The Garden of Abracadabra

By Lisa Mason

At her mother’s urgent deathbed plea, Abby Teller enrolls at the Berkeley College of Magical Arts and Crafts to learn Real Magic. To support herself through school, she signs on as the superintendent of the Garden of Abracadabra, a mysterious, magical apartment building on campus.

She discovers that her tenants are witches, shapeshifters, vampires, and wizards and that each apartment is a fairyland or hell.

On her first day in Berkeley, she stumbles upon a supernatural multiple murder scene. One of the victims is a man she picked up hitchhiking the day before.

Compelled into a dangerous murder investigation, Abby is torn between her ex-fiance, Daniel Stern, the enigmatic FBI agent, Jack Kovac, and the seductive Prince Lastor who lives in the penthouse apartment and may be a suspect.

She will discover the first secrets of an ancient and ongoing war between Humanity and Demonic Realms, uncover mysteries of her own troubled past, and learn that the lessons of Real Magic may spell the difference between her own life or death.

“I loved the writing style and am hungry for more!”

Fun and Enjoyable Urban Fantasy
“This is a very entertaining novel—sort of a down-to-earth Harry Potter with a modern adult woman in the lead. Even as Abby has to deal with mundane concerns like college and running the apartment complex she works at, she is surrounded by supernatural elements and mysteries that she is more than capable of taking on. Although this book is just the first in a series, it ties up the first "episode" while still leaving some story threads for upcoming books. I'm looking forward to finding out more.”

From the author of Summer of Love (A Philip K. Dick Award Finalist and San Francisco Chronicle Recommended Book), The Gilded Age (a New York Times Notable Book and New York Public Library Recommended Book), Celestial Girl (A Lily Modjeska Mystery); and Strange Ladies: 7 Stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Mason
• Release date: Apr 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301693511

Lisa Mason

Lisa Mason is the author of eleven novels, including Summer of Love (Bantam), a San Francisco Chronicle Recommended Book and Philip K. Dick Award finalist, and The Golden Nineties (Bantam), a New York Times Notable Book and New York Public Library Recommended Book.Her most recent speculative novel is CHROME.Mason published her first story, “Arachne,” in Omni and has since published short fiction in magazines and anthologies worldwide, including Omni, Full Spectrum, Universe, Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Unique, Transcendental Tales, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Immortal Unicorn, Tales of the Impossible, Desire Burn, Fantastic Alice, The Shimmering Door, Hayakawa Science Fiction Magazine, Unter Die Haut, and others. Her thirty-two stories and novelettes have been translated into Chinese, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, Spanish, and Swedish.Mason’s story, “Tomorrow’s Child,” first published in Omni Magazine, is in active development at Universal Studios.Lisa Mason lives in the San Francisco Bay area with her husband, the renowned artist and jeweler Tom Robinson. Visit her on the web at Lisa Mason’s Official Website, follow her Official Blog, follow her on Twitter @lisaSmason, or e-mail her at [e-mail].

Book preview

The Garden of Abracadabra

Lisa Mason

"Abracadabra" is a magical spell formulated by Cabbalist magicians two thousand years ago. Originally invoked to cure mortal diseases, the spell has since been employed as the enabling word to cause the result of a magical operation. The spell can only be used to create good results, never evil (see E.A. Wallis Budge, Lewis Spence, and others) and is so powerful everyone in the world has heard of the word.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2012—2017 by Lisa Mason.

Cover, interior drawings, and colophon copyright 2012—2017 by Tom Robinson.

All rights reserved.

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Bast Books Ebook Edition published May, 2012.

Bast Books Author’s Print Edition published October 10, 2017.

ISBN: 978-1978148291

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval, without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information address:

Bast Books

[e-mail]

Thank you for your readership! Please visit the author at her Official Web Site for her books, ebooks, stories, screenplays, blogs, interviews, cute pet pictures, and more.

Table of Contents

Praise for Books by Lisa Mason

Part I: Life’s Journey

Part II: In Dark Woods

Part III: The Right Road

About Lisa Mason

Books by Lisa Mason

Praise for Books by Lisa Mason

The Garden of Abracadabra

So refreshing! This is Stephanie Plum in the world of Harry Potter.

—Goodreads Reader

"Fun and enjoyable urban fantasy….I want to read more!

