Magic Lessons (7 page)

my elbows. They hurt. My whole body hurt. I spat several times, rolled over, stood up.
New York City again. Winter. Cold. Daytime.
I brushed some of the wet dirt from me. The
snow
. Something smelled horrible. My skin prickled, not from the cold—someone was looking at me.
It wasn’t Jason Blake.
At the top of the steps, leaning against the door to Sydney, was a . . . I wasn’t sure what it was—old, that was certain. A man? A monster? It had eyes and a nose and a mouth, arms and legs. It was human-shaped but it could have been anything: man, woman, black, white. It was so filthy that its clothing and skin seemed to have fused together.
It was staring right at me.
Staring at me and reeking of stomach acids, of black rubber tire remains made burning hot by the sun on the side of a highway. Burnt rubber and chunder. It smelled like the thing that had come from under the door into Esmeralda’s house. The thing that was related to me—but this thing, this person, smelt even worse. It made me want to run far, far away.
Sarafina always said,
Never show that you’re scared.
I stood and planted my feet firmly in the snow and stared back, trying not to think about my churning stomach, my freezing skin. I put my hand over Esmeralda’s brooch pinned to my PJ top, feeling its warmth, and blurred my eyes to look all the way inside. I saw that he was a man, or at least, he’d
been
a man. I saw that he was not Jason Blake in disguise. I saw his Cansinoness. He was related to me, but he was nothing like me.
Our magic was related, too, but his was much more than mine. It was as though his magic had eaten almost everything else; all that remained were traces of what had been before— his Cansinoness, his humanity, his maleness. His magic shone throughout his body, making up the very marrow of his bones. More thoroughly magic than Esmeralda or Jason Blake, than Tom, Jay-Tee, or me.
He was old, too, older than all our ages put together. Centuries old.
The intense smell of him filled me, far stronger than that of the little golem. I pressed my lips firmly together. I would not chunder. There was no hint of unripe lemon. His reek was nothing like the madness in my mother. He was old, but he wasn’t insane.
He was even worse than Jason Blake. How many people did you have to drink dry of magic to live as long as he had? The thought of it made rage swell up in me like a tumour.
Never lose your temper
. My vision shot back to the surface, where the world pulsed red. My magic swirled out of Esmeralda’s brooch in a Fibonacci spiral aimed at old man Cansino. I would stop him even if it killed me.
He flicked his wrist, making a shooing motion.
My magic rebounded, exploded into me, rendered me blind and deaf, stripped of all my senses.
In this absolutely silent, scentless darkness, echoes of what I’d seen and heard on the street assailed me. All at once I realised I’d been cold, standing in snow with bare feet wearing cotton pyjamas. The wind had been cutting through me; I’d felt the uneven footpath underneath my feet, old chewing gum, salt, melting snow; I’d been smelling car fumes and steak being burnt, hearing car horns and music blaring, someone yelling out to her friends to “wait up”; I’d seen the greys and browns of a New York winter. Now I felt nothing.
Then my senses smashed back into me, like a car into a wall. I heard the bile building in the back of my throat. I blinked at a helicopter far overhead, inhaled pounding bass, felt grey and brown, stumbled over the music. What had Esmeralda called this? Synaesthesia.
I vomited onto a pile of snow in the gutter.
The old man still leaned against Esmeralda’s door, comfortable, relaxed. He shook his head slowly, not in anger, more as if he was sorry for me.
With a wave of his hand he’d stopped my attack against him, stripped my senses away. What else could he do? Kill me? Easily—he wouldn’t need to get angry, just flex his wrist. I took a step away, almost falling over in the snow. I didn’t know what to do. He was the one attacking the door; his golem thing had crawled inside me, had bitten Tom and Jay-Tee.
Don’t show your fear
. “Who are you?”
The old man laughed. Or at least I figured that’s what the sound was. It sounded like a cross between a cackle and a hacking cough. I could hear the phlegm.
I stood up, stepped away from the gutter, wiped my mouth. “Why—”
