That Touch of Magic (5 page)

The fish, however, was a different story. Liv didn’t use her magic often, at least not that I knew about, but her game had definitely gone up in the past year. He looked like a real fish, as if Liv had just blown him up like a little oblong, clear plastic balloon. He had fins and big, bulgy eyes, and gills that moved in and out as he flitted from side to side in the bowl. His little nose sported the one last link of the metal chain Liv had wrenched him from, and through his sides, the picture of the four of us, encased in protective plastic, showed through.

“Oh.” Peach swiped at her eyes, then tucked her hand through Liv’s elbow and rested her head against Liv’s.

“I know you’re not a pet person. I just don’t want you to be alone.” Liv looked at me, a little anxious. “Do you like it?”

I leaned over and stared at the fish. It was strange; he was essentially a living picture frame, and that felt odd, but there was something about him that was still weirdly comforting.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

I walked them outside and waved from my cement stoop as they drove off in my brother’s stupid hand-painted truck. I sighed heavily, mushy with love for them and my dumb brother, and continued waving until they were out of sight. Then I went back inside, took a swig of Jameson’s directly from the bottle, and stared down at the fish.

“Bet you didn’t see this coming.” I took another swig as I headed toward my bed. “Trust me, Nemo. None of us ever do.”

Chapter 3

It was three in the morning by the time I’d navigated the quaint streets of downtown Niagara, and my hand hesitated over the buzzer marked
LAMB
by the glass door next to the art gallery. I could turn around, go home, and no one would ever know any better. I could suck it up and push through the rehearsal dinner and the wedding, and then everything would go back to normal and I’d be fine.

Until Leo left. Again.

I hit the buzzer. I waited a few minutes and hit it again. There were a few more moments of silence, but then the light in the stairwell came on, and I could see a pair of elegant male legs glide soundlessly down the steps. Forget the voice; if you want to know a Brit at first sight, look at the way he moves.

Also, if you wake him up at three in the morning and he dresses in a pair of slacks and a buttondown shirt before coming to answer the door, that’s a clue, too.

Des peered through the glass for a moment, all bright eyes and cheekbones, and then he recognized me and his face brightened.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Ms. Easter,” he said as he opened the door, his demeanor so bright and cheerful that, had it not been for the pillowcase wrinkle on his cheek, I would have thought he’d been up already. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I slid into the small space at the base of the stairs and said, “I woke you up in the middle of the night. Stop being so nice. It’s creepy.” I tried to meet his eye, but couldn’t do it and ended up talking to the concrete under my feet. “I need some stuff.”

His voice sounded mildly surprised. “Business has picked up, has it?”

“No.” I raised my head, hating everything, but especially stupid Leo North. “I need you to make something. For me.”

He blinked twice, then understanding washed over his face. “Is everything all right?”

I gave him the dead eyes. “Yes. I’m here at three in the morning because everything’s fine.”

“Of course.” He motioned toward the stairwell, and I went first, moving as quietly as I could until I got to his front door, which I pushed open. I’d been to Desmond’s apartment about once every six weeks for the past eight months, although before it had always been during daylight hours. Now it felt uncomfortably intimate.

“Please, sit down.” He motioned toward the small dining table next to his tiny kitchen. Although the place was small, he made it work. The furniture matched, all simple wood pieces except for the brown leather couch that seemed to be required of all single men, American or otherwise. His walls were clean white, accented with the occasional piece of artwork, most portraits of some kind. Next to the dining table was a painting of a young woman in a long dress holding a stick out for a greyhound dog. She was laughing, and seemingly unaware of the moment being caught forever by an artist’s eye.

“Shall I make some tea? Coffee?” Desmond pulled open his refrigerator. “Bollocks. I need to go shopping.”

“No, thanks. I just … I need…” I sighed. I wasn’t sure exactly what I needed. I hadn’t researched anything. I’d just tossed and turned in bed for five hours, then gotten in the car.

Desmond shut the fridge door, reached into a cabinet, and pulled out some lemon cookies. He put them on a small plate and set them down in front of me. I looked up at him.

