Ellison’s power continued to build. She let it rise. How much would she need to separate the boy from the demon? The attachment might be quite strong. Henderson hadn’t said how long his son had been under the influence of the succubus. If this had been going on for weeks, or maybe months—
There. There was the like. A newer, brighter life. Gentle. Joyful?
A seeking tendril snapped around it and Ellison began the third part of the incantation: Draw the like life back to the summoning triangle. Soon the young man would be safely home, his father would be signing a large check, and Ellison and Shelby would be on their way back to the Westmoreland Avenue studio.
The bright life resisted. It rolled into a slick ball and the seeker slipped off.
Several seeking tendrils snaked around the bright ball, forming a net, and pulled toward the triangle. The ball kept resisting, pulling away from the triangle. Of course it resisted. Why would a twenty-one-year-old man want to leave a succubus?
Ellison slipped past the bright ball and twisting tendrils, her power continuing to build. If she could get between the bright ball and the energy of the succubus, the seeker would gain the upper tendril and would be able to draw the bright ball—and the young man—back to the triangle and home.
She couldn’t get around the ball. Something was keeping her back. An unusually strong succubus? Something was not right here. Ellison felt beneath her chant. There was her own power. There were the harsh tendrils pulling toward the triangle and the bright ball pulling away. She could feel nothing pulling on the bright ball from the other end. But the bright ball—
‘‘What’s taking so long?’’
Ellison was jerked out of the spell and back to the room. ‘‘Mr. Henderson, would you please get lost?’’ she snapped. The full charge of her power was released into the spell.
And Henderson vanished from the triangle into which he’d just stepped. A young man clasping the hand of a green-eyed, red-haired young woman appeared in the center of the triangle. The clip with the lock of Henderson’s hair was flattened beneath the young man’s heel. Shelby, hand still outstretched to stop Henderson, drew in one short breath. Ellison was proud of her for not fainting.
‘‘Backlash,’’ said Ellison to Shelby. ‘‘We’ll have to have a lesson on backlash. And clues.’’
‘‘Clues?’’ said Shelby. Her voice was admirably steady.
‘‘Succubae don’t use telephones,’’ said Ellison. She turned to the young couple. ‘‘Love,’’ she said. ‘‘You two are in love, aren’t you?’’
Marcus Henderson was furious when his son’s bright life gently but irresistibly tugged his sulking tendrils back to the triangle.
‘‘I won’t pay you,’’ he said.
‘‘I brought your son back,’’ said Ellison calmly, handing him a neatly written bill.
‘‘And you sent me to some godforsaken place in the middle of—’’
‘‘You will pay her, Dad,’’ said Marc. ‘‘And apologize for your rudeness. And you will be on your best behavior when you speak to my fiancée or you will not see me again.’’ He smiled gently. ‘‘I don’t know if Ms. Pride would be willing to try to bring me back again.’’
Ellison shook her head. ‘‘There’s none better in this city than the Witch of Westmoreland Avenue, but even I won’t fight love. I’m not strong enough. And there’s no reason.’’
The elder Henderson snarled, then wrote and signed the check.
Ellison accepted it, nodded to him, and turned to Marc and his thoroughly human fiancée.
‘‘A pleasure to meet you,’’ she said.
In the car, she conjured two chocolate bars and handed one to Shelby.
Narrator: Marcus Henderson forgot one thing when dealing with the Witch of Westmoreland Avenue. When you hire an expert, you let that expert do the job. Still, though he caused a misspell, Marcus did come out ahead. By a daughter-in-law.
MORGAN S. BRILLIANT was born in Kansas. But that wasn’t quite like home for her parents, so they moved to New Jersey two years later. Morgan has been writing science fiction and fantasy since she was twelve, occasionally submitting her stories to magazines. At Millennium Philcon she went fangirl over George Scithers and told him she’d loved his rejection slips when she was a kid. He responded, ‘‘What have you been doing since then?’’ A few years later, Morgan was startled to discover that, among other things, she had spent nearly twenty years working at almost every job on the other side of publishing, from editorial assistant to typesetting. ‘‘The Witch of Westmoreland Avenue’’ is her first sale.