This is a very entertaining novel—sort of a down-to-earth Harry Potter with a modern adult woman in the lead. Even as Abby has to deal with mundane concerns like college and running the apartment complex she works at, she is surrounded by supernatural elements and mysteries that she is more than capable of taking on. Although this book is just the first in a series, it ties up the first episode while still leaving some story threads for upcoming books. I'm looking forward to finding out more."

—Amazon Reader Review

I love the writing style and am hungry for more!

—Goodreads Reader

ODDITIES: 22 Stories

"Lisa Mason is a very versatile writer, and this is a great collection."

—Amazing Stories.com, Part I of three Parts

CHROME

Mason entertains and elicits fascinating questions about human nature in this fast-paced, action-packed science fiction adventure....The colorful cast raises the question of which ancestry is more savage: that of animals or humans? (CHROME reads) like a cinematic sibling of The Island of Doctor Moreau. Readers ....will be hooked.

—Publishers Weekly

An excellent semi-noir full-on SF work by a terrific author. . . .a science-fiction homage, in part, to the noir books and movies of the forties and fifties, only brought forth into a future time a quarter-millennium from now. . . a fully-realized society.

—Amazing Stories.com

So Walter Mosley reread Animal Farm and The Island of Dr. Moreau and says to himself, Oh, yes indeed, I've got a terrific idea for my next best seller. But! Lisa says, Hold on, hot stuff. You're too late. Chrome is already on the streets. Haha! Wow! I just tore through Chrome. So much fun. Oh, I guess I should take a time-out to say that it was very well-written too, but I was enjoying the characters and the story so much that the superb writing simply did its job and I had to consciously reflect to notice the excellent and clever construction and reveals. Isn't that the definition of good writing?

—Five–Star Reader Review

Summer of Love

A San Francisco Chronicle Recommended Book of the Year

A Philip K. Dick Award Finalist

Remarkable. . . .a whole array of beautifully portrayed characters along the spectrum from outright heroism to villainy. . . .not what you expected of a book with flowers in its hair. . . the intellect on display within these psychedelically packaged pages is clear-sighted, witty, and wise.

—Locus Magazine

A fine novel packed with vivid detail, colorful characters, and genuine insight.

—The Washington Post Book World

Captures the moment perfectly and offers a tantalizing glimpse of its wonderful and terrible consequences.

—The San Francisco Chronicle

Brilliantly crafted. . . .An engrossing tale spun round a very clever concept.

—Katharine Kerr, author of Days of Air and Darkness

"Just imagine The Terminator in love beads, set in the Haight-Ashbury ‘hood of 1967."

—Entertainment Weekly

Mason has an astonishing gift. Her characters almost walk off the page. And the story is as significant as anyone could wish. This book will surely be on the prize ballots.

—Analog

A priority purchase.

—Library Journal

The Gilded Age

A New York Times Notable Book

A New York Public Library Recommended Book

A winning mixture of intelligence and passion.

—The New York Times Book Review

Should both leave the reader wanting more and solidify Mason’s position as one of the most interesting writers in science fiction.

—Publishers Weekly

Rollicking. . .Dazzling. . .Mason’s characters are just as endearing as her world.

—Locus Magazine

Graceful prose. . . A complex and satisfying plot.

—Library Journal

One Day in the Life of Alexa

Incorporates lively prose, past/present time jumps, and the consequences of longevity technology. An absorbing read with an appealing narrator and subtly powerful emotional rhythms.

—Goodreads

Five Stars! Like all the truly great scifi writers, what [Lisa Mason] really writes about is you and me and today and what is really important in life. . . . I enjoyed every word.

—Reader Review

Five Stars! Lisa Mason's character Alexa is not imprisoned in a gulag, but she is caught in the conviction she must continue the life-extending drug regime to stay alive. She tries to make the world a better place for other refugees, but side effects of the drugs limit her. She finds her internal resource that allows her to survive many more days in a much more uplifting manner than poor Ivan Denisovich. Discovering where her strengths [lie] is not depressing but uplifting for this reader.

—Reader Review

Strange Ladies: 7 Stories

Offers everything you could possibly want, from more traditional science fiction and fantasy tropes to thought-provoking explorations of gender issues and pleasing postmodern humor…This is a must-read collection.

—The San Francisco Review of Books

Lisa Mason might just be the female Philip K. Dick. Like Dick, Mason's stories are far more than just sci-fi tales, they are brimming with insight into human consciousness and the social condition….a sci-fi collection of excellent quality….you won't want to miss it.

—The Book Brothers Review Blog

Fantastic book of short stories….Recommended.

