Tales of the Otherworld (31 page)

As with my law professors, Eve would see people pass through her classes destined for jobs that netted triple her income. Yet the old adage about “Those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach” failed in this instance. For Eve Levine was widely known as an expert practitioner of her art.

I will admit to some optimistic bent in my nature that made me hope she refrained from acts of evil out of a basic core of good. Yet if it was possible to rate such things on a continuum, teaching magic to maim and kill must be seen as
more
wrong than carrying out such acts oneself.

It’s a matter of scale. By teaching, you give lethal power to countless others. One could argue, and rightly so, that most of Eve’s students didn’t have the spellcasting wherewithal to maim a cockroach, but the fact remains that her lessons exist to give people that power.

It is possible that Eve taught out of a misguided sense of morality
that let her conscience rest easy. Yet I suspected it was prompted by the same impulse that compelled her to rent a modest apartment in a good neighborhood, rather than a good apartment in a seedier section of town. That reason showed itself ten minutes later, when the front door opened, and out strode a slender woman with dark hair to her waist, wearing boots that added another inch or two to her already formidable height. Eve Levine. And that “reason”? It was at her far side, almost hidden behind her—only sneakers, a backpack, dark hair, and gesticulating hands visible. Eve’s preadolescent daughter, Savannah.

A cab waited at the curb, as it did every weekday morning. Eve opened the door and waved her daughter in. The girl paused, hands still moving, relating some story that couldn’t be interrupted. Her mother playfully shoved her into the taxi and climbed in after her.

The school was less than a mile away, not an unreasonable distance for a child to walk, but they always took a cab and Eve always went along, then walked back and picked up a coffee on the way. It was an unwavering routine that I’d been following long enough to reassure me that I now had close to an hour to break into Eve’s apartment.

I waited for a break in traffic, then swung out. At the light, I stopped beside two young women in a sports car, who tried to get my attention. This, however, was one case where I could, without guilt, pretend I didn’t notice them. The driver rolled down the window, calling to me, and I considered employing my surefire method of deflecting unwanted female attention while riding my motorcycle: removing my helmet.

The safety gear necessary for proper use of a motorcycle—a full helmet with tinted visor, bulky leather jacket, gloves, and boots—renders one’s features and physique invisible, and even the most unlikely male suddenly becomes attractive: a mysterious figure astride a vehicle that symbolizes rebellion and freedom from cultural mores. To destroy that image, I merely needed to remove the helmet and endure the looks of surprise, disappointment, and even, occasionally, anger—as if I’d committed the unforgivable sin of false advertising.

Once about a year ago, a young woman had, after a few moments’ hesitation, asked me out to dinner. I’d accepted—out of surprise, I think, and perhaps a healthy dose of optimism. We hadn’t even made it through the appetizers before she’d started making suggestions. Had I considered contact lenses? Perhaps a less generic hairstyle, preferably longer. Highlights
might be nice. And while I appeared to be in reasonably good physical condition, she knew a friend who swore by protein shakes for bulking up. In short, if I wasn’t what she’d hoped I’d be when I removed that helmet, perhaps she could rectify that. After dinner I’d begged off with a lie about an overdue paper, walked her to her car, and beat a fast retreat.

The light changed, sending the memory skittering away.

I let the sports car get two car lengths ahead of me before zipping into that lane and turning the corner beside Eve Levine’s apartment. I’d park a block over. I’d mapped out my route—indeed, every step of this expedition—days ago. Then, yesterday, I’d carried it through right to the point of opening her front door, then walking through my escape. Overkill, I’m sure, but having never undertaken a break-and-enter before, I was leaving nothing to chance.

I hid my jacket, helmet, and boots, and changed into flat shoes, then walked to the nearby strip mall, from which I purchased an oversized floral arrangement and affixed a large card with
Congrats!
scrawled across the front. Then I walked to the edge of Eve’s apartment building. When I saw a man striding through the lobby, I hurried to the front doors and began struggling, trying to open them while holding the flowers. The man took one look at me—a clean-cut young Latino carrying flowers—and held the door for me with only a laughing comment about dropping them off at apartment 318 for his wife.

