Blue Magic (18 page)

Now she was leading a triple life, running an endless track of pretense. By day she was in court, playing the role of faithful guard to Sahara and praying Judge Skagway wouldn’t see through her. She spent her off hours trying to pry Fyreman secrets out of Gilead and her nights caught up in Sahara’s invasions of her dreams, dancing to the Alchemites’ tune.

But it was almost over.

She was outside the courthouse with the judge and Gilead Landon, watching a trio of men lay rosarite into a shallow trench dug into the sandy ground surrounding the building. The operation had been carried out under a pretext: plumbing upgrades, Roche said when Skagway insisted on the experiment.

Speaking of whom … “Where is the general?”

“On the horn with Washington,” the judge replied. “There’s been a magical spill in Atlanta.”

Juanita had gleaned a few scraps about potion-making from Gilead. She’d told Sahara the core ingredients of their supposedly stable magical formulas were burnt vitagua and prayer. She’d reported the Fyremen were rigidly patriarchal, that Gilead needed permission to induct her into the Brigade. The only thing she’d held back was about rosarite and disenchantment, as Gilead called it.

Finish line: she clung to the memory of that half marathon, the feeling of impending achievement.

Skagway spoke: “So we do this, son, and any chantments they’ve smuggled inside the courtroom stop working?”

“That’s the idea,” said Gilead. “Magical influences won’t affect the protected area.”

I’ll report the Alchemites’ threats to my family,
Juanita thought,
and begin disentangling this awful situation.

“Once we show it works on the courthouse, we’ll sell Roche on doing the whole base.… Sorry, that’s my phone.” With an apologetic wave, Gilead walked off, speaking Latin.

“Think this’ll do it, Corazón?” the judge asked.

“We have to try something, Your Honor.”

“True that,” he said, like a kid.

The man unloading rosarite had taken advantage of a lull in his crewmates’ rhythm, bending to tie his shoe. Now, as Gilead disappeared around the corner of the building, a shimmer of greenish fog rose around him. Winking at Juanita, he unzipped his pants.

“Roche thinks this is risky,” Skagway said, reacting not at all as the worker urinated onto the rosarite, as the metal hissed and smoked. “He says Sahara’s stayed where she is because of the chantment Lethewood put in her chest. It keeps her from running off. I told him that was your job.… Something wrong?”

“I—,” she said. The stink of burning metal and steamed piss was overpowering. “Gilead should be supervising this.”

“Relax, Corazón. Guy’s entitled to a five-minute phone call.”

The workman zipped up, gave her the finger, then flourished his arms in a ritual gesture—
Praise Sahara,
it meant. He handed over the length of dripping, corroded rosarite, and his coworkers bundled it into the pipe without a second glance.

“Tell me the truth,” Skagway said.

“Pardon?” Juanita said.

“You falling for that guy?”

“Gilead?” She laughed a little hysterically. “He’s more dangerous than Sahara.”

The smile lines around his eyes deepened.

“I’m not looking for a relationship, Judge.”

“You should be. You’re lonely, kid.”

To fight off the rush of tears, Juanita forced a smirk. “If you want me to put the moves on Gilead—”

“The moves?”

“He’s not my type, but if it’d make you happy…”

“Oh, find yourself a nice woman,” he said, playfully stern.

She saluted, pleased. She’d assumed he knew she was a lesbian, but Skagway’s position as a judge charged their mutual affection with a certain formality. Outing herself fell well outside Juanita’s comfort zone.

Gilead returned from his phone break.

“Everything okay?” the judge asked.

“Trouble at home,” he said in a tight voice.

“Sorry to hear it,” Judge Skagway said.

“Thanks. We’re done here—the courthouse is encircled.”

Except the Alchemites had gotten to it. “Can we test it?”

Gilead produced a chantment they’d seen before—the plastic ghost. “Want to do the honors, Your—”

On impulse, Juanita reached to intercept it, catching his hand before he could touch the judge. She caught a fading glow on Gilead’s fingertips—embers, like cigarette cherries.

“Your Honor?” she asked, holding out the ghost.

“You go ahead,” he said.

Dropping Gilead’s hand, she held the ghost up, remembering the instructions Wallstone had given the jury: Imagine turning out a light. She looked across the compound, and a few of the safety lights vanished, creating a pool of pitch darkness.

She dropped the chantment before it could exhaust her. “Is there a time delay?”

Gilead was befuddled. “No. It should have worked.”

