A Criminal Magic (6 page)

I turn over, close my eyes, pinch out the warehouse.
I need to
calm down
.
I need to cut my fear out, bottle it, and put it on a shelf.

But then I feel something warm and soft slip up against my neck. I give a startled yelp and whip my head around. “Who's there?”

No answer. And no one has moved. But I feel it again, this time on my arm, that brush of softness like a large paintbrush. No, softer, almost—almost like
fur
, and then the quickest slap of something else, like the whip of a tiny tail.

Out of the darkness molds something half the length of my forearm and twice as wide, whiskers prickling my skin, little feet pattering over my fingers. Fur. Tail.
Rat
.

I push the animal away as hard as I can, and the thing goes squealing, flying to the border of the next cot, but it doesn't skitter away. Instead it comes back at me again, bounds forward like a hell-spawned rodent and starts climbing over my right leg. I sit up, kick at it, hear myself whimpering.
Do not cry Joan do not cry Joan
—

I attempt to push it into the fuzzy dark that swallows the back of the warehouse, but the slippery bastard manages to squirrel out of my fingers, bounds up my arm, and races over my stomach, its dirty paws pressing into my shirt as it attaches itself to my other arm. I writhe away, swat at it as it runs over my shoulder, into my hair. “Get off!” I command the small monster. As soon as I say it, I hear a soft, muffled chuckling.

And then, to my immediate right, a woman's voice: “Leave her alone, Stock.”

“Mind your own business, Dune, I'm just having some fun with her. She's as jumpy as a cricket.” But the rat disappears, like dust in the wind. My shoulders relax, but that creepy-crawly feeling that came with the rodent still needles me under my skin.

The woman in the cot on my right side sits up, facing away from me. “Tell me if this is fun, Stock,” she says flatly. Then she whispers so soft I can barely hear her, “
Breathe and slither
.”

A boy in a cot a few beds down immediately leaps out of his bed and lands bum-first on the floor, swatting and cursing. He gets onto all fours and starts scrambling away from his cot. “Knock it off, hell, Grace,
stop
!”

Under the patch of light the moon casts onto the floor, I make out something shimmery and fluid. A
snake
, three inches wide, about two feet long, slithers through the puddle of moonlight, its green and gold scales glistening under the light, before it retreats into the darkness. The snake, just like the rat, I guess, the work of sorcery. Even though the rat and snake are gone, they leave behind a larger, far more unsettling fear.

“You're such a wet blanket, Dune,” says my rat-tormentor, Stock. “Skirts stick together, is that it?”

The woman—Grace Dune, I take it—says, “Just save the magic for Gunn. You keep sorcering in here, and we're all likely to blow each other up.”

Some of the other sorcerers have roused awake from the hushed argument, and there starts a chorus of “Shut it,” “Come on, it's late,” “Enough bickering,” before the whispers finally fade, like the rat and the snake, into the deep folds of the night.

I lie back down. But the quiet is loaded. I wait a little while, then whisper to Grace's back, “Thanks. But you didn't have to do that. I can take care of myself.”

Grace turns slowly to face me. Thanks to the moon and the prisonlike windows at the top of the warehouse, I can make out her face just fine. Nice straight features, dark hair. Not young, but not old—somewhere around Mama's age—maybe late thirties, early forties. “That was as much for Stock as it was for you,” Grace whispers. “For a boy who has a chronic fear of snakes, he's awful quick to conjure pests in the night. Living on top of
each other, there's got to be rules, or we're all going to kill each other.”

Her comment just brings my simmering panic to an all-out boil. I am in over my head. Drowning-water depths over my head. But I force myself to say, “Absolutely.”

Grace studies me. “You're as young as Stock, aren't you? Now I understand his power play.” She gives me a little lopsided smile. “Where'd Gunn bring you in from?”

“Norfolk County. Little town called Parsonage,” I say. “What about you?”