Old man Cansino shook his head again, smiled, and made a shooing gesture. For a fraction of a section I thought he was going to blind me again. He shooed me instead.
I was more than willing to shoo. I wanted to be far away from him. I wanted to never see him again.
I walked hastily, awkwardly, limbs not quite under my control, wiping my mouth again, tasting vomit and charcoal. I brushed more snow and grime off my face and clothes. My eyes still stung; my heart beat so hard, I was halfway up the block before the cold started to penetrate.
I could feel the old man’s eyes on my back, but when I turned he wasn’t there. The steps were empty. I half turned and took a step towards Esmeralda’s door, and there he was again. Shaking his head.
Adrenaline shot through me, warming me up, propelling me away. I stumbled.
“Are you all right, girlie?”
I turned to find a woman with a concerned expression looking down at me. A shade or two darker than me, pushing a pink-cheeked baby in a pram. “You’ll catch your death dressed like that.”
“I’m okay,” I said, though I wasn’t. I smiled to demonstrate. “I slipped.”
“You sure you’re all right, love?” The woman peered at me. Her expression said that I must look awful, but I nodded, anyway.
“Are you sure?” a second woman asked. She was older, her skin not as dark, dressed in a red fluffy coat. The two women exchanged glances. “You look terrible.”
“Do you need any help?” the first woman asked.
“Yes,” said the second one. “I live near here. You can’t stay out on the street dressed like that.”
“She sure can’t,” added a man passing by, pushing a shopping cart. “Catch her death.”
I was suddenly aware that almost everyone on the block was staring at me. Across the street two men on scaffolding had stopped work to watch the show.
“Did someone do something to you?”
“Oh, no. Really, no one did nothing, I mean anything. I . . . I got locked out,” I told the two women. “It’s a long story. I’m visiting from Australia.” I added the last in case they thought my accent was strange. “I just have to call my friend’s brother. It’s his place.” I shivered. My toes were hurting with the cold.
“Here, use my cell.” The second woman gave me her phone.
I dialed Danny’s number—without the prefix it was the thirty-third number in the Fibonacci series. A very good omen—not that I believed in omens, though maybe I
did
now—I hadn’t used to believe in magic.
I pressed the phone to my ear, hoping he’d answer. It felt weird making a phone call with so many people watching. I shifted back and forth, trying to keep my feet from going completely numb. It was freezing, and here was me in my PJ’s.
“Hello?”
“Danny!”
“Who is this?”
“Reason!”
“Reason? Julieta’s friend?”
“Yes! I, um . . .” I paused, very conscious that the women were listening. “I got locked out. Can you come let me in?”
“You what? What do you mean?”
“The door slammed and I left the key inside.”
“What? Where are you? Is Julieta with you?”
“Near the house. No, she’s not.”
“What do you mean, ‘the house’? Are you here? In the city?”
“Yes!” I yelled, so relieved he’d understood. “I need you to come let me in. I’m in my pyjamas, no shoes, and it’s cold. I got locked out.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“Ah . . .” I didn’t know. It was the East Village. A street whose name was a number, but I didn’t know which one. “Very close to the house.”
“Same street?”
“Yes. Same block.”
“On Seventh Street.”
“Seventh Street,” I repeated.
“Okay. There’s a café on the corner, same side you’re on. You won’t have to cross the street to get to it; just head towards the park. I forget the name, but it has glass cabinets full of muffins. You’ll be warm in there. I’ll be right over.”
“Okay,” I said, hoping I’d find it.
“How come you’re not in Sydney?”
“It’s a long story. I’m cold, Danny.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll see you at the café.”
I handed the phone back to the second woman. “He’s com- ing for you?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s meeting me at the café on the corner.” My teeth were chattering so much it was hard to get the words out. “The one with the glass counters?”
The woman with the pram nodded. “Titi’s,” she said, pushing the carriage into motion. “It’s this way; follow me.”
The other woman slipped off her fluffy red coat and draped it around my shoulders. “Come on,” she said, taking my hand in hers, then, feeling how cold it was, starting to chafe it.

