Black Magic (Black Records Book 1)

by Mark Feenstra

  “You going to see Lorelai?” asked Jess.

  I nodded.

  “Keep this,” she said, sliding the bill back across the table. “And let me pour you another for the road. On me, of course.”

  “On another day I might turn down a second drink before I’ve eaten dinner, but tonight I’ll gladly take you up on that offer.”

  Jess poured another two fingers of bourbon, and I slammed them back in one gulp. It wasn’t exactly top shelf liquor, but it burned with a sweet oakiness and left behind a hint of vanilla beneath the intensely alcoholic fire. Bourbon was a kind of magic itself, and I needed every bit of power it could lend me.

  I set the glass back on the counter, and looked at Jessica, trying to decide whether or not to ask for another. That road, however, led to a nasty hangover and no progress on learning who killed Norman. Instead, I gritted my teeth and walked out of the bar.

  “Good luck,” called Jessica as I pulled open the door.

  I thought I heard the sound of Eddie’s laughter cut short by the door swinging shut behind me, but it might have been my imagination.

  Chapter Three

  I couldn’t have been in the bar for more than twenty minutes, yet somehow it was pouring rain when I stepped outside again. Since I’d never taken up the habit of carrying an umbrella — or for that matter, of wearing appropriate waterproof jackets — I could only flip the collar of my thin, but adorable, black trench coat up around my neck. With luck, I’d find shelter before getting too soaked to dry out. Sticking to the cover of shop awnings jutting out over the sidewalk, I hurried up the street in search of the nearest bus stop on a route that would take me where I wanted to go.

  Or, more specifically, where I had no choice but to go. As sketchy and unreliable as she was, Lorelai was my only real lead. I didn’t know what else to do but follow it. Even if she’d had nothing to do with the murder, there was every chance she might know something about who was involved. After my last run in with Lorelai, I’d asked around a little, and I’d learned I’d been lucky to get away from her as intact as I had. Turns out she had a reputation that included a primal and insatiable hunger for power. If there was a new and desirable magic artifact in town, she could be just the kind of person to have an ear out for who might have acquired it.

  Nine other people already stood under the cover of the glass bus shelter, waiting sullenly for a notoriously late cross-town bus. Packed as it was, I had no choice but to cram in next to the cluster of people edging away from a lady smoking just inside the edge of the shelter. She made half-assed attempts to blow the smoke out into the rain, but most of it just drifted back into the stale air of the shelter where it hovered around our heads.

  My stomach was already a little riled up from pouring bourbon onto little more than an energy bar, and the noxious fumes from the lady’s cigarette only added to the creeping nausea triggered by my anxiety over seeking out Lorelai. I normally reserved the use of magic for important things, since every little spell took some kind of toll on me, but this woman was getting on my last nerve. It was hardly our fault she thought it was okay to annoy the hell out of everyone else because she couldn’t go fifteen minutes without lighting up.

  It’s hard to explain exactly how magic works. The closest example might be inflating your lungs when you breathe, or activating the muscles in your arm in order to lift something. It’s similar in the sense that there’s no obvious process your brain follows in order to make those things happen, but at the same time it’s completely different in that magic isn’t something you grow up with an innate ability to control. You have to learn how to channel and shape it, much like a child learns to walk or speak. Working with internal magic is less like counting to ten for the first time as a toddler, and more like memorizing Pi to a million digits.

  Or maybe a better way to describe the use of magic is that it’s like trying to play a game of chess while falling from a plane at over a hundred miles per hour. The pieces are flying everywhere around you, and you’ve got to put them in just the right order so you can win the game and open your parachute before splattering all over the ground. Similarly, if you mess up a powerful enough magic spell, you’ll make hitting the ground without a parachute look like a pleasant way to die.

  I’ve also been told it’s different for everyone. For me, it’s a warm fuzzy feeling in my stomach that coalesces into a sensation of intermingled extreme hot and cold rippling along my skin when I focus energy and send it out of my body. I have to bend all of my will towards executing a magical act in a very precise manner, with only a razor thin margin for disastrous error.

  As complicated as the process is, years of practice had taught me to background most of it. I could do something like cause a large stream of water to run the wrong way up the slope of a bus shelter before sliding off the edge to blow directly into the face of an overly entitled smoker. There was no wiggling of fingers or swishing of magic wands — only focused energy bent to my will through equal parts concentration and natural instinct.

  The woman gasped and staggered backwards. Her limp cigarette fell from her fingers as she tried to escape the last of the splash that somehow followed her deeper under the cover of the shelter. Try as she might, she couldn’t scurry away fast enough. The water simply bent inwards as though being projected from a hose.

  Allowing myself a smug smile, I reached into my pocket and fished out another licorice chew. Someone made a move for the sidewalk, and I peered out in time to see the bus veering into the stop. One by one, we stepped up and onto the bus, flashing passes or swiping cards over the scanner. I often thought about buying a car, but there was the slight issue of me not having nearly enough money to buy even a cheap one. Oh, and the minor detail of my not technically having a driver’s license.

