Wicked Magic

by Margot de Klerk

  “What are you doing?” Cynthia asked.

  “I’m going to ward this box with an anti-magic ward,” Monica said, lifting a wooden box up. “That way we can store the knife in there and it’ll be reasonably safe. First, though, I’m going to spell it to only open to you, Nate. You’re going to need one of your hunting knives.”

  Magic was not nearly as impressive in real life as movies made it out to be. For one, Monica was lazy, and she drew the wards onto the box in sharpie. It was probably quicker that way, anyway, because Nathan wasn’t sure how well the plywood would hold up against the chisel, and Monica practically covered the insides of the box and lid in rows of identical runes. Then she flipped the lid and drew one single rune on the outside. That one was druhtinaz, meaning master. The same rune went on the top of each of the sides of the box.

  “How much blood?” Nathan asked.

  “Cut your finger and smear it over the five runes. Don’t get any on the inside,” Monica instructed.

  Nathan very carefully pricked his left ring finger and smudged blood over the druhtinaz runes. Amazing the power of blood, really. The giver of life, the binder of slaves, the bringer of death. Once he’d covered the runes adequately, he sucked his finger. Monica had him hold the box, and she chanted for at least five minutes, then dripped wax on each rune. There was an acrid, smoky smell, and when they scraped the wax away the runes had burnt into the surface of the wood.

  Monica squinted at the box and then at Nathan. “You’d better burn the box when you’re done with it, because no one else is ever going to be able to get it open.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yeah, but no point in leaving the evidence lying around,” Monica said. “Let’s get the other spell done. It’s going to take longer.”

  Monica had to consult her spellbook for the second one. Made sense, Nathan supposed. Most witches didn’t usually whip up anti-magic wards in their free time. Cynthia asked all sorts of questions, so Monica ended up explaining as she went along.

  “Wards draw on the power of the elements to protect,” she recited as she lit the tealights. “Anyone can craft them. You don’t actually have to have magic yourself to harness the magics of the earth, but it does help.”

  “So Nathan or I could do this?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t advise either of you to mess with this ward,” Monica said. “Stick to petty amulets.”

  “Why’s this one so hard?”

  “Because using magic to create a ward that blocks magic is sort of counterproductive,” Monica said. “Think of it like a nuclear fusion reactor. If the plasma touches the side, the reactor overheats. Same thing in this spell. If the magic touches the anti-magic… kaboom.”

  “Please don’t blow up my house,” Nathan said.

  “It’s more of a metaphysical backlash.”

  “Nuclear reactors have fail-safes in case the plasma touches the side,” Cynthia pointed out.

  “No fail-safes in magic,” Monica said cheerfully. “At least, not my branch of magic.”

  Cynthia looked a bit worried at that. Nathan took her hand and squeezed it, and she looked up at him and smiled.

  “Monica knows what she’s doing, right?” she whispered.

  “She’s never got it wrong yet,” Nathan replied.

  Monica walked them through the spell. First was the invocation of the elements. A little metal bowl went on each point of the pentagram, one with soil from the garden, an empty one for air, one with burning oil, and the fourth filled with water. The bowl on the point of the star that reached towards Monica was the last one she filled. Witches believed in a fifth element, which went by different names—spirit, soul, the intangible element, magic, purity. Every witch had a different name for it, and there were different ways of invoking it. Monica uncapped a tiny vial and poured a few drops of blood into the bowl.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just pig’s blood.”

  Nathan made a face at Cynthia, who stifled a giggle.

  “I’m never going to be a witch,” she said. “I hate blood.”

  “You kind of get used to it as a hunter,” Nathan said.

  Step two was to smear some kind of ointment, meant to channel the magic, onto the insides of the box. Monica laid it in the middle of the pentagram.

  “Okay, you two need to be quiet,” Monica said. Then she began to chant.

  Witch chants were almost always in some dead language. Nathan had no idea what language this was, but it sounded Greek and Monica had to read it out from her book.

