Sorceress, Interrupted Read online

  It was a mean spell and a very powerful one, but it had ensured that Sabrina would have a good life. A normal life. It wasn’t like everyone forgot who she was or forgot her existence or anything; the spell just made her undetectable by her mother. She was like a permanently unlisted number. I had permanently separated a mother from her child.

  I permanently separated a mother from her child, I thought again. Even though her mother had bad and dangerous taste in men, I was sure she still loved Sabrina deep down. How could she not? And there was always the possibility that one day her love would have been the key to bringing her to her senses, leaving the bad boys behind and becoming a great mother. I’d taken that possibility out of the picture. Well, Cyrus had made the decision, but I was the one who had pulled the trigger.

  Well, it didn’t bother me one damn bit. No guilty feelings or anything. I do what I do and then move on. There are women out there who should have never become mothers, and Cyrus’s ex just happened to be one of them. The only consequence for me from the spell was that I now look on Cyrus in a different light because I’d seen into his desires. I’d had magic-users come to me for revenge before, sure, but I’d never had anyone beg to make sure someone else had a happy life. Almost everyone asked for favors for themselves. The fact that this request came from a hardened criminal who I later found out was sending his sister every spare bit of cash to take care of his daughter made it even more astounding.

  It was amazing. All because he knew he could only hurt her, Cyrus effectively took himself out of his daughter’s life. He’d sent her to live with a family who hated his guts and wouldn’t let him have any contact with her. That made his sacrifice so much bigger. Who would have thought Cyrus had that much nobility in him? He’d became worthy of my notice from that moment on. He was something beyond my ken, someone who I kept my eye on.

  “She thinks your sister and her husband are her mom and dad,” I said quietly.

  “I know,” he said, but somehow, the way he said it, I knew he still held out hope for a ghost of a memory of him floating around his daughter’s brain. That if she did ever see him, she would know who he was. “And I know it’s the healthiest thing for her. She needs to think Amanda and Derek are her parents. Better to think that than having a lousy alcoholic as Mommy and a lousy criminal as Daddy.” He turned away.

  “Your sister would flip out if she saw you here,” I remarked.

  “Which is why I took great pains to stay out of the way.”

  “You also took great pains to stick out like a sore thumb,” I said. “Until I came along. Were you secretly hoping your sister would see you and say, ‘Oh, Cyrus, I’ve seen you in the papers, you’ve turned your life around and are hanging with the EHJ now, why don’t you come to lunch and I’ll introduce you to Sabrina?’ ”

  “God, you’re such a bitch sometimes,” he said, turning away.

  I pressed on. “That’s exactly it, isn’t it? You want Sabrina to see you on television or in the newspapers, saving the day with the Elite Hands of Justice, recognize you and ask Amanda if that’s her real daddy. Then Amanda will see you’re more than just a two-bit villain now, you’re a hero, and will welcome you to visit anytime you want.”

  I sympathized so much with him, holding out hope against hope. To delude himself into thinking that was even possible, that someone who didn’t know him would one day wake up and realize how important he was to them? To delude himself into thinking that a happy ending is possible. I know full well it’s not. Delusions are for suckers. I certainly don’t hold on to them anymore, and I wanted to beat that silly optimism out of him.

  But, seeing the look on his face while he watched his daughter, that look of fatherly love, even in the face of those hopeless expectations, made me so sad. And a part of me I’d wanted to believe quashed so many, many years ago, related in a big way.

  I reached out a hand to touch him gently on the arm. It was a gesture of sympathy, of comfort.

  He pulled away roughly, like my touch was fire. “Just stop.”

  I was a little hurt that one of the few times I was being genuine and trying to offer comfort got rejected. Fine. He just needed someone to wake him out of his delusion. God knows I’d needed it before, when I fooled myself into thinking that maybe this time things would be different, my father would remember who I was or my lover wouldn’t grow old and die in front of me or wouldn’t just abandon me because he couldn’t handle my immortality. Harsh reality had repeatedly obliged over the centuries.

  I stepped in to be the voice of reason before he wasted more fragile time and hope on his own personal delusion. “Cyrus, you do know that’s not going to happen, right?”

  “Yes, goddamn it, I know! I’m not completely stupid, Fantazia. I know, okay?” He started pacing. “But it gives me something to hope for, all right? Can I have that? Is it all right with you if I have one thing, just one small thing, that makes me try to be a better person? Or is the idea of being a better person just so abhorrent to you that you have to crush it in everyone you come in contact with?”

  I was stung. He kept acting like he knew all about me, that I wasn’t capable of anything more than what I showed everyone. Moments like this reinforced why I acted the way I did, why I kept such huge walls up around myself. I really did feel sorry for him and was wishing there was something I could do. But the moment I let feelings for my fellow human beings come out, I get hurt or at least verbally smacked around. It never pays to invest yourself in another person; you only get pain for your trouble.

  I laughed and drew misanthropy back around myself like a cloak, a second skin. I was back to being what I wanted to be more than anything else in the world: Someone above being hurt by others. Someone who no longer cared.

