Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Soup to Nuts
Bastian and I reinforce every door and window. He teaches me the powerful lightning spell and I experiment with the Latin, changing up the words from reactionary to offensive. The first snap of lightning that comes off my fingers makes me scream in shock, but then, in joy.
I can shoot lightning from my fingers.
Very small lightning, and not consistently…it only happened once. But I’m going to practice. No hunters are going to catch me off guard, and no one is going to keep us trapped in this home.
We spend the day pouring over the spell book and its content, using the back empty pages to write down Bastian’s spells. When evening comes, he sits me down beside his Bookhenge.
“We need to discover your unique magic,” he says.
“Agreed, but how?”
“I believe if you focus on externalizing your energy, it will manifest its identity,” he says.
I blink a few times. “Meaning?”
“I’ll guide you through the process of expelling your magic in raw form. Once it’s free of you, it’ll take its natural shape, revealing itself.”
“And if that shape is a pink elephant, what then?” I ask. “It doesn’t tell us much.”
He chuffs. “It’s not like that. You’ll see.”
“Is this how you figured out your magic?” I ask.
He grows somber for a beat, then nods. “Somewhat. Me and…my siblings were all blessed with very similar magics. Manifestation of our desires.”
“Siblings? How many?” I ask.
I realize we’re treading that ground he’s so scared to walk, but I hope he doesn’t cloister up and refuse me again. Even if he does, I’ll wait for answers. His history, revealed to me bit by bit, is the most interesting thing I’ve ever experienced. The best story I’ve ever been told.
“Many,” he says. “Now, focus on your chest.”
So, it’s the waiting game. All right, then.
“On my chest? My heart or my ribs?”
“On the thing inside your chest that is you. Your essence.”
I scrunch my nose. “Like, my soul?”
I’m vaguely religious having grown up in a Christian home. I believe in the eternal soul, but I’ve never really felt it.
“Soul is a good word for it,” he says. “If considering it as your soul helps you visualize its location, do that.”
“Okay,” I mumble as I close my eyes.
I fill my mind’s-eye with myself in a seated position. I note my hair and my clothes, making sure the details are right. Then, I peel back the layers of my body, looking through myself like an x-ray, until I can see a glowing thing in my chest.
It’s orange, and that surprises me. I thought souls were white.
“I see it,” I say.
“Your power of imagination is exceptional,” he says.
“Lots of reading,” I reply, watching the orange flicker and spiral, like smoke and fire.
“Breathe into your soul now, letting it fill your lungs.”
I take a long inhale and watch as the orange in my chest spreads into my ribs, my lungs.
“When you have it in your lungs, cup your hands to your mouth, and breathe out.”
I hold my hands over my face like I’m going to splash water over me, then purse my lips as I exhale slowly. I visualize the orange traveling up my throat and I…feel it. It’s warm and fluttery, like bubbles in champagne. It spills out into my hands and Bastian sighs with wonder.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers.
I crack my left eye to see orange mist swirling in the cup of my hands. I gasp, sucking it back into me.
Bastian laughs. “Again.”
I close my eyes and breathe into my lungs, capturing the magic and blowing it out into my hands again. This time, I don’t suck it back up.
“Now, we wait,” he says.
“For what?”
“For it to reveal itself.”
“How long will that take?”
He shrugs. “Seconds. Hours. Not longer than a day, I’d assume.”
“Do I have to keep holding it? Can I…put it in a bowl or something?”
The orange begins to shift, taking the shape of a bowl I know well. It’s one of my favorites that’s packed away in the shipping container on its way here. It looks like half a cantaloupe carved out, with an orange glazed inside.
It’s hovering just above my hands. I curl my fingers to touch it, but they go straight through.
“Imagine something else,” Bastian says.
“The rose you gave me,” I say, picturing it clearly in my mind.
The bowl collapses in a puff of smoke, then swirls and reforms, recreating the rose in perfect detail. I try again to touch it, but my hand goes right through.
“Illusionist,” Bastian says, smiling. “Your magic is illusionary.”
My brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“This is a revered magic,” he says. “Kings would hunt across their lands for magic wielders like you. You can transform your appearance into something else. You can make voices of those long dead speak through your lips. You can project an army of thousands where there are only three.
“If you can fathom it, it can be created. The possibilities for your creations are boundless.”
“But, it’s not real like your creations?” I ask.
“My creations aren’t real, either. They just have density,” he says. “And that’s the limitation.”
“How so?”
“I cannot bring something into being without putting equal magic behind it. You can take a drop of magic and create an entire scene.”
“And making books is what fuels my magic?”
“One powerful thing of many. As a human witch, you’re blessed with multiple modes of regenerating your essence. As a dragon, I have only two.”
“Stories and?”
“And we should practice more,” he says, standing. “I want you to replicate the place you used to live in this room.”
I grimace. “Deflecting…”
“It’ll be known to you when it’s your business to know,” he says.
My frown deepens. “When’s that?”
He extends his hand to me. “When you’re ready.”
I blow a raspberry and accept the offer. He pulls me to my feet easily, and then turns me toward the kitchen.
“Show me your previous home.”
I take another deep breath and imagine a surf swell at high tide, gathering its power. At the top of the breath, I paint my mind with the visage of my old kitchen; the little microwave over the ancient stove, the fridge with a dented handle, the mismatched cabinet knobs.
