by Corey Edward
“So we quietly break into his house and quietly threaten his genitals,” Frankie said.
Enisa and I looked at one another and shook our heads. But what could we do? Frankie was Frankie the same way a tsunami was a tsunami. There was just no stopping him once he got going.
“It’d be a much better idea to break into his office,” I said. “Dangerous, but better. He had all sorts of protection Sigils set up on the walls, just like you see here. That means he’s hiding something in there that he doesn’t want anyone else to see.”
“When, tomorrow?” asked Enisa.
“I was thinking more along the lines of Friday night. Since we can be out later and all.”
“Shit, I can’t break into a museum Friday,” said Frankie. “That’s the night of our concert. And, you know, I don’t want to miss it.”
“That’s perfect, actually. It gives us an alibi to tell Grams and Gramps,” I said, deciding to leave it at that. “But it’s late— way late — and I think we should all get home. Before the Darkon start to bite. Again.”
We had a lot more to discuss and I had even more to consider. The family business — and, in turn, my magic — was putting the ones I love in danger. What if there had been more Predators? What if Frankie really hadn’t gotten lucky with those shears, if its claws had torn him asunder? I knew they truly meant it when they said they would be there for me every step of the way.
And that scared me more than any evil force ever could.
Nine
Girl In The Mirror
I arrived home and crept up to my bed with all the trembling silence of a thief in a jewel heist. Not that I had to worry about being caught. Grams and Gramps, thankfully, slept heavier than hibernating bears. I was so exhausted I felt like I was walking through water, and Rusty wasn’t doing much better. He was out and snoring before I could even change into my pajamas.
Ah, what a night. My plush, queen-sized bed was beckoning me into its sheets like a lover’s open arms. I curled up beneath them and relished the feeling of safety and home. My eyes became heavy with sleep and soon, I was fully relaxed, placing my socked feet up against Rusty’s furry body for warmth.
That night — for the first time after my father’s death — I dreamt. In my dream, I was still in Boston, but the city was far younger and more untamed than the one I knew. No screens were flashing, no people were texting, and the air held a raw tension that filled my soul with unease. Cars still jammed the busy downtown streets, but they were bulky Chryslers with wheels that were as high as the hats on pedestrians’ heads. Everything around me was coated in a shade of black-and-white, the colors you’d typically expect to see on the screen of a Humphrey Bogart movie.
I was standing on a street corner while the people passed around me and through me. And then, it was as if someone pressed pause. Everything stopped. The people ceased moving, the cars stopped driving, and even the birds above stopped flying. The only thing moving was the looming, tall figure of a man as he walked my way, hands in a gray trench coat and an old-fashioned fedora on his head.
I didn’t recognize him until he came close enough for me to see. Maybe it was the clothes, which cloaked him in secrecy and displaced him from his actual time period. When I realized who I was staring at, I felt a sudden, pressing desire for my alarm to go off and wake me up.
“Dad,” I said. It felt like a frog had crawled up into my throat and lodged there. “Why are you in my dream?”
“Nice to see you too, kid,” he said, his Boston accent as thick as ever. That kid… Jesus, it was tough to hear. Not because I missed it, but because I hated it. He’d been calling me that since I was a kid and refused to believe I had grown to be anything else. “I’m dead, remember? Dreams are the only way we can talk now.”
Yeah, since we talked so much back when he was alive. There’s a reason why I moved in with my grandparents when I was ten and never looked back. If he wasn’t trying to get me to put my entire life on hold and go out and fight ghoulies with him, he was reminding me of how meek and small I was.
“Well, I’m sorry about what happened to you,” I said. Merlin, this was awkward. “I wish I would’ve been there to help.”
“Meh.” He shrugged and lit a cigar, which appeared out of nowhere. “I know you never had much love for your old man, but that’s fine. I didn’t care about your feelings. I cared about your loyalty.”
At this point, I wanted to either wake up screaming or die in my sleep.