The two women led me to a table and called to the waitress for some towels. They pushed me into a seat and I started rubbing the blocks of ice that were my feet.

A waitress came over with two cloth dish towels. “Might help,” she said, looking at me dubiously. The same look the other two women had given me: narrowed eyes, eyebrows almost, but not quite, raised. Not suspicious of me, but of whatever or whoever had left me out on the street barefoot in the middle of winter.

“Ta,” I said. I took a towel, wiped away melted snow and grit, then wrapped it around my feet.
“Now,” said the woman with the baby, “are you sure you’re going to be okay? I have to be going is all.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, teeth still clattering against one another. “I’m much warmer, and Danny will be here soon.”
She didn’t look like she had much faith in Danny, but she nodded. “You look after yourself in the future. No messing around outside without the key.”
“I won’t. Thank you so much.”
The two women nodded at each other, as if to communicate that I was now the woman with the phone’s responsibility. She held the door open to let the woman and her pram pass; then she sat down beside me. “How about a hot chocolate?”
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
The waitress yelled the order to the guy behind the counter, then turned her attention back to me and the second woman. She looked me up and down. “Pyjamas?”
“I got locked out.”
“No kidding. How’d you manage that?”
“It just shut behind me.”
“That was pretty dumb.”
I nodded.
“Don’t be harsh,” said the woman with the phone. “She’s from out of town.
Australia
.”
“Huh. Do people in Australia always wear brooches with their pyjamas?”
“No, it’s my grandmother’s.”
“Huh.” The waitress went to the counter and returned with a hot chocolate. “On the house.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, meaning every word.
I tried to keep my fear and anxiety from my face. I had no idea what I was going to do next, how I was going to get back to Sydney. If I was going to solve the magic-or-madness question, I had to get back to Esmeralda’s library. With the old man guarding the way and Jason Blake lurking who-knewwhere, I could see no way home.

I was onto my second chocolate when Danny showed up. Looking at him sent a jolt through me, warmed me. He was so smooth: his cheeks, his lips. His close-cropped hair. He stared and shook his head. I blushed, bent my head only to see my bedraggled PJs, my dirty feet. He wasn’t thinking about how good
I
looked.

“Sorry I took a while. Was tricky getting a cab. Are you okay?” he asked.
“No, she’s not, young man,” the fluffy-red-jacket woman said. “You need to get her somewhere warm and dry. Do you have a bathtub? A nice soak in the bath should help, but if her toes are still blue, you might have to take her to a doctor. Could be frostbite.”
The waitress came over and stood nodding, looking at Danny like it was all his fault.
“Of course,” Danny said.
The woman nodded, though she didn’t look like she believed him. “Sorry, cariñita, I need my jacket back.” I slipped it off and handed it to her. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and headed for the door. Before she stepped out, she turned back to Danny. “You take care of her.”
“I will.” Danny dropped some money on the table and thanked the waitress. “Here, put this on.” He handed me his coat and dragged me outside, into the street and into the yellow taxicab that was waiting.

“I called Jay-Tee,” Danny said as I scooted across the taxi seat. “Talked to your grandmother a little. They’re relieved to hear you’re okay. They want to talk to you.”

“Should I ring them now?”
Danny looked puzzled.
“On your mobile?”
“My cell, you mean?”
I nodded.
He glanced at the driver in the rear-view mirror. “We’re

not far from my place. You can call from there.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s just after one.”
“In the afternoon?”
Danny nodded.
I’d asked even though I knew that. It had to be. After one

o’clock on Monday afternoon. In Sydney it would be after five on Tuesday morning. What time had I come through the door? How long had I been in New York City? Half an hour? Forty minutes? I wished I’d worn my watch to bed. A week ago I would have. I’d’ve been ready to jump up, grab my stuff, and run. Sarafina would be shocked at how slack I’d become.

“Must be pretty early in Sydney, huh?”
“Uh-huh. Sun’s not up yet.”
“How come you’ve got that hunk of jewellery pinned to

My hand went to it. I could feel it hum under my fingers. I was cold, but it was warm. Something else nearby hummed in unison. My ammonite was in Danny’s pocket. Suddenly I could feel the steady beat of the blood through his veins: the pulsing of it radiated from the stone. He’d kept it—surely that had to mean something?

Danny repeated his question.
“The brooch? Oh, it’s my grandmother’s. I, um . . .” “Have to wear it all the time?” He lowered his voice. “A

magic thing?”
I nodded. “A magic thing.”
A snatch of song played, tinny and muffled. Danny reached

into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. The song got louder. He looked at its screen for a moment and then answered. “Hey, Vee, how’s it hanging?”

Apparently it wasn’t hanging very well. Vee did most of the talking while Danny said things like, “No way”; “No, I didn’t mean that”; “Of course I do”; and, “Goddamn, Vee.” When he hung up, Danny looked at me and shrugged. I wondered who Vee was.

After that the taxi ride was mostly quiet. Danny didn’t ask me any more questions. The ammonite continued warm and humming. Danny’s heart beat regularly. I wasn’t sure if mine did.