Next, Eve’s front door. She didn’t even bother spell-locking it. Perhaps that also bespoke an overreaching confidence, arrogance even, assuming that anyone who knew she kept valuables like rare grimoires would also know her reputation enough not to attempt to steal them. Within a few minutes, I was inside Eve’s apartment, ready to begin my hunt for her grimoires.

As I expected, Eve’s confidence didn’t extend to leaving her grimoires in plain sight. She’d placed a false back in the bedroom walk-in closet. It was only upon searching her closet that I realized the trick. I cast a trap-detection spell, but found none—not surprising, considering she had a child.

After I got what I came for, I should have made my escape. However,
when confronted with a wall of grimoires, most of which I had never seen, I couldn’t resist lingering. The temptation to fill my bag was overwhelming. Was it not my obligation to remove them? The impulse shamed me—using the excuse of “doing right” so I might have these spells for myself. Still, I permitted myself a glance through several.

I was poring over a spell, wondering if I had time to jot it in my notebook, when I heard a floorboard squeak behind me. I’d cast a perimeter spell at the front door, which was the only viable entry point. Yet perimeter spells were witch magic, which I was not yet proficient in. I realized this just in time to slap shut the grimoire in my hands. When I heard a sound from the doorway, I shoved the book into my bag, and whirled to see an energy bolt coming straight for me.

I dove to the side, hands rising in a knockback spell. She anticipated my move and leapt aside. Her next energy bolt hit me like a high-voltage blast to the gut. Everything went black—a split-second loss of consciousness that ended as I crashed to the floor and jolted awake.

I tried to leap up, but I was frozen in a binding spell. Eve advanced on me, then stopped a few feet away.

“My God, they’re right; you do look like your father.” She tilted her head for a closer look. “The eyes at least.”

She took a step back. “So, Lucas Cortez. When my neighbors described the young man at my door yesterday, I wondered if it could be a Cortez employee. But a Cortez himself? That I
didn’t
expect.”

I cursed myself for my carelessness. So that was why Eve hadn’t employed traditional security methods.

“So what is Lucas Cortez doing stealing one of my grimoires?” she continued.

She scooped out the book she’d seen me shove in my bag. I wiggled my fingers. They moved, but only barely and with effort, proving that she’d let her binding spell weaken so I could speak.

“I’m sorry,” I said, affecting the guise of a sheepish schoolboy. “It was an initiation prank for my Cabal fraternity. I didn’t want to do it, but …” A shrug. “Being a Cortez, I don’t get off easy on stuff like that. I know it was stupid, and I’m sorry—”

“You lie almost as well as your father.”

“I
do
apologize—”

“Only Ivy League schools have Cabal fraternities, and unless the
rumors are wrong, you don’t attend one of those. So what could you possibly want with this grimoire?” She leafed through it. “This magic is far too advanced for a twenty-year-old sorcerer.”

I waggled my fingers again. The spell was fading as her attention wandered. One good wrench, and I’d break it.

“I—I need the money,” I said, dropping my gaze as if embarrassed. “You’ve probably heard, I’ve cut ties with my father. Someone told me you had more books than you could possibly use, so I thought you wouldn’t miss one—”

She cut me off with a laugh as she tossed the book onto the bed. “My God, you
are
good. But as entertaining as it is to watch a budding master of the art of bullshit, I’m going to insist—”

I hit her with a hard knockback spell and jumped to my feet.

Something hit me in the shoulder, harder even than the energy bolt. As I flew back toward the bookcase, I reached out to catch myself, but her spell was so strong that I still slammed into the bookcase, my arm cracking, pain ripping through it. I slid to the floor, cradling my broken forearm.

“Shit!” Eve said.

She moved forward as if to drop to her knees beside me. Then she backed off, cursing. When she wheeled on me, her eyes were hard and cold.

“That changes things, doesn’t it?” she said. “Do you think I don’t know why you’re here, Lucas Cortez? You fancy yourself some kind of crusader against injustice. Well, you should stick to giving legal advice, boy, because you’re in way over your head. What would happen to me if Papa Cortez found out I broke your arm? Smartest thing I could do right now? Safest thing?” Her eyes went colder as they met mine. “Finish the job. Dispose of the body.”