—Reader Review

"I’m quite impressed, not only by the writing, which gleams and sparkles, but also by [Lisa Mason’s] versatility . . . Mason is a wordsmith . . . her modern take on Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland is a hilarious gem! [This collection] sparkles, whirls, and fizzes. Mason is clearly a writer to follow!"

—Amazing Stories

Celestial Girl (A Lily Modjeska Mystery)

Passionate Historical Romantic Suspense

5 Stars I really enjoyed the story and would love to read a sequel! I enjoy living in the 21st century, but this book made me want to visit the Victorian era. The characters were brought to life, a delight to read about. The tasteful sex scenes were very racy….Good Job!

—Reader Review

Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself

In dark woods, the right road lost.

Dante, The Divine Comedy

Inferno, canto I

Part I

Life’s Journey

1

I shouldn’t but I do it, anyway. That’s me, Abby Teller, a magician with a mind of her own. I used to worry about doing the right thing. Now I wonder what the right thing is.

He stands on the shoulder of the on-ramp, a string bean in his T and jeans beneath the sweltering September sun. A toothsome grin on his face, cowboy boots on his feet, and a cardboard sign in his hands.

BERKELEY

Whoa! I pull Hi-Ho Silver over, slam on the brakes. Four days of driving since I fled Buckeye Heights leaves me yearning for talk with more than my ‘65 Mustang. Chat with a hunk of steel tends to be one-sided. How about a hunk in cowboy boots?

It isn’t the sanest idea I’ve ever had in my life, picking up a hitchhiker on I-80 outside Sacramento. And me, Abby Teller, a lady alone. In all the old stories, the most notorious bloodthirsty sorcerers trick their victims into believing they’re foxy rogues.

I am nobody’s victim, but am I in danger?

He tears open the door, stows the sign and a backpack in the backseat, and slides into the bucket seat beside me, bringing with him the scent of male sweat and Florida Water cologne. The kind of cologne jailbirds and voodooists favor.

What is he? A magician, a monster, or a mortal?

Thanks for stopping. I thought the highway patrol would cruise by any minute and bust my ass. He reaches over the gearshift, holds out his hand. I’m Brand.

Brand?

Like the mark you burn on a heifer showing her who’s boss.

You a rancher?

Babe, I’m free range.

My, he’s got an opinion of himself. I look him over. Some ass Brand has. I mean, some grin. And Paul Newman eyes, an impossible blue the color of Windex. From a distance, the tattoos on his arms told me twenties. Up close, the lines around his eyes and his mouth tell of sun-drenched days and high-life nights. Thirties, maybe?

Dangerous? Oh, yeah. He oozes the charm of a grifter, the shifty aura of a liar, the arrogance of a man who takes for granted what women do for him.

I’ve stopped for him, now haven’t I?

Why doesn’t an able-bodied man his age drive his own car? I consider the likely scenarios, none of them good, with the possible exception he’s a die-hard greenie. No consumption of fossil fuels unless absolutely necessary. Double up with someone already doing the consuming. A Greyhound bus would work, but I’m free.

I get a kick out of him, anyway, macho swagger and all. That’s me, a daughter of Buckeye Heights where people still trust moneylenders, horse traders, grandstanders, and the foxy rogues of the world when they shouldn’t. They really, really shouldn’t.

I take the hand he offers in a knuckle-crushing grip, and a jolt ripples through my fingers, through palm and wrist, and up my arm like when you touch a live wire. Electric, electrifying. Black sparks follow the jolt, glittering over my skin.

The jolt reaches my shoulder. Sparks cluster at my throat. The jolt, the sparks start pushing. Pushing in, trying to touch things inside me.

No, it’s not animal magnetism.

Not the alchemy of male and female hormones.

I’ve never shaken hands with anyone like Brand.

He’s got power. Crazy wild power. Most likely not a monster; his skin is too hot. Some stripe of magician?

And me? I wouldn’t have glimpsed his power at all if I didn’t possess power of my own. I am vexed.

Why should I let this stranger, this hitchhiker, push his power into me? My instinct says push back, and push back I do. I drive the jolt, the sparks from my throat, out through my shoulder, down my arm to wrist and palm, and through my fingertips, back to the source.

Back to him.

Only then do I release his hand.

Surprise flickers in his eyes, then dives beneath the surface, disappearing in the Windex depths. Oh, he’s good. Much better than me at concealing his true nature from the quotidian world when he’s got a mind to.

