A Touch of Magic

by Isabelle Adler

  He was so damn exhausted and frustrated about someone casually deciding to take his granddad’s amulet. At gunpoint. And just as it was looking like things were picking up for him, too. The show was doing great, and he’d been considering changing the venue for something grander. Why was his luck always running out just when he got optimistic again? He felt like bursting into tears there and then, curling up on the dirty pavement amid the smelly trashcans and giving in to the utter helplessness that was nearly choking him.

  It wasn’t fair. The thought was childish, but he couldn’t help it. He had always been such an utter failure in everything he’d done, and why should this be any different?

  Cary took a deep breath to calm his wildly beating heart, fighting back the unwanted tears. The autumn air felt cool against his flushed cheeks, adding a little bite as he sucked it into his lungs, still strained from his panicked flight. Childish or not, he instinctively balked at the idea of letting his amulet be taken away. The robber had probably thought that Cary was shitting him, and most likely didn’t care either way, but he had gotten it from his grandfather. Well, he’d found it in his grandfather’s stuff after he died, but it was the same thing. It was something to hold on to—the only real legacy left after years of discord, and there was no way he was going to just give it up, even if it was out of sheer stubbornness. Whoever this guy was, he was in for a surprise. Cary had some tricks up his sleeve, none of which had anything to do with magic.

  He took off the hat, the jacket and the vest, and hid them in a neat bundle behind one of the dumpsters. He hoped he’d get them back later, but if not, that was collateral damage. There was nothing else of value in his jacket’s pockets aside from a deck of cards, which he moved to his pants pocket. Then he quickly undid the top button of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and tousled his hair. That was it. Now he wouldn’t attract attention, and particularly not from people who, even if subconsciously, expected him to look the way he had before.

  He walked out of the alley, looked to the sides quickly to make sure no one was waiting to jump him, and headed in the direction the robber had taken.

  THE UNDERGROUND PARKING lot was mostly empty at this hour. It was also badly lit. Many of the overhead fluorescent lights were smashed or broken, creating sporadic pools of light on the gray concrete, with the rest of the space occupied by murky darkness. A faint smell of urine permeated the air.

  Cary crouched behind a blue sedan, keeping to the wall and doing his best to blend in with the shadows. Following the robber had not been easy. He’d almost lost him a couple of times, as the guy was clearly trying to keep a low profile and avoid any unwanted attention. Cary had been lucky to spot him early on, walking down the street past the brightly lit shop windows. After that, it was only a matter of tailing him without the other man noticing, hiding in alleys and falling back every time he took a turn or crossed the street, keeping away from the lampposts, to the shadows that hugged the almost empty streets.

  Once or twice, the guy had stopped and cast a look around, as if he sensed someone following. Each time, Cary ducked behind a truck or the side of a building, avoiding even looking too closely at his quarry for fear he might home in on the source of his apparent unease. But the guy never stopped long enough to catch sight of him, only hurrying along after a momentary pause, keeping his head low and his hands in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket.

  When the man descended into the parking lot, Cary had been afraid he was headed to his car, and with no means to follow, that would mean he’d have to forgo any chance of getting his property back. But the guy had stopped in the middle of the yellow-painted section, and was just lounging there against one of the support pillars. Either he was waiting to be picked up, or he wanted to pass his ill-gotten prize on to someone else. Both options were equally bad. In his mind, Cary apologized to his granddad for having been such a useless dolt back at the theater. Apparently, no amount of deftness and dexterity would help if you froze like a deer in the headlights when someone shoved a gun in your face.

  The guy’s pocket buzzed, and he took out his cell phone. He swiped the screen and frowned at it.

  Cary tensed. This was his window of opportunity. He was considering creeping around and advancing on the other man from behind in hopes of picking his pockets while he was busy reading his messages, when car tires screeched around a corner, and the guy straightened. Cary hid farther behind the hood of the parked car, peeping cautiously around the bumper. Shit, he’d been dawdling for too long and was about to miss his chance.