“Outskirts of Alexandria. Came in with Gunn and one of his associates a couple nights back, along with a few others,” Grace says. “Fifteen of us total, though I'm sure you know that only seven of us are expected to stay.” Grace's smile thins out. “With those kinds of odds, you don't want to pick the wrong enemies, or the wrong allies.”

I assume she's talking about me and the rat-boy. “I'm not afraid of Stock.”

Grace rolls onto her back, looks at the ceiling. “Maybe you should be,” she says. “Lots of sorcerers here are from families that have never shared their gifts or special strengths with the world, before now. Lots of powerful magic previously kept behind closed doors.”

And of course I'm afraid—the fear is like a living thing, breathing and humming inside me. But I can't let it paralyze me. I need to focus on what I'm here for, why I can't fail. Immediately the image of Ruby, standing at our door, calling “Joan! JOAN!” as Gunn's car drove me away—it flashes like a bright, clear burst of fireworks onto my mind. “I just don't have the luxury of being scared.”

“And what's her name?”

“Who?”

“The little girl in your mind,” Grace says. Wait, can Grace hear my thoughts or something? So was her earlier warning
about Stock, or about
her
? “You were thinking about her so clearly, I almost couldn't ignore it.”

Finally I concede, “Ruby.” I roll over, suddenly feeling exhausted and exposed. “Thanks again for your help, Grace, but it's been a long night.”

It's quiet for a while, and I assume she's dozed off, same as the rest of them. But then I hear, “Sorry, I—I didn't mean to get you upset. I just . . . I know what it's like, to be against the odds. It's been tough for me, too, past couple days. Some of the sorcerers are small-minded, expected an all-out boys' club. They've been giving me and the other girl, Rose, a lot of heat—but Rose has her brother to stick up for her,” she says. “Plus, my family's got a bit of a . . . strange reputation around northern Virginia, which doesn't help.” Grace's cot squeals and squeaks as she gets comfortable. She waits a moment, then adds, “Was just trying to say this place isn't an easy corner of the world, to try and navigate alone.”

There's no sound but the soft chorus of snores and wheezes as her words settle around me. Maybe I'm dreaming, but it almost sounds like Grace is offering some form of friendship, or a pact. Not completely sure why she wants to team up with the likes of me, but that's not a question I'm going to ask and give her the chance to second-guess now. Gunn's taking exactly seven of us for some reason, a little less than half. I've got a crushing amount to learn to get into the top half of this crowd. And allying with a sorcerer like Grace, who can conjure snakes and delve inside minds, can only help.

“Are you suggesting we . . . team up?” I ask hopefully, as I face her.

“My family's a superstitious lot. We specialize in signs, chance twists of fate, listen to whispers of nature,” Grace answers. “I get this strong sense about you, that you and I were meant to meet. So maybe I get your back, and you get mine.”

Her words are the first turn of fortune I've gotten since I stepped into Gunn's car. “I'd like that.”

She throws me a sideways smile and rolls over. “Get some sleep, all right, Joan?”

I find myself breathing a little easier. “I will. You too.”

My body's beyond spent from the tension, the fear, the long trek up here. So I close my eyes, ready to steal some sleep to carry me through whatever lies waiting on the other side of tomorrow. It's only when I'm a few inches away from finally falling into darkness that I realize I never actually told Grace my name.

INTERROGATION

ALEX

I walk away from the Sigma Phi house fast and purposefully. My high from exposing the fraternity party has dulled, and now I'm left with the aftermath: an intense headache and a pull of regret. I try to keep Warren's words—
it's like you're trying to be your father, it's like you can't help it, you're poison—
out of my mind, but I keep going back to them, like an itch that refuses to quit, no matter how many times I scratch at it. Because Warren's right. And no form or amount of apologizing is going to fix me, or the fragile friendship I just shattered on the ground.

Sorry I'm an asshole.

Sorry I'm not the man I'd like to be.

Sorry I can't just let the past go and move on.

