The Best Kind of Magic Page 7

  “Here in the car?” he asks.

  “No, nothing about me would prove the existence of mystical creatures. Being a matchmaker is like being magic-adjacent: close to the cool stuff, yet completely removed.”

  Charlie considers this. “Okay, then, how do you propose exposing the supposed supernatural underground I’ve been oblivious to?”

  Hmm. Good question. If I were a fairy or mermaid, I could just shake out my wings or tail as proof, but since I don’t have any magical appendages, I’ll have to take Charlie to someone who does.

  “Can your driver take us to the MCA?” I ask.

  “Sure, but calling contemporary art ‘supernatural’ is stretching it.”

  “Ha-ha,” I say with an eye roll.

  Charlie asks Dan, his driver, to reroute downtown. Minutes later, we’re pulling up to the white flight of stairs that leads to the Museum of Contemporary Art. While this museum is not necessarily my favorite (call me crazy, but piles of discarded printer paper or toilet seats stapled to the wall does not a masterpiece make), one of the curators is a Windy City Magic regular and genuine shape-shifter. My pal Sergio’s whole life revolves around art, and who could blame him? When you can transform yourself into any other shape, your body becomes its own canvas.

  The MCA’s entryway is stark and open: a palate-cleanser for the wackiness ahead. At the front desk, I ask a girl with a shaved head for Sergio, and she informs me he’s downstairs in special exhibits. Charlie and I walk down a spiral staircase that circles around an intricate hanging mobile. Thousands of tiny blue squares dangle from almost invisible thread, probably meant to signify the fragility of life or something. Sure enough, when we reach the bottom, I spot Sergio instructing a team about a new installation.

  We wait off to the side, next to a sculpture that looks like a piece of chewed gum, until Sergio’s team heads down the hall. I give him a wave before he follows, and he greets me with an air kiss.

  “Amber, darling! Whatever are you doing here?” His voice echoes through the hall. “Don’t tell me Windy City Magic now makes deliveries, because that would just be fabulous.” Sergio’s dressed in head-to-toe black and wears a winning white smile. He doesn’t have to be tattooed and pierced within an inch of his life to prove he’s in the art scene; he simply is the scene.

  “Nope, sorry, not until the mayor clears the skyline for broomstick travel,” I say. Charlie makes an awkward coughing sound. “Speaking of which: Sergio, this is my”—friend? client? boy-shaped person?—“schoolmate Charlie Blitzman.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Charlie,” Sergio says, palm extended.

  Charlie shakes his hand. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  “What are you two here to see today?” Sergio asks. “We have a very exciting new artist who uses black light to draw out emotions and—”

  “As tempting as that sounds,” I interrupt before he can finish describing what I am sure is a terrifying exhibit, “I actually brought Charlie here for a separate viewing.” I take a second to find the right words. The thing about supernaturals—well, everyone really—is that they don’t like to be singled out. No one wants to be turned into a freak show. Every creature I know is just trying to go about his or her life, to blend in without protest or persecution. So I don’t want to put Sergio on the spot and make him feel like a weirdo. Still, I know he’s proud of his shape-shifter heritage and views his talent as a gift worth sharing…for a select audience, of course. “He’s really gotten into performance art lately, and I told him you’re the best of the best.” I add a wink for good measure.

  Sergio blushes. “You flatter me. Of course, anything for a Sand girl. You know, I have been working on something new and would love a trial audience. I only have a few minutes, though. Here, come this way.”

  He leads us to an empty, pitch-black auditorium with a small stage. Charlie and I stumble into each other while trying to find seats, while Sergio makes his way to the light room. Finally, he lights a spot and takes his place center stage.

  “What is happening?” Charlie whispers.

  “Get ready to believe,” I say.

  Sergio crouches himself into a ball, and for a moment, nothing happens. Slowly, he starts to stand, but he’s no longer a man; he’s a bear. A clawing brown bear towering on his hind legs. The transformation was so fluid, so seamless, it’s almost unbelievable, except we’re seeing it with our own eyes.