  What the hell. I still cling to delusions, too.

  “Hope is for losers,” I said stiffly. “And being a hero is overrated. I wouldn’t recommend it. The world is a nasty, hateful place. You know that, I know that. Even the EHJ know. People may thank you for saving the day, but they’re never going to be around when the chips are down. You’re just going to get kicked in the head for your troubles. That’s why I never do anything unless I get something out of it. I’m surprised you haven’t learned the same lesson.”

  I shrugged. “Keep your masochistic tendencies if that’s what it takes for you. Subject yourself to this torment for all I care, but do it on your own time. Right now we’ve got a job to do. If your personal life gets in the way, we’re going to have a problem. I’m not someone you want to have a problem with.” I whirled and walked away before he could say anything, heading back to the now-empty parking lot.

  Gravel was crunching under my feet before Cyrus caught up. “Fantazia, wait!”

  I turned, giving him my coldest stare. “What?”

  He came to a stop, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t give me the death-ray look. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for going off on you like that. You didn’t deserve it—for a change.”

  I returned the tentative smile he gave me. It wasn’t like I didn’t appreciate his pain. “Well, I’m sure I’ll deserve it at some point in this ill-conceived partnership. You just lose the right to yell at me then.”

  He nodded. “Sounds fair. All right. Work to do, work to do.” He glanced at the silver car next to his, then at me in surprise. “Does Lainey know you have this?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Have you ever even driven before?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t wreck it?”

  “Of course not!” I protested. “And if I did bump it into anything, I might have magically fixed it. But she doesn’t need to know about that.”

  He eyed me and then the car. “I wouldn’t pick you as the PT Cruiser type.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen the color or the baby seat,” I retorted. “I’m thinking something in a red.”

  “A Mustang, maybe?”

  “Wh
y would I want a horse?”

  He laughed, and I felt the tension between us ease. “Let’s go save the world, Fantazia.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “So what’s our next move?” I asked as I slid into the passenger seat of Cyrus’s car. I was trying to be sensitive and let him lead the investigation, seeing as he seemed a bit depressed. We’d just dropped Lainey’s PT Cruiser off at the EHJ garage.

  He revved his engine. “We rattle a few cages, see what we can find. Harass some people I know, harass some people you know. Rinse and repeat.”

  “Who would you like to start with?”

  “I’m driving, so let’s go with one of mine. Wait. Is today Wednesday?”

  I stared at him. “I have absolutely no idea. Does it matter?”

  “It does if we want to know where to catch him.” Cyrus rolled his eyes up in thought, tapping the steering wheel as he ticked down the days. “Yep. Wednesday.”

  “So glad to know that.”

  He looked pointedly at my seat belt. “Fasten up, sweetheart. I like to drive fast.”

  “A car wreck isn’t going to kill me,” I said. “I’ll heal.”

  “What if we wreck, the roof gets taken off, you fly up and get decapitated? Nothing survives decapitation, Fantazia. Not even you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “In the unlikely event of decapitation, you can say I told you so as we’re on our way to the underworld.” But I did as he asked and fastened the belt.

  “That’d make for an uncomfortable ride across the river Styx,” he mused. Then he turned a knob on the dashboard, and rock-and-roll music roared out through the speakers. “That’s what I’m talking about!” He put the pedal to the metal, so to speak, whipping me back against the seat, and we peeled out.

  “You’re a terrible driver, Cyrus,” I pointed out.

  “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m fast? I’d make a great race car driver. Ever think of that?”

  “And you have lousy taste in music.”

  “You should see my taste in women,” he retorted.

  I had nothing to say to that, and so we rode in relative silence—unless you count the blaring music—the rest of the way.

  Before too long we were at our destination. Cyrus pulled up in front of a run-down strip mall. We passed a nail salon, a few empty storefronts and a paycheck-cashing place. Faded posters completely covered the windows at the establishment at the end. A small sign declared the business was open, but you couldn’t otherwise tell.

  “What is this place?” I asked, getting out of the car and putting a hand up to block the glare of the setting sun.

  “Chad’s home away from home,” Cyrus said. “Now, just stay by me and follow my lead. Trust me, you’re going to love this. Hot-looking chick like you is going to be a goddess in a place like this.”

  A goddess? I gave a small smile and followed.

  He pushed the door open; a bell rang above the door as he did. The inside of the room was relatively dark, lit by several weak fluorescent bulbs above. The room smelled of musty books and sweat. There were several men crouched around tables set up in the middle of the room, and they were playing cards. There were a few other men roaming the store, flipping through some boxes set up along the wall.

  I leaned close to Cyrus. “We’re in a comic book store,” I whispered.

  “I know,” he whispered back.

  All eyes in the room locked on me. Some openly stared; others blushed and turned away. But I definitely had the attention of all the men in the room.

  Cyrus turned to the card players. “Where’s Chad?”

  “In the can,” one of the players grumbled. He was wearing a T-shirt with a faded picture of a zombie. As I got closer, I could see the cards were displayed in front of them like battle lines and had different types of monsters. Each player had a multisided die. “We had to stop the game for him.”