I cut in and out of the lively streets of Georgetown. It's Friday night, and there's a moon wild and hazy, drawn like a messy chalk circle on a slate slab of a sky. A recklessness teases from the shadowy alleys of O Street, college parties in full swing, and shining rooms that taunt with their quiet fronts and spellbound doors. A recklessness that whispers,
Lose yourself, forget it all, if only for a night
.

I force myself to ignore the whispers, follow O Street until it dumps me onto Wisconsin Avenue. Tonight was a wake-up call.
I need to move on, let the past lie in its grave for good. Because despite how much I wish I could, there's no undoing it.

As I cut up quiet Wisconsin toward its residential section, I swear I hear a scurry on the sidewalk behind me. But when I turn to investigate, there's nothing. Just swaying trees lining the sidewalk and polished, well-kept cars parked on the road.

But then I hear it again. As I place the sound, a panic ignites in my core. It's not the wind, not the trees—it's a pair of footsteps, maybe two or three—scurrying in the shadows and over the sidewalk.

Before I can run, turn, do anything, rough hands grip my shoulders and push me forward, and I fly toward the ground. “Stop—who—what do you want?!”

I'm pushed against the sidewalk, my face imprinting into the cement. I can't turn my head, I can't make anything out, it's just a blur—dark clothes, masked faces, I—“Seriously, what's going on—”

“Quiet,” a voice above me whispers.

A barrage of thoughts stampedes my mind—

Are these Sam's Sigma lackeys? A robbery? A mugging?

“Listen, you don't want to do this. I'm an officer. An officer of the law—”

“Shut him up.”

A thin slip of a blindfold is tugged over my eyes. Rough fingers scratch my face as another rag is tied around my mouth. A car approaches, wheels tumbling over the smooth road. Bright headlights pulse through my blindfold like two electric hearts.

Then from somewhere behind me: “Put him in the back.”

*    *    *

We ride in silence—minutes, maybe hours. It's impossible to keep track of time when your heart's beating like a racehorse and your eyes and mouth are sealed shut, but at some point, the
car I've been shoved into slows to a stop. A few doors open and close.

“Come on, on your feet.”

I mumble through my mouth gag in response, and a few brusque hands pull me out of the car. Another door opens—this one heavy and creaky. I must be inside now—the air is mustier and warmer, like it's been trapped. There's no wind. No sound.

A new voice whispers, “Sit him down.”

My escorts shove me into a seat. My blindfold and gag are ripped off, and light sears my eyes. I steal a glance at a man sitting across a small table, though the aftershock of the light clouds his face. “What's all this about?” I squint. “Why am I here?”

“Thank you, boys,” the man across the table says. “That'll be all.”

A smack of metal rips through the room, and I jump and look behind me. Four black-clad men slither out the door and close it with a
BOOM
.

My eyes dart from corner to corner of the room, trying to find some answers. This place is clearly some kind of storage facility—boxes and overflowing bins clutter the far corners, and there are no windows. I've been seated at a cheap folding table in the middle of the mess—one lonely lightbulb hangs down over it like a glowing teardrop.

“Alexander Danfrey.”

I look at the man across the table, study him, from his kempt, parted gray hair right down to his beat-up briefcase. And I relax, a little. The chap's definitely some sort of government man—he's got that tame, approachable look about him despite the dramatic introduction: cheap suit, soft features. Thanks to the late nights spent helping my father run his remedial spells scheme for D Street, I've seen enough hard-nosed gangsters to know this man most certainly isn't one.

Still, government man or not, I was just kidnapped, stuffed into a car, and shuttled to a hidden storage facility.

“Who are you?” I ask carefully. “What's all this about? Why am I here?”

The man unbuckles his briefcase, removes a single manila folder. He places it on the table but doesn't open it. “I'm Agent Frain, a captain within the Prohibition Unit.” He gives me a lukewarm smile. “Apologies for the subterfuge in bringing you here, but there are bought men everywhere in the Unit. Here we're safe from prying eyes and ears.”

