Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Tina just looked at her.

  ‘‘Trust me,’’ Marla said. ‘‘You can pay me online after it works. I accept all major forms of credit cards and PayPal."

  ‘‘Oh, okay,’’ Tina said.

  ‘‘If you don’t pay me, I’ll either turn you into a newt or bombard you with filter-proof spam.’’ Marla smiled. ‘‘Don’t worry. I’m kidding about the spam part. I’m not that mean.’’ She motioned to the door. ‘‘Now go. Go. By tonight you’ll be a much happier woman.’’

  Tina decided to heed Marla’s advice. After all, she had nothing to lose. She called the office from her cell phone and told them she was taking the rest of the day as a personal day. She hopped in her car and drove home. Without the rush hour traffic it was a quick twenty-minute drive. Even if the magic mumbo jumbo didn’t work, at least she’d have a little downtime today.

  When Tina arrived at her apartment, she kicked off her shoes by the door, then headed straight to her computer. She sat down and logged in. After filtering through a few Viagra ads, there was an e-mail from MagicMarla. It was simple enough:

  To make your man totally devoted 2 U: At exactly 7 PM EST, put three candles in a north-facing window of your bedroom, light the first and third candle, face south and spin around two times chanting (and sounding as much like Olivia Newton-John as you can): Totally Devoted to Me. Totally Devoted to Me. Blow out the candle on the left, then the candle on the right. Facing north, light a new match and use it to ignite the middle candle and POOF your man is totally devoted.

  Disclaimer: all magic is nonrefundable and irreversible. By casting this spell you agree to these terms.

  Tina shook her head. No way that could work.

  An instant message for MagicMarla popped open on her screen.

  Trust me. I designed the spell especially 4 U. It works. CU.

  Tina typed back:

  R U sure? Exactly 7PM?

  To which MagicMarla responded:

  LOL. Of course I’m sure. It doesn’t have to be EXACTLY 7 you have a few minutes each way. Magic is precise but not inflexible. B2W.

  The message window closed. Tina took a deep breath. She thought for a second. She had three candles. Her bedroom did have a nice window facing north. She even had matches left from her aromatherapy days. Of course the spell probably wouldn’t work—it couldn’t work. Still, more for fun than anything else, Tina did set three candles on her bedroom’s windowsill. She most likely wasn’t going to go through with the spell, but just in case she did, she wanted to be ready.

  Tina passed the rest of the afternoon catching up on a few soap operas and watching Oprah. She used to love Oprah before she was a working girl. It was nice to be able to connect with her again. Sure, she could record Oprah’s show on her DVR, but somehow she always preferred to watch Oprah ‘‘live’’ when the rest of her fellow females were tuned in. Tina didn’t know why. She just did.

  Jerry dragged himself into the apartment at around 6:30. As always, he looked worn out. Apparently being a CPA was lot more physically demanding than most people realized. He gave Tina a nod of acknowledgment as he plopped down on the couch.

  ‘‘How was your day, honey?’’ she asked.

  He grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV. ‘‘Okay,’’ he grunted. ‘‘Have you ordered the pizza yet?’’

  Tina shook her head. ‘‘I thought we could do something different and go out for dinner tonight.’’

  Jerry shook his head. ‘‘It’s Thursday. Pizza night. I look forward to my night of pizza, beer, and a ball game.’’ He gave her a weak smile then added, ‘‘With my favorite girl.’’

  ‘‘Oh, okay,’’ Tina said weakly.

  ‘‘Could you grab me a beer from the fridge?’’ he asked, focusing his attention on the TV.

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Tina said, sulking as she walked toward the kitchen. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. If there had been any doubt in her mind, it had now been obliterated. She walked into the living room and set the beer down in front of Jerry.

  ‘‘Thanks, hon,’’ he said without looking at her.

  Tina took a deep breath. ‘‘I’m going to go into our room and relax for a while,’’ she told him.

  ‘‘Did you order the pizza?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I will,’’ Tina said.

  ‘‘Great,’’ he said, pulling his eyes away from the TV for a second. ‘‘Have fun. I’ll call you when the pizza guy gets here.’’

  ‘‘You do that,’’ Tina said as she headed into the bedroom.