I pitched to my feet and made a headlong run, zigzagging to avoid her spells. I sheered past the bed to grab the grimoire. When she lunged for it, I changed course and ran for the door instead. As she snatched up the book from the bed, I slammed the door, casting a lock spell even as it closed.

Eve wrenched the doorknob, then let out a bark of a laugh.

“Witch magic? You really are your father’s son. Pragmatic to the core. It’ll take me twenty seconds to get out this door, so you’d better
have your running shoes on. And I swear, if I ever hear a peep of this from anyone …”

I didn’t hear the rest of the threat. I threw open the door and raced down the hall. She didn’t follow.

I paced my dormitory room, trying to contain my impatience as I placed the unavoidable call to Victor Tucci.

“Yes,” I said. “I have removed the grimoire from her possession, and have surrendered it to my father, who will deal with Ms. Levine.”

“And he knows who gave you the tip?”

“Absolutely. He’s grateful to you and will not forget your assistance in this matter.”

As Eve pointed out, I have a facility for falsehoods—a talent both natural and learned. There was little chance of Victor Tucci ever discovering my lie. A man like that only wanted to think that he had earned some credit with my father. If he tried to redeem it, any request to speak to the Cabal CEO would be denied out of hand.

With regards to my injury, Eve Levine had nothing to fear. Even had I been inclined to exact revenge for my arm—which I wasn’t—I retained enough of my family pride not to admit that I had been bested by a witch.

I also had no fear that Eve would come after me. Had she ever intended to “finish the job and dispose of the body,” she’d hardly have told me her plans. Ever the teacher, she’d been imparting a valuable lesson. I was ill prepared for such endeavors. Before I ever attempted such a thing again, I needed to vastly improve my criminal skill sets.

So the exercise had been valuable—in more ways than one. After I hung up with Tucci, I sat on the edge of the bed, my broken arm in a makeshift sling, and fumbled with my pant leg, tugging it up with my good arm, then holding my leg aloft while I removed the elastics from my calf and let the thin volume fall to the floor.

I reached over and picked up the grimoire—a slender tome containing no more than a dozen spells. As I flipped through, I couldn’t decipher what more than a few of them did. That explained why Eve had stashed it on a high shelf, amid dusty grimoires—those with magic too difficult even for her advanced skills. Future volumes of study, put aside
until she had the time and skill to revisit them. By the time she noticed this one missing, she’d never connect it with my visit.

I closed the book and tapped it against my legs. What to do with the thing? Considering what sort of magic it was purported to contain, I suppose I should have destroyed it. Yet that seemed sacrilegious and presumptive, burning a book so rare, a piece of history, because I feared what it could do. My ancestors had been guilty of a similar crime, setting fire to a form of power they feared: witches.

Yes, the analogy was a poor one, but could I pass judgment on this book? Should I? It was a matter that would require more consideration. For now, I had other things to do. First, call a local shaman physician to get my arm set. Then take a three-hour bus ride to retrieve my bike, presuming I could ride it with my arm in a cast. Once that was done, I had a week’s worth of missed classes to catch up on.

I found a good hiding spot for the grimoire, put it out of my mind, and reached for my phone book.

I
SAT IN THE STUDY, LISTENING TO THE SILENCE
of the empty house. Antonio and Nick were right outside the window, on the patio, but even their muted whispers didn’t disturb the hush. Clayton and Elena had only been gone a few hours, but the house had already settled into hibernation, waiting for their return.

Every now and then, I’d catch echoes of a voice raised in anger, joy, frustration, laughter—always raised. Every footstep was a pound or a stomp, as they barreled through doorways, sprawled across sofas and carpets, their presence so loud I could hear it in the walls when they were gone.

Gone.

Temporarily, I told myself. I should think of it as a respite—a few days to rest and plan before their return invasion. God, let there be a return—

There would be. And as hard as this was, it was for the best. Daniel Santos—the former Pack werewolf who led the fight against us—had now set his sights on Elena. After this threat had been annihilated, and our dead vindicated, they would return and every corner of the house would boom with those shouts and footsteps until I retreated to my studio and wonder why I hadn’t enjoyed the peace while it lasted.