Spellbent (19 page)

A college-aged couple was giggling and necking on the sidewalk outside. I suddenly felt acutely depressed. The café’s bohemian charm had worn right off.

My cookie was in a zippered plastic bag; I pulled the treat out and stuck the bag in my pocket. Pal and I finished our snacks and left to catch the #84 bus. We arrived at the Lennox Town Center just after 7 PM.

“So, do you have any ideas about how to get past that anathema sphere?” I asked Pal as I started walking across the vast, sparsely parked asphalt lot toward the big brick Target store.

“Well,” he said, “I did think of something. It’s a type of dematerialization potion. After you drink it, it shifts you out of phase and turns you and whatever you happen to be carrying invisible and immaterial. But it wouldn’t extend to, say, a horse or car you were riding. The potion lets you pass undetectably through any barrier, mundane or magical, short of a high-grade isolation sphere. And most of the ingredients are relatively common.”

“Common enough to pick up here at Target?” I asked.

“Yes, I believe most of them should be available, and the rest we can locate later.”

“So what’s the downside?”

“It takes a minimum of twelve hours to brew, two hours of incantation to activate, and the resulting concoction must be consumed within twenty-four hours or it expires. And the effect doesn’t last long once it’s consumed.”

“How long?”

“Well, a twelve-hour brew with two hours of incantation will give you two minutes of dematerialization,” he replied. “An eighteen-hour brew with three hours of incantation might give you three minutes.”

“So for an hour of dematerialization you’d need to brew the stuff for two weeks straight? And chant for three solid days? Jeez. No wonder I haven’t seen this type of potion before. Are there any side effects?”

“Aside from the usual chance the potion simply won’t work, typical side effects include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, disorientation, death or dismemberment due to rematerializing inside a solid object, and sickness or death due to hantavirus or bubonic plague infections.”

“Hantavirus? Bubonic plague?” I asked. “The recipe calls for fresh rat’s blood. Some people fail to cook the raw potion hot enough to kill the bacteria or viruses contained therein.”

“Nice,” I replied. “So try to not get us a sick rat, m’kay?”

“What makes you think
I’m
going to get the rat?” he asked indignantly.

“You’re a ferret. Catching rodents is what you do.”

“Oh. Yes. I keep trying to put that part of this new existence out of my mind, I suppose,” he replied. “I mostly ate fish and fruit when I was a bear. Much nicer than raw rat.”

What did you eat before? When you were in your real body, I mean?
I’d reached the sidewalk, and a pair of women pushing a baby in a stroller were coming from the other direction.

“I was a vegetarian of sorts,” he replied, “but the difference between animal and vegetable isn’t as clearly defined on my home world as it is here.”

How do you mean?
I asked.

“Our plants can get out of the soil and move to a new location if they don’t like where they’re growing. Some of them are sentient. I tried not to eat those sorts of plants,” he replied.

Oh. Well, I’m sure they found that very thoughtful of you,
I replied.

We reached the front of the Target. The automatic doors swung in to admit me. A large, black- uniformed security guard with a greasy-looking buzz cut and cop mustache scowled at me from his station by the red plastic carts. He stank of garlic and hostility, and he seemed familiar to me.

“Hey, you can’t bring that critter—” the guard began.

“He’s a helper animal. Federal regulations say I can bring him in here.”

“Yeah? Prove it.” The guard crossed his arms over his chest belligerently.

“You ever hear of the Americans with Disabilities Act?” I asked, then paused, finally recognizing him. We’d gone to Upper Arlington High School together after I moved to Columbus. I didn’t know his real name, but his nickname was Goat. He’d been a linebacker on the school football team, and had delighted in bullying other students. The rumor was he’d molested a girl at a party, but she’d been too frightened to press charges.

“I’m sure my lawyer would be happy to read the text of the act to you,” I continued. “So let us through, please, unless you want to spend some quality time in court for a discrimination lawsuit.”

“That seems the emptiest of empty threats,” Pal commented, “considering the only local lawyer either of us knows is Mr. Jordan.”

This guy’s a complete asshole. He hassles me, I’ll shrink his balls to the size of field peas,
I thought back savagely.

“My, you
are
getting crabby,” Pal said. “But the Danse d’Emballage spell won’t work on living flesh.”

Then I’ll shrink his underwear.

Goat stared at me. I stared back, unblinking. Jerks like him could smell fear.

Finally, he muttered “uppity crip bitch” under his breath and turned his back on me. I briefly considered shrinking his shorts on general principle, but decided against it. I yanked a cart out of a carrel and pushed it toward the snack bar.

“If you’re truly interested in conserving your money, you should just get something from the snack aisles,” Pal pointed out.

And you’re turning into a real mother hen. I need a place to stash everything I’m about to shoplift; a cup with a lid will do nicely.

“You do realize that you’ll be in a tremendous amount of trouble if you’re caught using your Talent to steal,” Pal said. “You’ll be sent to prison for sure.”

I don’t have the cash to cover everything I need to get here, so I don’t see a way around this.
I got in line at the snack bar behind a guy ordering nachos.

“In theory, you’d get in less trouble making faery money from dead leaves,” Pal replied.

“Hi, what can I get you today?” asked the girl at the counter, staring at Pal.

“Just a regular fountain drink, thanks,” I replied, digging in my pocket for a dollar. The girl handed me an empty waxed paper cup in exchange for the money, and I went over to the soda dispenser to get some Sprite.

You’re serious about the faery money?
I filled my cup halfway with ice.
Seems like that sort of thing would be considered a worse crime.

“Well, it all goes back to the ancient laws brought over from the Old World and what was socially accepted then. Not everything on the books makes sense from a modern perspective.”

No kidding.
I filled my cup partway with soda and stuck a lid and straw on it.
Faery money would seriously screw the poor cashier I’d give it to—at midnight the whole thing would turn back to old leaves.