A different fear starts to take hold. If this Frain chap is with the Unit, those men who just left are likely junior agents . . . maybe they were following me . . . maybe they saw that sorcering move I pulled outside Sam's fraternity party. . . . Christ, maybe I'm going to get kicked out of the Unit before I even truly start.

“You're a trainee, am I right, Alex, within our Domestic Magic division? You've been at the academy for around three months now. Set to graduate in a week.”

I give a slow nod. “Yes, that's right, sir.”

“Your superiors tell me you're smart. Good marks in your Shine Transference and Dangers of Performance classes, and you're adept in field exercises. No red flags, other than several notes about your attitude problem, in and out of training class.”

I blush. “What exactly did my superiors say?”

“Despite its terrible reputation, there are still some discerning folks in the Unit, Alex. Ones that don't miss a trick.” The loaded way he says this makes my insides twist and fold. He finally opens his folder. “My records indicate that you joined us in early summer, a couple months after your father's trial ended, is that correct?”

A familiar chill crops up at the top of my spine at the mention of my father, but I manage to answer, “That's correct, sir.”

“My understanding is that your father's judge, Judge Hoehling, personally recommended you to the Unit, after you met with him before your father's jury deliberation. He said you asked for his advice. He said that he'd never met a, quote, ‘more sorrowful son for the sins of his father,'” Frain says. “And Hoehling thought the Prohibition Unit would be the perfect answer for you. A career that allowed you to fight men like your father and atone on behalf of your family.”

“Judge Hoehling was invaluable, sir,” I say. “He helped me gain perspective and clarity.” But my father's three-week trial for running his remedial spells scheme is nothing short of a nightmarish blur. For over a year—since my father had found out I'd gotten the magic touch—I had been his right-hand man. He took me out of the boarding program at St. Albans, and I spent most nights conjuring protective force fields for clandestine meetings and brewing my sorcerer's shine for his gangster guests. And of course, helping build the Danfreys' legacy: creating elaborate manipulations that allowed my father to break into his own Danfrey Pharma Corporation storage facilities, then flip the legal spells to D Street so the gang could move them into the black market. Our remedial magic scheme wasn't unusual, but given the access to cures my father had because of his company, it was wildly successful.

During the Spanish flu epidemic, even the most adamant of anti-sorcery activists realized there was a need for a medicinal exception to a blanket prohibition on magic, so sorcerers willing to work for the common good were eventually offered government gigs, or jobs with pharmaceutical companies to work toward breakthrough magic cures.

Of course, the underworld figured out a way to exploit this medicinal exception. Gangs get ahold of magic remedies, then cart them off to mom-and-pop operations that redistill a portion of the natural elements out of the spells in order to get them
closer to pure-magic sorcerer's shine. But it's a true racket. The redistilled spells might last longer on the shelves than shine because of the residue of natural elements—a few weeks, long enough to be transportable—but the high is weak and muddled. Besides, some of the redistillers have been known to add crap like red paint to their product in an attempt to make it look closer to real-deal shine, which has led to poisonings across the city.

Not that I ever thought about what I was doing, what it meant, or hell, what I'd have to give up if my father was ever caught. I just did what he required, let my magic flow through me, reveled in being needed, powerful. No,
invincible
.

And then it all came crashing down back in March—two D Street thugs ratted to the Feds, my father was indicted, my home was sold for legal fees, and my senior year at St. Albans cut short. My father on the stand, lying about my involvement in order to save me and my mother—and in a last-ditch effort to partially redeem himself. Before I could blink, I became Poster Child Alex Danfrey, Remorseful Alex Danfrey, Just-Want-to-Make-Daddy's-Wrongs-Right Alex Danfrey.

Needless to say, I didn't know who this Alex Danfrey was—I still don't.

But convincing Judge Hoehling of who he was had been a piece of cake.

