by Lysa Daley
This was the third time in a row that I’d pounded on his door. I would have given up, except I could hear the TV murmuring from inside.
“It’s Lacey! I need to talk to you.”
Finally, the door cracked a few inches, showing a sliver of Mr. Gulch’s face. As usual, it looked like I’d woken him up. “What?” he said flatly.
I held up the eviction notice. “Mr. Gulch, you told me I had until the end of the month?”
“Yeah…” He looked sheepish. “I talked to my lawyer. He said that I can evict after sixty days of non-payment. You’re at almost ninety days.”
“But—”
“Sorry, kid. Better start looking for a new apartment.” He shut the door in my face.
I’d suffered bouts of insomnia on and off over the years.
It came and went, mostly manifesting during times of stress and anxiety. Final exams were always a prime candidate. Boyfriend breakups, friend drama.
I’d tried every sleep-aid out there, supernatural and human. But there was only one thing I knew for sure would help ease my mind enough to go to sleep.
After tossing and turning for two hours, I climbed out of bed, put on jeans, a heavy UCLA sweatshirt, and my Ugg boots.
Quietly, I crept down to the courtyard. The gurgling of the fountain and the soft chirping of a few scattered crickets filled the night. Moonlight spilled over the flowerbeds, casting everything in a pale blue glow. It was lovely. I might have even enjoyed it if I wasn’t so damn tired.
I sat for a moment on an iron garden bench to make sure no one was around. When I was certain I was alone, I closed my eyes and transformed into a nightingale.
I’d been inspired by seeing my father as the owl.
Going for a night fly had always been the best way to calm my restless brain. I looked down at the world I walked upon every day and saw it through a new perspective. I’ve done this since I was a child. Much to my mother’s horror.
“Who knows who you'll meet out there in the dead of night,” she’d say to me when I returned. Somehow she always knew I was gone and waited for me to come back. “Nothing but danger in the dark.”
“I was fine, mom.” And it was true; I never felt unsafe.
I’d stopped these flights when I stopped practicing magic after high school. But now, some tiny spark had awakened inside of me, and I was eager to fly again.
I headed north toward the mountains. Gliding alone over the hills and houses and swimming pools that shimmered like diamonds in the moonlight, I made my way across Beverly Hills, then West Hollywood, up to the hilltop, where Mulholland Drive divided the city from the valley.
I landed on a post in a city-owned gravel parking lot often used as a scenic overlook.
The parks closed at sunset. The police were pretty strict about shooing lovers and looky-loos away if they tried to linger after dark. But at this hour, close to 2am, the park was empty.
I fluttered down beyond a small copse of olive trees and transfigured back into my human form. I took a seat on the sawed-off trunk of an old oak tree and gazed out over the glistening lights of the valley below.
I wasn't afraid of someone sneaking up on me or trying to do me harm. Part of being an animagi meant that I’d developed semi-heightened senses. I’d hear them long before they’d even get close and transform back into a bird or a mouse or a dragonfly to make a quick getaway.
I tracked a FedEx plane taking off in the distance from Burbank airport. Part of me silently wished I was a package neatly taped up and stowed in the cargo hold of that airplane heading far, far away from my own problems.
I wasn’t sure what to make of my father’s confession.
I turned it over in my head, looking at it from every angle. How could I have not known? How could my mother have kept this from me? Perhaps she didn't know either. They’d been divorced for a long time. It was possible that he’d kept this a secret from her when they were married.
My life had crumbled around me in less than forty-eight hours. Everything I had come to rely on — my studies, my family, my apartment — was slipping away.
Lost in thought, I jumped at a rustle behind me.
My heart skipped in my chest. Had I been followed?
I whipped around and scanned the rise of the hillside. Only long grasses swayed blending with the night sky.
Holding my breath, I watched and waited. I considered turning back into a bird, until I heard a tiny twig snap to the left. A pair of glowing eyes stared back at me in the scrub that lined the hill.
The scruffy coyote raised her nose and curiously sniffed the air.
“Yeah, I know….” I said, under my breath. “I smell a little funky to you, huh?”
Because of our ability to transform into various animals, animagus tended to emit a bit of an unusual scent. Animals, with their far superior sense of smell, were perplexed by the weird mixture of scents. She probably caught something between the bird I’d just been and my natural smell.
She and I stood there, looking at each other for a long moment, until she got bored, having probably decided that I was a big disappointment. Then she turned and slunk off into the night.
I yawned and decided to head home.
Inspired by my father, I wanted to transform into something other than my normal predictable and much practiced nightingale. He’d been such a formidable sight as the great grey owl.
In my mind, I pictured the same owl.
Perhaps I was ready to move on to larger animals. My father had always said that it was only a matter of practice. I’d transfigured into more animals over the last two days than I had in the last two years. Maybe that would be enough practice.
Hidden between a pair of white oaks, where I was protected from any prying eyes, I concentrated. As soon as it started, the transformation felt different.
