The Best Kind of Magic Read online

  “Can I help you two with something? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” Vincent says in a smooth baritone voice.

  Charlie extends his hand. “Charlie Blitzman,” he says in a more businesslike tone than I’m used to hearing from him. Suddenly, Vincent, who was already being very hospitable to begin with, stands even taller, shaking Charlie’s hand with extra vigor. It’s like somebody blew a celebrity version of a dog whistle, alerting all interested parties to take extra care.

  “Well, well! The young Mr. Blitzman! Welcome! It’s an honor to have such a special guest at the Black Phoenix! I’m Vincent, and this is my place, so anything you need, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask,” he says with a little bow.

  Charlie gives a gracious yet tight-lipped smile. Everything about his body language has changed, as if just saying the Blitzman name has sprouted steel rods through his bones. I guess it is weird being regarded as special after only having revealed something as insignificant as your name.

  “And this is my friend Amber Sand,” Charlie says, gesturing my way.

  “Hi there,” I blurt out more forcefully than I mean. I’m just so revved up to tell Amani about this, I’m mentally skipping past the first impression to their nuptials. A quick look into his ageless eyes, and there’s my best friend, looking back at me.

  Vincent doesn’t seem to notice my weirdness. “Sand, huh? Any relation to Lucille?” he asks.

  “Yeah, she’s my mom. You know her?”

  “Oh, she’s infamous in these circles,” he says, motioning to the room. “I sense the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. You’re a…?” He looks me up and down, not in a bloodthirsty way, but trying to sniff out my supernatural scent.

  “Matchmaker,” I say, saving him the trouble. “So I’m a bit down the valley from the tree.”

  “Really?” he says, delighted. “That’s fascinating. Do you do readings?”

  “Of course.” Duh.

  “You know, my jazz quartet canceled last minute, leaving me without entertainment for the evening. I don’t suppose you’d like to offer the crowd your talents?”

  Oh boy. I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I scan the room; everyone seems chill, but in a place like this, talons and teeth could be bared at any moment. This would strictly violate my “no matchmaking in the wild” policy, and yet, I don’t want to disappoint Amani’s future beau on our first meeting.

  Charlie jumps in. “I’m sure Amber would love to, but we’re actually in need of some help ourselves. Maybe we could do a trade of services.”

  “Careful Blitzman, your inner politician is showing,” I tease.

  Vincent smiles with amusement. “I’m listening.”

  “We’re looking for someone. Have you ever seen this woman in here before?” Charlie pulls the picture of Cass from his back pocket.

  Vincent considers the photo. “You’re in luck, my young friends. She was here earlier, conducting business with Mr. Hollister over there.” He points to a tiny man with a long, pointy nose, his ears conspicuously tucked into a black bowler hat. More limbs than torso, he has spindly fingers wrapped around the bone of whatever animal he just polished off.

  “Elf?” I ask. The ears are always a giveaway.

  “Goblin, actually. Not a very pleasant fellow. Comes in once a week to drink dirty martinis and meet with dirty folk.”

  “What do they talk about?” Charlie asks.

  Vincent throws his hands up. “Not my business. You can try asking him but I doubt you’ll get very far. When you’re done, come back over and tell me some love stories.”

  I decide to let Charlie take lead on this one too—it’s his quest, after all—and I don’t doubt Vincent’s assessment that Mr. Hollister will prove fruitless. I’ve only come across a few goblins in my day, but they could all be described as cantankerous. There is serious misanthropy coursing through that bloodline.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Hollister?” Charlie says, bending considerably to meet the goblin’s eye line. Mr. Hollister stays still except for his eyes, which track like menacing storm clouds.

  “Uh…sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m looking for a family member. She’s been missing for a week. Have you seen her?” He presents the photo.

  The goblin looks at it with disinterest before saying, “My plate is empty.”

  Charlie and I share a glance. Was that a hint? “Oh, uh, let me get you another,” Charlie offers.

  “No, let me,” I say, walking away before Charlie can object. This creep is giving me the creeps.

