The Best Kind of Magic Page 9

  I’m swimming in dangerous waters here, so I steer clear of the deep end. “It’s just that I think it’s weird my friend is suddenly unconscious.”

  “I’m concerned about her reaction as well,” Mom says. “Suppressing her talent is not doing her any favors; if she worked on regularly channeling her energy, she wouldn’t have these kinds of extreme side effects.” She stops cleaning and takes a long look at my friend. “Think of your younger self, Amber, when your talent took over your ability to function. Your matchmaking was at the forefront; you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to. It took years, but you learned to channel your gift so it could be present but not all-consuming. Amani needs to do the same, or else one day, her talent could devour her.”

  I’m beyond annoyed at her right now. She’s acting like she did Amani a favor by inviting her to this séance and knocking her out. Maybe in the long run, she did; I don’t disagree that Amani needs to get a better grip on her visions. But…Mom always thinks like a witch first and a mother second, and a lot of the time, I wish it was the other way around. I mean, magic is important, but not more than someone’s well-being. My mom seems to nurture everything except the human heart.

  I could never tell her that, though. Instead, I just say, “That’s really ominous, Mom.”

  “It’s the truth.” Amani’s head slowly rolls to the side. “Look, she’s coming to.”

  Her brown eyes flutter open. She groans, trying to pull herself to a seated position, rubbing her forehead like she’s been hit by a brick. “My Gods, what happened?” she asks groggily.

  “You had a vision that knocked you out. Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I feel like I got stuck in a trash compactor.”

  “Here, drink this,” I say, handing her the teacup. “Mom spiked it with rejuvenating potion.”

  “Thanks,” she says quietly, taking a small sip. She winces at the bitter taste.

  “Can you remember what you saw?” Mom asks after a minute.

  Amani swallows hard, color returning to her face. The potion is probably waking up her cells one by one. “Um, kind of. It was a place I’d never been, with lots of creatures and randoms hanging around. A bar, maybe? Or a restaurant? Cass was there, meeting with some guy….At least, I think it was a guy. His face was covered in shadows. He gave her something: a little slip of paper. That was it.”

  “This place…any distinguishing characteristics you can describe?”

  Amani runs her finger along the teacup rim, pinching her face in thought. “It was dark—no windows—but there was a certain shimmer to the place, like gold and stuff.”

  Mom tips her head back knowingly. “Like…golden tabletops?”

  She closes her eyes, trying to envision it. “Um…yes. Yes, I think so. And there was a long chandelier made out of—”

  “Champagne flutes?” Mom offers.

  “Yes. Wait, how did you know that? Did we all have the vision?” Amani asks, confused.

  “No.” Mom shakes her head. “I happen to know the establishment.”

  “Well, that’s a major stroke of luck,” I say.

  “It’s not luck. Luck is a social construct designed by humans to amplify pleasant happenstances. No, I know this place Amani describes because it’s a hot spot for Chicago’s underworld of paranormal activity.”

  “Reeeeeally,” I start, “and you just happen to know where all the city’s creepy-crawlies hang out?”

  “Of course I know. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Responsibility…to party?”

  “Amber, please. You know full well about the paranormal population. Don’t you think they’d create a social space for their own?” Mom asks.

  “I guess. I never thought about it before.”

  “So Cass went there, or is going to go there, because she’s supernatural?” Amani asks, trying to get us back on task.

  “Perhaps,” Mom says, “but it’s also a place people go when they need magical assistance.”

  “Isn’t that what Windy City Magic is for?” my friend asks.

  If I had asked, Mom would’ve given me the “don’t be so naïve” look, but because it’s Amani, who Mom is trying to bring back into the magical fold, she answers with patience.

  “To a degree. I am willing to help clients who come to me with pure intentions. But the dealings at the Black Phoenix are of a more sinister nature. Any witch who’s worth her salt would not surround herself with such negative energy. Witchcraft is about balance, not cheating the system.”

  “Okay, well, where is this place? If Cass is stopping by in the very near future, we need to be there,” I say.

  “No, Amber, no,” Mom states. “I will not have you girls getting mixed up with this unsavory element.”

