Something Wicked

by Robin Moray

  Walter gave him a placid look, wiping the counter down with one hand. "How old are you now, Kevin?"

  "Uh, twenty-two? And a half."

  "We still counting halves, then?" Walter smiled, and Kevin made a face. "Young man like you needs to be doing, not just reading. Reading's good too, of course, but I always figured you for a doer. Maybe it's time you tried something new."

  It was an appealing thought. Only, Kevin had no idea what there was to do. "I'm a bit old for a summer job," he grumbled.

  "Oh, I'm sure you're too old for everything," Walter said mildly, leaving Kevin feeling sort of ridiculous. He was rescued then by a customer coming in, stealing Walter's attention.

  Kevin looked up. The man on the threshold was a stranger, and—

  Holy shit.

  If Kevin hadn't been on the look-out for a warlock he'd still have known something was up, because something very obviously was. On a mundane level, he was a stern-faced stranger with short blond hair and a bit of gingery beard, dressed in a neat black button-down and light khakis, his matching coat tailored to fit. He was about Artemis' age but more Kevin's height, and he filled out his shirt and coat in a way that made Kevin's gut tingle with interest, or maybe just appreciation.

  But the overlay of magic, through which Kevin saw everything if he wasn't concentrating on not seeing it, told a different story. The stranger was exhausted, his aura dark with it, and where most people had a vague background level of magic constantly misting on their skin this stranger felt … dry. Not blank, not like when Bella showed him the mask she used to hide her magic in a crowd, and not empty like a dead thing, just sort of dry, like a sponge ready to absorb the slightest bit of liquid at a moment's notice. And Kevin could feel it tug on his own magic, just a little, as the man approached.

  The warlock.

  For a moment he resisted, but then he made himself relax. He could pass for normal, right? The little magic he had shouldn't draw anyone's attention—other witches, when he met them, always seemed so surprised someone as weak as him would even bother. So if he pretended he was nothing special then the warlock would have no reason to … whatever it was he did.

  Not a witch, not a witch, he told himself, just a guy eating lunch. Definitely not a witch.

  "Welcome to Haversham," Walter said cheerfully.

  The stranger hesitated, but then—"Good day. Am I so obviously alien?" Kevin wasn't prepared for the accent, clipped and precise and completely unfair.

  Walter chuckled. "Well, I don't know about alien, but I sure don't remember seeing your face in here before. Can I get you a coffee?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Take a seat."

  When Walter turned away, the stranger pulled out a stool two seats down the counter. Holy shit. This close Kevin could definitely feel the warlock's draw on his magic, just evaporating it away. It felt natural to dig in his heels against it, but he forced himself to just let it go, pretend it wasn't happening. When he didn't resist he found that the sensation wasn't all bad, a dull sort of ache but more the ache of the day after lifting too many boxes than an actual injury, a low burn rather than a scald.

  Kevin tried not to stare, concentrated on his sandwich, definitely didn't do anything witchy. He finished his lunch, left money on the counter, and escaped before the stranger had time to order.

  "Artie," he whispered into his phone, glancing over his shoulder as he made his way down the main street and back to the shop. "He's here."

  His brother sounded distracted. "Who is?"

  "You know who!" For the love of God, sometimes Artemis could be willfully dense.

  "Voldemort?"

  Kevin rolled his eyes, ducking into the shop and peeking back out through the doorway. A couple of elderly ladies from the Rotary club waved at him from the street; he waved back, forcing a weak smile and hoping none of them took it into their heads to come over and ask him questions about things. "Yes, I meant Voldemort, that's exactly who I meant, Artie!"

  There was a pause. "Do you mean the warlock?" There was a thud, and some unidentified rustling noises that Kevin refused to feel concerned about. "What's he doing right now? Can he hear you?"

  "He's eating lunch, and no, I left. He's at Walter's. I went back to the shop."

  "And you're sure he's the warlock? Or 'a' warlock, I suppose, there could be more than one."

  Kevin groaned. "For fuck's sake, you're saying that now?" He backed up behind the counter, rummaging around for the stone-with-a-hole-in-it Bella had left in the stationary tray. "I'm pretty sure he's a warlock, because his aura's all … menacing. He was sucking up my magic, sort of, passively I think."