  Tina sat down on her bed and mediated for a few minutes. She had time to kill, so she figured clearing her mind was the way the go. She wanted to make sure she was doing the right thing. Even if it probably wasn’t going to work, using magic on her man was a fairly drastic step. Jerry wasn’t that bad. Was he? He wasn’t so inattentive and self-absorbed that she needed to try to resort to magic. He couldn’t be that bad. Could he?

  ‘‘Honey, have you ordered the pizza yet?’’ Jerry called from the living room. ‘‘I’m starved.’’

  Tina looked at the clock radio on her nightstand. It read 6:59. She took one big deep breath and stood up. The clock flipped to 7:00. Tina grabbed a book of matches from the nightstand and walked to the candles in the window. She lit a match and used it to light the first candle, then the third. She blew out the match.

  She turned south then spun around once halfheartedly singing, ‘‘Totally devoted to me.’’

  She completed one turn, spun again, singing, ‘‘Totally devoted to me.’’

  She stopped spinning and turned back toward the candles. She blew out the first candle. She blew out the third candle. She lit another match and used it to light the middle candle. She paused for a moment. There was no flash of energy. No big poof. All in all it was a bit of letdown. She blew out the match about a second after it singed her finger.

  Tina shrugged. ‘‘That was a waste of time,’’ she mumbled, walking back into the living room.

  To her surprise, Jerry wasn’t sitting on the couch any longer.

  ‘‘Jerry?’’ Tina called.

  Tina heard a very distinct, ‘‘Woof!’’ She turned toward the sound. There, standing anxiously at the door, was a little poodle.

  ‘‘Jerry?’’ Tina called again.

  ‘‘Woof!’’ the dog responded again.

  Tina looked down at the fluffy brown poodle. ‘‘It can’t be,’’ she said to herself, walking over the pooch. Was it her imagination, or did the poodle’s fur color perfectly match Jerry’s hair color?

  Tina noticed the dog was wearing an ID tag. She bent over to check out whom the dog belonged to. The tag read: ‘‘Jerry’’ and had Tina’s address on it. Tina gulped. Jerry the poodle tilted his head up at her with a look that could only be described as total devotion. He licked her hand. Tina shook her head. She sighed. This wasn’t quite what she had in mind.

  Tina scooped Jerry up under one arm, grabbed her car keys, and headed out the door. She needed to make a personal trip to Madam Marla’s. This was something e-mail or IMing couldn’t do justice to.

  As Tina raced to Madam’s Marla’s, Jerry happily sat in the passenger seat, holding his nose out the window to sniff the air while somehow managing to also keep one eye locked on Tina. It might have been Tina’s imagination, but she swore she had never seen him so happy.

  Tina drove up to Marla’s shop and pulled into a parking space right in front. She thought she was lucky Marla’s was still open. Of course, luck is a relative thing when your boyfriend is a poodle. Tina got out of the car. She held the door open for Jerry to follow. He just stood there gazing at her with those devoted little puppy dog eyes.

  ‘‘Come on,’’ Tina coaxed. ‘‘Be a good boy.’’

  Jerry leaped into her arms. She cradled him. She couldn’t help but give him a little pat on the head as she went into the shop. Tina found Marla contently sitting at her table, looking at her computer.

  ‘‘Phew, I’m glad to see you’re s
till here,’’ Tina said, walking toward Marla.

  Marla stood up and smiled. ‘‘Magic knows no hours,’’ she said. She shrugged. ‘‘Besides, I have no life. Turn an ex-boyfriend or two into newts, and the word gets around.’’

  Tina pushed Jerry into Marla’s face. ‘‘Look! Look what you did.’’

  Marla tickled Jerry under his curly little chin. ‘‘Cute puppy,’’ she said. She looked puzzled. ‘‘What do you mean, I did it?’’ She shook her head. ‘‘This doesn’t look like my work. I’m partial to newts. You don’t have to clean up after them. They don’t chew your shoes. No need to . . .’’

  ‘‘This is Jerry!’’ Tina interrupted.

  Marla took a step back. ‘‘You named your dog after your boyfriend? I don’t know if that’s weird or kinky.’’

  Tina held Jerry closer to Marla. ‘‘This is Jerry!’’ she shouted. ‘‘I cast your spell and this is what happened!’’ Tina took a deep breath. ‘‘I should sue you for malspell practice.’’ She thought about what she had just said. She didn’t know if there was such a thing as malpractice for madams, but she figured it sounded good.