  A large black SUV with tinted windows pulled to a stop in front of the robber. Four men stepped out, fanning around him. They were armed with some sort of stumpy shotguns. Cary knew absolutely nothing about firearms, but they looked like serious business. The robber must have realized this as well, because he slipped the phone back into his pocket and lifted his hands without being prompted.

  So—definitely not whom he was expecting to meet. Wouldn’t it be funny if he got robbed in return? Hysterical. Especially since Cary could then kiss his amulet goodbye forever. His luck seemed to be sliding further and further down the hill with each passing minute.

  A man in a gray suit climbed down from the SUV’s passenger seat and came to stand in front of the robber. To the guy’s credit, he didn’t flinch or even look too scared.

  “You’re not my contact, and I don’t believe we have an appointment,” he said levelly. The voices carried in the near empty parking lot, but neither of the participants seemed to care.

  The suit smirked. He actually looked classy, not like those mobsters in fake Armani. Not that Cary had much experience with either mobsters or real Armani, but even he could tell the difference. The guy looked dangerous. He gave off a certain vibe that made Cary’s hackles rise. He’d seen his share of dangerous people, and this one was by far more intimidating than his unlucky robber, with or without a gun.

  “Let’s just say AJ won’t be coming today.” The guy in the suit had a slight accent Cary couldn’t quite place. “The merchandise?”

  “I don’t have it,” the robber said.

  Under different circumstances, Cary would have gloated at the guy having to squirm just as he’d done, but right now, things weren’t going too well for either of them. A deep unease settled in his stomach—some nasty shit was about to go down. He’d had enough of that in his past life, and he really didn’t want to be sucked in it again.

  “Liar.” The suit smiled. He was attractive, of average height and slim build, with dark hair and almost aristocratic features. Sleek and easy on the eyes, but it was like watching a poisonous snake about to strike. “Too bad. I was hoping to resolve this amicably.”

  One of his henchmen took a step forward, raising his weapon, and Cary’s robber moved too, dropping to the ground and kicking at the armed man’s knees. The bodyguard staggered and took a step back, but the robber had already rolled and sprung to his feet, diving behind the concrete column and whipping out his own gun from a holster hidden under his jacket.

  Cary’s heart hammered in his chest as he watched. The guy definitely had balls, but what could he possibly do against all these armed men? A gunfight was about to erupt in the parking lot, and that was bound to end badly for someone. He should probably get the hell out before he somehow got caught in the crossfire, and, considering the direction in which this bizarre evening was progressing, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  “Don’t shoot,” the man in the gray suit ordered. His guards halted, glancing between their boss and their target, waiting for further instructions.

  Why weren’t they shooting? The robber was surrounded. He had nowhere to run, and these thugs didn’t look like they’d be squeamish about leaving dead bodies behind.

  In the resounding, tense silence, a woman climbed out of the SUV. She was wearing a cherry-red silk blouse and a pair of black slacks that looked like they cost Cary’s annual rent. Everything about her, from the perfectly arranged waves o
f her dark hair to the tips of her manicured nails, spoke of a high level of taste and an equally high level of income to match it.

  Completely unfazed by the volatile tableau, she walked toward the column right past the armed bodyguards, her high heels clicking loudly on the rough concrete, and threw out her hand.

  There was…something. Cary couldn’t quite explain what it was, but he felt the air around the woman rippling without anything actually moving. He held his breath for a moment, but nothing happened.

  “You gotta do better than that,” the robber called. From Cary’s vantage point, he was half-obscured by the column, but it looked like he was inching back, toward the row of cars behind him.

  The woman twisted her palm upward, and the fluorescent lights overhead exploded in a shower of electric sparks and shards of glass. The robber ducked instinctively, his gun arm going up to protect his face. It was a momentary distraction, but it was enough for the bodyguard on the right to slam into him, jamming the butt of his gun into the side of his head. He dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. His gun fell out of his slackened hand and clattered to the ground.