  “Oh my God!” Charlie gasps, and clutches the armrest between us, incidentally grabbing my hand that was resting there. He squeezes it before realizing he’s gripping flesh instead of upholstery.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, panicking and letting go. Even in the darkness of the theater, I can see the whites of his eyes.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “Keep watching.” Sergio has collapsed back down, and this time he elongates into a snapping alligator. The details are really stunning. He’s going from fur to scales in a matter of seconds. Must be all those herbs he buys from our shop. For his final transformation, Sergio spreads wings as a bald eagle and flies out over our heads. Even I am shocked by this; I had no idea a shape-shifter could take flight. I clap with much enthusiasm, and Charlie joins in, only with less gusto and more dazed shock.

  “Sergio, that was incredible!” I say once my friend has returned to his human form.

  “Thank you, Amber. I’m glad you liked it,” he says. “I call the piece Constant Predator. What did you think, Charlie?”

  Charlie looks like his brain has been liquefied, but he manages to respond with “It definitely blew me away.”

  Sergio is very pleased by this, wrapping us both in a hug. “I’m so glad you stopped by! It’s been a while since I’ve been able to perform like that. Feels good to keep myself limber.”

  “I’m sure it does,” I say.

  “Unfortunately I must get back to an installation. It was nice meeting you, Charlie. Amber, does your mom have those arnica roots back in stock yet?”

  “Yeah, they should be in by the end of the week.”

  “Wonderful! Then I’ll be seeing you again soon. Ciao!” He disappears down the hall.

  I turn my attention back to Charlie, who still looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Am I gonna have to carry you out of here?” I ask him. “Because I’ll be honest, I skipped the weight-lifting unit in gym.”

  He shakes his head, presumably to slosh his brain back in place. “No. I mean…whoa. So. That was a…?”

  “Shape-shifter. And a damn good one, I might add.”

  “Wow.”

  “Want to take a walk? Clear your head before we get back to cracking Cassandra’s case?”

  He nods.

  We leave the MCA and head into the throngs of people outside Water Tower Place. Lots of big-name designers have plonked storefronts in this neck of the woods, so there’s always people looking to drop massive cash for meaningless labels. This shopper’s paradise is even less my scene than contemporary art, considering I usually get my clothes at the thrift store. But all the flashy merchandise seems to be calming Charlie, who’s starting to speak in complete sentences.

  “So there’s more, right? Like, all around? Supernatural creatures?”

  “Pretty much. Chicago is bursting with ’em.” I take a quick look to see if I spot any in close proximity. “Ooh, right over there—see the hairy guy with the briefcase? Werewolf, for sure.”

  Charlie squints, trying to see the signs invisible to him. “How do you know?”

  “I just…know.” I shrug. “It’s like a sixth sense.”

  “And can they detect you too?”

  “Oh, sure. But I usually only get approached at the shop. Supernaturals like privacy too. They don’t want their love lives discussed on the street.”

  Charlie raises an eyebrow.

  “What? The mystical community isn’t so different. Everybody’s got their issues; some are just more physically manifested than others.”

  A smile starts to creep on Charlie’s lips. “This is not wh
at I expected when I came to you for help.”

  “And now you’re totally freaking out?”

  “Yeah, but in a good way. Who knew the world had so much magic?”

  Well, I did, for one thing, but I let him have his moment to revel in this new reality. I guess it’s good he’s accepting of this, because who knows where this wild-goose chase with Cassandra will take us?

  We’re walking past the glossy storefronts—Tiffany’s, Ralph Lauren, Cartier—when I spot a familiar face bobbing inside a Kiehl’s. A face who has no need for expensive eye cream or wrinkle serum because she can easily brew up her own. The sight of her browsing for overpriced cosmetics is so foreign to me, I actually freeze in confusion on the sidewalk.

  What is my mom doing in there?

  “CHARLIE, UM, CAN YOU WAIT out here for just a sec?” I ask, eyes trained on the mysterious shopper who shares my mom’s face.

  “Yeah, sure,” he answers dreamily, head still in the supernatural clouds. The way he’s looking at all the passing pedestrians, you’d think they were suddenly covered with glitter or flashing arrows pointing to their potential magical mutations. His expression is so pleasantly mystified that I assume I could leave him out here all day and he wouldn’t notice I’m gone.

