Magic City

by Paula Guran

  The bell over the door rings and the dogs start barking. I look up to see Jeremy strolling in, his hoodie pulled up underneath his County Animal Shelter jumpsuit. “Hey there, Malou. So where’s that golden you say isn’t a golden?”

  I point at Goneril, who now looks every inch the golden, at least out of the corner of my eye. “Here. Hey, what’s the word they use for a witch’s cat?”

  “Um, ‘familiar,’ I think?”

  I snap my fingers. “Thanks, that was driving me nuts.” He leans down and scratches Goneril behind the ear. Her glamour stays firmly put. She edges away from him and bares her teeth. I can only see it underneath the glamour, though. The golden retriever part of her is still panting happily.

  This is the guy that put me in the cage.

  I position my fingers over the keyboard again.

  Goneril is the most unusual and yet familiar animal we’ve ever had here at our kennel. She’s definitely far more than she appears to be at first glance! A retired service dog, she’s beautifully trained. It’s almost like she can communicate with you. She requires an extraordinary owner who can attend to her unique needs. If you can help Goneril, please respond ASAP. Time is of the essence!

  There. That’s the best I can do. Maybe any witch who happens upon this listing will take note of the unusual name and the word familiar and read between the lines.

  But though I’ll never tell Goneril, the chance that a witch will come looking for an animal on our website is pretty slim.

  “You’re a real cutie,” Jeremy is saying. “How could someone dump you on the side of the road, huh, girl?”

  I wasn’t left on the side of the road. Goneril’s tail thumps in indignation. My master would never leave me.

  Jeremy leans on the desk. “So, what’re you doing tonight, Malou? Couple kids from school are going into town to see that new spy movie. Any interest?”

  I put a checkmark next to “housebroken” and another next to “good with kids” on the Web form. “No thanks,” I say. “My dad and I are going to go see that next time he comes home.”

  Jeremy gives me a skeptical glance. “Think it’ll still be out then?”

  I raise my eyes to his over the top of the monitor. “What are you getting at, Jeremy?”

  He steps back, his hands up in surrender. “Nothing. I just hadn’t heard any news about him coming home soon.”

  “Well, he is,” I snap. Lordy, I sound like Goneril, whining about her stupid master. My dad’s job takes him away from home a lot. It’s not his fault he doesn’t get back much, and that when he does, he’s always really busy with Carson and Cynthia.

  After all, Carson’s a baby. And a boy. He needs his daddy far more than I do.

  “Whatever you say.” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “So why you asking about witches?”

  “Know where I can find some?”

  He grins. “Does your stepmother count?” He does a little drumroll against the desk. “Ba dum bum ching!”

  Goneril paws at my leg. Malou, is your stepmother a witch? Is that why you can touch my glamour? Did she teach you?

  I roll my eyes. “No. What she is starts with a b.”

  Jeremy grins wider. If he got rid of that scraggly soul patch, I’d almost think he was cute.

  Suddenly Goneril starts hacking away.

  “Got a hairball, pup?” Jeremy asks, but I’m horrified.

  Beneath the glamour, I can see she’s in real distress. There’s bile and pus trailing from her mouth, and her limbs are shaking and seizing.

  I scoop her up and carry her back to her crate as she shudders in my arms, gasping for breath. “Here, have some water.” But when I set her down, her paws buckle beneath her. She lies on her side, panting, her eyes rolling up in her head.

  “Is she choking?” Jeremy appears over my shoulder. “She looks okay to me.” Why can’t he see through the glamour like I can?

  “Shh, it’s okay,” I say softly, stroking her flank.

  Master, Goneril sobs. Master, where are you? I didn’t mean to lose you. Please come back. Please, Master.

  I bite my lip and look away.

  Jeremy looks at me and back to Goneril. “Do you think she’s sick? Is that an infection on her belly? Want me to call the emergency vet?”

  No vets. Goneril gives my hand a pathetic little swipe with her tongue. I need my master.

  Or a witch. How in the world am I going to find this poor dog a witch? I hate her master. If he didn’t want her anymore, couldn’t he have just taken her spells off while she slept? Let her die in her home?