“I am loyal,” I said. “I’m taking over the family business, just like you said.”
“Why are you finally taking it over? You’ve spent your whole goddamn life dodging your responsibilities. Why now that I’m gone?”
“You know why. I can’t lose my magic. I can’t lose Rusty. He’s my Familiar.”
“That’s a shit reason.” He scoffed. “You only made the ‘choice’ because you were afraid of what might happen if you didn’t. All that tells me is that you aren’t truly committed to helping the lost and the helpless. You’re only committed to helping yourself.”
“I helped that lady with her tomato Darkon. I’m investigating these murders. Your murder. How can I be any more committed than I already am?”
“Let’s see.” He held up a hand and began to stick up fingers, ticking things off. “Human friends. Human school. Human aspirations. Everything’s human but the teensy, tiny little part of you that is Candle. You’re never going to make it as a paranormal investigator. Maybe you shouldn’t sign your name on that plaque after all.”
“I’m not giving up my human life. I can have both. Just because you weren’t good at juggling it doesn’t mean that I will be, too.”
“What you’re doing isn’t a juggling act, kid. It’s a recipe for disaster. You were always good at making messes and so shit at cleaning them up.”
“You make me feel like trash, you know that?” Being that this was a dream, I felt entitled to speak my mind in a way that would’ve gotten me backhanded when he was living. “You always have. Ever since I was a little boy. Remember when you made me hold those heavy spell books for an hour because I didn’t set that bully on fire for pushing me off the swings?”
“Yeah, well, that kid was an asshole.”
“And remember when you dragged me out on Christmas Eve to banish that stupid Krampas? I have a right to be angry. You were terrible to me.” And Great freaking Merlin, there came the tears. “At least Grams and Gramps were around to show me I could choose my future, that crying didn’t make me less of a man, that I could be me and be strong, too.”
“There you go again with the talk about your precious little human-like feelings. Newsflash, bud: you ain’t a human. You’re a Spellcrafter. Mana has run through your veins since the day you were born. And if you don’t use that Mana to help people, you don’t deserve to have it.”
“Why does it have to be me? Why is it always the Candle wizards?”
“Good thing, Batman didn’t have that attitude. Gotham would be a smoldering pit.”
“This isn’t a comic book. This is real life. I can have human friends and a human future and the family business.”
“And a human death.”
“What, and your plan was so great? Look at you. In a grave before fifty.”
“I died doing what we Candle wizards do and have done since the Dark Ages. You are too distracted by all your human friends, your human life, and your human dreams. Ditch them and devote yourself entirely to the family business. It is the only way you will succeed.”
That same nasty old rage I felt whenever we spoke was coming back. But this was my dream. I was in control, not him. He was just a background character that would disappear when I opened my eyes. I couldn’t let him upset me.
“You just can’t resist putting me down even in death, can you?”
“And you’re still can’t resist shirking your duties even in your dreams. Some things never change.”
“Not true. I helped out this lady last wee
k and I’ve been working on your last case- the one you failed to close. I am running Candle Paranormal Investigations my way. Not yours. Not anybody else’s. Mine. And it is my friends that make me strong.”
“You, kid, are in for a rude awakening.”
“What about Mom? You had her. She was a human FBI agent when you met her. You let her in.”
“I know I did, and she died. It’s one of the biggest regrets of my life.”
This was getting us nowhere. I didn’t know how much time we had left and I still had more questions to ask him. That is, if he really was my dad and not a byproduct of the meatloaf Grams made for dinner.
“Who killed you? And why is ‘he’ coming after me now, like your message said?”
“Didn’t really get a good look at ‘em. They snuck up and cast a death curse on me. Nixis Livixis. Takes a lot of black magic to pull that one off, so I’m guessing the culprit was a skilled Darkcrafter. You better find that Grimoire and finish what I started, kid, before all of humanity’s in danger.”
“I’m working on it.”