  She said the whole chant several times through. Each time her voice grew lower, her body became slacker, she fell deeper into a trance. Finally, she was only mumbling, and then she fell silent altogether, just mouthing the words. The lights flickered. The hairs on Nathan’s arms prickled, and he could smell smoke.

  Cynthia squeezed Nathan’s hand nervously, and he wrapped an arm around her.

  The candles went out. Monica took a deep breath, like someone surfacing after swimming underwater. She got up from where she was kneeling, shaking out each of her limbs as though she’d been sitting for hours.

  Then she picked up the box and held it out to Nathan. The ointment was gone, and the runes were burnt into the plywood.

  “Should I open the window?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yes please,” Nathan said. “Watch out, the lock sticks.”

  With the window open, the smoky haze of magic began to seep out of the room. Nathan didn’t want to touch the knife, so he found an old pair of socks and wrapped them around it, stuffing it into the box. He put the lid on and held it out to Monica to test.

  She tried tugging the lid off, and so did Cynthia, but neither of them could lift it. For Nathan, it came away easily.

  “Whew,” Monica said. “Right, I need a drink.”

  “And lunch,” Nathan said. Monica rolled her eyes.

  They took the bus into town and got lunch at a pub. The normalcy felt weird after the morning they’d had. Monica and Cynthia discussed hairdressers and what their favourite clothing brands were, and how annoying it was to wear high heels.

  “You’re lucky, you’re so tall,” Cynthia said enviously. “I’d love to be that tall.”

  “Oh, don’t,” Monica replied. “Guys think shorter girls are cute and delicate. I’ll never have a guy think that about me.”

  Personally, Nathan thought Monica was double as fragile as Cynthia, but when they looked to him for an opinion, he shook his head stubbornly. “No, not a chance. I’m not stupid, there’s no right answer when girls talk about this stuff.”

  Monica and Cynthia both laughed. By the end of lunch, they had exchanged phone numbers, and Nathan deduced that they were probably going to be best friends forever. Just his luck; whatever way you looked at it, this was going to result in even more teasing.

  Afterwards, Nathan walked Cynthia to her bus stop, with Monica trailing behind to give them privacy.

  “I had fun today,” Cynthia said. “Your life is pretty whacky.”

  “Yeah, I don’t fight vampires and do backroom magic every day,” Nathan said. “Mostly it’s just homework and training.”

  “It’s still more interesting than my life,” Cynthia said. “Um… do you want to come over to my place? Sometime this week? If you have time?”

  Nathan sincerely hoped this was an invitation to get up to more kissing.

  “Friday? Then we won’t have school the next day.”

  Cynthia nodded. “Great. I’ll see you then.” Her bus pulled up.

  “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Nathan blurted out.

  “Yeah,” Cynthia breathed.

  Nathan cupped the back of her head. Her hair was soft. He kissed her gently. Cynthia took the flaps of his jacket and tugged him closer. When they parted, Nathan’s heart was beating just a bit faster. He gave Cynthia what was probably a totally goofy smile.

  “See you Friday.”

  Cynthia grinned cheekily, pecked him onc
e more on the lips, then darted into the bus. As it pulled away, Monica stepped up beside Nathan.

  “Who knew little Nate had it in him?”

  “Shut up.”

  Monica clucked her tongue at him. “Anyway, you better get sex off your brain. Are you coming with me?”

  “With you where?”

  “I need to report Kseniya to the Witch Council.”

  Nathan groaned.

  “What do you need me for? I thought you weren’t seeing the Council whilst you were here.”

  “I’m not seeing Jeremiah, but this is different.” Monica tugged him down the High Street. “Kseniya is a marked dark mage, and she was excommunicated from a coven. If I don’t report she’s here, and they find out I didn’t report her, then I could get done for collusion.”

  “Well, shit,” Nathan said. He ought to have said, yeah, but you don’t need me for that. He really ought to have said, I have to get home and write my econ essay. “Fine, let’s get it over with.”