  ‘‘You did the spell already?’’ Marla asked.

  ‘‘Duh!’’ Tina spat.

  Marla’s eyes wandered down to the clock on her computer screen. She grinned. ‘‘Phew. So the problem isn’t with my magic.’’

  ‘‘What are you talking about?’’ Tina demanded. ‘‘You said do the spell at 7. I did the spell at 7, and POOF my boyfriend is a poodle!’’

  Marla smiled at her. ‘‘Well, Tina, you wanted devoted. Nothing is more unconditionally devoted then a dog,’’ she pointed out.

  Marla turned her computer around so Tina could see the screen. She indicated the little digital clock in the upper right hand corner. The time read: 7:54. ‘‘You weren’t supposed to do the spell yet.’’

  ‘‘Your e-mail said do the spell at 7. I cast the spell at 7!’’ Tina waved at the computer. ‘‘Look at the time!’’

  Marla hit a button on her computer. An e-mail message in a text window zoomed open. She touched the screen right over the text window. ‘‘If you read this carefully you’ll see I did not mess up,’’ she said.

  ‘‘How can you say that? You turned my boyfriend into a dog!’’ Tina shouted.

  ‘‘No need to yell,’’ Marla said. ‘‘I’m younger than most madams. I still have excellent hearing. Besides, you turned your boyfriend into a dog.’’ Marla gave Jerry a little pat on the head. ‘‘He is a cute one.’’

  ‘‘I followed your directions!’’ Tina insisted.

  Marla shook her head. ‘‘Ah, no. You didn’t. If you had, you’d be doing the spell about five minutes from now, more or less.’’

  ‘‘Are you crazy? You said 7 and it’s now 7:55!’’

  ‘‘I said, Eastern Standard Time. We’re on Daylight Savings Time now. You did the spell an hour early. I guess the powers-that-be must have thought you were really anxious, so they made Jerry really devoted.’’

  ‘‘Damn,’’ Tina said. ‘‘I always get that mixed up.’’

  Marla patted her on the shoulder. ‘‘Don’t worry, you’re not alone; it is really confusing.’’

  ‘‘Can you undo it?’’

  ‘‘Daylight Savings Time?’’

  ‘‘No, me turning Jerry in a dog.’’

  Marla shook her head. ‘‘You read the disclaimer: All magic is nonrefundable and irreversible. If it weren’t, people would either be begging for their money back or trying to fix things and mucking them up more, all the time.’’ She paused for a second. ‘‘My lawyer insisted I put that clause in. I’m sure glad I did.’’

  Tina looked at Jerry snuggled up in her arms. He was now contentedly sniffing her underarm. She had to give the powers-that-be credit. He certainly was devoted. She gave Jerry a gentle scratch behind the ears. He whimpered contentedly.

  Tina turned her attention back to Marla. ‘‘What am I suppose to do about Jerry?’’

  ‘‘Get him a nice comfy pet bed, some yummy dog treats, and a sturdy leash. Oh, and hope your next boyfriend is a dog lover.’’

  Narrator: Young love. A dog biscuit and a scritch behind the ears. That look of total devotion, a misspell away.

  JOHN ZAKOUR is a humor/science fiction/fantasy writer with a master’s degree in human behavior. He has written zillions (well, thousands) of gags for syndicated comics and comedians (including Rugrats, Grimmy, Marmaduke, Bound and Gagged, Dennis the Menace, The Tonight Show, and Joan Rivers’ old TV show). John also writes his own syndicated comic, Working Daze for United Media. John has been a regular contributor to Nickelodeon magazine, writing Fairly Odd Parents, Rugrats, and Jimmy Neutron comic books, and is now writing a new comic called Caramel Crew.

  John’s humorous science fiction mystery book, The Plutonium Blonde (DAW 2001, cowritten with Larry Ganem, started as an interactive Web story for the Sci Fi Channel) was named one of the top thirty science fiction books of 2001 by The Chronicle of Science Fiction, which called it, ‘‘the funniest SF book of 2001.’’ His second novel, The Doomsday Brunette (DAW 2004) has made the Locus bestsellers list, and the third book in the series, The Radioactive Redhead, was released 2005. The fourth, The Frost-Haired Vixen (the first written alone) hit stores December 2006, and the fifth, The Blue-haired Bombshell , was published in December 2007.