He chuckled. “Work harder. Find the Grimoire, destroy it, and then take up your rightful spot as the owner of Candle Paranormal Investigations. Alone. Without your human dreams and your human grandparents and your human hobbies. Your magic depends on it.”
And then, my father stopped speaking, freezing like the world around us.
I opened my mouth to say something — to ask him more about his death, or if he knew where the Grimoire might be hidden — but nothing came out. Not even a sound. Everything became blurry and out-of-focused, starting with my dad: he faded away slowly, as if someone were adjusting a dial. Then came the buildings, and finally the people. They, too, popped out of existence as the city faded away around me and the sun rose just beyond my eyelids.
That was the last thing I remembered as my alarm went off.
~&~
“...and that was it,” I finished telling Frankie and Enisa. “Then I woke up.”
It was a few minutes to eight and the library was on fire. Not literally — or else we wouldn’t be sitting around a table snacking on Miss Delaney’s strawberry candies —but figuratively. I had told them both everything about my incredibly eventful evening, starting with my incognito trip to the museum and ending with the dream of my father. Miss Delaney was scanning barcodes of paperbacks and then stacking them gently onto a cart, only paying half-attention to our conversation. Frankie and Enisa listened along intently, the former making remarks like “dude” or “what the hell?”- and the latter questioning me as if she were a judge and I was a defendant.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” said Enisa. “Your dad is one of the biggest jerks I’ve ever met.”
“Not that I disagree, but you only met him once.”
“Once was enough. What makes you think it was actually him? Why can’t a dream just be a dream?”
“We Spellcrafters rarely have meaningless dreams. We’re constantly in-tuned with the magical energies of this world, awake and asleep. No, I think it really was my dad, coming to visit me from… wherever he is.”
“Which is?” asked Frankie.
“I wish I knew.”
“If that dream is true, then one thing he neglected to explain is why his body was found in the woods,” Enisa said, pulling out a mirror and checking out her lipstick. “All the other bodies were found in their homes. Why was his murder so different?”
The door opened and in walked Molly Bancroft, just as she had yesterday. Her purple coach purse was slung over her shoulder and she was wearing a forest green sweater, a black skirt and pantyhose that dipped into black boots. I also noted a piercing in her eyebrow that hadn’t been there before. Again I felt that rush of frenetic magical energy and had to wonder if she felt the same from me.
“Hey, guys,” Molly said, walking over to our table. “Glad to see you three again.”
“And we’re glad to see you didn’t decide to drop out after your first day,” said Enisa with a smile. “And can I just say how amazing it is to finally have some female energy around here? It’s impossible to ask makeup advice from people who don’t know the difference between fuchsia and magenta.”
“That’s because there is no difference,” I said. “We’ve had this conversation about a dozen times.”
“And for the thirteenth time,” Enisa said, “you’re wrong.”
Both she and Molly shared a laugh, which mystified Frankie and I. But I was glad for Enisa. Having another girl in the group just felt right. Having another Spellcrafter? That was better than right. That was perfect.
But I couldn’t throw open the door to the broom closet all at once. I’d have to be careful with how I revealed my biggest secret. Not all Spellcrafters were good, even if they seemed like they were on the surface. That was one of the biggest lessons Dad taught me, and I intended to remember it now.
“So, sorry to change the subject away from this fascinating topic of lipstick,” Frankie said, “but my band is playing this Friday at the Brew. Will you all be free?”
“The Brew?” Molly’s face lit up. “I love that place.”
“So do we,” said Enisa. “We’re there basically every weekend. As Frankie knows. I think he was specifically trying to ask if you’d come, Molly. So can you?”
“Music, coffee, and a night out with my new friends,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
The bell ended our conversation and Molly joined me for the walk to History class.