  Thus relegated to a life on public transit, I swung my backpack around to the front of my body and continued the awkward shuffle to the back of the bus to make room for those trying to cram in behind us. As full as it was, the bus was hot and steamy from all the bodies and wet passengers, windows fogged and offering only a fuzzy blurred version of the lights flashing by outside.

  Swaying back and forth in an undignified mass of humanity, I did my best to hold onto the railing to keep from feeling too carsick. Even with the windows cracked open, the air was thick and cloying. The smell of stale cigarette smoke mingled with a dozen different deodorants, perfumes, and body sprays. A guy munching away on a Filet-O-Fish was the worst offender, and I had to stop myself from ripping off a quick spell to hand out a bit of social justice on behalf of everyone trapped in this rolling tin can along with him and his malodorous sandwich.

  One by one, the stops between me and my destination scrolled by on the displays mounted above our heads. The closer we got to Lorelai’s neighborhood, the more I chewed my lip and thought about turning back. There had been a lot of yelling and screaming the last time I’d seen her, and she’d never struck me as the type of person to let go of a grudge too easily. I could still hear the laughter in her voice when she’d called me a pathetic child as I’d stormed out, a slam of the door my only goodbye.

  It wasn’t the kind of farewell people looked back on fondly, and I had no reason to believe it would earn me anything but cold rejection when I eventually knocked on her door. There was a distinct chance it might turn into more of a feasting on my innards kind of situation. Who could really say? I had to remind myself that the true creature beneath the human form was something altogether other from the Lorelai I’d first encountered. If the darkness that had flashed in her eyes right before I walked out on her was any indication, this creature was capable of some serious evil.

  The name of my destination lit up on the display, and I reached over an old lady to tug the dangling yellow stop request cord.

  I braced myself as the collective passenger body surged forward from the abruptness of the driver’s sudden braking. Swallowing my fear and eying the door, I knew I could stay on and keep riding. No one would recog
nize my inaction for the act of cowardice it would really be. Everyone would think I’d rang at the wrong stop by mistake, if they paid me any attention at all. If I rode a few more blocks, I could easily transfer to another bus that would carry me the hell out of this neighborhood. Maybe ride it all the way to the SkyTrain, then ride on until I’d reached the mall where I could hide out in a dark movie theater for a few hours.

  The bus lurched to a full stop, and I shouldered my way towards the door. Waving a hand over the invisible sensor, I waited for it to open and stepped out into the rain. I shoved my hands into my pockets and hunched forward to keep the worst of it off my face.

  I could still cross the road and jump onto another bus. It was probably only a coincidence Lorelai was back in town at the exact same time I’d been asked to investigate the grisly murder of a sweet old artifact dealer. If Lorelai was a dead end, I’d still have to start from scratch. Why not just skip the questioning and move straight on as if attempting to interrogate Lorelai had been completely useless?

  My feet moved on autopilot, propelling me towards Lorelai’s house one anxious step at a time. As scared as I was of seeing her again, I knew I couldn’t walk away without at least learning if she knew anything. Fae have little use for money, so they treat information like gold. The higher up the chain, the bigger the web of informants. Lorelai might just have rolled back into town, but she most certainly knew a thing or two about Norman Weathersby that would probably take me weeks to suss out on my own.

  Backing out of this visit wasn’t an option if I wanted to track down that artifact any time soon.

  The house was one of those modern designs that looked like it had been built by an architect trying way too hard to show off how hip they were. It was basically a series of fused together boxes, accented with huge windows and sections of fake wood panelling. The style might have worked in a larger building perched alone on a cliffside overlooking the ocean, but instead it looked vulgar and ostentatious next to the unassuming neighborhood houses lining the block. I remembered the inside as being full of exposed concrete, Bauhaus leather and chrome furniture, and expensive-looking art that was essentially splashes of paint thrown across huge canvasses. It was the kind of place you’d probably get excited about if you were scouting locations for your first big budget porno.

  In short, it was perfectly suited to Lorelai.

  The last time she’d been in town, she’d explained it belonged to a developer who spent most of the year in Hong Kong. He’d let her borrow the place as long as she wanted it, and it seemed she still shared that arrangement with him. I didn’t want to think about what he got in return for a favor like this, but knowing what I did about Lorelai, he probably thought he was getting the better end of the deal. Hell, the guy was probably tied up in a basement sex dungeon I hoped to never stumble into.

  I went up to the hideously ugly yellow door, psyched myself up for what was about to happen, and reached out to push the door bell while trying to ignore how much my hand was shaking.

  “Yes?” said the snotty Japanese girl who opened the door.

  She looked like a model in the middle of a fashion shoot. The way she stood with one hand braced high on the doorframe had shifted her deep v-neck shirt far enough over that it was hard for me not to stare at the perky little nipple poking out past the edge of her collar.

  I lifted my gaze from her chest and looked into eyes rimmed with smokey copper eyeshadow. “Uh, is Lorelai here?”

  The girl scanned me from head to toe, clearly not thinking much of the thick cable knit sweater and short black skirt I’d thrown over a pair of black leggings. I’d thought my outfit was a nice balance of cute and professionally appropriate for a murder scene, but I guessed it was all too off-the-rack for this chick if her look of disgust was any indication.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  I shook my head. “She’ll want to see me though. Tell her it’s Alex.”

