I’m not a witch or warlock,” I said. “I don’t have a magical bloodline—I do technical magic, with potions and tools and leylines, which makes me a magician—”
“I thought I was the magician,” Valentine said.
“A practitioner would call you a illusionist.,” I replied, “though I prefer the term wizard. As in Mister Wizard? Because what a stage magician can do with science is far more than conjuring. But… I somehow don’t get the feeling you came here to quiz me about what I call you, because it might be different when you’re not around. How can I help you?”
“Well, then,” Valentine said, rubbing his hands together. “I hoped you might help me with, as you put it, ‘helping people focus on the good stuff.’ I’ve heard you claim to be able to create ‘magic’ tattoos—”
“I ‘claim’ nothing. My work speaks for itself,” I responded, shrugging my shoulders so the vines and snakes rippled down my bare arms. Nicholson was trying not to look, but it wasn’t working; I was trying not to smile, which wasn’t working either. “I am an expert artist, and if you have a tat in mind, I can ink it, whether the design be mundane, magical, even spiritual.”
“Weeell, then,” Valentine said. “Perhaps you could help us. I and my lovely assistant—”
“He is that,” I said. Nicholson suddenly looked down, embarrassed, which made him doubly cute, and Valentine blinked a couple of times before continuing.
“Ahem. I and my assistant would like you to participate in a little test. We would like you to draw a magical tattoo—and then I, who happen to be trained in the tattoo arts myself, will attempt to replicate it, to our mutual satisfaction.”
“Are you issuing me the Valentine Challenge?” I said, now openly grinning.
Valentine bowed. “That I am.”
I leaned back in my chair. Fuck the Vectrix—this was a brand new Prius, with a house and garage to put it in. “A million bucks. Mmmm. I do so hate to take your money. BUT—I don’t ink as a performance, or for tricks. Tattooing is an invasive procedure that violates the body. It needs a sterile environment—and an encircled one, if magic is involved. And it’s a permanent mark on the human body; I don’t ink as a stunt—”
Valentine had listened with mild interest, then with a triumphant smile. “So you won’t do it?” he asked, grinning at Nicholson.
“I didn’t say that,” I said, looking straight at Nicholson. “Does your lovely assistant actually want me to make a permanent mark on his body?”
Nicholson looked up, caught my gaze, and looked away again, embarrassed. It was so cute! “Actually, yes,” he said, flushing, looking up at me at last, his eyes catching on mine with a bit of electric desire. “On my wrist.”
He held up his left hand, pushing his watch down to expose his wrist. “A hider,” I said, reaching for the Big Blue Binder. “I have a good selection of magical flash for the wrist—”
“Actually,” Valentine said, smiling, “we had a specific design in mind.”
“Oh…kay,” I said. “But if you want a magical tattoo—”
Nicholson pulled out an envelope, “I hoped you could do this.”
Oh…kay. This was a bad scene. I took the envelope gingerly, while Valentine and Nicholson looked on—Valentine gleefully, Nicholson bashfully, a bit skeptically. I opened it up and unfolded a bad photocopy of an ornate bit of flash, a Victorian-inspired design with constellations and Roman numerals and circular filigree that was the magical equivalent of gears. It took me a moment to realize what it was—a clock.
“I’m not going to do this,” I said, tossing the paper down.
Nicholson batted him away. “Why not?” he said, almost hurt.
“It’s a watch,” I said. “This is a permanent mark and you want me to do a watch?”
“Why not?” Valentine said, grinning even more broadly. I was starting to dislike the man, and this after such a good start. “Won’t it keep time—”
“Obviously not,” I said, pointing at the zodiacal marks. “It’s calibrated to the stars, to a sidereal day, not a solar day, so it will lose time—a whole day, as the Earth goes around the sun. Didn’t you take astronomy in school? And what if he moved? It would be off by however many time zones were involved!”
Valentine’s jaw remained open. Nicholson remained undeterred.
“It has ‘knobs’ so you can reset it,” he said, pointing.
I stared at the design for a moment. “It… does,” I said. The more I looked, the more masterful