“Please,” he said. “I’m British. I have to offer you something or I’ll begin to twitch.”

He nudged the plate toward me and sat. I took a cookie and played with it in my hands as I spoke.

“I need you to make something for me,” I said. “There’s someone … there’s a man…” I let out a harsh sigh of frustration and dumped the cookie on the table. “Screw it.
The
man.
The
man of my life has come back after a long time and he’s not back for me, he’s back for my brother’s wedding, and I just need … something. Emotional distance. To get me through the next few days.” I swallowed. “Maybe the next month or so.”

“Ah. I see.” Desmond sat back, his brow knitting a bit. “
The
man, really?”

I nodded. “I didn’t read up on what I want, exactly, but I figured you would know.”

“I have an idea, yes. I’m just rather surprised you didn’t try to make it for yourself. Many brash young conjurers do, you know, the first time they need something for themselves.”

“I know the rules.”

He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. “You have never struck me as a follower of rules, Ms. Easter.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I said. “So, you know what I need?”

“Hmmm?” He seemed distracted for a moment, then said, “Oh, yes. It will take some time, I’m afraid. About…” He glanced at the antique clock on the wall, then looked back at me. “Six hours?”

“Oh.” I released a breath. “You mean … you can do it now? That would be great. I thought it would be a day or so, at least.”

“Ms. Easter, in the time I’ve had you as a client, I have never known you to be excitable. Quite the contrary, in fact. If you are at my doorstep at three in the morning, it’s an emergency, and I’m a professional. I take that seriously.” He stood up, reaching his hand out to me. I took it and stood as well.

“My workshop is in the basement. I’d invite you down with me, but it’s very small and barely comfortable for one. You’re welcome to wait up here.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll get a hotel room and come back.”

“Certainly you could do that,” he said. “But I have a perfectly good and very empty guest room right down the hall here, and you’re welcome to it.”

He started down the hallway. I followed him.

“It’s the purple vials I’ve been using for you, isn’t it?” he asked casually over his shoulder.

I rubbed one eye with the base of my hand like a four-year-old. Now that my tension about how I was going to survive Leo’s visit was draining, I was feeling dog-tired. “Does it matter?”

“No,” he said and stopped in front of a door, his hand on the knob. “The vials are new and I’m wondering how they’re working out for you.”

“Great,” I said. “I mean, a vial’s a vial, right? The clear ones were good. I’ve only made one potion in the purples.” I shrugged and yawned. “They seem to be fine so far.”

“Good.” He opened the door, flicked on the light, and stepped aside. I poked my head in. It was small, and only sported a twin bed, but it was made and clean and the duvet was so fluffy that it looked like a big white cloud.

“Lovely,” I muttered, and went facedown into the cloud.

*   *   *

It seemed like two seconds later when I felt Desmond’s warm hand on my arm, but judging by the full sun streaming through the tiny window in his guest room, at least five hours had passed. I, however, didn’t seem to have moved; I was still on my stomach, right leg hanging off the edge, making a Stacy Easter–shaped dent in the world’s fluffiest duvet.

“Ms. Easter?”

I rolled over onto my back, then pushed up on my elbows.

“I just spent the night, Des,” I said. “Call me Stacy.”

He smiled. “All right, Stacy. I’ve got everything ready for you, although if you’d rather go back to sleep, you’re perfectly welcome—”

“No, no.” I maneuvered myself into a sitting position and squinted up at him. “I’m good.”

“If you’d like to use the bathroom, it’s just down the hall to the right. I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

He left, gently closing the door behind him. I sat there on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring down at my feet, unable to believe where I was and what I was doing. Then I thought about Leo, and my gut clenched, and I believed it. I went to use the facilities and a few moments later I sat down next to Desmond on his couch.

“I could only make you one dose for right now,” he said, handing me one of the little purple vials he supplied me with. “It’s a somewhat volatile concoction, but it will be good until next Wednesday, give or take. I wouldn’t take any after Monday, to be on the safe side.”

“Hmmm.” I held up the vial. “What do you mean, volatile?”