We made it into the room seconds before the late bell and slid into our seats. History was the worst class of the day because it was full of people I spent the rest of the school day trying to avoid. The Fisher twins were present, sitting side-by-side in matching blue-and-gold varsity jackets, their wide shoulders and burly bodies barely even fitting in their desks. In the row in front of them and catty-corner to my seat was the dastardly trio known as The Girlicane: Sophie Crane, Bailey Simpson, and Jade Harris. All the hairspray, makeup, and Gucci bags that money could buy. Sophie Crane was the daughter of Mayor Crane (yes, THAT Mayor Crane), and she thought it made her queen of the school as well as princess of the city.
The Girlicane stared daggers at us as we entered, as if we had walked in specifically to protest their presence there. Sophie made the biggest show of it, sneaking a picture of Molly as she opened up her notebook and took out her drawing utensils. I looked up and glared at her, hoping to stop her silently without Molly noticing.
“New girlfriend?” Sophie said, turning halfway around in her seat to look at me. “Your arranged marriage with Enisa not working out for you anymore?”
“We don’t have an arranged marriage,” I replied, cool as a clam. “But we do have a friendship, which is working out way better than that nose job.”
“Nice try, but I don’t let five-foot-eight bookworms offend me.” She looked at Molly. “Does your new goth pal have a name?”
“Nope,” Molly said without even so much as glancing up from her notebook.
“Morticia Addams it is, then. Aw, Goth Girl and Book Boy. Two losers in love. It was meant to be.”
Bailey and Jade both chuckled while I contemplated whether I should make the three of them break out in cystic acne for the day or make their bladders let loose in the middle of class. But then I thought better of it. Doing either of those things would out me to Molly as a wizard, and I didn’t want her to think I just used my powers for vengeance alone. Plus, I promised Enisa, and I didn’t break promises I made to my friends.
Mr. Broomsetter entered the class right in the nick of time, cutting off all further contemplation of the matter. Today’s lesson was a continuing lecture on the causes of the Industrial Revolution and child labor laws. Call me crazy, but working in an actual 19th-century factory sewing waistcoats all day might have been preferable to his lecture. He truly had a talent for turning even the most interesting of historical subjects into something drab and mundane. Or maybe it was more of a curse.
Molly doodled like she had yesterday, unperturbed by Sophie’s ridiculous comments or Broomsetter’s boring speech. She began with a wide circle that covered most of the page and finished with a mish-mash of intersecting lines and esoteric symbols. It was a Sigil, one that was painted on the walls of my father’s office. Like the others, it was meant for protection.
But from what?
The lecture continued. Molly ripped the Sigil out of the notebook, folded it up, and tucked it into her purse. Then she drew another not-too-dissimilar one, moving even quicker this time. She’d been perfectly calm this morning, but her movements had taken on a certain anxious frenzy that was tough to watch.
But then something else happened. Something weird. The lines, symbols, and curves of her work-in-progress started to shift, crawling around on the page as if they were alive. Over the next couple of seconds ,the lines completely rearranged until they formed a disembodied, demonic grin in the center of her paper.
A startled scream left Molly’s mouth. Half the class jumped and Mr. Broomsetter stopped speaking, his eyebrows rising in confusion. Then the notebook flew up from the desk and slammed into the back of Sophie Crane’s head, causing her to cry out as if she’d been stung by a wasp.
“What the hell?” she said, rubbing her skull. She turned around to look at Molly. “Did you just throw that at me?”
A tense silence fell over the class. You could’ve heard a mouse squeak from a mile away. Both of Molly’s trembling hands came up to cover her mouth; she was white as bone.
“Well?” Sophie asked. “Did you?”
Molly didn’t answer. But as far as Sophie was concerned, she may as well have said yes.
“Ugh,” Sophie exclaimed. “The riff-raff they let in this school these days. Do it again and your ass will be educated behind bars. Got it, Morticia?”
Molly said nothing. The single tear that slid down her cheek did all the talking for her. Bailey’s phone slid out of her coach purse; in a second, she’d be recording. I was ready to ask Molly if she needed space when she jumped up and went running from the room as fast as could.