  “We’ll wait,” Cyrus said. Turning to me he said, “Of everyone I know, he keeps up the most with the kinds of things we need to know.”

  “That your girlfriend?” one of the card players asked, a youngster who reminded me of Dylan with a case of bad acne. He could barely take his eyes off my chest.

  “Nah, she’s a free agent. You interested?” Cyrus asked. The boy blushed red to the tips of his ears and went back to studying his cards, saying nothing.

  I walked over to the shelves, perusing the books and action figures on display. There was the usual vampire, werewolf and zombie fare, tales of all the imaginary beings that go bump in the night. There were even a few superhero comics—fictionalized stories, but fully authorized, of course—by heroes who had sold away story and licensing rights. Anything for a buck, I guess.

  I held up one with the Elite Hands of Justice logo on the front. “Do you think we should buy this for Wesley?” I asked Cyrus.

  “The Reincarnist has never appeared in that series,” said a guy in a T-shirt declaring him a zombie slayer, walking over to me. “Those books stick to the format of the Elite Hands of Justice Morning Hour, which replaced him with a teen sidekick by the name of Buddy.”

  “The television executives thought it’d better for children to have a character they can relate to, someone their age and not an immortal magician,” another guy piped up.

  I blinked and eyed Cyrus. “What are they babbling about?”

  “A cartoon series. On television. It’s quite popular. They’re behind, though. I don’t even think they’ve added Phenomenal Girl 5 to the roster yet.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t watch television, so . . .”

  The people in the store were starting to mutter, like they suspected we were somehow important but couldn’t figure out who we might be. Then a slightly pudgy blond-haired guy came out of the back and said, “All right, I’m back. Is it still my turn?” He noticed us standing there and said, “Oh, hello, Cyrus.”

  “Chad.” Cyrus nodded. “Do you have a minute? I’ve got something to ask you.”

  The other guys at the table groaned in dismay.

  “—He just got back!”

  “—We’ve already been waiting on him!”

  “—We’ve got to finish up this hand!”

  “—Warsuns is coming on!”

  Chad sat down at the table. “We can talk while I play.” He picked up his cards and studied them before saying, “I summon the galactic warlord.” He moved some cards around in front of him and laid down a new one with a picture of a robot. “It’s got a twenty-ten power rating and a irriduliam sword.”

  The others started muttering under their breaths and shuffling through their cards.

  Cyrus gave Chad a wary glance. “Are you sure? It’s about your . . . other activities.”

  Chad waved away his concern. “We’re all friends here. It’s fine.”

  One of the other players shook his head. “We know all about Chad’s magical abilities.”

  “We’ve warned him he can’t be using his outside skills in this game,” said another player.

  “As long as he doesn’t act all high and mighty about having otherworldly talents, we don’t mind. We welcome all players to this table,” said another.

  Cyrus shook his head. “Okay, whatever. Have you heard of anyone getting their magic stolen, Chad?”

  “Stolen? No.” He moved one of his cards on top of another player’s, who groaned and relocated it in another pile. “But then again, I don’t listen to stories about things that can’t possibly happen.”

  “You’re born with your magical capabilities,” said one of the comic book fans, obviously happy to share his opinion. “You can’t gain or lose them.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Cyrus said. Then to Chad he said, “Two of the Brothers of Power were attacked.”

  Chad looked up, blank. “The who?”

  “The Brothers of Power. Come on, surely you’ve heard of them.”

  Chad shrugged. “Should I have?”

  “I don’t know, they’re only one of the most powerful families ever born into th
e magical community.”

  Chad shrugged again. “I don’t keep up. Sorry.”

  “And you call yourself a magic-user,” Cyrus scoffed. “Next thing you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of Fantazia.”

  “Isn’t she supposed to be some sort of creepy underworld boss or something?” asked one of the others. “Runs a bar where you can go and ask for magical favors.”

  “I heard it was a dude,” said another.

  “It’s not a dude.”

  Chad silenced them all. “There’s no such person. She’s just a story people make up and then pass along on the Internet, trying to sound like they actually know something. To scare others into thinking they’re big and bad. There’s no such place as Memory Plague.”

  I barely suppressed a smile. “Sounds like a good story. I like it when the woman is the scary one and not just window dressing.”

  “She’s supposedly ancient,” Chad said to me. “Definitely not window dressing. Like a crone or something.”

  Cyrus met my eyes and could barely keep from laughing. “But she’s supposed to be so beautiful.”

  “Illusion spells, man. Illusions.”

  “She could just not age,” I put in.

  They all blinked at me. “That couldn’t happen,” Chad said. “Everyone ages. Even the Reincarnist.”

  “How could someone ‘just not age’?” one of the players asked me as if I were a very small child. “It’s just not possible.”

  “The gods don’t age,” I pointed out to one of the store customers. “Just because people aren’t foolish enough to worship them anymore and they don’t come down off Olympus often doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Aphrodite was an active EHJ member until recently.”