  “She’ll be okay,” I say to Jeremy. “I put some ointment on that scrape. I think it was just a hairball, like you said.”

  Jeremy clucks his tongue. “Poor girl.” He’s quiet for a moment as I stroke Goneril, who’s still trembling. “You know, Malou, we don’t have to go to the movies.”

  “Huh?” Of course we don’t. I wonder where witches go.

  Renaissance Faires? Magic shops? Is there a solstice or something coming up soon?

  “We could do something else,” he’s saying now. “If you wanted.”

  I look up at him. “A farmers’ market.”

  Jeremy’s eyes widen. “Really?”

  “Yeah. They have them in town on Sundays, right?” Witches might go to something like that. They need to buy . . . herbs and stuff. For potions.

  “Um . . . yeah. You want to go to a farmers’ market?” His tone is incredulous.

  “I want to hold an adoption event there,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Why does he sound so down about the idea? Jeremy loves organizing those things. “Okay. I guess I’ll see if my boss can get us some space. And the banner. How many dogs you think you want to bring?”

  “Three or four.” And Goneril will be one of them. “Thanks, Jeremy,” I say, returning my attention to the sick dog. “You’re the best.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t hear him leave, because in my head, Goneril is crying for her master.

  By Sunday morning she’s a mess. I sit outside the shelter with my four chosen dogs, waiting for Jeremy to swing by with his van.

  Aside from Goneril, I picked an adorable adolescent beagle, a tan hound with sad eyes and a wiggly butt, and a glossy black spaniel mix I think would be perfect for a young family. Aside from Goneril, they’re gorgeous, well socialized, and eminently adoptable. They’re all wearing bright yellow vests with ADOPT ME! printed on them in blue letters. The three normal dogs are straining at their leashes, excited to be part of our outing.

  Goneril is lying on the ground, getting mud on her vest and occasionally letting out a wheezing gasp.

  I’m worried about her. She still hasn’t eaten, and this morning her water bowl was filled to the brim. There was blood on the blanket in her kennel, and she limps as she walks. I wonder what Jeremy will see when he looks at her. Even if I can find a witch at the farmers’ market, will they be willing to fix her master’s broken spells and make her well again?

  Jeremy pulls round with the van and we load the dogs into the waiting crates. He’s brought along two tortoiseshell kittens, a Rottweiler I just know he’s going to try to pawn off on our shelter if any of my charges get adopted, and a terrier puppy I bet gets snatched up first out of all of them.

  “This one?” he asks as I lift Goneril gingerly into her crate.

  “You sure?”

  Goneril’s glamour is looking raggedy again. “You were the one who said she was such a good adoption candidate.” My tone is sharp, and Jeremy just sucks air in between his teeth and finishes fastening the straps to hold the crates in place.

  Most of the dogs nap on the way, but Goneril sleeps fitfully, whimpering out loud and calling out for her master in a way that breaks my heart.

  “Where did you find that golden again?” I ask Jeremy.

  He shrugs. “Out wandering the highway. Another dumped dog. Wonder why—she seems well trained. Came right over to me.”

  She was probably hoping h
e’d take her back to her master.

  “Bet it was some yuppies who didn’t want her after they had kids.” Jeremy’s voice hisses as he speaks. That’s a common excuse, and this is a common game of ours—theorizing about the cavalier actions of our rescue dogs’ former owners.

  “Maybe it was someone who lost his home and couldn’t afford to keep his dog,” I suggest. Much as I hate Goneril’s old master, I can’t help but think he must have been in dire straits to give up on a companion of thirty years.

  “Maybe he was sick and couldn’t keep her,” Jeremy replies.

  “Maybe the dog is sick,” I say. “Maybe she has a terminal illness and he couldn’t handle the vet bills.”

  Jeremy gives me a look. “Maybe you shouldn’t take her to an adoption event until we have a vet check her out.”

  “Too late now,” I mumble. He’s right, of course. Libby would never allow this—it’s completely against shelter policy to put a sick dog up for adoption. But Goneril doesn’t need to be adopted—she just needs to find a witch to fix her spells. Like, now.