  “Mom, don’t be so speciesist. Just because someone has scales does not mean he’s unsavory.”

  Mom picks up the locket and stands to leave. She’s had enough; I’ve pushed her too far. “That is not what I mean and you know it. The individuals who populate that restaurant are dangerous, and you do not have the ability to protect yourself. Amani, thank you for your assistance, but I will take it from here. End of discussion.” She storms out, leaving a tangible trail of frustration for us to take in.

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” Amani says.

  “Yup. Put together your most vamptastic outfit, my friend; we’re going to the Black Phoenix.”

  FINDING THE ADDRESS FOR THE Black Phoenix was laughably easy. While a Google search brought up nothing (the best secrets evade search engines), I only had to call Willie, a fourth-generation Chicago minotaur who I set up with his wife over a year ago. She is a florist who specializes in bizarre botany and supplies Windy City with rare cuttings; Willie is one of those recovering man-beasts who definitely spent time pillaging and plundering before settling down for a life of book clubs and herb gardens. After interacting with both of them separately and seeing the other in each other’s eyes, I arranged for them to meet, and now he is forever in my debt (his words, not mine). I figured of all the creatures I’ve counseled over the years, Willie would be most likely to be in touch with the criminal element. In true telling of his cohabitation rehabilitation, he did warn me to be careful and take backup. I love it when monsters show their sensitive sides.

  It’s Saturday night, and I’m waiting on the sidewalk outside Charlie’s high-rise. Amani has punked out, citing a mystical migraine, but I did stop by her place on the way to drop off some cinnamon-chili brownies. Maybe there’s no scientific evidence of desserts curing what ails you, but if you ask me, the jury’s still out on science anyway. Even though she was laid up on the couch, she still tried to accessorize my outfit as I walked out the door; you’d think she was the matchmaker. But it’s not like tonight is a date or anything. Willie did tell me to bring backup, and since I can count my number of friends on one finger, it’s not like I am exploding with options.

  “Hey,” Charlie calls as he walks through the revolving door. “Am I dressed appropriately for a monster eatery?” He spins on his heel to give me a 360-degree view. I will give it to him; the boy can dress. In a crisp white button-down with black tie, embel-lished suspenders, and black jeans, only his grommet earrings and tattoo keep him on the modern side of a barbershop quartet. Which is not a bad thing; I actually like his skateboarder-meets-speakeasy look. I myself don’t spend a lot of time thinking about clothes since I’m usually wearing one of two uniforms. Tonight I tried to pull together a black tank top and skirt that didn’t scream “I don’t belong here!” but clearly when I’m with Charlie, I’ll have to step up my game.

  “You look positively biteable,” I say.

  The color from his face drains. “What?”

  “That’s demon speak for ‘you look good.’”

  “Should I be taking out an extra life insurance policy or…?”

  “Nah, most monsters I know like to keep a low profile,” I say, trying to assuage his fears. “They wouldn’t have the balls to munch on a lo
cal celebrity.”

  “This probably isn’t the manliest thing to admit,” Charlie says, “but I’m kind of nervous. I’ve never knowingly met vampires and whatnot.”

  So precious. “First of all, don’t refer to them as ‘whatnot.’ That’s a good way to get your head bashed into a wall,” I instruct.

  “Right. Good point.”

  “Second, just relax. We’ve got trolls and other baddies at school, so just think of this as Manchester Prep with less homework and more potential for bloodshed.” I reach forward and straighten his tie, before realizing it’s not exactly my place to do so. He doesn’t flinch, though; in fact, his cheeks are starting to regain their human coloring.

  Looking up at him, I’m treated to yet another glimpse of his future love. The more I hang out with him, the more I get to know not just him but his girl-to-be. She really is quite cute; I watch a scene of the two of them getting dressed for a black-tie event. She’s in a gown covered in sparkles, he’s in a formal tux with tails, and she’s giggling as she fixes his white bow tie. Seeing this jolts me back to the present, and I quickly glue my hands back to my sides. Clearly, this is a sign for me to back away; it is another girl’s business to be adjusting his appearance.

  “Wait, who at school is a troll?” he asks.