  Witches were flashy and annoying. The Hunter Council had an office in a boring sixties office block. The Witch Council just had to be different.

  They walked to Magdalen Bridge and then down the access road that led to the punt rental. A whiskery old man was sitting there, guarding his punts.

  “Closed,” he called out.

  Monica pulled her jumper up and showed him her witches’ mark: a bolt of lightning splitting a stone in two, and below that a triskelion. They were tattooed above her right hip. The man stared at Monica’s skin for an inappropriate length of time, before getting up and leading them to a punt.

  “The river’s a bit swollen. Mind you don’t knock your heads on the bridges.” He pushed a token into Nathan’s hand, a little hunk of metal which had been hammered flat like a coin. Raised ridges on each side formed the triskelion symbol, which was the insignia of the Council. Nathan pocketed the token.

  They never actually reached the first bridge. Monica directed Nathan, and he steered the punt through a blank stretch of wall which belonged to Magdalen College.

  There was a brush of powerful magic, and then they were inside a tunnel. The water made a hollow noise as little waves splashed against the walls. Flame torches lit the way. At the landing platform, Nathan jumped out to tie the punt up. By the time he’d helped Monica out, a guide was there.

  “Monica Walker, you are not welcome here,” said the guide. His voice sounded male. He was otherwise featureless, hidden behind a long burgundy robe which covered him from head to toe.

  “I have an issue to report,” Monica declared. “It’s witch business, but of course I can take it to the vampires if you’d prefer.”

  The guide vacillated a moment. Magic flickered and wavered in his aura, making Nathan’s eyes hurt. Finally, he said, “I have consulted with the elders. You may enter. Your companion is unmarked.”

  “Nathan is under protection from the Hunter Council.” Monica’s tone was utterly uncompromising.

  If this surprised the guide, he didn’t show it. “Very well, follow me.”

  They were led up a flight of stairs, and they should have been in Magdalen College, but this was definitely not in Magdalen College’s floorplan. It was a grand hall with stained glass windows down the two long sides. The light filtered through them in that strange way it often did in old buildings, lighting up the dust motes in the air and filling the room with a gentle glow. They had entered at the bottom of the room, where a platform sat with three gold seats for the Council elders and a row of less ornate wooden chairs behind it for their aides. One Council elder was in attendance at the moment, with three of the nine aides. Rows of pews extended to the back of the hall, and high above was a gallery with more seating.

  “Pay your respects,” the guide ordered. Monica made a face but knelt at the feet of the Council elder. He—she—it—it was impossible to say—was shrouded in a pure white robe, underneath which Nathan caught a glimpse of a gnarled, ancient face as he knelt beside Monica.

  “Elder Rowan,” Monica said.

  “Monica Walker, mage of the Vampire Council,” said the elder, who turned out to be female. There was something about her; the moment she spoke, Nathan felt it. She was so old, it robbed him of breath. No living creature should be that old.

  “What news do you bring before me?” asked Elder Rowan. “Will you beg forgiveness of your sins?”

  Ouch. Nathan winced in sympathy. Monica scowled, but ignored the jab.

  “I have encountered a marked dark mage in the city,” she said. “I believe she goes by the name of Kseniya Krovopuskov.”

  “Kseniya of the Bloodletting Family?” Elder Rowan inquired. “We are not aware that she is in residence. Such a mage should have registered when she entered the city.” The elder paused and held out a hand to an aide. The hand looked like a tree branch on an ancient oak tree. The skin was almost like bark, and white as paper. “Fetch me the register.”

  A boy not much older than Nathan shot to his feet and darted off through a side door. He returned moments later, lugging a book almost the same size as he was. Another aide appeared with a table, on which the book was set down, and they both paged through it.

  “There have been no dark mages registered in the city since January 2014,” the aide blurted out. “Basil of Cresterbury, entered January 12, exited January 19—”

  “Yes, yes,” the elder said impatiently. “There is no Kseniya Krovopuskov in the city?”

  The aide chanted over the book. It glowed red.

  “No, Elder Rowan.”