  “Another helping of…whatever this was, for Mr. Sunshine,” I say to Vincent once I reach the kitchen.

  “I probably should have sent you over with an offering to start with,” he admits.

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” I joke. I like this guy. What a relief.

  “So,” he says as he passes the plate back to a chef, “you can really find people’s soul mates?”

  “Yup. I’m a vending machine of happy endings.”

  “I’ve never been very lucky in that department.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  He frowns as he watches a plated ox brain pass by. “Too bad you don’t get to use your talent on yourself.”

  “It’s a cruel world.”

  Vincent shakes his head. “Those Fates. Tricky fellows.”

  “You’ve met them?”

  “Not personally. But when you’ve been around as long as I have, you hear things.” A cook returns with a heaping serving of unidentified fried animal parts. He slides the plate across the golden tabletop to me. “You better go rescue your boy.”

  “Oh, he’s not…I mean, he’s not mine or anything,” I stammer. Vincent just smiles. “Thanks.”

  Charlie has not made any progress with Mr. Hollister by the time I return. The goblin sits, practically a statue, bony fingers awaiting his order. Once I give him his food, he slowly lifts a bite to his cracked lips, making such an elaborate showing of his ability to consume solids, I actually feel the passage of time. My life is wasting away while this cranky curmudgeon gets his chow on.

  Finally, he turns his stone head toward us and asks, “Was there something else?”

  I’m fuming, but Charlie stays cool like a PR rep during a scandal. “Yes, actually. We’re looking for Cassandra Callaghan.” He shows the photo again.

  “How unfortunate for you,” Mr. Hollister sneers.

  “We know you saw her tonight!” I burst. “What did she want? Where did she go?”

  “I believe this young man already knows what she wants,” he grumbles, looking at Charlie. “It’s the very reason he doesn’t want her around. As for where she went, I would follow the gold.”

  “What? Is that some kind of goblin riddle?” I ask. He takes a sip off his drink and offers nothing more. I want to shake his freakishly small shoulders, but Charlie guides me away, admitting defeat. “That was so pointless!” I yell.

  “Well, not entirely. He did confirm that Cass only wants my dad’s money.”

  Before I can respond, a woman in a red satin dress pops up in front of me, with one of those smiles that have been curved by too many cocktails. “Heeeeeeey,” she says, like we’re sorority sisters. “I heard you can find me a boyfriend.”

  Now there’s a tall order. “Sure thing. Let’s see who’s waiting round the bend.”

  And so begins my repayment by doing readings for everyone in the restaurant. It starts slowly, one or two at a time, but eventually there’s a line wrapping around the room. All the paranormal guys and gals anxiously wait to take my hands and hear about their true loves. I don’t know if it’s because they’ve been drinking or if they’re all just genuinely overjoyed to learn about their romantic futures, but each patron is more excited than the last, letting out shrieks and roars of delight. If I was at the shop, I’d have made a pretty penny, but the Black Phoenix’s regulars are having such fun, I don’t think about my fee.

  Charlie sits beside me the whole time
, never interrupting my process, just silently observing. I look his way every now and then—matchmaking is not usually a spectator sport—but as far as I can tell, he’s enjoying himself. When my matches elicit happy reactions, Charlie laughs or applauds right along with them, sharing in the celebrations. I feel giddy from all the joy in the room, like there’s been a nitrous oxide leak. I’ve never done a mass matchmaking before, and my talents are getting rave reviews. Patrons are clinking champagne glasses and making out in dark corners; I’m getting slaps on the back and kisses on the cheek, some of which are more slobbery than others, but that’s okay. Tonight I’m a hero, and the feeling’s intoxicating. And maybe I’m just imagining it, but as the line dwindles down, Charlie’s chair seems to be scooting closer to mine.

  With only a few more hopefuls to go, Charlie leans in, whispering in my ear, “Can you do me next?”

  “Excuse me, what?” I shout back in surprise.

  “A reading,” he emphasizes with a laugh. “I don’t want to be left out.”