  “Michael Barrister. Total troll,” I reveal. Charlie considers this.

  “Oh. I just thought he had a really bad complexion.” He laughs to himself. “Okay. Forget what I said. I’m totally psyched to throw myself to the wolves.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  We start walking east. Of course the Black Phoenix is in the Gold Coast; who would suspect violent supernatural crimes happening with Gucci being sold down the street? We pass several brownstones, an art gallery, and a fur coat shop. I’ve never understood the appeal of fur nor how it became such a status symbol. “Look at me and my financial ability to wear an animal carcass on my back! Huzzah!” Gross. Since Charlie is rich, I’m about to ask him to crack the code, when we come across a familiar-looking sign. It’s tucked away, basement level, painted on a blackened-out window: a charcoal bird’s wing with an even darker shadow. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never notice, and even though I can guarantee I’ve never in my life set foot on this block, I know for sure I’ve seen this before.

  “Whoa, I know this place,” I say, stopping Charlie in his tracks.

  “I thought you said you’d never been,” he says.

  “I haven’t, but…” Where have I seen this? For some reason, Amani’s face keeps popping up as I scroll through my mental hard drive and then—oh my Gods! Amani! Suddenly, everything snaps into focus; why I know I’ve seen this place before—I see it every time I hang with my best friend. “This is the place! The restaurant! With the vampire!” I exclaim, doing a weird dance on the sidewalk.

  “Uh, I feel like I’m getting the CliffsNotes version here,” Charlie says, confused.

  “This restaurant—Black Phoenix—is owned by a vamp named Vincent, who is Amani’s future husband. I’ve been seeing his face and this place for years, but I never knew what it was called or where it was!”

  “Amani is going to marry a vampire?”

  “I told her she should’ve come tonight, but nooooo, she just had to play the ‘I’m too maxed out from my psychedelic trip to the future’ card.”

  “I play that card all the time,” he says, smirking.

  I do a sort of half laugh, half snort. Charlie’s a good sport. He’s been thrown into this whole paranormal world he didn’t realize was around him all along, and he’s handling it well.

  “So, are you going to tell her?” he asks. “That he’s here?”

  My mouth moves to say yes, but my voice catches in my throat. As a matchmaker, it’s my job to bring soul mates together. It would be unethical of me to keep love from happening. But as a friend, I’ve promised not to interfere with how the future unfolds. We made a pact to let each other’s lives happen naturally, wherever the Fates may lead us. But this has to be part of the plan, right? Me coming here is not an accident. If I don’t say something, will Amani and Vincent ever meet? I can’t keep a secret like this!

  “You’d want to know, right? If there was a guaranteed path to your true love?” I ask Charlie.

  “Sure, who wouldn’t?” He shrugs. And yet, he’s never asked me. He knows I’m a matchmaker, yet the subject of his love life has never come up. Everyone asks me; strangers on the street ask me. But not Charlie. “I’d like to think, though, that if there was a girl for me, I’d be able to spot her on my own.”

  Well, that is certainly admirable.

  “Let’s just focus on finding Cass tonight,” I suggest.

  We walk into the Black Phoenix without hassle or question. I expected there to be a bouncer at the door, like a giant or some other super strong brute, but I guess if you’re resourceful enough to find this place, they figure you can handle yourself. From the outside, it was an indistinguishable hole in the wall, but inside, it’s like Jay Gatsby’s daydream. Gold tabletops and the champagne chandelier are here as Amani described, and the rest of the décor only adds to the glitz and glamour. Upon first glance, you’d be hard pressed to find any supernatural tells; everyone is dressed like it’s New Year’s Eve, keeping any tails or wings under sparkly dresses and well-tailored suits. If I felt underdressed next to Charlie before, now I’m really wanting a wardrobe upgrade. (I should’ve let Amani accessorize me after all. Dammit.) I shake my hands through my hair, letting the blue, green, and black strands fall haphazardly in a messy, “I mean trouble” kind of way. No one here looks up for a fight—the crowd’s too busy eating and laughing—but I need to be ready for the unexpected.

  “Do you see her? Cass?” I ask, having to raise my voice over the crowd.