  The girl rolled her eyes and shut the door, leaving me standing in the cold. Thankfully I had the protection of the awning keeping me from getting too wet, though my leather pixie boots weren’t doing so well with all the rain splashing onto them. One of these days I’d learn to wear clothes more suited to the everyday reality of the local climate. For now I’d have to suck it up and deal with the nasty sensation of water squishing around my toes when I wiggled them in an effort to keep warm.

  “Alex,” said a softly purring voice from the once again open doorway. “I didn’t expect to see you again any time soon.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice,” I muttered. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but can I come in?”

  “Of course, of course. You’re always welcome here.”

  Lorelai pulled the door all the way open and stepped back, allowing me to follow her into the hallway. She was barefoot and wore only a slinky black dress that barely covered her ass. The dress was tight enough to make it clear she wasn’t wearing underwear, and a dark part of me was jealous of how perfect her body was even after what was most likely a few centuries of use and abuse.

  The worst of it was the subtle scent of vanilla and sandalwood of which I couldn’t help but catch a whiff when I brushed past her. The smell brought back visceral memories I’d fought long and hard to push down. I had the distinct impression Lorelai could read every one of my flustered thoughts simply by looking at me.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she offered as she followed me into the living room.

  I slipped my bag off my shoulder and took a seat on the long black leather couch. Trying to look anywhere but at my host’s ass as she walked over to a sideboard stocked with liquor bottles, I pretended to admire the expensive artwork on the wall.

  “No,” I said. “I’m here because I’m working a case and I have some questions for you.”

  “You look so chilled and wet though. Are you sure I can’t pour you a brandy?” She titled a bottle in my direction. “Or maybe a bourbon? That was always your drink, if I recall correctly.”

  I unclenched the fists my fingers had involuntarily bunched into, trying to relax. I didn’t want Lorelai to see how difficult this was for me. As obvious as it probably was to her, I still didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of letting her see me lose it completely.

  “What were you doing the night before last?” I asked. “Can you tell me where you were between midnight and seven in the morning?”

  Lorelai shrugged. “Who can remember? I was probably here entertaining, but it won’t be easy to find anyone who was of sound enough mind and body to corroborate my story.”

  Lorelai poured herself a glass of brandy and stalked over to the the armchair directly across from me. She sat down and crossed her legs, blessedly sparing me the view of anything under the hem of her dress. The look on her face said she knew exactly why I was there, but I had a feeling she was going to make me work for it.

  “What do you know about Norman Weathersby?” I asked.

  “Norman? Sweet guy,” she said. “He always gave me a discount when I bought from him since I’ve been a client for so long. His wife is a darling woman as well, from what I remember. A little plain, but she brews an excellent pot of tea.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh,” she said, sitting tall and smiling like she’d just remembered the answer to a pop quiz question. “This morning he was brutally murdered and discovered missing both of his arms.”

  I eyed the slightly viscous amber liquid sloshing around her glass when she tilted it to her lips for a drink. My brain offered up the unhelpful suggestion that a little pour might help me get through this interview with my sanity intact, and not surprisingly, my mouth agreed.

  “How do you know about that?” I asked.

  “You know how it is,” she replied. “I hear all kinds of things. A girl can learn a lot about what goes on if she keeps her mouth shut and her ears open.”

  “Like you were ever good at keeping your mouth shut,” I said before I could stop mys
elf.

  “You didn’t seem to mind what I did with my mouth last time we were together.”

  My face flushed red with heat and I stood up quickly. I went to the sideboard and half filled a rocks glass with bourbon. I drank most of it in one gulp and poured another two fingers to top it off again before taking it back to my seat. Stacked on top of what I’d had at the Bolt-Hole, I felt an altogether different warmth burning in my cheeks and forehead. My tongue felt thick in my throat, and my skin tingled with inexplicable desire to do something I’d regret.

  “Can we cut to the bullshit?” I asked, bending my attention to the task at hand. “Mrs. Weathersby asked me to look into her husband’s murder. I know one of the fae was involved, and it’s kind of funny you should happen to arrive in town right about the same time all this happened. What did you know about Norman Weathersby and the item that was stolen from him?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she said. “I’ve told you what little I know. I always liked you, Alex. As hard as it probably is for you to hear it right now, I am sorry about what happened between us.”

  I swirled bourbon around the bottom of my glass, hoping it might become a magic eight ball that would tell me what to say or do next.

  “Woah, sorry,” said a deep male voice from the edge of the living room. “I didn’t know we had company.”

  I glanced up to see a guy who looked like he’d been picked out of the same modeling agency lookbook as the girl who’d opened the door. Perfectly muscled from countless hours in the gym or in the pool, he wore nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It had been twisted in such a way as to give the impression it might fall off at any second, revealing a glimpse of what the sharply cut lines of his lower abdominal muscles had drawn my eyes down to. His hair was rakish and disheveled, and I was pretty sure I could smell the musty tang of sweat and sex on him even from where I sat a dozen feet away.