I don’t try to hide my smile. He ought to know from the start he can’t push me around. Or my power.

I’m Abby.

As in ‘Dear Abby’?

The same.

Then you’re famous. Everyone in the world knows ‘Dear Abby.’ You’ve got some handshake, dear Abby. A magician’s handshake. And some eyes. I love a lady with green eyes. And cool wheels.

I accept the compliment, though my eyes aren’t so much green as the color of absinthe, a mingling of hazels and golds. The eyes I inherited from my mother, along with my dancer’s legs and the ‘65 Mustang.

We share a comradely laugh, Brand and I. Fascinating, how a man in cowboy boots dangles that particular love-word inside of five minutes. A carrot, one carat, fourteen karats?

Better keep my guard up, as the teacher of Street Smarts for Women advised our class. If Brand turns out to be a notorious bloodthirsty sorcerer, I know just which part of the man’s anatomy I’ll aim the jab of my knee at.

* * *

I pull off the shoulder of the on-ramp and ease Hi-Ho Silver up to the metering light. The light flashes green and we’re off, speeding westbound on I-80, merging between a FedEx truck and a VW bug the color of a candy apple.

Fields of parched olive trees sprawl from the shoulders of the road to the horizon in every direction. The sweltering sun bleaches the sky a shimmering silver.

I’ve pulled my russet curls into a turquoise-beaded scrunchie and pulled the ponytail through a second time. But my makeshift chignon scarcely cools me. The chain with my Eye of Horus traces a hot silver trail around my neck, the amulet smoldering in the hollow of my throat. Silver rings on every finger, silver bangles stacked on wrists, and a silver ankle bracelet burn bands of heat where metal meets flesh. Sweat slicks my skin beneath a turquoise tank top and trickles between my breasts. In denim shorts, my dancer’s thighs just about melt in the leather bucket seat. Only my feet in strappy sandals aren’t grilled Abby.

Where you headed, dear Abby?

Same town as you. I just got accepted by the Berkeley College of Magical Arts and Crafts.

Hey, congrats.

Thanks. And I’m interviewing for a job on campus that sounds too good to be true. It’s not a sure thing, not by a long shot, but if everything works out? I can pay the tuition and start my first class tomorrow. I’m all fired up.

I am more than all fired up, I am smokin’. I need that first class, need all the classes that will follow. I need guidance. I need instruction. My survival depends on learning to master my power.

So my mother told me on her deathbed, only days ago. Days ago? Try a lifetime ago. She told me other things, too, secrets I’d never known my whole life. Family secrets. Terrible secrets, shocking and strange.

I’d love to go to Magic school, but I can’t afford it.

I can’t afford not to. It’s been good packing up my life. Good leaving my hometown behind. I’ve had no time for tears, for grieving. I glance at him, finding his sly blue eyes trained on me. You’ve got some handshake yourself. A magician’s handshake. If you don’t mind my saying so, Brand, you’ve got a lot of power.

He laughs his comradely laugh. Nah, just a touch. Not enough to leap over tall buildings or stop a speeding bullet. I’ve never had any schooling, not like what you’re going to get. But it’s true, I’ve had to keep secrets. Even a touch of power can be a tricky thing. Especially when you’ve hooked up with someone who hasn’t got any.

This rings a bell. A big, big bell. Tell me?

This friend is putting me up till I find a place of my own. A girlfriend once, serious shit for a while, but we just couldn’t make it work. She accused me of holding something back, and she was right. I couldn’t share my power with her, and she had no power of her own to share with me.

She figured out you’ve got power?

She saw enough of me in action. It drove her nuts.

Well. Something sure was missing between me and Daniel. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’ve missed Daniel Stern since the day I broke off our engagement. I miss how he kneaded the knots out of my shoulders. I miss a whole lot more. Once I thought the heat between us would be enough to sustain a marriage. Something I knew would always be missing. Something I didn’t dare talk about. Not with him.

The Magic.

The Magic, yeah.

Then here’s to Magic, dear Abby. He reaches over the gearshift for another handshake.

I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. But I do it, anyway. To Magic.

His hand pulses in mine, electric, electrifying. His power beats in syncopation with the beat of my heart.

A bank of black thunderheads abruptly boils up out of the west, drenching the road with cool, fat raindrops and gracing Hi-Ho Silver with a free car wash.

I wrench my hand away. The nerve this guy has.

Then the deluge ceases, just like that. No lingering pitter-pat of raindrops, no departing grumble of thunder. The thunderheads roll away, receding into the east, and vanish just as suddenly as they’d appeared.

