Page 91 of Girls Night
I throw my phone onto the busted couch and head over to my kitchenette. From the cupboard under the sink, I pull out a pair of rubber gloves and put them on. I don’t care what my brother says.
I step into the corridor outside my apartment and glance left and right. The coast is clear. The envelope is still on the shabby carpet. So is my shoe. Gingerly, I pinch the thing between my thumb and index fingers and carry it inside, then go back for my shoe. I leave the envelope in the sink for a good two hours before I pluck up the courage to get a better look at it.
The handwriting on the envelope is what grabs my attention first. Opulent, yet considered, full of lavish loops and strokes. Familiar, eerily so. Unmistakable. Impossible. Written in royal blue ink, the beautiful cursive takes up most of the front. There’s my name, Delphi Chen. The address of my ramshackle building. No stamp. I turn the envelope over. No return address.
I remove the kitchen gloves and bring a hand to my mouth. The penmanship is one of a kind, but the person it belongs to is Copper-Eye, and she disappeared four years ago.
I reach into one of the drawers for a knife. The one my fingers fumble around is rusted and blunt. I bring it to the sealed flap of the envelope and gently open it. Once done, I turn it over and something spills out.
A single flower lies in the sink. It is dry, flat, and a vivid maroon. I place the envelope to one side and pick the blossom up. Its wafer-thin petals nearly crumble to a fine powder in my hands. It is unlike any flower I have ever seen.
With the greatest care, I place the pressed flower back into the envelope and tuck the flap in. Perhaps Copper-Eye had sent it before she’d evaporated into thin air, but why am I only receiving it now? I turn the envelope over in my hands a final time and run my fingers over Copper-Eye’s grand script.
“What is your purpose?” I ask it, but not even magic can get envelopes or pressed flowers to reveal their secrets. I think back to the botflies, then to the last time Copper-Eye had reached out to me. By then, our relationship was fractured beyond repair. I’d vowed to swallow a razor blade dipped in orange juice if she made me move back in with her. Now, I narrow my eyes as acid percolates through my veins. “And what terrible darkness are you bringing my way?”
Chapter Two
Magic is as magic does
Not that I remember anything before I entered Copper-Eye’s care, but back then, if one were to have asked me what “magic” is, I assume I’d have probably thought it was cheap card tricks or pulling handkerchiefs from your asshole in front of a crowd of preschoolers and their self-medicating mothers. What I’d come to learn was that it is complex and prehistoric. Something you earn through blood or skill. Magic is incomprehensible and beautiful, but also absolutely terrifying.
I’m reminded of this as I remove the crusty jar of Kamori goat blood from under my bed and bring it into the living room. Black market bought, the jar cost me a few thousand dollars I didn’t have, but I needed the damned thing if I was to continue practicing tracker magic. Unfortunately, I’d only used the blood once — fairly unsuccessfully — before getting creeped out and stowing it under my bed until now.
Tossing aside trash, clothes, and books to make space on the carpet, I set the jar in the center of the mess and twist off the lid. The sour, metallic stench fills the space almost instantly. I swallow down hard and pray I don’t puke.
I dip my right hand into the lukewarm blood and instantly regret not wearing my kitchen gloves. I grit my teeth and get to work, smearing a somewhat perfect circle around myself. Scrawling symbol after obscure, ancient symbol, I wonder how long it will take to scrub blood out of the carpet once it has soaked through. If only this was a Disney film, I wouldn’t have this kind of problem, but even a novice knows that magic is never easy.
Once complete, I screw the lid back on the jar and stand up to examine my work. Parts of the tracker ring are blotchy. Some of the symbols are barely legible. It’s not like I can rewind time and start the whole thing over again, nor do I have the stomach and patience to set up another ring. I have a feeling it will suffice.
Placing the jar of blood back under the bed, I wash my hands in my bathroom and return to the kitchenette for the envelope. Careful to not destroy its contents, I place it in the center of the ring and remove a box of black candles from behind my sofa I bought from a mambo in New Orleans last year. Picking out four from the box, I set each at the top, bottom, and sides of the circle to represent north, south, east and west. I take a lighter from my pocket and, with a heavy sigh, sit cross-legged in the middle of the ring, the envelope before me.
I light each candle, toss the lighter to the side, and close my eyes. I ignore how clammy my palms have become, and the tremble in my gut.
Magic can be vindictive. Unforgiving. It can hold a grudge for aeons.
I breathe in, then out. I imagine a world of white, where there’s no up or down, left or right. Nothing but a silent, blinding white. I picture a door in the center of my forehead — art deco, oak and gold. Suddenly, it bulges, then squeezes itself out of my forehead, expands and hovers just in front of me. My skin barbs as I push it open and step through.
My door leads me to an empty subway station. It’s mucky and dark. My feet stick to the floor. For some reason, magic chose this as a halfway point for us both to meet. It might have something to do with my past before Copper-Eye, but I’ll never know for sure. I sit down on the nearest wooden bench and knit my fingers together on my lap.
The chill of the station sticks to my arms like a wet rag, but I don’t complain or attempt to keep myself warm. Magic always makes you wait. And, just when I think it has given up on me entirely, pissed off that I haven’t used it for anything worthy in years besides apartment security and getting high on the odd occasion when I don’t have money for weed, I hear footsteps and I know magic has arrived.
It appears to me like it does to any other mage — an identical doppelganger. It’s always unnerving getting stared down with dead eyes by my mirror image, but I swallow and suck it up. Magic should not be feared, but it must always be respected. Still, I hate asking for permission to use it. But that’s my fault entirely.
I clear my throat. Mustering as much confidence and assertiveness, but not arrogance —neverarrogance — in my voice, I command the following: “Show me where this envelope comes from. Point me in the correct direction. Pave the way.”
Nothing happens, at least, not at first. Then, my identical twin’s lips curl up at the sides and its mouth stretches into a wide grin. It nods, and my shoulders sag in relief.
Magic can be as euphoric as a methamphetamine, or as disturbing as an acid trip in church. The tilt between an all-night orgy and brutal circumcision. You just have to hope it’ll play nice.
With magic’s consent to use it, I open my eyes. Around me, the four candles flicker, but the windows of my apartment are closed. I wipe my slick palms against my jeans as a nervous flutter beats against my chest.
I hold my breath.If this doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, I remind myself, even though I should keep my mind as focused as possible right now.It doesn’t mean I’m any less of a mage.Just because I have magic’s approval, doesn’t mean this spell will automatically work, especially if I haven’t used it in a long time.Even the best make mistakes. If the spell fails, I’ll just —
The envelope ripples in front of me and the muscles in my legs grow stiff. Ever so slowly, it turns to the left, then right. Right, then left. Over and over again until the envelope’s movements become smoother and looser and before I know it, the thing is spinning around so fast I get nauseous from staring at it for more than a few seconds.
I can’t help it, I’m feeling rather impressed with myself. It’s been ages since I’ve attempted performing tracker magic, let alone a proper spell in general, and even when I did in the past, I failed miserably, much to Copper-Eye’s contempt. Yet, here I am, and the spell is working. Christ, I feel so —
The envelope halts and the candles around the ring snuff out one at a time. North. South. East. Then finally, West. The air in my living room turns from muggy warm to arctic frost.