  “You are certain you sighted this girl, Monica Walker?”

  “She bumped into my friend in the witching level,” Monica said. “I would have thought someone else would have seen her.”

  “And yet no one did. Do you bring me lies, Monica Walker? This will not ingratiate you with the Witch Council.”

  “I’m just doing my duty,” Monica said, tense and irritated. “Come on, Nate, this is useless. Let’s go.”

  “You should mark your friend, Monica Walker. He should not wander on witch territory unguarded,” the elder said in the tone of someone scolding a small child.

  “Nathan Delacroix is protected by the Hunter Council,” Monica repeated as she stood up. “I shouldn’t have to.”

  “Is he?” the elder asked innocently. “My mistake, then. He does not… seem it.”

  “Come on,” Monica snapped. She grabbed Nathan and dragged him to his feet with surprising strength, then marched him out of the hall without waiting for their guide. The guide chased after them, catching them when they got to the landing platform.

  “Please hand your token back to the gatekeeper on the way out,” he panted.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Monica said impatiently. “Come on, Nate.”

  “You want to go faster, you help.” Nathan untied the rope and supported Monica down into the punt, and then he turned them as fast as possible and steered them out of the tunnel. He was feeling kind of creeped out, too.

  It wasn’t until they’d returned the punt and handed back the token, and were walking in broad daylight up the High Street, that Nathan asked, “What did she mean, I don’t seem it?”

  “I don’t know,” Monica said. There was note of panic in her voice. She turned to Nathan and her expression was grim. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  Nathan was inclined to feel the same way.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NATHAN MADE A POOR showing on his homework the next week. His latest econ essay came back with a D-, and he sensed that imminently the teachers were going insist on meeting with his guardians to discuss academic performance. That was bad.

  Even with that weighing on him, Nathan still couldn’t forget that his birthday was looming over him, and with it the decision about hunter initiations.

  On Thursday morning, he dutifully filled in the registration form that Grey gave him. Grey hesitated very pointedly, before adding his own signature.

  “I’m not absolutely certain you’re re
ady,” he said. “You haven’t been as focused lately. But I’m willing to write that off as stress and nerves. Take this as… an expression of trust.”

  “Thank you,” Nathan said, not feeling better in the slightest. Ever since Grey had taken him to the prison, he found he didn’t want the man’s approval as much as he had before.

  It was a relief when Friday came. Nathan endured a gruelling day at school, including a bio test that he really, really hoped he’d passed. After school, he cycled up the Headington Hill. Cynthia was waiting for him at the gates of Headington Girls’ School, wearing her school uniform. She managed to make the button-down shirt and knee-length skirt look cute, too. Nathan stopped next to her and leaned against his bike until she was done chatting to her friends.

  “Nathan,” she called, grinning. “How are you?”

  “The day’s looking up,” Nathan replied casually. “You?” She didn’t need to know that he’d practiced that line in his head on his way up. It was worth it for her answering smile.

  “I’m alright,” Cynthia said coyly. She went up on tiptoes to kiss the edge of his mouth, then asked, “Do you want to meet my friends?”

  “Okay,” Nathan said, even though he could see Poppy Wiggen glowering at him.

  After fifteen minutes of enduring giggling girls and snide comments from Poppy, Cynthia finally decided they could head back to her house. They walked with his bike between them into Headington proper, until they reached her house.

  “Monica has been texting me all sorts of stuff about wards,” Cynthia said. “I didn’t realise she was so knowledgeable.”

  “Obsessed might be a better way of putting it,” Nathan said. “Oh yeah, that reminds me, she gave me something for you.”

  “Really?”

  Nathan locked his bike outside her house and fished in his bag for the paper packet. “I’m sure it’s more wards,” he said. “She’s given me about fifteen already this week.” He showed Cynthia the keyring Monica had forced on him, and the ward sign drawn onto the inside of his belt. “I have another one in my bag, and she sewed a patch onto my one jacket, but that’s about as many as I can take in one place without them driving me crazy.”