  I slip into the Kiehl’s and hide out in a corner next to the men’s shaving kits to spy on my mom. Could she be doing some comparison shopping, trying to get ideas for new potions? As I look around the store, I realize my mom is not the only familiar shopper. Next to the shampoo shelves are three witches I know I’ve seen at Windy City; handling the body butter is another Dawning Day coven member. Is this some sort of backward Wicca field trip?

  “What about this, Lucille?” says Wendy Pumple, passing over a bottle of facial toner. “It says it contains rosewater.”

  “Hmm.” Mom looks over the label. “Well, rosewater is a known anti-inflammatory. I use it in potions aimed to calm swollen ankles—”

  Random laughter interrupts her thought. From behind a mirror emerges a woman I’ve seen before but not yet met. She’s newish to Dawning Day, coming for the last few weeks or so, and she definitely has a much different vibe than the rest of the ladies. Rather than playing into the whole “servant of Mother Earth” look, she’s gone the way of a reality-show housewife: hair bleached outside the human limits, skin pulled so tight you can almost see bone. Speaking of tight, there’s no way she poured herself into that leopard-print dress without the aid of magic.

  “Lucille, darling, rosewater is such an old-world remedy!” the woman remarks in a surprisingly deep voice. She yanks the bottle from Mom’s hands. “Of course it can work, but its potency is so weak, one might not even bother at all!” She laughs again, as if she’s said something truly hilarious. The other witches, though, have turned in her direction, being sure to catch her thought. “On the West Coast, we’ve tapped into some genetically modified plants that produce amazing results in spellwork.”

  “Like what?” someone eagerly asks. This stranger has a rapt audience.

  From where I’m standing, the fragrance of the foot cream is suddenly overpowering, and I let out a giant sneeze, causing everyone to look my way.

  Wendy brightens upon seeing me.

  “Amber! Hello, dear!” she sings in her sweet old-lady voice.

  “Hello, hello,” I say to all the witches who make their way over to greet me. Mom hangs back, pretending to be interested in a display of body scrubs. I keep trying to catch her eye, to signal that I don’t have time for a coven meet and greet right now, but she purposely evades me. Finally I’m approached by Ms. Anti-Rosewater, who throws her hands up in musical theater surprise, and fights the Botox to raise her eyebrows in delight.

  “So you’re Amber! Aren’t you the most darling little baby!” She squeezes my cheeks as if I still was one, and I give my best forced-polite smile. For the love of Gods, why isn’t my mom coming over to save me? “My name’s Victoria,” she says, “I’ve heard so much about you!” She leans in, whispering, “Shame about the whole matchmaker thing, dear. It’s so sad when a prominent bloodline is compromised.”

  If I were a witch, this chick would find herself flame-broiled right about now. But before I can respond, Victoria makes one of those pitying clicks with her tongue and gives my shoulder a condescending pat. She turns and goes back to shopping for lip-plumping products.

  I march straight over to Mom, my angry stomping audible over the piped-in classical music. “MOM. WHAT. THE. HELL?”

  She grimaces, and pulls out a small rose quartz from her pocket. With the stone in hand, she wraps her arm over my shoulder, and whispers, “Susurri,” which puts us in a cone of silence, where no one will be able to hear our exchange. The sounds from the store disappear, and all I hear is our breathing.

  “Why is your entire coven shopping at Kiehl’s when they should be supporting one of their own?” I yell, to the detection of no one other than Mom.

  She sighs. “We’re having a coven meeting.”

  “What? Here?”

  “Yes. Victoria thought it would be nice to have a change of venue,” she says, clearly annoyed.

  “Victoria thought? And who the hell is she?”

  “She’s a recent member, moved here from Los Angeles.” I groan. Mom is working overtime to keep her expression neutral, but I can tell there’s something else whirring in her head. She continues. “She’s had quite an effect on the group since arriving.”

  “So why don’t you just kick her out? I mean, she’s clearly not one of you guys,” I say just as Victoria passes us by, oblivious to our conversation.