  The drive into town is about forty-five minutes, and once we’re there we set up shop near the end of a row of vegetable and plant peddlers. Across the aisle from us, someone is selling hand-dyed silk scarves. She’s got one wrapped around her head like a fortune-teller. If I’m going to find Goneril a witch, this is the spot. Jeremy sets out the portable dog run and we put a few chew toys and pallets inside. Most of the dogs are happy to stretch their legs and bound around the enclosure, wagging their tails and barking hello at passersby. Goneril slumps, panting hard. Beneath the glamour, I can see that her eyes are clouded over with cataracts. She’s frothing at the mouth a bit—it’s pink, which makes me think she’s coughing up blood again.

  I set down a water dish in front of her. “Are you all right?”

  She leans hard against my hand for a moment. This is day three.

  “I know. Don’t worry. We’ll find someone who can help you.” I scratch her behind the ears, and her hair comes off in my hands. She’s nearly bald now.

  She leans against me even harder. I wish . . . I just wish I could see my master one more time before I die. I miss him so.

  “You’re not going to die,” I lie.

  I remember when I first became his. She closes her eyes for a moment and her tongue lolls out of the corner of her mouth. I was just a puppy. Looked a lot more like my glamour, all golden and beautiful.

  She’s not white, I realize with a start. She’s just older than most dogs ever get a chance to become. I’ve seen old dogs with white muzzles. Goneril had gone entirely white.

  “Just rest,” I tell her. “And let me know if you . . . feel any witches nearby.”

  They’ll feel me—they’ll notice my glamour. But I can’t sense anyone but my master.

  If her master dares show his face here after what he did, he’ll need all his magic to protect himself from me.

  Jeremy and I take our stations. He mans the enclosure, answering questions about the dogs, while I take the beagle for a stroll, distributing brochures and keeping an eye out for anyone who looks particularly witchy.

  Problem is, I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. Flowing clothing? A pointed hat? A magic wand? I stop one lady in black with dangly crystal earrings and try to talk her into checking out our dogs, but she insists she’s allergic to all animals. I approach a dude trailing a cart piled high with herbs in pots, only to discover he’s a horticulture professor at the local college.

  Maybe we should have tried a Renaissance Faire after all.

  Halfway through the market, I return to the booth to switch places with Jeremy, who’s grinning.

  “I got the golden to buck up,” he says proudly.

  I look over at Goneril. She’s not exactly bouncy, but she is sitting calmly on a sheepskin pallet near the front of the enclosure, observing the crowd. “How?”

  “Picked her up a pig’s ear from the butcher three booths down.” Jeremy tugs on the string of my jacket. “You can pay me back later.”

  And then off he goes, armed with a stack of brochures about animal rescue, and the roly-poly terrier. The beagle I was trotting around decides to snooze under my chair.

  “Do you feel better?” I ask Goneril.

  A little. At least I’ll die with a good last meal.

  Maybe she was just starving. Maybe all this talk about dying without her master is some kind of doggy hypochondria.

  Goneril looks over the other dogs. The poor Rottweiler is standing right at the border of the enclosure, offering a pathetic paw to every person who pauses (and probably freaking a good half of them out). The spaniel is demonstrating her best “roll over” technique.

  “Do you know any tricks?”

  Like parlor tricks?

  “Um, sure.”

  She yawns. I can cast a sacred circle, of course. I can go invisible for short periods, especially during the full moon. Let’s see . . . I can read divination bones. My master made me learn to keep me from eating them—

  “I mean, can you shake or catch Frisbees or roll over?”

  She crosses her front paws. Well, of course. But where’s the difficulty in that?

  Talking dog or not, sometimes trying to communicate with Goneril is very frustrating. “Wait, can you really go invisible?”

  Goneril flickers out of existence for an instant, like the air above a hot road. I can usually go longer, but . . . I’m not feeling up to it right now.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Save your strength.”

  But even that show of her magic appears to be too much for Goneril, since another coughing fit overtakes her a few minutes later.