  "Did he see you?"

  "Don't think so."

  "Did he say anything?"

  "Not anything useful," Kevin said, tucking the stone into a pocket for luck; it wasn't much of a protection but it made him feel better all the same.

  Artemis went ominously quiet, and then he said, "I think you should go back and spy on him."

  "What?"

  "No, listen," and Artemis dropped his voice, as though afraid of someone overhearing. Which meant Bella, so Kevin braced himself for whatever it was Artemis was going to say that he didn't want Bella to know about. "He didn't react to you, did he?"

  " … no."

  "So he doesn't suspect anything. So you can get away with it, Kevin, you know you can."

  "You don't know he doesn't suspect anything," Kevin argued. "Maybe he's just biding his time. Look, I think I'd better—" but at that moment a shadow fell across the front door and then it opened, jangling the bell.

  Kevin's mouth went dry. Oh shit.

  It was him, blinking in the dim light of the shop, with a take-away soup-cup in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He looked up, made eye contact, and Kevin felt the air knocked right out of his lungs. Good God. His eyes were brown, almost amber, and when he looked it felt like they could see all the way into Kevin's brain. And then he smiled, just a little, seeming faintly embarrassed, and Kevin couldn't quite wrap his head around that.

  "Kevin? Are you there?"

  Kevin cleared his throat. "I'll call you back," he said. He didn't hang up, though, just turned the speaker down as low as it could go and put his phone face-down on the counter. Better safe than sorry.

  The warlock looked … not harmless, not with that cloudy aura hanging off him like smoke. Contained, maybe, as if there was more to him than this, and 'this' was just a mask to hide behind.

  "Good afternoon," he said and Kevin had to close his mouth. Shit, he was gorgeous. Tired to the bone, and the enemy, Kevin reminded himself, but that was a mouth made to be kissed, and at the thought Kevin felt the back of his neck go hot. Oh no.

  Kevin swallowed, tried not to look like an idiot. Or a witch, either, best to remember that. "Hi," he said, acutely aware of his heart hammering behind his ribs.

  The stranger—the warlock, Kevin reminded himself—let his mouth twitch up at one side into something wry. Still kissable, dammit. "I take it you don't get many visitors to Haversham."

  He spoke so clearly, so precise. The accent was cheating. "Um," Kevin said, eloquently, and followed that up with, "well, everyone knows everyone here, pretty much.

  "So I see." He glanced back over his shoulder at the shop window signage. "Are you one of the 'Messrs. Mallory'? If indeed they exist?"

  Kevin found himself blushing even harder. "I … guess, technically I am. I mean, the original ones are dead, but now …" Okay, Kevin, you should shut up right about now. "I mean," and he held out his hand, suddenly hoping it wasn't sweaty, "I'm Kevin Mallory. It's only partly my shop, so … yeah."

  The warlock tucked his paper bag into a pocket and took Kevin's hand easily, as if it wasn't a big deal, but at the moment of contact Kevin was jolted by the sudden shock of skin against his skin. Witches were pretty touchy people, he knew that, but only really with people they knew well because the interference of other people's auras tended to irritate until your own aura had shifted
to accomodate. So Kevin, as per usual, was the one who had to make nice with the locals, shake hands, hug old ladies. He was fine with it. Normal people's auras were dim enough and he was himself so insensitive to them that it barely registered anymore.

  But now? Instead of the uncomfortable teeth-on-edge buzz of a strange aura this just snapped into place. It felt magnetic, somehow, as if he were a pile of paper clips and the warlock was a magnet, and on contact all his paperclips just rearranged themselves to suit.

  The warlock didn't seem to notice, just shook (firm but not an asshole about it), and said, "Peter Sloane. How do you do?"

  Kevin almost said, 'good, thanks,' before he remembered that wasn't how you were supposed to do it. "How do you do?" he said instead, and the almost-smile he got in return was like a tiny reward. Achievement unlocked!

  He realized he should let go of the stranger's hand, so he did, and managed not to wipe his own hand immediately on his jeans. That would be rude.

  "Uh … you're in town for …" but Kevin couldn't think of anything. He blanked, but his mouth was still open, so he said, "Books?" and in retrospect that was probably better than the alternatives.