  Cary flinched and withdrew even farther into the shadows, watching in shock, but apparently, he was the only one who’d been taken aback by what had happened. What in the hell?

  Obviously, it was magic of some kind, but he could hardly believe it. Sure, he knew his granddad’s pendant apparently had some powers that defied his understanding, but that could very much be his imagination running rampant. Seeing someone else perform magic—not stage magic, but some truly dangerous stuff—was another matter entirely.

  The armed henchman knelt to pat the unconscious man down, going about it quite professionally. At least, Cary hoped he was unconscious, because he really, really didn’t want to be a witness to a murder, especially not one he couldn’t readily explain to the authorities.

  “Take all his jewelry,” the woman instructed.

  Cary could only see the henchman’s back, so he couldn’t tell what the guy had found when he straightened and handed something to his boss.

  “Thanks, Letti,” the gray suit said, turning to the woman. Through his stunned haze, Cary absently noted a strong resemblance in their features.

  The woman shrugged. “I figured he could be useful to us in the future,” she said. “Business is business.”

  The man in the suit smiled that unpleasant smile again and motioned to his bodyguards to get back in the car while the woman climbed inside. He then returned unhurriedly to the passenger seat. Cary strained to see what he was holding, but he couldn’t risk being discovered snooping around. But really, what could it possibly be? The woman had said to take the jewelry. That must have included his amulet. The robber hadn’t been waiting in the middle of the night for nothing, even if the wrong people had shown up. Still, Cary had to make sure. It would be silly to leave without checking, especially seeing as he’d been effectively incapacitated.

  He waited, unmoving, until the SUV had driven off, and the parking lot was once again deserted and silent. Then he left his hiding place behind the sedan and approached the fallen man cautiously to crouch beside him.

  He was covered in tiny pieces of broken glass, still breathing. Cary really didn’t want him to end up dead—not after he’d helped him out of that dressing room with pursuit hot on their heels.

  Could these be the same people who had come after Cary in the theater? Someone was hell-bent on getting the amulet. That was for damn sure.

  But he didn’t have time to think it over. He hurried to search the other man before he came to, reaching into the inner pockets of his leather jacket. He eyed the discarded gun nervously, but it was out of reach, and Cary was definitely not touching it.

  Other than the phone and a receipt for filling gas from this morning, he found nothing. He shoved the phone back and was trying for the jeans pockets when the guy twitched and opened his eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded gruffly.

  Cary snatched his hands away and sat back on his heels, feeling heat creep up his cheeks. Shit.

  “I wanted to make sure you were alive,” he said. “Who the hell were they? What did she do?”

  The guy sat up and rubbed his head where the bodyguard had hit him, grunting with pain. Cary winced sympathetically. The bump that was already forming promised to be quite spectacular. At least there was no blood. Not that he should care if the guy was badly injured, really. But for some reason, Cary was glad that he wasn’t.

  “Fuck, those bastards.” The guy took quick stock of his pockets, much as Cary had done before, coming up with the same results. “Fuck.”

  “They took it, didn’t they?” Cary said accusingly. He had no idea why he was still talking with the man, especially since he was pointedly ignoring Cary’s questions, but right now, he was Cary’s only remaining link to the amulet, slim as it was. “No honor among thieves, huh?”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you.” He looked around and then stared at his left hand as if seeing it for the first time. “Fuck.”

  “What is it?”

  “They took it too. My ring.” There was a band of pale skin around his ring finger, standing out against the otherwise lightly tanned skin.

  “Was it a diamond solitaire?” Cary asked testily. He rose to his feet, dusting off his pants, which were close to ruined.

  The guy gave him a look.

  “It’s a magic ring,” he said. He got up, supporting himself on the pillar. He didn’t look as intimidating as he had in the stuffy dressing room. In fact, he was rather handsome with his broad shoulders and a mop of yellow sun-bleached hair, mussed from his recent exertions.

  “Like in The Lord of the Rings?” Cary asked. Get a grip, he told himself. Who cares what the guy looks like. He mugged you at gunpoint.

