was worried about how I’d get through the door once I made it to R&D, since Rod had needed a code to get through it, but the door swung open as I approached. I headed back to Owen’s lair in Theoretical Magic. He wasn’t in the lab where I’d seen him before. Instead, I found him in his office, which was a snug room lined with books. It looked like the study out of an old English manor house. I had a sudden craving for hot tea and a good mystery novel.

  Owen sat behind the big wooden desk. Across from him sat a small, thin, nervous-looking man. Both men were intently studying a book that lay open on Owen’s desk. I rapped lightly on the doorframe, and both heads turned to look at me. Owen smiled immediately. Just the tips of his ears turned red, and he was cute enough to defuse some of my anger. “Katie! Come in. Have a seat.”

  I entered the office and perched on the edge of the big leather chair next to Owen’s guest. “What can I do for you today?” I asked.

  “Katie, I’d like you to meet Wiggram Bookbinder. He’s a rare book dealer who finds me most of my more esoteric resources. Wig, this is Katie Chandler, from our verification department. She’s an immune.”

  I shook the man’s hand, being careful not to squeeze too hard. His hand felt fragile, like the bones were barely held together. The man himself looked frail, swallowed by a faded black trench coat. Wisps of grizzled hair dotted his mostly bald head. There was more hair coming out of his ears than on his entire scalp. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “Likewise,” he replied, but his voice shook and he’d gone an ashy shade of pale. He certainly didn’t look like he was pleased to meet me.

  Owen folded his hands on top of his desk and said in a pleasant tone with a hint of ice behind it, “Now, Wig, is there anything you want to say to me before I ask Katie a question?”

  The little man went even paler. His lips were now a ghostly shade of blue. He shook his head vigorously, causing his ear hair to flutter.

  Owen then turned to me. “Katie, please take a look at the book on my desk and tell me what you see.”

  I stood up and moved over to his desk. The book was a giant tome, but it wasn’t like the obviously ancient, leather-bound books on the shelves that lined Owen’s office. It looked more like a modern hardcover. I closed the cover and found that it was just what I’d thought, only without the paper outer cover books are usually sold with. Then I checked the spine and couldn’t hold back a grin.

  “It’s a Tom Clancy novel, not his latest, but one from a few years back. I gave this one to my dad for Christmas that year.” I opened the book again and checked the copyright page. “It’s not even a first edition. You could get it used for about five bucks.”

  “Thank you, Katie.” Owen’s voice was frosty, and he didn’t take his eyes off Wig, who visibly trembled as he cowered in his chair. I suspected my task was complete, but since no one had dismissed me, I sat back in my chair to see what happened next. “That’s a very interesting assessment, considering that Mr. Bookbinder here just told me it was one of three remaining copies of a sixteenth-century Welsh codex, worth a lot more than five dollars. Very nice illusion, Wig. You certainly had me fooled. Fortunately, I had Katie here to help.”

  Owen’s voice remained pleasant and conversational, but it was the kind of pleasant that sounds menacing because it’s too calm for the situation. I could practically taste Wig’s fear, without me having a shred of magical talent. I could also sense the power behind Owen, and now I knew why he was considered such a rising star. It was a little scary, and also rather hot, even though I’ve never gone for the dangerous kind. He definitely didn’t fit the typical bad-boy mold that usually turns me off, not in those nice suits, though with his coloring I imagined he could work up a good scruffy look just by skipping a day of shaving. Did someone actually have to do bad things to be a bad boy, or was it all about the potential? If it was the potential that counted, then maybe it was the restraint that was so sexy, knowing that he could do something dangerous and powerful but had the restraint not to. If he had that kind of control in that area, then maybe it applied to other areas as well. I squirmed in my seat and hoped to high heaven that mind reading wasn’t one of his gifts. If it was, they could put the pair of us on the roof and use our red faces as beacons to warn off approaching aircraft.

  Owen shook his head in pity, and it looked like real pity, not the mock pity you show to someone you’re about to destroy. “You must be really desperate to take that risk. Surely you knew you’d be found out?”

  Wig opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out were gasps and stammers. I couldn’t make a single word out of all he said.

  “Now, what I find interesting is the fact that you were able to do such a solid, detailed illusion,” Owen continued. “That has to mean that you’ve actually seen a copy of this codex. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to make this up so well. You wouldn’t still happen to have that copy around, would you?”

  “Y-Y-Yes. I-I-I do.”

  Owen smiled. “I thought so. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have risked offering it to me. You know how much I need it, and you know I’ve been looking everywhere for it. You must have thought you could sell this illusion to me, then when the spell wore off, I’d be so eager to get my hands on the real book that I’d pay extra to get it. But thanks t
o Katie, we can skip that part. Give me the real book, Wiggram.” There was a hard edge to his last sentence that scared me, and I wasn’t the one he was mad at.

  Wiggram bent to the bulky canvas satchel at his feet and pulled out a book that was roughly the size and shape of the Tom Clancy book, but otherwise bore no resemblance. The cover was dark leather, worn smooth with the years, and the title was embossed in gold on the cover. I couldn’t read the lettering, for it was in a language I’d never seen before. He laid the book down on Owen’s desk, and Owen opened it and flipped through it, a look of awe on his face.

  The pages of this book were thick and uneven. It was obviously not a book made in mass quantities on a machine. It looked like it had been made by hand. Even the lettering looked like it was written by hand. The room already had a faint scent of old books, but this one had a stronger, older scent to it.

  “I think it’s the real deal,” I said to Owen softly, so I didn’t interrupt his inspection. “It’s obviously old, the cover is leather, and the pages are handwritten on uneven paper. I don’t know if it’s what you’re looking for, but it’s not a Tom Clancy novel.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment, then said, “I’ll pay your asking price, minus a thousand for trying to cheat me.”

  Wig nodded enthusiastically. “Y-Yes, sir, very good, sir, thank you. And please keep the novel as a gift. It’s a very good book.”

  “My dad liked it,” I put in.

  Owen nodded, not taking his eyes off his new toy. “Go down to Accounting. They’ll cut you a check. And, no, we won’t pay you in cash. For a transaction this large, we need a paper trail.”

  “Of course, sir, thank you.” Wiggram stood, collected his bag, then bowed to me and handed me a card. “Please keep me in mind for your rare book needs. I’ve also got a wide selection of nonmagical books.” I took the card, even though I doubted he’d have copies of any of the out-of-print romance novels I was looking for. He hurried out of the office like someone had set his coat on fire.