“Judge Hoehling told me that I could direct all the anger and frustration I had for my father toward the criminals of this city,” I add, selling the same story I'd given to the head of the Prohibition Unit, to my lieutenant, to the guys who had questions in my training class. “He explained that I could take my hatred for magic and make it work for this country. I'm forever indebted.”

Frain gives me a tight-lipped smile. “That's exactly what our notes say as well,” he says. “In fact, nearly word for word.”

My heart has started to push against the insides of my chest,
like it's got hands, like it's ready to rumble. I'm honestly not sure which way this Frain chap is angling, which annoys as much as it scares me.

“I know your mother told the papers that you were both completely in the dark about Richard's remedial magic scheme, but I'm sure you learned some facts from his trial.” Frain keeps his eyes on his file. “I take it you know the name Anthony Colletto, the D Street Outfit boss? The man your father was ultimately working for?” I nod, as the name will forever be seared like a brand in my mind. “My understanding is that your father agreed to steal his own company's government-sanctioned spells right off his shelves and funnel them to D Street, in exchange for Boss Colletto's forgiveness of some pretty exorbitant gambling debts. Maybe in late 1924, early 1925?”

It was January 1925. I remember because my father had been on a shine bender since the holidays, and after a week on the stuff was barely recognizable. He'd come home lit out of his mind on New Year's Eve, thrown me against a wall, all the while barking at me with shined-up, pinprick pupils, sputtering that our lives were over. “I'm not too familiar with the details, sir, but that all sounds right to me.”

“And from your training class, I'm sure you know the name Erwin McEvoy.”

I nod, still not sure where this is going. “He's Colletto's sworn enemy, has been boss of the Irish Shaw Gang for almost a decade, a position he assumed after D Street killed his predecessor and cousin, Danny the Gun. McEvoy's nickname: Jackal of the District. A nickname well-earned, from what I understand,” I say. “Our Unit instructor estimated McEvoy's killed over a hundred men since he took over the Shaws.”

“Very good.” Frain looks me in the eye. “I also understand, from our inside sources, that McEvoy's in need of a new right-hand sorcerer.”

Right-hand sorcerer
. I think back to training class. “You mean his magic protector on the street, his personal sorcerer?” I ask. “What happened to his old one?”

“Homicide said it looked like a trick gone wrong, from what they could tell. Some elaborate manipulation backfired, and apparently the young man ended up half-charred.” Frain pauses. “Unless, of course, McEvoy just decided to set him on fire.”

I shift uncomfortably in my thin metal chair. “Sir, all due respect, what's this have to do with me?”

“As you know from the Unit, McEvoy is on our most-wanted list.” Frain gives me a wan smile. “He's a man synonymous with magic, who uses sorcery in nearly every way you can to break the law. Force fields to assist in robberies. Manipulations to coerce enemies. Elaborate smuggling rings to bring the haunted island brew, obi, and this newer product, fae dust, in from overseas. He's even got his hand in performance—owns a few middling shining rooms across the city, where I'm told you can get a shot of shine and a little sorcery show any night of the week.” Frain leans across the table. “We've been tracking McEvoy for a long time, but we've never had an agent worthy enough to plant by his side, who can keep us informed about the Shaws' dealings, who can help us hit them at the right time.” Frain pauses. “And we want that someone to be you, Danfrey. We want to send you undercover.”

Undercover. With
McEvoy
? The boss of the most dangerous gang in DC? “Sir, I'm sorry, what—how would that even be possible?”

“We'd do it nice and slow, make it look credible,” Frain says. “We'd get you in at the lowest level, hook you up with someone junior, on the periphery of McEvoy's operation, and you'd work your way up the ranks. Like I said, McEvoy's looking for a new right-hand sorcerer, and someone like you, who's talented, smart, and savvy about the underworld? You'll find your
way to him, I'm sure of it. Besides, McEvoy's had a vendetta for Colletto since Colletto took out his cousin, Danny the Gun. We're positive McEvoy would take you into his fold just to spite the D Street boss. It's perfect.”