  It seemed right enough; the warlock made a sound that could have almost been a laugh, on another planet in another dimension. "Not primarily, I'm afraid. I'm writing a book. About folklore and superstition. The gentleman in the tuck shop suggested you might be able to help me."

  Kevin supposed it must be his cover story and, also, that he didn't suspect Kevin of anything, after all. The relief was staggering. "Oh! Okay. We've got books on that, but, you know, nothing you'd need to drive all the way out here for."

  "Actually, I'm researching." Peter, placed a hand palm-down on the counter and Kevin was struck by how strong it was, how elegant the fingers, how much he wanted to touch it again. Whoa. No. Do not touch the warlock. Do not be weird. "I'm interested in local stories, and places that have stories attached to them. Standing stones, old gallows-sites. Anywhere people say is haunted. That sort of thing."

  God, Kevin could listen to him talk all day, words all picked out precise like he was in some movie with butlers in it. Kevin dragged his attention back, blinking as the words sunk in. Oh, yeah, that was a good cover. Because then he could wander all over the place, and no-one would even—

  Sometimes Kevin felt as though magic just reached out and tapped his brain with a little magical inspiration. And sometimes he thought magic was messing with him for its own weird entertainment. Right now, though, it seemed obvious what he had to do.

  "Yeah, I could," Kevin told him, leaning on the counter and wondering how he should do this. "If you need someone to, um. If you wanted," and he made a vague gesture, suddenly too awkward to finish.

  It earned him a small but unmistakable smile, along with the quizzical raise of eyebrows. Should eyebrows be that attractive? Kevin had no idea. "I'm not sure what you're offering. If, indeed, anything."

  "I could show you around." Kevin licked his lips, immediately wished he hadn't, and shrugged his shoulders, trying to play it off though he knew it was far too late. "I know all the ghost stories. I mean, all the best ones."

  Peter seemed amused. "Oh? I was going to ask if I could purchase a map."

  "We don't have any maps," Kevin lied. "Sold out. Sorry, it's supernatural tour guide or nothing."

  For a moment the warlock examined him. Kevin did his best to look like an idiot (easy) rather than a witch (also easy, given everything) and it must have worked because in the end Peter relaxed, mouth curving into that almost-but-not-quite-a-smile. "All right. I accept. When are you free?"

  "Um … after five? Or, do you want to go during the day? I'm free tomorrow." That was another lie, but he could close the shop on a Friday, no biggie.

  Peter shrugged. "Today is fine. Five, then?"

  "Sure! Great! I … it'll be great."

  "I'm sure it will," he said and then, after Kevin's awkward goodbye, he left, presumably to eat his lunch.

  As soon as he was gone—"Uuuuaaaaaaaugh!" Kevin moaned, dropping his forehead onto the counter and banging it a little. That had been the worst flirting ever. He moped a bit, until the tinny sound of shouting reminded him that his phone was still connected. He picked it up. "Hey! Did you hear all that?"

  "Kevin. Agrippa. Mallory." Uh oh. That definitely wasn't his brother. "What on earth have you done?"

  Chapter 3

  "It's not a big deal," Kevin argued, but Bella wouldn't let him finish.

  "Where are you taking him? Why are you taking him anyplace?"

  "I thought the Quarry. I mean, it's got ghosts. Then up to the Point?"

  "The Point?" He heard her voice drop and then the ominous sound of tapping, her fingernails drumming on a surface. "Are you taking the warlock on a date?"

  He tried to sound nonchalant. "I'm just showing him around. I'm spying." Then, traitorously, "Artie suggested it."

  "I'll deal with Artie," she growled, and Kevin winced because, well, she probably would too. "But even so! 'Spying' means finding out where they're staying, what they're doing, Kevin …" She sighed, and he felt her exasperation down the line. "You're not a honey-pot!"

  "And he's not a bear," Kevin countered. "So, it's fine. Anyway, I'll be back later, don't worry."

  "Oh! You …" She went muffled and distant. "Artie, you talk some sense into him."

  Then Artemis came on, prim as a school teacher. "Well. That went badly."

  "You didn't have to give Bella the phone."