  A young woman looks up from where she’s filling out an application for the beagle. “What’s wrong with that dog?” she asks, pointing her pen at Goneril in suspicion. “Is she sick? Are you trying to pawn off sick dogs on us?”

  “No!” I cry, rushing to Goneril’s side. “I think she just ate something . . . ” But it’s no use. As I watch, tiny cracks begin to shimmer on the surface of Goneril’s glamour. They branch and multiply before my eyes, and within moments the whole thing disintegrates like a dried-up leaf. The pretty golden retriever is gone, and in its place is the balding white dog, rheumy and shuddering.

  The woman gasps and drops her clipboard. A few people look over to see what’s causing the commotion in the enclosure.

  I throw a spare blanket over Goneril’s back as the crowd looks on in dismay. Some ask questions, but I’m focused on the sound of Goneril wheezing beneath the blanket. I ignore the people crowding around until Jeremy returns, a look of concern painted across his face.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “You’re right,” I say to him. “She’s sick. We’ve got to get her out of here.” I keep her covered up as much as possible, but Jeremy still looks suspicious.

  We can’t leave, Malou, Goneril is protesting weakly from beneath the blanket. I need to find a witch. I need one now or I’ll die for sure.

  “We should take her to the vet,” Jeremy says. “What if it’s catching? I can’t let the other dogs get sick.”

  I nod enthusiastically. “Yes, okay. Whatever, let’s just get out of here.”

  Goneril’s too weak to walk, so I wrap her securely in the blanket and carry her back to the car. We load up the crates again and I climb into the front seat, resting the sick dog as gently as I can in my lap. As we head toward the highway, Jeremy can’t stop casting glances at the bundle in my arms. “She looks . . . weird. What if it’s some kind of canine Ebola or something?”

  I give him a dirty look. “It’s not Ebola. And, might I remind you, you were the one who brought her to me.”

  There’s an accident near the on-ramp, so we’re forced to detour through town to the next highway entrance. I honestly don’t know if Goneril’s going to make it back to the shelter.

  Her breath is shallow and wheezy, and she’s trembling all over.

  The dogs in the
back are awake but quiet. When I look over my shoulder they are staring at Goneril through their cage doors, their eyes glowing with unspoken knowledge. Is this what it’s like at the county shelter—all the dogs in their cages, staring at one another in full awareness as the clock ticks down toward their deadlines?

  Master, please. I was such a good dog for you. Where did you go?

  I bend my head low and whisper comforting words into her ears. Oh, how I wish I was a witch and could fix all her spells. I’d adopt her right now, and my stepmother could just shove it.

  At the next stoplight, Jeremy dares to look over again.

  “Malou, it’s okay.”

  That’s when I realize I’m crying. “It’s not fair,” I say softly. “This poor dog never did anything, and now she’s being left alone to die among strangers . . . ” I look away and wipe the tears from my eyes.

  Jeremy’s hand is warm on my shoulder. His touch slides down my arm, and then he wraps his fingers around mine and squeezes tight. “You did the right thing,” he says. “You tried your hardest. It’s not your fault if people are jerks.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s nothing you can do if they don’t realize what they have.”

  I meet his eyes. “You don’t understand. This dog is really special.”

  “I understand she’s really special to you. And that’s enough for me.”

  I blink the tears out of my eyes and look at Jeremy again.

  Really look at him, forgetting for a moment the stupid scraggly facial hair and that grin he likes to wear when he’s teasing me. I said once that Jeremy’s a tough sell when it comes to saving animals, but he arranged this whole event on a moment’s notice because I asked him to. He calls about dogs he thinks will fit at the shelter as soon as he can because he knows I hate how quickly they put them down at county.

  “Hey, Jeremy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you go see that movie last night?”

  He tightens his grip on the wheel and looks out over the dash. “No.”

  “Want to go see it with me next weekend?”

  He smiles for real this time—not his teasing grin, but a real smile. “Okay,” he says as the light turns green. He starts to put his foot on the accelerator again, and that’s when Goneril goes nuts.