art deco, oak and gold. Suddenly, it bulges, then squeezes itself out of my forehead, expands and hovers just in front of me. My skin barbs as I push it open and step through.
My door leads me to an empty subway station. It’s mucky and dark. My feet stick to the floor. For some reason, magic chose this as a halfway point for us both to meet. It might have something to do with my past before Copper-Eye, but I’ll never know for sure. I sit down on the nearest wooden bench and knit my fingers together on my lap.
The chill of the station sticks to my arms like a wet rag, but I don’t complain or attempt to keep myself warm. Magic always makes you wait. And, just when I think it has given up on me entirely, pissed off that I haven’t used it for anything worthy in years besides apartment security and getting high on the odd occasion when I don’t have money for weed, I hear footsteps and I know magic has arrived.
It appears to me like it does to any other mage — an identical doppelganger. It’s always unnerving getting stared down with dead eyes by my mirror image, but I swallow and suck it up. Magic should not be feared, but it must always be respected. Still, I hate asking for permission to use it. But that’s my fault entirely.
I clear my throat. Mustering as much confidence and assertiveness, but not arrogance — never arrogance — in my voice, I command the following: “Show me where this envelope comes from. Point me in the correct direction. Pave the way.”
Nothing happens, at least, not at first. Then, my identical twin’s lips curl up at the sides and its mouth stretches into a wide grin. It nods, and my shoulders sag in relief.
Magic can be as euphoric as a methamphetamine, or as disturbing as an acid trip in church. The tilt between an all-night orgy and brutal circumcision. You just have to hope it’ll play nice.
With magic’s consent to use it, I open my eyes. Around me, the four candles flicker, but the windows of my apartment are closed. I wipe my slick palms against my jeans as a nervous flutter beats against my chest.
I hold my breath. If this doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, I remind myself, even though I should keep my mind as focused as possible right now. It doesn’t mean I’m any less of a mage. Just because I have magic’s approval, doesn’t mean this spell will automatically work, especially if I haven’t used it in a long time. Even the best make mistakes. If the spell fails, I’ll just —
The envelope ripples in front of me and the muscles in my legs grow stiff. Ever so slowly, it turns to the left, then right. Right, then left. Over and over again until the envelope’s movements become smoother and looser and before I know it, the thing is spinning around so fast I get nauseous from staring at it for more than a few seconds.
I can’t help it, I’m feeling rather impressed with myself. It’s been ages since I’ve attempted performing tracker magic, let alone a proper spell in general, and even when I did in the past, I failed miserably, much to Copper-Eye’s contempt. Yet, here I am, and the spell is working. Christ, I feel so —
The envelope halts and the candles around the ring snuff out one at a time. North. South. East. Then finally, West. The air in my living room turns from muggy warm to arctic frost.
My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. I frown just in time to feel the insides of my lungs itch, pop and burn. I attempt to gasp for air, but it’s like inhaling shards of glass. I try to scream, but I croak instead. Whatever is in my lungs, it’s starting to grow.
Magic is unpredictable.
I scramble to my feet, clawing at my tank top to get to my chest. My heart has leapt into a sprint and I’m seeing fireworks the size of pinpricks. The things in my lungs coil and fester. They scrape along my windpipe as they rise, up and up. I taste weeds in my mouth.
Tumbling over a pile of days-old laundry, I manage to crawl into my bathroom. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! Placing both hands on the sink, I pull myself up with shaking arms and come face to face