Chapter 4
The following evening, back in Philly proper and exhausted from two long days of training, I relaxed in an overstuffed armchair, a glass of whisky in hand and my cat Roxana purring contentedly on my lap. I watched as a tall man with ebony skin, a shaved head, and a short, neatly trimmed beard walked clockwise around an altar. His right hand held a silver dagger, extended at an angle toward the ground, and he softly chanted as he circled the dim room. His left arm was missing a couple of inches above where the elbow should be, the sleeve of his pressed white button-down shirt neatly pinned up out of the way.
He finished circling for the third time and glanced at me expectantly.
“Good,” I grunted with a small nod. “Now finish it.”
He looked back at the ground, muttered a short phrase under his breath, and stamped his foot.
Nothing happened. He sighed.
“Haven’t I practiced enough, Quinn?” he asked in a deep, melodious voice with just the barest hint of a Haitian accent. “When do I actually get to do anything?”
I closed my eyes and focused for a brief second, finding the humming energy of the ley-line below us and channeling a tiny bit of its power into the circle he’d just traced on the ground around the altar. A translucent golden dome flared into existence, nine feet in diameter, its top almost touching the ceiling.
Startled by its sudden appearance, he jumped back a step or two before catching himself.
“Wha—” he began, but I interrupted.
“You just did, Henri,” I said quietly. “Magic circles aren’t usually visible, but if you draw and close them properly, they’re there.”
“I…I did that?” he asked, his voice softened. He reached out a hand to touch the dome. I knew the power I’d added would make it tingle against his skin.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “All I did was push in a bit of extra energy so you could see it for yourself.”
He was silent for a long few moments, as he walked around the glowing dome, trailing his fingertips along the surface of magical power.
Henri Lajoie had been working with me for about three months. He’d been a homicide detective when we’d first met, but after losing an arm in the line of duty—while trying to save my life—the Philadelphia Police Department had decided he was physically incapable of performing his duties, and he’d been medically retired from the force.
I’d made him a deal when he was still in the hospital: he’d come work for me at Quinn’s Esoterica, the small shop I owned and operated in Philly’s Fishtown neighborhood, selling occult books and supplies to the city’s magical community, and I’d teach him ceremonial magic. He ran the shop a few days a week, freeing up my time to focus on stuff I’d been neglecting recently, like firearms training and research. Then, every Sunday, after closing up for the night, we pushed aside the low shelves which normally filled the floor of the main room and he’d practice drawing magic circles under my guidance, the essential first step in any ritual working.
Henri’s grandfather Antoine had been a sorcerer like me, someone born with the ability to access and manipulate fields of magical energy. Henri had shown no indication that he’d inherited Antoine’s talents, but sorcery wasn’t the only form of magic out there: ceremonial and ritual workings were a lot slower and clumsier, and could only reasonably be used for limited applications, but anyone could use them with proper training. And given Henri’s lifelong quest to learn about magic after his grandfather’s death, he’d cried when I offered to teach him.
I could see those same emotions playing out on his face as he finished walking around the circle. He looked over at me, his eyes full of wonder.
“Thank you, Quinn,” he said quietly.
I nodded.
Just then, there was a knock at the front door. Henri’s eyes snapped over to it, but I just closed my eyes and reached my senses out in that direction. After the unpleasantness which had brought Henri into my life a few months back, I’d upgraded the magical defenses around my shop so I could identify visitors before opening the door.
“Peter and Adrienne are early,” I grunted as I set my scotch down on the table next to my reading chair, then unlocked the front door with a small wave of my hand. It swung inward, revealing a small Asian man in a cable-knit sweater. He stepped inside, followed by a petite, attractive woman with fair skin and long brunette hair.
“Look!” Henri called out excitedly, gesturing to the glowing dome of energy next to him.
“Woah!” his husband, Peter, exclaimed as he stepped inside. “What’s that?”
“It’s a magic circle!” Henri answered like a kid showing off a drawing he’d done.
“Cool! You made that? What’s it do?”
With another wave of my hand, the door closed behind the two of them and locked itself, then I picked my glass back up and took a big sip to hide my bemused smile as Henri told the two of them all about magic circles.