  My heart goes into an unexpected tailspin. It shouldn’t make a difference, me doing a reading for Charlie; he’d be just another patron in line. And I already have a clear vision of his beloved; I can picture her without even looking in his eyes. But for some reason, I don’t want to share any details, not yet, which is weird, because why should it matter? Charlie deserves love just as much as these bloodsuckers, so why would I withhold that from him? It goes against my personal code to keep lovers apart.

  “Charlie, I…” But I don’t get to finish because an unhappy customer from my past has cut to the front of the line.

  I recognize him instantly. Even though our meeting was brief, it’s an encounter even hypnosis could not erase. It’s him: the vamp who cornered me years ago after I confirmed he killed his true love. What are the odds he’d be here tonight? His giant frame lurches forward, murder in his eyes, and I spring up to try to back away. He’s much faster than me, though, throwing tables and chairs to get to me. Every morsel of happiness I was just feeling has been replaced with paralyzing fear.

  “You!” he bellows, fangs bared. Vincent tries to charge him, but the larger vamp pushes the restaurateur away with ease. He’s like a pro wrestler hopped up on too many rounds of steroids. I’m backed against the wall with nowhere to go, trying to stay calm, but my lungs feel like cinder blocks beating on my insides. “I always knew I’d see you again. You just spread love wherever you go, huh? For everyone but me, right?” His face is inches from mine; I can smell blood on his breath. “Well, if I can’t have a happy ending, neither will you.”

  His mouth opens wide like a jungle primate, and I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing my pepper spray is in my purse and out of my reach. But I don’t feel a bite; instead, I’m pulled downward, knees hitting the ground as the vamp’s head hits the wall. Charlie, on his hands and knees, has crawled over to me and pulled me down toward him. As the vamp yells out in frustration, Charlie wraps himself around me like a human shield, giving the crowd just enough time to rally and overpower my attacker.

  Three burly brutes drag the vamp toward the door; he tries to fight back, yelling about how I’m a destroyer of dreams and so on, but he’s outnumbered now, and as soon as he’s pushed outside, a witch says a sealing incantation, forever barring him from the Black Phoenix. He tries to barge back in, but the invisible screen holds tight, bouncing him backward. After a few attempts, he gives up and disappears into the night.

  “Are you okay?” Charlie asks, still hovering above me. He’s propped up on his forearms; I can feel his panicked breath on my neck. Our legs are tangled together, and if I moved my head to the side, my cheek would be resting on his hand. His glasses are dangling on the tip of his nose, and all I can think is, I can’t believe he saved me.

  “I…I’m fine,” I manage to say. I sit up slowly, head throbbing from the fall. Charlie sits back on his heels and pulls out his phone.

  “I’m calling for my driver,” he says.

  “We’re only a few blocks from your place,” I croak out.

  “Yeah, well, after a night of mortal danger, I think I’d rather have the car service.”

  Vincent fusses over me. The vamp’s attack happened so quickly, it seemed like everyone (except, somehow, Charlie) was frozen in time, unable to help. But now the crowd is reanimated, picking up chairs and making hushed conversation.

  “I’m so sorry this happened. Is there anything I can do? Can I offer you a drink?” Typical vampire, always thinking about drinking. But call me crazy; after nearly having my throat ripped out, the last thing I want to do is hang.

  “I’ll be fine,” I reassure him, trying to shoo him away.

  “The car will be here in a minute,” Charlie says, standing over me. “Here.” He offers me his hand and pulls me up; again, we’re merely inches apart. Multitudes of thanks are piling on my tongue—I owe you my life, I’m forever grateful, how can I ever repay you?—but I stay silent, unable to choose the right string of words to convey my swirl of surprise and gratitude.

  I’m approached over and over again by the concerned patrons. Werewolves and shape-shifters run their paws over me, looking for injuries. I keep reassuring everyone I’m fine; I feel a lump forming on the back of my head, but it’s what’s going on in my mind that really concerns me.

