Chapter 11 Tamsin #2
I do. I love bookstores, magical or otherwise.
I make a beeline for the display I saw. I’m rewarded when I discover three other Ibrahim books buried beneath the first tome.
My eyebrows climb when I notice a discount sticker on one of them.
Temptation, indeed. The last thing I need right now is to be spending money I don’t have—but surely, buying a Maurice Ibrahim book would count as an investment in the future of my career.
I look around for Sam and find her poring over what looks like a coffee table book—a huge, luxuriously well-crafted tome of black-and-white photographs.
“What is that?” I snag the discounted Maurice Ibrahim title before I can chicken out—or before another customer can snap it up first—and wander over to where Sam’s flipping through the glossy photo collection.
“I think it’s a photographer’s account on the history of underground dueling.” She glances up at me over the book. There’s a flat, unreadable look in her eyes that puts me oddly on edge. “Weird to think the heyday wasn’t that long ago, isn’t it?”
“I guess it depends on what you mean by long ago.” I examine the book warily. “Magicians’ duels were legalized before we were born.”
“Sure, but that was what, less than a generation ago?” Her voice is hard. “And it’s not like legalizing dueling made the underground just, like, suddenly go away, you know.”
I do know. All too well.
My stomach churns uncomfortably. I’ve never known the exact nasty details of Dad’s involvement in the underground scene, but I know he did a whole lot more than just dabbling.
It’s not unusual to find an old-school magician who maybe had a passing flirtation with illegal dueling, back before they had legitimate means to practice their craft.
It’s not even that unusual to find a few who soured on the mainstream circuit for one reason or another and dipped their toes in the underground in defiance.
What Dad’s done is a whole lot more than toe dipping, though. I’m pretty sure he operated at least one full-blown underground dueling club, but there were probably more that he never told me about.
“There’s whole section in here on illegal duels that went badly wrong,” says Sam. She shivers. “Can you imagine?”
“I don’t think I’d want to. That’s pretty gnarly.”
“How many of these dueling clubs still exist, you think?” Sam turns a page slowly, careful not to wrinkle or tear anything.
“The illegal ones, I mean. There’s got to be a few underground clubs still in operation, right?
The scene’s probably never going to totally die.
Too many people out there hungry for a taste of something illicit. ”
“There definitely are,” I say, maybe a bit more sharply than I should. “Why does it matter?”
Sam looks up from the book, startled. “What’s up with you?”
“Sorry.” I backpedal so hard, it’s embarrassing.
“I just…The underground scene is a pretty nasty business. The way it exploits magicians who don’t have anywhere else to go, the way it plays fast and loose with legitimate dueling rules and, like, romanticizes the idea of using really dangerous spells.
I don’t like thinking about it.” I shake my head.
“I don’t even know why anyone would willingly put themselves through it, knowing what it is. ”
Sam looks, for a minute, like she wants to say something. Then she goes quiet as she flips another page in the book. Her brow furrows.
“Sam?” I slide a few inches closer to her, my movements cautious. “Look, again, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve got a stick up my ass.”
No answer. Sam’s just staring at the photograph spread across the center of the page. I follow her gaze.
A young man lies prone in the center of a magicians’ arena. Blood has been spattered from his body like paint on canvas, soaking into the stark white floor of the arena. He’s contorted at an angle so extreme, it looks posed on purpose, and it’s more horrifying because we all know it wasn’t.
A few feet away, his opponent kneels with one knee up, one dipped in a puddle of the young man’s blood. The opponent’s face is bent toward his victim, caught in shadow, the expression hidden.
It’s a gorgeous piece of photography. It’s also the most horrifying piece of art I’ve seen in a long time.
“He looks just like my brother,” Sam says dully. “That man, lying there in his own blood. There were all these pictures people took of the night Jamie died, and they all looked just like this one.”
Her words pull my gaze off the book, toward her. She’s gone gray as she stares unblinking at the photograph. Her fingers tremble as she moves to turn to the next photograph. Her pinkie nicks the side of the page. A drop of bright red blood spatters onto the edge of the book.
I catch Sam’s bleeding hand and slam the book shut. Sam barely reacts. Her hand sits cold and clammy in mine as she continues looking dully at the book. “I should pay for that,” she says. “I’ve stained it.”
“It’s nothing,” I say roughly. “Come on, let’s get some air.”
I tug Sam back toward the shop exit. She offers hardly any resistance at all, stumbling after me, her fingers limp. I pause to return the Maurice Ibrahim book to its shelf with a mental apology. I’ll come back for you, I promise silently.
Then I push Sam out into the open air of the street outside.