“Maybe it isn’t installed right,” Juanita said. “Is it something we can … check? Debug?”

“Debug?” His voice was incredulous.

The judge snorted. “I’d call that strike two, son.” Shaking his head, he wheeled away.

Gilead paced the trench. “It always works. The Alchemites, they must have…”

Still screwed,
Juanita thought,
and Sahara knows I was in on it.
Tears threatened. “What were you going to do to the judge?”

“He wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“That’s all you got to say?”

He was staring at the trench. “You’re not in the club yet, Juanita—I can’t tell you everything.”

“To hell with your club. Go near him again, I’ll break every bone in your hand.” With that, she strode back to her quarters and sat up until late, fighting sleep.

When she finally drifted off, Sahara was waiting. “Disappointed, darling?”

“Sahara, I—”

“You didn’t think I’d put anyone else close to our Burning Man? Darling, you told me he wouldn’t share his secrets with a mere girl.”

A dream coalesced around her: They stood in a basement that hadn’t been renovated since the days of disco, a dusty hole with mildewy windows. Underfoot was a shag carpet; the walls were gold-flecked mirror. Birds—starlings—perched everywhere. A pretty young man sat, legs dangling, on a vinyl barstool, petting a moth-eaten fur coat and sipping a milk shake. Next to him was Passion, the tattooed Alchemite who’d sent Ramón to dreamland. She was toying with the boy’s hair.

“She’s here,” the young man reported.

Passion crowed softly in exultation. “Beloved Goddess, we welcome you.”

A groan, and Juanita saw Sahara lying on a couch and surrounded by Alchemite fugitives. Her heart raced into panic—had she escaped? But this wasn’t Sahara—it was the nerdy black guy, Lucius Landon, who’d given evidence at her trial. Nude and bloodied, he lay on the frayed cushions, tied tightly, breath rasping in and out. Red and blue scratches marked the dark skin of his cheek. Starling-patterned hair coiled out of his scalp.

It was the same thing they’d done to the prosecutor, Wallstone. Sahara had effectively possessed him, contaminating him with a mixture of vitagua and her own blood.

Gilead and his “Brigade” can’t stop Sahara
. Could anyone? Juanita had a fleeting memory of Gilead saying that Astrid Lethewood was the real power.

“Juanita,” the dream-Sahara purred. “Be honest, darling—when did you know they were going to disenchant the courthouse?”

“Too late to say anything. Gilead told me this afternoon.”

“Lies,” Passion sneered. “‘Darling’ Juanita doesn’t understand her position, beloved Goddess.”

“Why don’t you spell it out for her?”

“You do as we tell you, Juanita, when we tell you. You don’t withhold information. No playing mind games with poor little Heaven. You think we’re stupid?”

“If you hit my family again so soon after vanishing Ramón to dreamland, someone will notice.”

“Lots of soldiers get vanished.” As Sahara spoke, the prisoner on the couch also mouthed her words. “Passion?”

The tattooed Alchemite smiled, moving languorously as she lay her hands on Juanita’s shoulders, turning her to face an open doorway. “Dream your heart,” she whispered, and the hallway morphed into the courtroom at Wendover. Skagway was behind the bench. In the gallery sat Juanita’s family: Mamá, dressed for church, her brothers and sisters, her nieces, two aunts …

“Know what magic has taught me, Juanita?” Sahara—both of them—asked.

… but not Tía Corina,
Juanita thought even as she lifted her hands in supplication, ready to give up, to beg.

… not Corina,
the inner voice repeated.
She’d seemed sympathetic to the Alchemite cause. If Corina’s not here because she’s an Alchemite …

“Please don’t hurt them, Sahara.”

“The soul exists, Juanita,” Sahara said. “How can it not? I’ve taken root within the bosom of my foe. I’m in jail, I’m in a government hospital looking through the eyes of Lee Wallstone, I’m here in this Fyreman. Will you deny the Age of Miracles?”

“No.” Juanita scanned the gathered, beloved faces … then looked beyond them. Most of the Wendover staff was here. General Roche, clerks and lawyers, the other marshals, the jury … “The soul exists, Sahara. I do believe that.”

“My soul, being divine, can be spread infinitely,” Sahara said. From her tone, she was nearing a point.

Heaven wasn’t here. And two jurors were missing from the dream court.

“I’ll do whatever you say, Sahara,” she begged, thinking hard. Who else was missing?