  I’ve never been a damsel in distress before, and I feel uncomfortable with the role. Like my mom, I don’t like having to ask for help; I’d rather flail on my own than be in someone’s debt. But without Charlie’s bravery back there, I’d have been nothing but a blood bag. So what do I do now? How does one give thanks to a knight in shining armor? Because that’s the part Charlie’s played here. What’s the standard token of appreciation? A dowry? A flock of sheep? My firstborn child? My head is spinning to ridiculous places.

  After giving Charlie’s driver my address, I realize how close we came to a bloody end. I shouldn’t have brought him here, not Charlie Blitzman, son of our mayor. Can you imagine the headlines had Charlie been hurt? In the movies, they always blame vampire attacks on wild animals, but in downtown Chicago, the only animals that would be roaming the streets would be escapees from Lincoln Park Zoo. I doubt anyone would believe a lion busted from its cage and happened to find the most famous teenage victim possible. Bringing him here was wrong; I got lulled into a false sense of security during the feel-good matchmaking marathon, but like Mom warned, I had no way to protect us. I have no magic shield.

  We sit in the Town Car in silence, as the high-rises give way to three-floor walk-ups. I know I should say something, but what? New questions pop up with every passing streetlamp. Why did he save me? What does that mean? Does it have to mean anything? Should I say “thank you” or “I’m sorry” first?

  Charlie says nothing either. He glances my way from time to time, but I’m too consumed with guilt and frustration to meet his gaze. Eventually he gives up, and stares out his window. He’s probably pissed off that he put his life on the line for some ungrateful mute wench. The only word that’s spoken is “good night” as I exit the car. I watch him drive away, my stomach dropping at the thought of my selfish, childish behavior.

  Ugh. And things were going so well.

  I AM IN EMOTIONAL TURMOIL. It’s early Sunday morning, which means I’m restocking the shelves at Windy City Magic. The weekends are our busiest time, with tourists piling in their SUVs and heading toward the big city, and we have to make sure we have enough supply for demand. Not that honey-coated night-vision drops are necessarily flying off our displays, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Especially because this weekend Navy Pier is hosting a weekend-long “Rock Around the Clock” 1950s sock hop. (The things they come up with, seriously.)

  I’m in the back room, which I’m not particularly fond of anyway due to its permanent pickle smell, but today it’s worse because the cramped space is making my crowded brain seem even more claustrophobic. What the hell was wrong with me last night? Why did I turn silent after Charlie saved me? H
ave I become so jaded that having someone actually do something nice for me rendered me speechless? Was it the adrenaline, my survival instinct? I mean, WHAT? No matter the reason for my short circuit, my behavior was garbage and I’m really frustrated with myself.

  Worst of all, since I’ll be stuck here all day, there’s nothing I can do but spin my wheels. I can’t sneak off and call Amani (this issue exceeds the limits of texting), and I definitely cannot talk to Mom because she would LOSE IT if she found out I went to the Black Phoenix against her direct orders (keeping this from her, by the way, will not technically be a lie but rather an omission of facts).

  Clearly, this insanity is my punishment for my awful behavior, and I’ll just have to suck it up and deal.

  Hours later, things are finally starting to die down. Thanks to this sock hop thing, our shop was extra busy; I did over a dozen readings, and Mom sold a bunch of her mind-concentration elixirs, a spell she recently mastered for the means of mass consumption. Due to the ’50s theme of the weekend, more than one poodle skirt twirled through the shop, and during the lunch hour, a kiosk a few doors down was passing out free hand-scooped milk shakes (of which I forced Bob to get me one…okay, two…OKAY, five). Since the sun is starting to set and suburbanites are terrified of Chicago traffic, the pier is slowly clearing out, though there are still a few greasers cruising around outside.

  “Nice job today, Amber,” Mom says as she sweeps fallen milk shake straws from the floor. “You really handled all those matchmaking requests with ease. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you perform so many at a time.”

  No, you definitely haven’t, I think. Still, motherly compliments are few and far between, so I make sure not to repeat last night’s offense and say, “Thank you.”

  Bob trudges over from Windexing the crystal balls. His massive feet just barely miss knocking over a basin of candles. “So next weekend is the autumnal equinox,” he starts. “I was thinking we could set up a display or something.”