  The Mysterious Case of Spell Zero

  Rob St. Martin

  Narrator: A fog-shrouded street . . . echoing footsteps . . . mystery building upon mystery. The game’s afoot for Inspectors Nightingale and Frankford, but it will take more than adroit detective work to unravel this misspell.

  The crystal ball across the room from us chimed softly, alerting us to an incoming telecommune. I looked at my fellow inspector, Donoval Frankford.

  ‘‘I answered it last time,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You know,’’ I replied, ‘‘I remember when you first came to the unit. A member of the gentry with notions of the responsibilities of the aristocracy to the ‘little people.’ ’’

  ‘‘A week with you lot taught me where I could stick my notions,’’ he said.

  The crystal chimed again.

  ‘‘This is exactly why civilization as we know it is falling to ruin.’’

  ‘‘That’s certainly possible, but I answered it last time.’’

  There was, as always, no escaping his logic.

  As I reached the crystal, I lifted the answering wand, tapping the ball thrice. The swirling mists within the ball coalesced to reveal a constable, easily identified by the cockscomb helmet he wore and the handlebar mustache all raw recruits seemed determine to grow.

  ‘‘Thaumaturgic Investigations Unit, Inspector Nightingale, ’’ I said. ‘‘How can I help you, Constable?’’

  ‘‘Sorra t’ disturb yeh, sah,’’ the constable said, his Northshire accent thick enough to spread on toast.

  ‘‘Not at all, Constable. We live to serve.’’

  ‘‘Yis, sah,’’ he replied, my wry humor falling on deaf ears. "S’like this, sah. ’Ad us free dozens reports, sah.’’

  ‘‘Three dozen reports, Constable?’’

  ‘‘Yis, sah.’’

  ‘‘Reports of what, Constable?’’

  ‘‘Prublims wi’ spells, sah.’’

  ‘‘Constable, did you not, when I initially responded to your call, hear me answer, ‘Thaumaturgic Investigations Unit’? Did you not, from this, deduce that we here deal with problematical spellworkings? Is this not the very reason you have seen fit to call upon our aid?’’

  ‘‘Will . . . yis, sah.’’

  ‘‘Then tell me, why you are wasting our time? Everything we deal with here is a problem with spells. Please—be as forthcoming and succinct as possible.’’

  It seemed either I’d intimidated him into near-babbling incoherence or dazzled him with my erudition, as he required further prompting. My long years as a constable myself served me well, for I was able to cut through his thick acce
nt and determine that the three dozen reports had been of spells completely failing in their desired goals, all within the Middleton precinct.

  ‘‘Very well, Constable. We’ll be right down.’’

  As he began to respond in his virtually incomprehensible fashion, I used the wand to sever the telecommune. I turned to Frankford, whose features displayed amusement and confusion in equal measure.

  ‘‘You heard?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘I heard. Whether or not I understood is open to debate.’’

  ‘‘Three dozen spells reported not working in Middleton.’’

  ‘‘What’s in Middleton?’’

  ‘‘Shops. People. People shopping. Shopkeepers selling.’’

  ‘‘Very clarifying. It amuses me that the circumvention for which you berate constables is something for which you yourself are somewhat infamous.’’

  ‘‘I’m an amusing fellow.’’

  ‘‘I was just saying that to the wife the other night.’’

  ‘‘You’re not married.’’

  ‘‘I do apologize, I thought we were creating fictions. ’’

  ‘‘Middleton is mainly a shop district.’’

  ‘‘Indeed. Any Practitioners of the Art?’’

  ‘‘None of note of whom I’m aware. Shall we depart for Middleton?’’

  ‘‘Do, let’s.’’

  As we exited Constabulary Manor and flagged a passing carriage, the smells of Antium struck me, calling up memories of my childhood here in the City of Mages. The sooty smell of the coal fires burning in home stoves. The spoiled egg smell of gas lamps as they lit the foggy gloom. And under it all, the vaguely fishy smell of the River Blyne, cutting through the city like a scar through a pirate’s eye.

  ‘‘What do you think?’’ Frankford asked as the carriage made its way down cobbled streets. ‘‘Someone running cons?’’

  ‘‘Counterfeiting what, though? There’s no coin to be made passing off chicken bones as bat wings or frogs’ eyes for newts’. Eye of newt goes a ha’penny the pair. And the scammer would be caught soon enough.’’

  ‘‘What then?’’