  His dark green eyes are wide behind his glasses, undoubtedly trying to discern what kind of creatures are among us. “No,” he shouts back. “What about Amani’s guy, Vincent? Do you see him? Maybe he could help.”

  “Good idea.” I scan the room and quickly spot Vincent in the open kitchen in back, chatting with his staff. It’s surreal, finally seeing him in the flesh. Of all the matches I’ve made, my perception of him has been most clear, thanks to my constant companionship with Amani. I never doubted he’d eventually materialize, but it’s always satisfying to see how accurate my gift is.

  “He’s over there.” I point. Just then, the server, a gorgeous part-sphinx in a golden dress matched to her wings, approaches us.

  “Table for two?” she asks with the purr of a lion.

  Being the professional I am, I try to keep a neutral face, but I have to say it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a sphinx. With Vincent only a few feet away, I’m starting to get overwhelmed with this whole scene, but then remember that I am Charlie’s guide and cannot fail him.

  I clear my throat. “Yes,” I say awkwardly. “Two, please.”

  “Right this way.” She leads us through the crowded room, Charlie tracking her tail as we follow. I know Mom expressed the inherent danger of this place, but from what I can tell, the only real threats are on people’s plates. I have never seen such exotic entrée offerings. Heavily salted eyeball soufflés; a green bowl of mush that looks (and smells) like sewage. Fried lizard skewers; candied cow tongues: I know supernaturals have demanding taste buds, but this is pretty crazy.

  Charlie and I take a seat and I run my finger over the golden tabletop. It’s so shiny I can see my reflection staring back at me.

  “Should we order something?” I ask Charlie. I take a quick look at the menu and don’t see anything close to edible.

  “I guess that’s how it usually goes. Do you…want a drink or something?”

  “Not really. I’d rather save my calories for cupcakes. You?”

  “Same, actually.” He smiles.

  “C’mon,” I say, nudging his shoulder. “Don’t you want to live up to your given stereotype? Rich kid with a substance-abuse problem?”

&
nbsp; “Nah, I’m saving that for my mid-thirties. Besides, I really do like cupcakes.”

  Before I can stop myself, I say, “Have you ever been to MarshmElla’s in Wicker Park?” I can’t believe I shared that so easily. Not that Ella and her desserts don’t deserve to be promoted, but MarshmElla’s is my place, my sacred little haven, my private escape. Where I can just sit back, stuff my face, and never be judged or ridiculed. It’s not that I don’t want Charlie to know about it, I just never tell anyone. Ever.

  He’s shaking his head no, so I add, “Well…then you’re missing out.”

  “Maybe you could take me there sometime.”

  The question hangs in the air like a speech bubble from a graphic novel. I have trouble processing the words, as if the way they’re strung together is in another language. What is going on here? Did Charlie just ask me…?

  “We need to get Vincent over here,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Excuse me.” Charlie flags down a server. “Can we speak with the owner, please?”

  “What should we say when he comes over?” I ask.

  “I thought you knew this guy?”

  “Just his face. We’ve never actually met.”

  “Okay then…I’ll start, I guess. People usually want to talk to me,” Charlie admits.

  I cross my arms, giving him an “oh really?” face.

  “Trust me,” he says without humor, “it has nothing to do with me.”

  Before I can reply, Vincent is sauntering up to us, and he definitely looks the part of a paranormal restaurant owner. Dark, slicked-back hair, a custom-cut three-piece suit with black diamond cuff links: he could be the James Bond of the vampire scene. He greets us with a wide toothy smile, fangs retracted. He’s very handsome; Amani is going to lose it when she meets him. Despite being Gods know how old, he only looks a few years older than us. Eternal youth: gotta love it.

  I’m suddenly overtaken by a bout of nerves. I’m about to meet the guy who will eventually steal my best friend’s heart and will therefore be a constant presence in my life. I know it shouldn’t matter, but what if I can’t stand him? What if Vincent’s personality is completely endearing to Amani but super annoying to me? The most important thing is that he makes her happy, but if he makes me crazy, will I have to hide my contempt for the rest of time?