I shook my head.
They’d take whatever was missing from the till out of the cashier’s paycheck. Even fifty dollars is a lot to somebody working a job like this. No. I couldn’t do that.

“The goods you steal will have to be paid for by someone.”

But my shoplifting wouldn’t be blamed on any one employee. Stores get robbed, and this isn’t some mom- and-pop grocery that’s hurting for cash. They’ll have insurance. And I don’t have a better idea. Do you?

“Not really,” Pal admitted. “While we’re in here, can you get me an actual bowl to eat out of so I have a little less wet napkin in my diet?”

Anything for my nice, helpful, never-sends-me-on- guilt-trips familiar

I went to the snack aisle first and got some juice, soups, and snacks for myself and some lean canned chicken for Pal.

“Make sure to get some salt, ginger, vinegar, and black and red pepper for the potion,” Pal said. “And get a six-pack of little grape juice bottles; those are the right size to hold the potion, and frankly you’ll need a strong-tasting sweet juice to make it a bit more palatable.”

What about wine splits instead?
I asked, thinking the alcohol in the wine might help kill off any nasties lingering in the rat’s blood.

Pal shook his head. “Wine won’t work as well; the fermentation products tend to increase undesirable toxins and lengthen the brewing time.”

Heaven knows I don’t want this taking any longer than it has to.

“We’ll also need several types of herbs,” he continued. “And this will need to brew over a flame rather than an electric coil, so you should get a camp stove as well.”

Speaking of, what will I be brewing this in?
Cooper had never been big on potion-making, and I hadn’t studied it in school.
I don’t think Target sells iron cauldrons.

“My understanding is that stores like this generally sell their potions-grade iron and copper cauldrons as decorative plant containers in the garden center or home decor section,” Pal replied. “But for our purposes, Pyrex would be best.”

I picked up some soap, deodorant, shampoo, ibuprofen, antibiotic salve, bandages, Epsom salts, a ten-pack of latex gloves, a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, a brush, and pack of dental toiletries on my way down the back aisle to the row where they stocked the herbal preparations.

This was the first time I’d sought out packaged herbal supplements in a megamart. Cooper was a big believer in using common kitchen herbs and local weeds rather than relying on exotic items that might not be readily available. I’d never really paid any attention to what Target stocked before.

Okay, so I have a question.
I picked up a white plastic bottle of Saint-John’s-wort capsules and gave it a shake.
I know they’d probably still stock herbs like this if the world were totally mundane.

I set down the bottle and picked up a three-pack of wolfsbane.
But what about
this
stuff? Do regular people even use half the herbs they have out here?

“I should hope not, but there are a lot of Talents in this city. Surely many of them prefer to get their soda, socks, and spell ingredients in one-stop shopping the same as anybody else.”

Which reminds me, I should get some fresh clothes while I’m here. My socks would probably stand on their own if I took them off right now.

“Please don’t. But please do collect some aloe vera juice, heliotrope, Atlantean quartz powder, Einhorn powder, and vitreous humor draco niger.”

Ew, squished dragon eyeballs.
I looked over the purple bottle of VHDN I found on a nearby shelf.
Does this stuff taste as bad as I think it’ll taste?

“It’s likely going to be far worse than you imagine,” Pal admitted. “But it’s key to the function of the potion.’,

This stuff will need to be refrigerated after I open it,
I added, squinting at the small-print warnings on the bottle.
Or, urn, it explodes.

“Then pick up a small refrigerator while you’re here. No point in stealing at all if you don’t get everything you need.”

I found a small dorm fridge in an aisle-end promotional display, then got a pillow, alarm clock, and some towels from an adjoining back-to-school section. The kitchen section yielded a quart-sized Pyrex saucepan and a wooden spoon made from black oak.

Wow, I thought to Pal as I looked over the array of tree species represented in the wooden spoon section. The store even stocked a carved mistletoe spoon bearing prominent warning labels that it was for decorative use only.
They really do cater to spellcasters here, don’t they?

“The regional buyers probably aren’t aware of the nature of the materials that they order for the stores,” Pal replied. “I’m sure the governing circles exercise some influence, but likely the stores are simply responding to customer demand, and anti- witchcraft forces at local churches don’t know enough to protest against specific items.”

I snagged a knapsack, Leatherman tool, sleeping bag, and folding cot along with a compact propane stove while I was in the sporting goods section. After that, I got packs of socks and undies and some basic T-shirts and jeans in the women’s section, then went to the pet section and got Pal a bag of dry kibble and a couple of small crockery bowls to eat and drink from.

The cart creaked under the burden of my mountain of stuff, and it was getting hard to maneuver one-handed. I pushed it to a relatively isolated corner of the store and glanced up at the security cameras.

Does it seem to you those cameras in the ceiling move around?
I asked Pal as I casually pulled the straw out of my mostly empty soda cup and popped the lid off.

“I think I do see them rotating, yes.”

I pulled the zippered plastic bag left over from my café cookie out of my pocket and tucked it down in the top of the cup, the mouth of the bag forced open by the cup’s sides.
Well, then we need a diversion, don’t we?

I closed my eye and felt for Goat the Security Guard. He was still standing by the carts near the entrance. I felt past the black polyester uniform slacks to the ratty, stained cotton jersey shorts beneath.

I whispered an ancient word for “shrink.”

His surprised yelps could be heard across the entire store. People nearby craned their necks toward the ruckus, and the cameras swiveled away from my corner toward the front of the store. I quickly danced and softly chanted the shorthand version of the French packing spell; the contents of my cart shrank midair and fluttered into the cup-bound plastic bag like tiny insects. I sealed the bag, put the lid back on the cup, and tucked the straw back in, being careful to not pierce the plastic.