  “I wish,” he said. “No, not like that. But it does negate any effects of magic directed at me. Just not its fallout.” He grimaced.

  Serves you right, Cary thought, but didn’t have the heart to say it out loud.

  “So now what?” he asked instead.

  The guy shrugged noncommittally, but now he was eying Cary with a renewed interest.

  “How did you manage to track me down?”

  “Sleight of hand,” Cary said, deadpan. The other man snorted.

  “Well, it looks like it’s all been for nothing. Sorry. But hey, it looks like you can safely go home now. They have what they want. You’re hardly of any interest for them anymore.” He took out his car keys and started walking (wobbling) toward the back of the parking lot, presumably to where he’d parked his car, leaving Cary to stand there, alone and helpless.

  This couldn’t be it. No. He refused to just shut up and accept defeat.

  “Hey, wait!” He ran after the guy, who stopped and turned to face him again with a weary expression. “That’s it? You roll over and let them take it?”

  “What am I supposed to do? Run after the car and wrestle the bodyguards for it? You’re confusing me with Superman.”

  “There must be something we can do,” Cary said. That stubborn streak that had always landed him in trouble was rearing its head yet again, but if there ever was a time to be obnoxiously persistent, it was now.

  “We?”

  When Cary offered no answer, the other man sighed and shook his head. “Just go home. Chalk this one up to experience, suck it up, and lie low. Whoever that was, you probably don’t want to mess with them.”

  “And you?”

  “Ain’t none of your business. Good night, Mr. Mars.”

  He headed to his car—a surprisingly flashy silver Chevy Cavalier convertible—and clicked the doors open. Cary watched in frustration and disbelief as he pulled out of the lot and sped toward the exit. The bastard at least could’ve offered him a ride home.

  Cary was tired and wired at the same time. Not enough to run after the SUV like the guy had suggested, but he was itching to do something. The thought of giving up
made him almost physically sick. But he wasn’t ready to completely throw in the towel yet. And that sleight of hand remark wasn’t entirely a joke.

  He took out the plastic card he’d swiped out of the robber’s jeans pocket and flipped it between his fingers.

  The faded lettering read: Geary Lodge Motel.

  Chapter Three

  TY PULLED UP in front of a run-down apartment building. As usual, there were a number of homeless folk loitering on the dirty sidewalk. He got out and cast a discreet gesture spell, the invisible tattoos on his fingertips prickling with the surge of it. His car was way too ostentatious for this part of town, and this would prevent it from standing out like a sore thumb. Not invisible, exactly, but when protected with the spell, people’s gazes tended to slide right past it and focus on something else. He’d used the same spell on himself on a number of occasions, but maintaining it on a moving person, as opposed to an immobile object, was a lot harder.

  AJ, Ty’s fence, lived on the second floor. Well, Ty had no idea if he actually lived there. Other than his “office,” which took up most of the living room, the tiny space was crammed full of old junk Ty couldn’t even begin to categorize. Most of it was packed in various crates and cardboard boxes, but some of it spilled onto shelves and the floor—clocks, books, vintage appliances, porcelain dolls, framed photos. The dolls with their dead, staring eyes creeped him out like nothing else. If there was a bed buried in there somewhere, he’d never seen it.

  The short walk up the stairs left him more than a little dizzy. His head was throbbing, but that could wait to be taken care of later. There was no answer when he knocked, so he took out his set of picks and undid the lock. Opening the door, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  This recent trend of being threatened with firearms was really getting old.

  “Put that thing down before you hurt yourself,” he told AJ irritably.

  “I don’t think so.” AJ’s hands shook a bit, but he kept pointing the gun at him. He was a short, middle-aged man with a receding hairline, but size didn’t matter when one had a gun. His eyes darted behind Ty, as if he expected him to bring reinforcements. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but that was probably due to the room being stiflingly warm. “You don’t lockpick your way into a person’s place to have some nice friendly tea.”