A moment later, I spread my wings and soared into the starry sky.
I knew by the curve of my beak and my strong predator talons that I wasn’t a song bird. The sharp night vision of a hunter made everything look crystal clear.
I’d done it! I’d turned myself into an owl.
But as I flew, I slowly began to realize that something wasn’t right. I could tell by my velocity that my wingspan was no larger than it had been as a nightingale. Great grey owls fly on enormous six-foot wings. Mine were a small fraction of that.
Gliding down, I landed on the thick branch of a tall pine on a hillside. Unfortunately, I was near a pair of sleeping crows.
Crows didn’t like owls.
Of course, no crow would challenge a great grey. So when the startled crows fixed their unhappy black eyes on me and aggressively squawked, I knew I wasn’t a great grey.
Yes, I was an owl.
But I was more of a pygmy owl. Cute, not fearsome. In fact, I was probably smaller than a nightingale.
Before the annoyed crows could harass me further, I blustered back into the sky. I felt a mixture of disappointment and shame. What made me think I could transform into something that only a Class 3 could handle?
I landed in the courtyard beneath the shade of the all-fruit tree. Alone in the predawn light, I shifted back into myself, plucked a perfectly ripe green apple from the tree, and headed up to my apartment.
I slept until nearly 10am the next morning, when I woke to someone pounding on my front door. I pulled my blanket over my head, hoping whoever was outside would just go away. It was probably Mr. Gulch. I wasn’t in the mood to have a conversation with my landlord.
But then a voice called out, “Yo, Lacey McCray. You in there?”
That wasn’t Mr. Gulch’s voice.
It took me a minute to realize that it was that Stryker Smith guy. Why would he be at my apartment?
“Open the door,” he called. “I got an offer for you. And it’s too good to refuse.”
I sighed and got out of bed. Since I wasn’t exactly in the position to turn down any legit offers of employment, I decided to at least hear what he had to say.
“Good morning, sunshine.” He grinned. He was still wearing what must have been his standard uniform of black jeans, black boots, and a black leather jacket.
His jacket gave off a weird energy. Maybe it was enchanted. Probably acted like a sort of magical Kevlar that could withstand the strikes and blows from swords and bullets.
“How did you know exactly where I live?” I said a little harsher than I meant to. Yes, he already knew I lived in Westwood, but he knew exactly where my apartment was, too?
“Got your address off the employment forms you filled out for Stroud,” he answered.
“Except I didn’t fill out any forms for him.”
“Gosh, then I’m not sure exactly how I got your address.”
That made the hairs on my arm stand up.
“Well, you’re wasting your time,” I said, still not opening the front door more than a crack. “I don’t have any valuable bounties with me that you can steal.”
“Funny.” He smirked. “Still upset about that, I see.”
“Yeah, sorry to get hung up on the fact that you stole the very item that would have paid me enough money to cover both my rent and my tuition.”
“That’s why I’m here.” He opened his arms wide like he’d come to save the day. “Why don’t you let me in, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Just tell me whatever it is from there,” I said, closing the door another inch.
“Not sure it’s such a good idea to talk about a work opportunity out here in the open,” he replied. “The wall may have ears.”
He was right. I swung open the door. “Fine. Come in. But only for a second.”
He entered and had to step over a few boxes I’d already retrieved from my storage locker in the garage. “You moving or something?”
I ignored the question. “Could I make you a cup of tea?”
“Got any coffee?”
“Maybe,” I said. I actually had amazing fresh coffee beans from Peru that I’d gotten from Mrs. R., but I wasn’t sure I wanted to share them with him. “Have a seat.”
Even though I gestured to the kitchen table, Stryker flopped down on my loveseat, thrusting his boots up on the arm rest.
“Nice place, you got here,” he said, making himself comfortable and looking around. “All cute and cozy. Sorry to hear you might have to leave. Getting evicted is no fun.”
I finally located an old stale pack of coffee beans in the back of my fridge. Perfect! I poured them into the coffee maker.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Stryker?” I asked, ignoring the last comment. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking how he knew I was being evicted.
But how did he know?
“All business,” he replied with a little half grin. “I like it. As it happens, I am currently in need of a new assistant.”
“Really?” I replied. This was not what I expected. “What happened to your charming guy Clive?”
“I’m sorry to say he made an unfortunate choice when we were apprehending a drunk leprechaun at a bar in Pasadena.”
“Oh.” I cringed.
Despite their small stature, leprechauns had a reputation for being both prickly and fierce fighters. Especially when they were drunk. You’d have to be an idiot to cross one.
“Clive will be out of commission for a while,” he said. “Perhaps permanently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. He wasn’t too bright. And that can be dangerous.” He bobbed his head sideways. “But I’m thinking you might be an excellent alternative choice.”
“As your assistant?” I asked with a laugh. “Clive and I have very little in common. He’s all brawn and I’m… Well, I’m not all brawn.”
“I’m thinking about going in a different direction,” he revealed. “I know you don’t have a lot of experience. But you have good instincts. I can work with good instincts.”