A Spell of Quality
Kate Paulk
Narrator: The daily grind at quality control. You do your job well and no one notices. You fix the mistakes everyone else makes and no one notices. But do your job a little too well one day? Everyone will.
There are times when being a Quality Assurance
Mage sucks. The silvery gray spell-ball on my desk told me today was one of them. The ball sat on the cheap pine, its manifestation spells warping the wood.
Someone owed me a new desk.
Not that I was likely to get one—I’d probably end up restoring the desk again. It was one of the little pleasures of being employed by the stingiest son of a troll this side of the Impassable Mountains.
I sighed. I should never have created a security spell so tight even the best cracker-mages wouldn’t touch it. I certainly shouldn’t have released it. Imperial Mages know best, after all. They don’t read instructions, not even ones that display ten foot glowing specters warning of doom if the user fails to keep an open backup in a nonmagically secured location.
The fine I’d earned from the Imperial Court put me on the block for a five-year indenture. Of course Bottie had jumped. All of his mages were indentured.
Which left me staring at a misbegotten excuse for a spell-ball. It was going to bite me, and bite hard. Mass-producing spell components is a tricky business at the best of times, and nothing in Bottie’s components shop qualified as the best of anything.
Bottie’s message spell triggered as soon as I got within three paces of the desk. Unfortunately, the image in the spell was an accurate depiction of my unloved employer. He had the pasty grayish complexion typical of a troll, beady eyes perched on the bridge of a lumpy nose, and stringy hair the color of river mud. Seeing him did a whole lot of no good to my stomach.
‘‘There’s a client waiting on this, Weed, so make sure it works. You’ve got till sundown.’’ The image flicked out and the spell faded out of existence.
Just wonderful. I didn’t need anyone to tell me I’d be taking the fall if anything went wrong.
I took a closer look at the spell-ball. Nothing about it indicated—or even hinted at—its purpose. To the nonmagical eye, it was a featureless gray ball.
Magically . . . I groaned when saw the signature embedded in the manifestation layer. Sehkin. The most incompetent spellmaker I’d ever met. It was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t turned himself into a lizard yet.
I probed a little further, delicately seeking the next layer. And clenched my teeth so I didn’t curse. The idiot spawn of a brain-dead whore had used my security spell.
For once, he’d managed to cast it correctly—the shifting strands of power flickered in the complex algorithms I’d built, moving about ten times faster than I could build an unlocking spell. That was the point, to protect the inner workings of my spells from any prying eyes. It was supposed to be my edge, so the spells I built stayed mine.
If the Imperial Mages had actually bothered to pay attention to the warnings I built into the spell, they might have been a little less upset when the ones who tried to crack it got turned into mice. The palace cats must have had terrible indigestion.
The cracker-mages I knew took one look at the spell and congratulated me.
None of which was any help. Sehkin hadn’t bothered to supply me with anything to say what his alleged masterpiece was supposed to do, so I h
ad to go find out.
Sehkin’s corner of Bottie’s workshop smelled of the recent use of cleaning spells and ultramasculine pheromones. Every shelf was spotless, with not a single ingredient to be seen.
My heart would have sunk, but it was already trying to burrow into the soles of my boots. In the three years I’d been here, I’d never once seen Sehkin’s work area look organized, much less pristine.
The pheromones . . . Sehkin liked to think himself the gods’ gift to females of every species.
He posed artistically beside the workbench, trying for casual nonchalance and failing. His dark curls gleamed with fresh lacquer, not a strand out of place. Fabric enhancement spells rippled over his robes, making them look like the rich blue velvets of an archmage instead of the threadbare leavings they were.
I put balled fists on my hips and broke all his spells with a word. It wasn’t a very nice word.