“Before I can do anything with magic,” he explained, “I first need to build up the necessary power. The circle acts like a barrier, keeping all that power inside so it doesn’t dissipate as fast as it builds. The only other option is to have a vessel to direct the power into, but even that’s easier with a circle so you can build the power and channel it into your vessel as separate steps instead of having to do both at the same time.”
“That makes sense.” Peter nodded thoughtfully. “And does it normally glow?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Quinn just did that so I could see it after I complained about practicing for months and never actually doing anything.”
“Ah, yeah,” Adrienne smiled, “he’s dramatic like that.”
“I thought it was important Henri see the circle at least once,” I explained, “so in the future he can trust that it’s there even if he can’t sense it. If he does the steps properly, it’ll be there. Plus it’s just a big moment. It’s his first real magic. I thought he might like to see it for himself.”
“I get that,” she nodded, “but did you warn him first?”
“No, I wanted it to be a surprise,” I said.
“Like I said, dramatic.” She winked at me.
I just grunted irritably and took a sip of my whisky.
“So how long until Henri’s a full-fledged Sorcerer of the Arcanum?” she asked.
“Never,” I said, surprised. “What gave you that idea?”
“Um, you’re teaching him magic, aren’t you?” she replied.
“Ceremonial magic,” Henri interjected. “Not sorcery.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize there was a difference,” she said.
I nodded, understanding her confusion. I’d explained all this to Henri when we’d first started working together, and presumably he’d told his husband, but the topic had apparently never come up with his former partner. She didn’t come around the shop as much as Peter; the hours of a homicide detective weren’t always accommodating to dinner plans with friends, no matter how close.
“Sorcery requires innate ability,” I explained. “You remember Johannes?”
“How could I forget?” She scowled.
“Fair,” I acknowledged. “Anyway, he and his fellow Immortals were the first sorcerers, the survivors of the cataclysm which first linked Earth with the Otherworld and brought magic here. All of humanity descends from them, but whatever mutation they experienced that let them manipulate magical fields directly seems to be an extremely recessive trait. The gift tends to pass down in family lines, but it often skips generations, maybe even several, before resurfacing. Henri, unfortunately, is from one of those skipped generations.”
“Oh,” Connors said quietly, processing this for a moment. “Then how are you teaching him magic?”
“Ceremonial magic doesn’t require any innate ability,” I said. “Follow the steps and it works, whether the person doing it is a sorcerer or not. There’re fields of latent magical energy all around us, and with the proper tools, used correctly, anyone with the will can channel it towards an end goal like an enchantment or a protection spell.”
“That’s why Quinn’s been having me study and practice so much,” Henri added. “A lot of people do what they call ceremonial magic, but most of the time it’s just playing pretend, because they don’t actually know what they’re doing. Casting a circle, building and focusing power, and directing it toward a working is really complicated. Think of magical energy like electricity. If you know how to build the right machine, you can build up a lot of potential power, but if you don’t, the most you’re likely ever to get is a spark of static. And even if you build up a sufficient base of power, it’s useless unless you can direct it properly—building a functioning circuit, with the right resistance and grounding and so forth—to do what you want. Not to mention that building up a lot of power without knowing how to direct it can be super dangerous, both to the practitioner and anyone around them. Most folks who think they’re doing ceremonial magic can’t even build up power, let alone use it effectively and safely.”
“Huh. So you’re basically getting a degree in magical engineering.” Connors chuckled.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Henri snorted.
Peter chuckled. “Anyway, are the two of you about done for the evening? I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, I guess we can wrap up.” I nodded, then looked over at Henri. “Take it down and go have some dinner.”
“You’re still welcome to join us, you know,” Adrienne said. “It would be good to get out and be part of the world again.”
I shook my head. “Between the Conclave and two days on the range, I’ve had enough of other people for a while.”
“Well, the invitation’s always open.” She shrugged. “Maybe next week?”
“Maybe.” I nodded, forcing a tired smile. But everyone present knew I was just being polite by not rejecting the offer out of hand. I may have emerged somewhat over the past few months from six decades of being recluse, but I still had zero desire for a group dinner. Even with some of the few people I actually liked and had come to consider friends.
They headed out a few minutes later, after helping me return the shop to its normal configuration, and I carried Roxana upstairs to my tiny apartment. I filled her dish and made myself some pasta, then collapsed into bed fully dressed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. It had been a long week.