The Uncanny Raven Winston

by Tammie Painter

  Which I did nearly do during our last class. See, the timer failed to go off. I’d just nailed a Shield Spell for the first time when Alastair started swaying woozily. I thought it was me. Well, it was me, but only the uncontrolled magic part of me, not the sweeping-men-off-their-feet part — if I even had one. We’d only gone thirty minutes over our time; it took Alastair the rest of the day to recover.

  But look at him now, he looks fine.

  Really fine.

  "You can try adjusting your diet," Dr. D said, jerking me away from gawking at Alastair, "but I want you to bear in mind that you now have more power than any Magic should. And a fair deal of that is the watch’s power."

  "And it’s a worrisome power at that," Mr. Tenpenny added, "because if the Mauvais does capture you, he will use you against us. Against everyone."

  I slumped in my uncomfortable chair and shoved a hunk of cake into my mouth. So much for the diet.

  "We can help," Runa offered. "We can intensify your training and we can hope to drain some of the magic from you, but that could be dangerous."

  "Dangerous how?" I asked.

  "We should have asked Gwendolyn to explain this," Fiona said. "Basically, magic can stay separate in an object, but once magic goes into a person, it combines. The instant you took in the watch’s magic — most of which is the Mauvais’s magic — you intertwined your power with his. Much like butter and eggs being mixed into sugar for a batch of cookies, it’s near impossible to separate the components once they’ve blended. We don't know what exactly to do with you. We’ve been hoping these past couple weeks might have given us some answers, but we’re at a loss. The more we try to tame your magic, the wilder it gets."

  "You make me sound like a freak." Which I was used to, but it still hurt, especially since during my time in MagicLand — my not-so-clever name for Rosaria, the secret underworld of the magic community of Portland, Oregon — I hadn't felt quite as freaky as I used to.

  "No, not a freak," Mr. Tenpenny said, "but like a very talented pupil who's been assigned teachers who only know how to instruct mediocre students."

  "Not exactly how I’d put it," Dr. Dunwiddle grumbled.

  "So, what? You're kicking me out of Hogwarts?"

  Mr. T bristled. He hated Harry Potter. Hate can't even describe it. It’s more of a personal assault on him every time there's a Harry Potter reference. I’ve tried to control the habit in his presence, but one slips through now and then. Still, he can't complain too much. After all, I did bring him back from the dead. Twice.

  "No, we're not kicking you out," said Fiona. "Right now, you’re kind of like a clumsy kid with an elephant gun, but I’m certain with enough time and patience, we can turn you into something more akin to a marksman with a fine-tipped arrow. But if there are any further incidents, something will have to be done."

  "I understand." I didn't. I couldn't help but have this magic and I’d been working really hard, so what more could I do?

  "Good. I hope you do. Because if you don’t show more control, I honestly don't know what we’ll do with you."

  And with that, with the feeling I was an unwanted knickknack only being kept around until they could find time to list me on eBay, I finished my cake in silence, my magic buzzing with every bite.

  3 - NUMBER THREE

  AFTER MY YOU’RE-a-freak intervention session, the other three Magics volunteered to help Fiona tidy up. With one hand broken and with my new habit of destroying things by over-magicking them, no one tried to cajole me into kitchen duties. I bided my time browsing Fiona’s bookshelves while Runa, Busby, and Alastair followed Fiona downstairs with the dirty dishes.

  I felt like a halfwit. I felt like I would never fit in anywhere or make the right decision about anything. I thought I’d been helping with the watch trick. Instead, I’d only turned myself into a bigger misfit.

  So, once their voices were bouncing off the walls and high ceilings of Fiona’s vast country kitchen, I slipped down the stairs and out the door, dashed over to the next building, and hurried through my portal.

  Or rather, tried to hurry.

  I had recently succeeded in straightening up my coat closet, which is where my portal to MagicLand had been installed. However, to keep the main living area of my apartment somewhat clean, I have a habit of simply tossing things into whatever cupboard or drawer is handy. So, it had only taken a few short days for my briefly-tidy closet to revert to its usual tangle of coats, bags, and shoes.

  Once I’d waded through the disarray and into my apartment, I dropped into my secondhand (or was it third?) wingback chair and sulked. But even that self-indulgent moping wasn’t to be. Pablo, my formerly-deceased feline who I’d gotten from a formerly-deceased Hispanic lady, barely had time to rub across my legs and beg for a treat before my phone pinged to let me know messages were waiting.

  For some reason, although I can make calls out of MagicLand, incoming messages seem unable to make it past the barrier. Luckily, I’m not very popular, so the task of sifting through the notifications rarely takes more than twenty seconds.

  This time, however, there were four voicemails from Mr. Wood, all sent within the space of two minutes. I didn't bother to listen to them. That many messages in a row could not be good. My boss had repeatedly expressed his utter boredom in his convalescence, but it's not like he was going to call every thirty seconds just to chat. Something was wrong. And with the way things had been going at the funeral home lately, it was likely my fault. I handed over some cat crack to Pablo, then hustled down the stairs to the door of my apartment building.