I waited while he scrambled to catch the loose ends of his spells and get them all unraveled before they could backlash. He needn’t have bothered—he hadn’t used anything powerful enough to damage him. The worst he could have suffered was indigestion and maybe some queasy thoughts about small animals.
When he was done, he turned to glare at me. ‘‘What did you do that for, Weed?’’
‘‘It’s Sharae to you,’’ I snarled. ‘‘You looked ridiculous. ’’
His mouth flapped open for a while before he found something to do with it. ‘‘Aren’t you supposed to be testing?’’
‘‘Sure.’’ I spat the word out as though it tasted bad. ‘‘As soon as you give me a component that isn’t secured.’’
His olive skin turned sallow. ‘‘There’s no time. It needs to go to the client today.’’
I promised myself I’d find a way to punish Sehkin for his incompetence. ‘‘Then why send me a secured version?’’
He cringed, trying to plaster himself into the corner. ‘‘Bottie said you could handle it.’’
I growled. I was good, but playing with magical components to see what they did was an excellent way to end up dead. If you were lucky. ‘‘I’ll deal with him later.’’ Raw magic crackled around me, giving my words an odd echo. I breathed in deeply, and forced myself to calm down.
Sehkin winced.
‘‘So what does it do?’’ My voice was so controlled it shook with strain.
‘‘It’s a summoner.’’
I left a trail of scorched wood and overheated air as I stormed back to my office. Summoning a kindly deity to guide one’s hand during spell casting was marginally less common than drawing protective circles, but only a madman would try to make a summoning component. Getting the wrong deity was the least of the potential problems.
If you weren’t in the proper state of mind, getting the right one could be lethal.
Once I was safely inside the shielding I’d layered on my office, I took a deep breath. If Sehkin had built his summoning component correctly, it would be a miracle of the first order. The best I could hope for was that the thing didn’t do anything.
I reached under my desk and pulled the locked casket out to where I could open it. Its locking spells were keyed to my magic patterns, allowing me to open the casket. Anyone else would come away with scorched fingers.
Light spilled out from my warded robes as I felt for the encapsulated recording spell. The slickness of manifestation spells rolled over my fingers until my hands finally closed around the spell-ball.
With a flick of my wrists and a murmured incantation, I glued the recording spell to the corner of the ceiling, where it could ‘‘see’’ everything I did. ‘‘Record: begin.’’
A tingle of magic flickered over my senses, telling me the spell was active.
First, I needed to cover myself against any disasters Sehkin’s spell caused. ‘‘On this date, the fourth day of High Creen, I have been tasked with testing a spell component created by the indentured mage Sehkin Ahnessin. The terms of my indenture do not permit me to refuse this task.’’
I could imagine Bottie cursing. ‘‘My employer, Bottie Grune of Grune’s Magic Shoppe, has ordered me to test this component today. The component has already been wrapped in unbreakable protection spells, so I am unable to determine if any flaws exist in the internal spell structure.
‘‘The poor quality of the manifestation layer indicates that internal flaws are likely.’’ I pointed to my desk. ‘‘Note the warping of the woodwork around the component, typical of faulty manifestation spells.’’
Now to describe how the thing should work. ‘‘Discussion with Sehkin’’—a polite fiction—‘‘indicates that the component is designed to record the name of a deity or other supernatural being when the user places thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of their right hand in the appropriate indentations.’’
As ideas went, this one would win prizes for stupidity. ‘‘The thumb is placed in the deep indentation on one side of the component. The forefinger is placed in the deep indentation on the other side, above the shallow indentation for the middle finger.’’
‘‘Sehkin states that to call the named being’s blessing on a spell, the user places thumb and forefinger over the deep indentations, and applies pressure. A standard invocation for deific blessing will be performed, using the recorded name.’’ The thought sent shivers crawling down my spine. I could think of four different standard invocations without trying. All of them could misfire spectacularly and unpleasantly.