  “You know that’s not our way.” It’s true; Dawning Day is certainly one of the more welcoming covens. Some are super-strict, requiring members to give extensive proof of their magical lineage, and even then being put on probation until their mystical worth can be qualified. Dawning Day has always rolled out a metaphorical welcome mat for those looking for magical companionship, a gesture that seems to be biting them in the butt right now.

  “Okay, so if you’re having a ‘meeting,’ who is watching the shop?” I ask.

  “Bob.”

  “BOB?! By himself?”

  “I’m leaving soon to check on him. The ladies know I have my responsibilities.” Mom looks tired, as if simply being at this ridiculous excuse for a coven meeting is draining her patience. She’s never been one to cling desperately to tradition, but I know deep down she enjoys the company of fellow witches, and filling up baskets of moisturizers is not her idea of quality time.

  “Okay, well…see you at home?”

  Mom releases my shoulder, and the ambience of the store floods back in. “I’ll see you at home,” she says with a weak smile.

  I don’t bother saying good-bye to the other witches; I can’t believe that any of them would be down for this scene. Two weeks ago, one of them nagged at me for serving her tea that was bought at a store, not homegrown, so why would they suddenly be stoked for buying commercialized beauty supplies? I’m immediately distrustful of Victoria and make a mental note to get myself a new voodoo doll.

  When I get outside, Charlie is calling his driver, who pulls up moments later. I have to say, not having to wait for smelly, overcrowded public transportation is a definite perk of being rich.

  I wiggle down into the leather seat, sighing as I push my green-and-blue hair out of my face. For a moment, I’m envious of Charlie, who is still relishing the infinite possibilities of magic and has no idea the annoyances it can bring.

  He’s looking out the window, a thought churning in his gut. There’s a twinkle in his eye illuminated by his lenses. “What about…dragons?”

  “What about them?” I snap, more sharply than I mean.

  “Are they real too?” The genuine curiosity in his question kills me; he’s like a little kid wanting to know how airplanes fly or why the sky is blue. I can tell he desperately wants the answer to be yes. I soften a bit.

  “I’ve never seen one, but there’s a warloc
k who comes through our shop; he’s one of our suppliers. He says he once saw a dragon in the Himalayas. His product is good and he never tries to cheat us, so I’d like to believe what he says is true.”

  Charlie leans back, a satisfied smile spreading from cheek to cheek. Apparently, I said the right thing.

  “Is that a dragon on your arm?” I point to the tattoo peeking out from his Manchester button-down.

  “Oh yeah,” he says proudly, rolling his shirtsleeve up even more. “I’ve always loved them, ever since I saw Pete’s Dragon as a kid. I mean, how badass would it be to have a pet dragon?” His ink is elaborate, a sleeve starting at his wrist and presumably going up his entire arm. It’s a swirl of flames and scales, all bright green and vibrant orange. I had no idea he had his freak flag tattooed on his skin.

  “It would be pretty sweet,” I answer, “though personally, I’d choose a unicorn.”

  “I wouldn’t turn that down either,” he says. I stare at him for longer than I mean to. Since I never really got the chance to get to know him when we were younger, I eventually pegged Charlie Blitzman as a spoiled rich kid, too busy collecting Porsches and swimming in gold coins to even consider conversing with others. Yet here he is, geeking out about dragons and unicorns. It’s certainly unexpected.

  “Hey, we’re here,” he says, breaking my spell. Dan stops the car, and we pile out on the street in front of a sparkling high-rise. I don’t spend a lot of time in this part of the city, so I’ve lost my bearings.

  The doorman nods as we pass by, greeting Charlie as “Mr. Blitzman.” Everything here is fancy and perfect, but I guess it should be. It’s not like the mayor would be living in a dive. I’ve just never been serenaded by a grand piano on my way up to my apartment.

  The Blitzmans live in the penthouse (surprise!), and as soon as we exit the elevator, I go straight toward the window like a moth to the flame. What an amazing view! Sure, I’ve been to the Hancock Observatory deck, but I love any view of this city. The buildings, Lake Michigan, the hustle of people like ants. So great.