  Where I was promptly met by my landlord.

  You remember Morelli, right? Hairy shoulders, dirty tank tops, missing pinky on each hand, and a fan of television reruns. Other than keeping the garden gnome out front looking spiffy, Morelli didn't do much in regards to building maintenance, but he did get a kick out of informing me, his only tenant, when my rent was due down to the exact minute. He could also, without a lick of effort, block a doorway with the prowess of an all-star hockey goalie. That’s not to say he was fat. He had a paunch, but thanks to his favorite tank top revealing more than I cared to see, he appeared to have rock-solid muscle underneath those hairy shoulders.

  "We need to talk about your lease, Black."

  "Not now," I said, shifting to the left then the right, trying to find a gap I could squeeze through.

  "Yes, now. You canceled your lease, but yet you're still here. I could call you in as a squatter. Plus, I know you got a cat in there."

  "Hey, I never signed anything. I only verbally canceled." Mind you, that cancellation had been made while I was having a bit of a temper tantrum. "And I think you need some fresh air to clear that thick skull of yours, because if you remember correctly, my lease allows me to have a pet."

  He narrowed his eyes, and I wondered if he did strength training to develop the muscles in his face. The squint was menacing and intimidating, but I didn’t back down because I knew I was right. Although Morelli had recently threatened to raise my rent by a ridiculous amount, he now possessed a legal document that guaranteed I could stay in my apartment for the next five years without a single rate increase. That same document also stated I was allowed to keep a cat, free of charge.

  And no, I wasn’t in the habit of memorizing rental agreements. All this information was fresh in my mind because a few days ago, while Morelli was out bench pressing cars, eating an entire cow, or whatever it was he did to pack so much bulk onto his bones, I "adjusted" my lease by moving around a few ink molecules on the document. Which does prove I can control my magic. Although I don’t think Fiona or the others would exactly approve of that particular use.

  "I’ve still got a matter to settle with you, Black."

  "And I’ve got an emergency." I made a step-aside motion with my hands. If he only knew that move — with the right intention behind it — could fling him through the wall, maybe he’d
drop the scowl and show a bit of respect.

  Something in the set of my jaw must have told him I wasn’t fooling around because his eyes relaxed, he reeled in the finger he’d been pointing at me, then crossed his arms over his chest.

  "We're talking about this later," he grunted as he stepped aside.

  "Looking forward to it," I said cheerily and hurried past him.

  * * *

  After race walking the five blocks to Wood’s Funeral Home, a stab of guilt hit me when I saw the sign posted in the window announcing we were only open limited hours due to illness.

  Actually, that illness was the only reason we were open. Although I’d initially started my magic training in an effort to save his business, I'd ended up delivering danger right to Mr. Wood’s doorstep. Danger that resulted in an unconscious, nearly-dead Mr. Wood being taken away in an ambulance after the Mauvais, or one of his minions, had shattered various bones of my boss’s body.

  Despite receiving injuries that should have warranted surgery and at least a three-week stay in the intensive care unit, Mr. Wood’s hospital trip lasted only a single night, and I suspected one of the Magics had repaired some of his extensive damage. Thanks to this head start down the road to recovery, Mr. Wood was showing daily improvements. Still, he was nowhere near to being fully recuperated.

  Although my boss was now physically out of the worst trouble, he was chin-deep in financial woes due to the insane cost of health care. Mr. Wood had no intention of driving up any sort of credit card debt or of starting a Go Fund Me campaign (my suggestion), which meant he had to take on clients just to make the minimum payment on his hospital invoice. Luckily, local families had been using Wood’s Funeral Home for generations of cadaverous care, and that loyalty had been keeping the business afloat. So far.

  As ever, Mr. Wood’s role in the funeral home was to meet and greet, to arrange events, and to consult with family members about their final wishes for their loved ones. Other than fatiguing by midday, his injuries didn’t greatly interfere with that work.

  As for me, well…

  While I could still apply makeup with only one good hand, shifting my clients onto my work table or moving them from table to coffin couldn’t be done single-handedly. I was tempted to magic them around, but with my recent power boost there was a high risk I might send a body hurtling through the door and into the nearby park if I used any form of Lifting Charm on them.

  As such, I had to have a babysitter. Oh sorry, a mentor.

  Mr. Tenpenny had volunteered for the job. As part of this mentorship and training in magic control, I was allowed to use a Lifting Charm on the dead, but only when Mr. T enlisted his own spell to increase the gravity near the walls of my workroom. If any bodies did go flying, they’d immediately find themselves grounded before ever clearing the runway.

  We’d managed to bring in five clients in the past couple weeks. It wasn’t a pace that would keep Mr. Wood rolling in dough, but it was enough to keep him from drowning in a flood of medical expenses.

