The New Magic - The Revelation of Jonah McAllister - Landon Wark (bill gates best books TXT) 📗

of special effects magic that most people were probably used to, but there was no denying the heat emanating from its surface, or the crackling of its tiny yellowish flame.

It was an effective bridge of the real and the unreal. Perhaps being forced to include her with this was not such a bad thing after all.

She watched the man seated across from her with intense, worried eyes.

‘Uncle’ Ezra’s face looked as though all of the blood had drained away, draining most of the fat away with it. His skin had the colour and consistency of tallow, his hair greyed significantly.

"H-how did you create the heat?" he asked. Jonah couldn't help but note his tone, a kind of mix of disbelief and professional jealousy.

Straight down into the underpass there was a gathering. Maybe about four or five or so bodies milled about. Not many, but enough to know that there was something there waiting. Something that would fix whatever the hell was wrong.

Carmen Carruthers walked back up the concrete of the pedestrian ramp towards where the streetlights were just beginning to come in amongst the colours of twilight. The pull of the world in the light was great, but not great enough to overcome the cursed throbbing just behind her eyes, nor the malaise that dogged her, making each step an endurance trial. She twisted her fingers, cracking the knuckles, wishing she hadn't brought as much cash as she had. Not knowing day to day what the cost would be made it necessary, and it set her teeth on edge. The possibility of getting robbed down here was very real, as was the temptation to take more than what she needed.

Though that in itself was becoming something of an uncertainty. How much was going to be necessary today?

Were she thinking correctly she would head back home and pound out another two or three think pieces for the local conservative rag-blogs. She hated being the one to write that drivel, but they were the only game in town that was paying. And they were willing to pay extra for the cover provided to their dog-whistling by her dark skin. In one evening she might be able to make enough to last herself for three or four days.

The urge to simply buy whatever she could and get the hell away increased with the pounding behind her eyes. She placed her fingers to her temples in a gesture that had always helped when she had been a little kid.

"Grrrrah!" she practically shouted, stifling her voice when she spotted the man up on the other side of the overpass who practically mirrored her movements. Mirrored and cop-ified.

It was hard to say exactly what it was about a certain posture that marked someone as a cop. Most undercovers figured it out and managed to change somehow. This one was not one of them. But, he thought he was. Definitely.

Carmen ran her fingers through her hair. Was it the same skin that demanded a premium from a bunch of asshole bloggers that also marked her as a subject of interest for a bumbling Clouseau-esque police tail? Was this novice just following her because he was a good ol' racist sumbitch? It didn't make a difference where her ancestors were from, or that her father was licensed to practice in three countries. All they saw was the melanin.

"Christ," she whispered. "I'm fucking Indian. The Brits forced us to assimilate decades ago."

She bit her tongue. It was a childish response. I'm not the kind of person you want to racially profile! I'm better than them! Leave me alone! Those guys are the ones you want to racially profile!

Show some damn solidarity, Carmen. That guy's the asshole here. Not you.

But she was willing to put up with a lot of assholery to be left circling the existential drain by herself.

Regardless of the fucking racism, and regardless of how bad an undercover this guy was, there was no way she could make a buy now. But she still had to, needed to. Maybe if she just went with it, got caught that would be the end to all of this. She might as well. That's where all of this was going anyway. The whole storyline was almost cliched. There was a reason opioids were nicknamed 'the bridgebuilder'. Get hooked, get caught, get a spot in a prison shop making girders.

Well, not quite that simple. Go in for minor surgery. Grab some painkillers for the aches? Sure! This new generation isn't addictive like the last one, right? All studies say... don't worry about it! Lose job as editor of internet magazine. Lose health insurance. And... we're buying heroin under a bridge, trying to avoid some painfully obvious cop.

It nearly drove her mad to think of that racist sumbitch who, despite all the supposed progress of the last few years, was still passing judgment on her from up on the overpass. She had taken the same goddamn path to get here that a lot of his friends were likely still walking. Her father was a member of the country club for Christsake.

She paused, reminding herself that she didn't know the thoughts running through the poor bastard's head. That was maybe what pissed her off the most. Uncertainty.

Carmen pulled her hood closer around her face, walking back up the pedestrian ramp for the last time. Her legs shook with the effort and in the heat of the summer dusk a drop of sweat started rolling down her temple into the rings of her dark, loosely curled hair. There was a little shop a few streets over where someone was sometimes selling. Mostly it was meth, but once in a while they had what she wanted. It was a long way to go for a long shot, but the first pangs of nausea were prodding her forward.

As she reached the main street once