Sahara smiled. “Tell me about tonight.”

Juanita swallowed. “If Gilead had disenchanted the courthouse, the whole base would have been next. I could have reported you for blackmail.”

“I am profoundly hurt by that, darling.”

“He tried to do something to the judge,” Juanita added. She described Gilead’s attempt to touch Skagway, the lit embers at the tips of his fingers.

“Ruination,” Lucius Landon whispered from the couch. “The Ruined seek their own destruction. Their strength becomes weakness.”

“Another Fyreman curse,” Sahara sighed.

Landon bared his teeth. “You are thrice-Ruined, Sahara. Lee Glade laid hands upon you, then my brother, then me—”

“If anyone’s ruined me, it’s the Filthwitch.” Laughing, Sahara kissed his forehead. “Why the judge?”

“The unfinished work of the Brigade,” Lucius gritted. “Wipe out the open wells, break the people of Raven.”

“You went after him because he’s Native?”

“It’s them or us.”

“How very binary of you,” Sahara said. “Got anything else to share, Juanita?”

Juanita racked her brains. “Tonight, Gilead said … he had trouble at home.”

“Ah,” Sahara said, gazing fondly at the writhing, bastardized copy of herself. “That we knew already.”

A lump rose in Juanita’s throat: “I don’t know anything else. I swear, I don’t.”

“Shhh.” Sahara’s hand mimed drawing a tear off Juanita’s face. “You ordinary mortals. Your souls are more fragile than mine. Why is that, Juanita?”

“Because you’re divine?” Juanita mumbled.

“Exactly.”

Passion was wandering the dream courtroom, peering into the faces of Juanita’s hostages: Mamá, Benita, the judge.

“Sahara, I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll avoid Gilead—”

“Oh, I want you to keep speaking to Gilead—he’d get so curious if you went cold on him now.”

“I’ll convert,” she offered.

“Hold on, Passion,” Sahara said.

The tattooed woman all but snarled.

“I’ll convert,” Juanita said again. “I’ll accept the Age of Miracles. I’ll pray to you. I’ll stay with you to the end, as you predicted.”

After an interminable pause, Sahara nodded. “All right, tell you what. Give me your faith, and we’ll sacrifice someone who isn’t too dear to you. What do you say?”

“I—”

“Juanita?” A purr, in stereo—it came from the Fyreman too. “Mamacita, or a coworker?”

“Coworker,” Juanita said.
No, oh no, please …

“Coworker what?”

“Coworker, beloved Goddess,” she said, clumsily sketching an Alchemite gesture in the air.

“She’s lying,” Passion said. “She doesn’t believe.”

“Just pick someone, my bloodthirsty angel.”

Passion pursed her lips, assessing the Wendover staff before laying her hand on one of the junior marshals.

“Oh, brilliant—she’s guarding my cell,” Sahara said. “I can watch her go. Juanita, your first task as a faithful Alchemite is to pay close attention.”

“Yes, beloved Goddess.” Stomach churning, Juanita stood, eyes wide, still trying to identify people who were missing from the dreamed hit list, silently reciting names. But the basement faded, and now they were in the cell block, standing in the hall as the youngest of the Federal marshals put a hand on her chest and then doubled over.

“Don’t you dare shut your eyes,” Sahara said.

The guard’s mouth opened, but she did not scream—she chirped. Birds were coming out of her mouth in a rush, and her skin was shifting and rupturing as beaks broke through, fluid-slicked avian heads cutting their way out through her arms, neck, chest, a flock that soon obscured their victim.

“Now you say: ‘Praise the Earth, praise the wind, praise the sun,’” Sahara said over the cacophony of cheeping.

Shakily, Juanita stumbled through the phrase.

A Klaxon buzz-sawed the nightmare apart and she jolted awake, lunging for her wastebasket, belly heaving. She retched, mentally clinging to her list of suspected Alchemites. She was afraid to say the names aloud.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WILL HAD BEEN SURE
Janet would be dead when he got back to Indigo Springs. He’d seen the medic’s portrait in the ballroom, and she’d landed hard when she fell off the trolley in Atlanta. But as he reached Emergency with Astrid in his arms, Janet was the first person he saw. She was whole, dirty, and holding another of the healing chantments, a mitten.

“We need help here,” he called.

“Lay her down.” Letrico frisked along her arms in little spikes of lightning as Janet placed the mitt on Astrid, pouring power into her. The belly wound closed; Astrid’s color returned.