knife. The one my fingers fumble around is rusted and blunt. I bring it to the sealed flap of the envelope and gently open it. Once done, I turn it over and something spills out.
A single flower lies in the sink. It is dry, flat, and a vivid maroon. I place the envelope to one side and pick the blossom up. Its wafer-thin petals nearly crumble to a fine powder in my hands. It is unlike any flower I have ever seen.
With the greatest care, I place the pressed flower back into the envelope and tuck the flap in. Perhaps Copper-Eye had sent it before she’d evaporated into thin air, but why am I only receiving it now? I turn the envelope over in my hands a final time and run my fingers over Copper-Eye’s grand script.
“What is your purpose?” I ask it, but not even magic can get envelopes or pressed flowers to reveal their secrets. I think back to the botflies, then to the last time Copper-Eye had reached out to me. By then, our relationship was fractured beyond repair. I’d vowed to swallow a razor blade dipped in orange juice if she made me move back in with her. Now, I narrow my eyes as acid percolates through my veins. “And what terrible darkness are you bringing my way?”
Chapter Two
Magic is as magic does
Not that I remember anything before I entered Copper-Eye’s care, but back then, if one were to have asked me what “magic” is, I assume I’d have probably thought it was cheap card tricks or pulling handkerchiefs from your asshole in front of a crowd of preschoolers and their self-medicating mothers. What I’d come to learn was that it is complex and prehistoric. Something you earn through blood or skill. Magic is incomprehensible and beautiful, but also absolutely terrifying.
I’m reminded of this as I remove the crusty jar of Kamori goat blood from under my bed and bring it into the living room. Black market bought, the jar cost me a few thousand dollars I didn’t have, but I needed the damned thing if I was to continue practicing tracker magic. Unfortunately, I’d only used the blood once — fairly unsuccessfully — before getting creeped out and stowing it under my bed until now.
Tossing aside trash, clothes, and books to make space on the carpet, I set the jar in the center of the mess and twist off the lid. The sour, metallic stench fills the space almost instantly. I swallow down hard and pray I don’t puke.
I dip my right hand into the lukewarm blood and instantly regret not wearing my kitchen gloves. I grit my teeth and get to work, smearing a somewhat perfect circle around myself. Scrawling symbol after obscure, ancient symbol, I wonder how long it will take to scrub blood out of the carpet once it has soaked through. If only this was a Disney film, I wouldn’t have this kind of problem, but even a novice knows that magic is never easy.
Once complete, I screw the lid back on the jar and stand up to examine my work. Parts of the tracker ring are blotchy. Some of the symbols are barely legible. It’s not like I can rewind time and start the whole thing over again, nor do I have the stomach and patience to set up another ring. I have a feeling it will suffice.
Placing the jar of blood back under the bed, I wash my hands in my bathroom and return to the kitchenette for the envelope. Careful to not destroy its contents, I place it in the center of the ring and remove a box of black candles from behind my sofa I bought from a mambo in New Orleans last year. Picking out four from the box, I set each at the top, bottom, and sides of the circle to represent north, south, east and west. I take a lighter from my pocket and, with a heavy sigh, sit cross-legged in the middle of the ring, the envelope before me.
I light each candle, toss the lighter to the side, and close my eyes. I ignore how clammy my palms have become, and the tremble in my gut.
Magic can be vindictive. Unforgiving. It can hold a grudge for aeons.
I breathe in, then out. I imagine a world of white, where there’s no up or down, left or right. Nothing but a silent, blinding white. I picture a door in the center of my forehead —