The other function of the device was worse. ‘‘To summon the named being, the user places the right thumb in the deep thumb indentation and the right forefinger in the shallow finger indentation, then applies pressure. A standard summoning spell will be performed to call the named being.’’ No sane mage would allow anyone but himself to perform a summoning.
‘‘To test the first function of this device, I shall record the name of my patron deity while standing in a full protective circle.’’ With protective spells, more was better. ‘‘I will be wearing full robes with maximum shielding.
‘‘To test the second function, while maintaining the same level of protection, I will cast the Pickup Cantrip, asking the blessing of my deity.’’ Every mage knew that spell and used it on a more or less regular basis. Since my recording spell also recorded spell structures, Imperial Investigators would know I had done nothing out of the ordinary.
‘‘To test the third function, I will summon my patron deity. Again, I will be fully protected. I will summon my deity to request advice on surviving my indenture period.’’ Not even an Imperial Justiciar could argue with that request.
I swallowed and said, ‘‘I will now prepare the protective circle.’’
The circle was already partially prepared, a ring three feet in diameter burned into the wooden floor. The scorch marks already anchored my preferred protective spells, which just left activating them.
By the time I was done, the circle glowed so brightly even Bottie could have seen it. Half a dozen protective shields interlaced in a circle not even a major demon could break. I still had the scars from that encounter.
The only break in the circle was an archway in the spells keyed to me—and only me. It would fry anything else that tried to use it, which was how I knew my spells would hold a major demon. It had taken weeks to get the stench out of the office.
‘‘I will now don my full robes.’’ That was for the benefit of whoever might watch the recording. The spell showed magic structure as an overlay to the fabric, making my robes look peculiar.
I dug the magic-slick fabric out of the casket and pulled it on over my shirt and pants. There were so many protections layered on what had begun as threadbare fabric that the robes glowed the same intense white as the circle. Archmages would kill for protection like this—it was the equivalent of knightly plate armor that repelled most weapons and shot back. When it comes to keeping my soul, mind, and skin intact, I like overkill.
I adjusted my vision so the magical glare didn’t blind me and pic
ked up Sehkin’s spell-ball. It felt slimy rather than slick, another indication that his manifestation layer was a mess.
‘‘I will now enter the circle.’’ The tingle of magical protection did nothing to ease the tension knotted between my shoulders. Whatever happened now would be trapped in the circle with me.
I held up the spell-ball, rotating it so the recording spell would see the indentations. ‘‘I will now perform the first test.’’ It was—probably—not dangerous to speak the name of a deity without any kind of summoning or invocation spell in place.
Of course, that assumed Sehkin had cast everything correctly.
My hands trembled as I placed my fingers over the indentations, taking care to ensure that the recording spell caught every movement.
The spell-ball began to vibrate as soon as I held it correctly. I swallowed and said as clearly as I could, ‘‘Lord Order.’’ Order was not precisely a deity, but he was close enough. Quality assurance of all kinds fell under his aegis.
I relaxed a little when several long minutes passed without disaster. ‘‘I will now perform the second test.’’
Ordinarily, the Pickup Cantrip was something I did without even thinking, but this time I focused intently on the magic structure. I made sure every magical line was perfectly laid before I pushed my right thumb and forefinger into the deep indentations.
What emerged was not my voice. It was no voice I recognized, and it spoke not Order’s name but that of his opposite. Chaos.
The spell structure twisted, forming a summoning even as I jerked my fingers open. The spell-ball shattered at my feet, and dark smoke rose from it, twisting as it formed a portal to a realm that made the hells look cozy.
In the time it took my heart to beat once, the portal vanished. The Lord of Chaos stood where it had been.
He smiled. It was the only thing about him that stayed constant; his body and face blurred as they changed continually. All the shapes and faces were more or less human, but the movement made me nauseated.
I was too terrified to run. Like his opposite, Chaos was a force of nature. He could make me cease to exist with a flicker of what I hoped were his fingers.
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