“It works by suppressing brain chemistry,” he said.

“So, it’s … what? Basically just a drug? I thought this was magic.”

He put his hand under mine, lifting it up to bring the vial closer to him. He stared at it like a man in love.
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

I closed my hand around the vial, and pulled it away. “Sorry, what?”

He blinked, as though just waking up, and I felt a light nudge of guilt at keeping him up all night. “It’s a quote, from Arthur C. Clarke. All magic is simply brain chemistry. Natural magic is just a switch permanently flicked on in the brain, allowing that person to influence the physical world around them in heightened ways. Conjured magic, what we do, flicks a very specific switch that turns itself off after a few hours. Eventually, science will have all the answers. For now, call it magic if you like, but you could call it science and be just as accurate.”

“My best friend made me a living fish out of a keychain,” I said. “I’m calling it magic.”

Desmond smiled at me. “I accept that.” He motioned toward my hand holding the vial. “Back on topic, when this solution is fresh, its effects are specific, and will suppress only the emotions associated with romantic love, both the pleasure and the pain. After a few days, when the chemistry begins to break down, you could accidentally suppress something else: joy, anger, fear.”

I shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Well, yes, if it suppresses an emotion we can do without for a while. Imagine the damage someone could do in twelve hours under the influence of something that suppressed, say, her empathy.”

I took a moment to imagine that. Didn’t take much; I just pictured my mother. “Volatile. Got it.”

“Don’t misunderstand. It’s well made, and the risk of real danger is small. I’ve provided this for a number of clients with no ill effects thus far. This particular formula uses an extract of Saint-John’s-wort, a fairly pedestrian ingredient, but combines it with an infusion of a rare weed found only in the Orient—”

“Holy crap,” I said. “Are you telling me you’ve got Anwei Xing in here?”

He straightened and smiled at me, pride in his eyes. “Ah, of course you know about Anwei Xing. Forgive me for forgetting who you are.” He kept his eyes on mine, and for a second I had this crazy thought that he was going to try to kiss me, but then he just shook his head. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to talk down to you. It’s just that most of my clients don’t do their homework nearly as thoroughly as you do.”

I handed the vial back to him. “I’m sorry. I know what Anwei Xing goes for on the open market. I’m self-employed in a crappy economy, and I’ve got car payments to make. I can’t afford this.”

He reached out and curled my fingers around the vial. “Nonsense. I didn’t have it imported in. I harvested it myself when I was visiting a colleague in Beijing last year, which reduces the cost dramatically. I’ve got plenty in my stores, and while I will charge the market value for anyone else wanting it, for you…” He released my hands. “Consider it a professional courtesy.”

I played with the vial in my fingers, eyeing him. “How much?”

“There’s no charge,” he said.

I sighed, placed the vial on the coffee table, and stood up. “Look, I’m really sorry I took up your whole night, but I’m out. I don’t know what you want from me, but eventually, you’re gonna call that marker in for something, and no matter what it is, I’m not gonna like it. The only thing I owe on is my car, and those terms were made out in writing. Thanks anyway.”

I started toward the door, but before I got a few steps he said, “In writing? Would that make you feel better?”

I stopped where I was, feeling the pull of emotional distance.
Anwei Xing.
On a professional level, I wanted desperately to know how it worked. And on a personal level …

Leo.

Desmond held up his index finger, went to his kitchen, and pulled out a pen and a sheet of paper. On it he scribbled something, signed with a flourish, and handed it to me.

I read out loud. “I willingly give, free of charge, this potion containing Anwei Xing to my friend and colleague, Ms. Stacy Easter, expecting nothing in return. Signed, Desmond Lamb.” I looked at him, and he laughed.

“You are the most suspicious person I have ever met. It’s quite delightful.” He swooped up the vial in his hand and placed it in mine, over the piece of paper.

“Pour the contents of this vial into six ounces of liquid and drink immediately. This is one dose, and the effects should last about twelve hours.”

Anwei Xing.
In my hand.
I closed my fingers around the vial, the sheet of notepaper crumpling as I did.