When I exhale, an explosion of color flies from my lips.
Ropes of smoky power spill over the wood burning stove and the ice box, revealing a very close match—at least from my memory—of my kitchen.
The edges are blurry, like how my peripheral vision isn’t as clear as what’s in front of me. But still.
“I did it,” I whisper.
“You’re incredible,” Bastian says, his hand lingering on my hip. “Now, imagine what you can do with this power when combined with triggering incantations, or delayed spell effects.”
The opportunities are boundless. Not only for protection, but for entertainment. I can create an effect that no other bookshop will have. I can pass it off as projectors and holograms with state-of-the-art computer rendering, and people will buy it because who even believes in real magic?
Two heavy bangs on wood makes me jump. It came from the front door of the shop, but it wasn’t Bastian’s spells going off.
“Hello, Ms. Kennedy?” a rich, feminine voice calls out.
I look at Bastian with concern.
“You don’t have to open it,” he says.
“They know my name. The warlock didn’t,” I say. “Plus, whoever is knocking doesn’t mean us any harm or else they would’ve been blown up or confounded.”
I grab Oscar around the middle and haul him into my arms just in case, and head for the door. The knock sounds again, louder and with less patience. I reach the front door and stop, assessing the silhouette beyond the stained glass.
She’s tall, with either short hair, or bun. It’s difficult to tell anything beyond that with the frosted glass.
“We’re not open for business yet,” I say.
“Yes, I know. I’m from the Friends of the Library Foundation, Northern Wisconsin sector? We spoke a few days ago about damaged books.”
Oh, good!
I open the door with a bright smile. “Hi, Mrs. Jenkins, right?”
“Just Erica,” she says.
“Cait.” I balance Oscar while I reach out to shake her hand. “Sorry, we’ve had trouble with someone harassing us, so I brought him as backup.”
She chuckles. “Not a problem. I hope it’s all right showing up like this. I was in the area, and had stock for you, so I figured why not pop by to see the location.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say as I step back.
She takes the invitation and walks past me into the shop. Her mouth falls open in a soft gape as she stares around the room. The late afternoon light makes all the gold shimmer, and the glossy floors create a magical haze.
“How long have you been working on it?” she asks, breathless.
“A few weeks now. I have an exceptional team helping me,” I say, keeping it vague.
“No kidding.” She turns about. “Maybe I could hire your team to help spruce up the local library.”
A shadowy form ripples on the upstairs balcony, and I identify Bastian’s piercing gaze glaring down at us.
Right, no interlopers…
“Erica, can I help you move in the books?” I ask.
She shakes her head as if throwing off a daze. “Yes, thank you. I have my van parked just down the street.”
“Great, lead the way,” I say, setting Oscar down toward the hall to the apartment.
I follow her to the door but I’m pulled back by my wrist before I can leave. Bastian’s lips brush the tip of my ear as his other arm folds me back against his chest.
“Be careful,” he whispers, sending a thrill down my spine. “I would loathe to kill her, since she’s bringing more books, but I will if I must.”
“You’re so suspicious,” I murmur, letting myself melt into him.
“And you’re too trusting,” he says. “This could easily be a ruse to get you outside our protections.”
“I offered,” I hiss.
“Cait?” Erica calls from halfway down the sidewalk.
“Coming!”
I try to pull out of Bastian’s grasp, but he holds firm, turning his lips against my temple. “I will kill her,” he says, his deep, rumbling voice carrying truth just as heavy.
He releases me a beat later and I’m left stunned on the sidewalk, shaking off his words. I know he meant it. He would murder this woman if she hurt me. Why doesn’t that feel terrifying, or wrong? Why does it make my knees weak?
I follow Erica on shaky legs to her van.
There’s a dolly tucked into the back, and we load it up with dilapidated boxes.
It takes us four trips in total while Erica tells me all about the Friends of the Library program in the area.
They apparently are a big part of the Fall Orchard Festival coming up in a few months, and she extends an invite to the shop.
She talks it up, mentioning all the different apple related activities, but especially highlighting the apple cannons.
“A great way to take out your aggression. I had my ex-husband’s picture pasted to an old mannequin and went to town on that thing. I felt so much better after,” she says with a bright grin.
“I’ve got a nasty ex, too,” I say as we unload the last boxes. “Maybe I need some apple therapy.”
“I highly recommend it,” she says. “If nothing else, the cider is great, and you can promote your bookshop to the locals and beyond. Lots of people drive in from miles around.”
“That would be great,” I say, considering the opportunity. I’ll need to prepare some marketing materials. Five months away…that’s more than enough time for me to get word out and help improve attendance.
“Well, I’ll give you more warning next time. You looked a little…” She trails off as she looks at the scorch mark on the concrete in front of the door. “Spooked, at first.”
I laugh. “Yeah, just some local jerk who doesn’t like literacy messing with us.”
Her eyebrows dance up her forehead and back down. “That looks like serious hazing. Let me know if you need support from the Friends.”
I nod. “Of course, thank you so much.”
“All right, you have a great night,” she says, waving goodbye.
I mirror her farewell as I close the door. When I turn back, I see that Bastian has thrown himself over the boxes of books. His inky black magic is swirling around them like a centrifuge. He groans out a sigh, and I can’t help but giggle.
“You good?” I ask.
“Better than good,” he says with a lazy smile. “I’m powerful.”