The coffee was ready. I pulled two cups down from the cabinet.
“Do you take cream or sugar?” I asked, almost as an afterthought. Stryker seemed like one of those guys who would respond, I take it black as night and hot as my women.
“A little cream and two sugars,” he said, surprising me. “If you have it.”
I had both. I used the time it took to get the cream and sugar together to mull over what he’d told me. Did I want to work for this guy? And why was he really asking me when clearly there were a whole lot of other agents who were more experienced and more skilled than me?
As I stirred the second sugar into the hot milky liquid, it occurred to me.
“I get it. It’s because of my special skill,” I said, walking over to the loveseat with two mugs. “That’s why you want me to work for you.”
He took a sip of the coffee. “That doesn’t hurt. But that’s not the only reason I want you to work for me. I meant what I said. You’re smart. In almost a month, none of the other agents figured out where the Helmet of Perseus was hidden. In a few hours, not only did you figure it out, you tracked it down and took possession of the helmet. That’s damn impressive.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a seat in the flowered armchair that had come with the apartment. It was comfy, even though it always smelled a little bit like cabbage. “Not that it helped me much.”
He shrugged. “You still got some things to learn.”
Now it was my turn to get down to business. “So what’s the job and how much does it pay? What are we going after?”
“Not what.” He smiled. “Who.”
Chapter Fifteen
After Stryker left, I found a string of texts from Ellie on my phone. She wanted to meet for breakfast. I knew she really just wanted an update on my situation, which was fine by me, because I was in the mood to tell someone about everything that had happened.
I texted Ellie, and we agreed to meet at the bookstore cafe in half an hour.
I threw on Converse high tops, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and walked over.
How much should I tell her?
My father said not to talk to anyone. Not to trust anyone. Even though I’d trust Ellie with my life, I decided to play it safe and only tell her the basics.
As I pushed open the door to the bakery, I noticed a “Help Wanted” sign in the window.
What I needed more than anything was a real job. Not some sketchy work with a fly-by-night operation and a questionable character like Stryker. I grabbed the sign out of the window so no one else, surely more qualified, would see it and swoop in to steal my only lead on legit employment.
I saw Mrs. R plating fresh muffins.
“Hey Mrs. R,” I said at the counter. “Those smell great.”
“Lacey, how are you?” she said, giving me the once over. She immediately frowned, apparently not liking what she was seeing. “Would you like a huckleberry muffin? Fresh out of the oven. They’re excellent for luck and protection. They also aid in the breaking of hexes. Have you been hexed lately?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “Um… I don’t know.”
“You look a bit like someone has tampered with your aura,” she said, putting a muffin on the plate for me.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I’d been hexed. All this bad luck had to be coming from somewhere. Still, it seemed unlikely that a huckleberry muffin could really have been the cure of it all.
“Thanks, Mrs. R,” I said, taking a bite. My mouth puckered at the tartness.
“It has a bit of a strong flavor,” she said, watching my reaction. “Can’t add any sugar. Ruins all the healing properties.”
“Ah. Okay.” I struggled to chew and swallow one bite. “I saw this sign in your window? Are you still looking for help?”
“That’s not for you.” She shook her head slightly. “We need a new dishwasher. You know — load, unload, re
peat. Not something a grad student like you would want.”
“If it pays money, then I’m interested.”
“What’s going on, Lacey?” Now I had her full attention. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m having some money issues,” I said, trying to be vague. “It’s temporary. But I need some work to fill in the gaps.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry, honey. You’d be bored stiff working as a dishwasher. Let me talk to Mr. R. He might need some help in the store. You’re an ancient texts scholar, right?”
“Folklore and Antiquities,” I said with a little smile. I didn’t want to make her feel bad when she was offering to talk to her bookstore owner husband about a potential job for me. “But I do work with a lot of old books.”
She turned back toward the Italian coffee maker that cost more than my Civic. “I’ll let you know what he says.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. R,” I said sincerely. Her words were some of the first positive, hopeful things I’d heard in a while.
The bell on the front door tinkled and Ellie walked in. “Hey!” she said, giving me a hug. “You look terrible.”
“Ha! Thanks.”
“So? I’m dying to know what happened.”
We sat down at a table in the far corner away from everyone else. I leaned in and pretty much spilled the beans. I told her almost everything that had happened. The only thing I kept from her was that I’d seen my father and what he’d told me about the Society of Shadows being after him.
She sat back with her arms folded and listened.
When I got to the end, she thought about it for a second. “Do you believe that cop? What’s his name…Sam?”
“Sam Brown. And I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I don’t think he’s lying. But it’s possible he just doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Somehow he’s figured out that Mr. Stroud and his gang are collecting illegal magical items, but I don’t think he really knows much about it beyond that.”
“He needs to be careful,” she added, seeing the danger that Sam hadn’t yet fully realized.
“I know,” I agreed. “He’s going to get himself killed if he’s not careful.”