  We probably could have taken on more clients, but in addition to Mr. Wood’s broken limbs, we were also having a nasty case of the undead. But that’s not exactly something you announce on a sign in the window of a funeral home, is it?

  As Dr. Dunwiddle and the others had pointed out, unlike before when I only had a little bit of the watch’s essence in me, during my tussle with the Mauvais I had pulled in the watch’s power. All of it. I was now basically the watch.

  And that watch had some special features: It enhanced magical strength, it could control time, it could give the possessor the power to steal magic from others. Oh, and in the wrong hands (meaning my clumsy mitts) it could make the dead come back to life. And I had a feeling that's what all of Mr. Wood’s messages and calls were about.

  The moment I approached the building, I knew that feeling had been right.

  Since Mr. Wood couldn’t do much for himself in his condition, he needed a live-in nurse. And to ease a little worry from his shoulders, I’d taken on the responsibility of hiring them.

  Did you notice I said "them" up there? It’s so hard to find good help these days, or at least help that doesn’t panic when faced with the Zombie Apocalypse.

  See, with my new watch-fueled strength, our clients who were supposed to be resting in peace kept waking up. And even with strict instructions of where the nurses shouldn't go, and even with my workroom door being firmly locked, there had been a few incidents.

  Apparently there’d been another, because as I came around from the side of the building, Nurse Number Three stood outside the funeral home’s front door. Her arms were crossed over her sturdy bosom and her face was doing its best to look tough-as-nails. But the sweating brow, the greenish tinge to her pale skin, and the frantically wide eyes revealed the telltale signs of zombie-induced terror.

  The second she saw me, she bustled across the parking lot toward me.

  "I am going to the authorities with this. You have—" She gasped, then jutted a trembling finger at the funeral home. "You have a dead person in there."

  "We are a funeral home," I said slowly as if she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the marquee. "That big sign you’re parked next to might have been your first clue."

  "You know very well what I mean. I've heard about this place. I was told there were strange things going on, but I ignored it because you were paying double the usual rate."

  "Who told you what exactly?" I thought I'd made it clear that lips needed to be kept sealed when Nurses One and Two departed.

  Mr. Wood’s business was already on probation after the Mortuary Board recently got wind of odd sightings and of a possible missing body. Responding to this, one of their investigators had doggedly tried to shut us down. He eventually came to his senses and declared that nothing was amiss, but we still had to keep our noses clean to avoid any further inquiries.

  And with this recent spate of waking dead, I didn’t think we could pass such scrutiny if an inspector was called in a second time. I mean, twice in less than a month? They’d have to be suspicious, right? That suspicion, and any subsequent investigation, would lead to the funeral home being shut down permanently.

  "None of your business," Nurse Three snapped. "I’m quitting. Pay me now so I can go to the police."

  "You can go to the police for free. Why do I need to pay you?"

  "You know what I mean. Never mind. Withhold my pay. I can visit the Bureau of Labor and Industries after I finish with the cops."

  "And I'll report you to the Nursing Board."

  "For what?" she asked, fixing me with a defiant stare.

  After pulling out my phone from my pocket, I swiped through to the correct screen as I said, "You've been knowingly practicing nursing without a license."

  As if I’m one to talk. Mr. Wood had saved me from homelessness by hiring me to doll up the dead despite my own lack of a mortuary license. It’s part of why I felt I owed him so much.

  "Your nursing license expired six months ago," I said, watching her challenging expression slacken into self-doubt. My finger hovered over my phone’s PayPal app, ready to send Nurse Three’s paycheck through from Mr. Wood's account.

  "My paperwork is in good order," she said with just enough uncertainty in her voice for me to know I'd won.

  "Look," I said, putting on a sympathetic yet business-like tone, "I let it slide when you applied. I assumed you'd get things in order at some point. Now, if I can keep quiet about that, you can keep quiet about any delusions you had while here. Plus, if you start rambling on about what you think you saw, you'll never get that license reinstated. So, what were you saying about the cops?"

  "I— Nothing," she said, sounding slightly overwhelmed by what was happening. I tapped the phone. Hers pinged, signaling the payment had gone through just as a crash sounded from inside the funeral home. Nurse Number Three jumped six inches backward. "There's something not right in the
re. I'm glad to be done with it."

  She fumbled her keys from her bag, scurried away from me, and threw herself into her Hyundai hatchback.

  Did Number Three really have an expired license? She did for now. As with certain clauses of my rental agreement, I’d used a little magic to alter our nurses’ license expiration dates to convince, shall we say, them not to blabber about our little zombie situation. I suppose it really was a terrible trick, but it did guarantee their silence. And I always changed the license back to being valid. I’m clever, not evil.

  As the Hyundai squealed out of the parking lot, the clanging crash of several pieces of metal hitting tile came from inside the funeral home. I sighed heavily. Magic would be so much more convenient if it would just stop waking up the dead.

  4 - BACON BOUQUET