  "She took it. Anyway, I meant with the warlock. I have to agree with Bella. It's not safe for you to go with him. Or, really to stay there," he added, in the tight 'I'm an actual adult' voice he used when telling Kevin what to do. "I don't think we ought to keep the shop open. Unless Bella sets wards, and she's busy right now."

  Kevin blew out a breath, suddenly frustrated. "I'm not closing the shop."

  "It's not as though we ever sell anything," Artemis argued, but that wasn't the point. If they closed up the shop people would ask questions, would ask Kevin questions, would want to know if he were all right or ill or sad or, oh, maybe just incredibly irresponsible. And all that aside, if he closed the shop he'd have nothing to do except hang around the house all day, watching his brother be brilliant and enduring the weight of his sister's endless concern.

  "I'm not doing it," he said firmly. "Bella can come set wards if she wants."

  "Kevin—"

  "No! You can't make me."

  Artemis made an exasperated sound. "Don't be a brat."

  "Oh, fuck off."

  Kevin hung up. Artemis was such a tool. Just because he was the oldest, just because he knew everything except, oh, anything actually useful, he thought he got to lord it over Kevin like a, a tyrant.

  Well, screw him, and everything, and—

  He felt it just before it happened; magical build-up in the air, then a sound like a branch breaking, and the copy of the Secret History he had open face-down on the counter suddenly burst into flame.

  Oh, great. Putting it out was easy, just a deep breath and some concentration, but it was so embarrassing. Artemis would have been all disappointed sighs and, "I thought we were past this," and, "this is why we can't let you out on your own."

  Plus, he'd been enjoying that book. Now it smelled like a cook-out.

  His phone buzzed. He had a text from Bella: stay put I'll come set you wards any cake?

  He texted back: No cake, bring your own

  Ok see you soon

  And when she got here, he realized, the first thing she'd see was the charred book, and she'd know. And then she'd sigh at him. And probably ruffle his hair.

  "Ugh!" He flopped forward onto the counter, head hitting the surface with a satisfying 'thunk'. And, of course, there was a warlock hanging about, ruining everyone's lives.

  Well, at least it sounded like Bella was bringing cake.

  * * *

  Perhaps because she was a much better person than Kevin ever gave her cr
edit for, Bella didn't mention the smell of burnt book. She also brought a big bit of Devil's Food Cake from the Ladies' Rotarian Auxiliary stall down by the church.

  "Artie's driving me crazy," she said instead, rummaging in a drawer for a fork that she handed over with gleeful triumph.

  She pulled the other stool out from under the counter, dusted it off, and plonked herself down onto it. Her hair was big today, tight curls in a dark cloud around her head. It made her look angelic, he thought, completely innocent. Which was nonsense, of course, because she wasn't at all.

  "He's covered the walls of the living room in diagrams, and he keeps talking to himself. Something about resonant frequencies. I don't know. Anyway, I've set up dormant wards all over town, all the way up to the Point. If anyone tries to—"

  This time they both felt the change in pressure, had a moment to stare at one another (Kevin dropped the fork) and then it hit like a giant hammer.

  Boom.

  It was, objectively, weaker than the first time, and instead of three strikes there was just the one, but the world still shook like a gong.

  "Holy shit!" Kevin scrambled off his stool, attempting to drag Bella down under the counter. Bella refused to be dragged, though, stubborn as stone, and even though she was clutching her temple as though her head were bursting she kept her feet, holding her other hand out to test the gleaming threads of her ward-net as it flared to life.

  "Link with me," she said, so he did, and the sudden hyper-awareness made him reel.

  Bella did … something. Kevin tried to follow it, but all he caught was the twist of the wards as she pulled on them, and then an awareness of distance, and—

  "The Ash Grove," they said together, because of course.

  "Lock up," Bella added, grabbing her purse. "I'll call Artie."

  * * *

  Peter sighed, cracking open his soup and inhaling the rich savoury scent of tomato and basil that covered the artificial-flower smell of his bland motel room. Oh, it was good. He sipped it, enjoying the wholesome flavour. Much better than he could have expected from a canteen in the middle of nowhere. But, perhaps, he was being horribly imperial, judging the country against the failings of the cities here. Still, the soup was better than he had any right to expect, delicious in fact, and he was grateful for it.