Once more the sweltering sun bleaches the sky a shimmering silver. Raindrops clinging to the olive trees glimmer, a million tiny diamonds among dripping leaves. Ghostly streamers of mist drift up from the fields.

My jaw just about drops to my sandals. Was that a freak storm or did you do that?

You did that, dear Abby.

No, I swear! It’s all I can do to keep my eyes on the road as I speed down the freeway at seventy-five miles an hour. Did we do that together?

If we did, I’m not sure what we did.

Is he being disingenuous? Lying? Jerking me around?

No doubt.

Do I mind? Strangely, I don’t.

That, Brand my friend, is why I’m going back to school. Magic school.

2

Sunset stains the sky lavender and orange by the time I crawl onto the parking lot that passes for the coastal highway. The slow-and-go affords me ample time to admire the restless gray bay and San Francisco’s enchanted spires on the opposite shore.

I take the westbound off-ramp at University Avenue and chauffeur Brand to Emeryville, an urban blight bordering Berkeley where he tells me his ex-girlfriend lives.

Turn left, he says. At the next corner, turn right. At the second light, hang a left. Here we are.

The ex-girlfriend rents the ground-floor unit of a shabby little town house slapped together decades ago of dingy stucco. Weeds thrusting through cracked concrete serve as her front yard. A graffiti artist has accomplished with cans of spray paint what government subsidies never could: given the town house some character. Lurid obscenities splatter the walls and weird, leering faces. A monstrous red eyeball weeps tears of blood, the sort of apocalyptic vision only a potent hallucinogen can inspire.

I’m jarred by the sight of rusty security grilles barring up every window and door. People in Buckeye Heights have boarded up the windows and doors of foreclosed houses but they haven’t barred up everything against the crowbar of a thief. Not like this.

The sight sobers me, reminding me I’m entering another world.

The world of Berkeley.

Berkeley, home of the original campus of the mighty University of California. Berkeley of nouvelle cuisine and Berkeley of research leading to the atom bomb. Berkeley of genetic engineering and Berkeley of needle exchanges. Berkeley of free speech and Berkeley of political correctness. Berkeley of the Tree People and Berkeley of Students Against Hippies Living In Trees.

Berkeley, a world of wonders. Of enigmas.

I feel it thrumming all around me: Magic. Black, White, and Every-Color-Of-The-Rainbow Magic.

I pull Hi-Ho Silver over to the curb in a bus zone, yank the parking brake, and wearily climb out.

Brand climbs out, too. He takes his backpack from the backseat, strides around the Mustang, and drops the pack with a thud on the street. He wraps his arms around me in more than a friendly way, grasping me in a great big bear hug, lifting me clear off my feet.

Easy, easy. You’ll squeeze the life out of me.

He’s hard beneath the jeans. His power laps at my skin, greedy and insinuating. That’s not sharing power, that’s a power grab. A sorcerer’s grope. A rogue’s game.

He sets me down on my feet and I shove him away, smacking the palm of my hand against his chest. He staggers back, catching his boot heel on the curb, and sprawls with a grunt on the grimy bus bench.

Like I said, he ought to know from the start.

I expect his frown and a curse or two, but he only grins and hoists himself to his feet. You got a number?

A number?

Yeah, you know that thing you need to call someone.

I do have a number. I’ve got a brand-new phone with a brand-new number I’ve given nobody but one person and one person only: Carla, the realtor selling my mother’s house. I’ve disconnected my old landline, left no forwarding number.

Why? Because I don’t want Daniel calling me. I don’t want Daniel finding me. I don’t want Daniel tempting me to renege on a decision that’s supposed to be final. Is final. I know how tempting Daniel can be when he puts his mind to it.

And Brand?

You didn’t just get out of prison or anything like that?

We’ll talk over lunch. I’m buying. I owe you.

Fascinating, how a man in cowboy boots refuses to answer a simple question. My number? I’m guessing he’s one of those men who loses women’s numbers.

Against my better judgment, I give him mine.

He fishes a little black notebook out of his back jeans pocket and a stub of a pencil, and writes my number down. Let’s get together, dear Abby. You’ve got Magic. I could show you a good time.

We’ll talk, I say, on the phone.

Brand? Oh my God, Brand? a woman calls out in the rasp of a three-pack-a-day smoker.

The rasp’s owner bursts out of the town house, her welcoming smile swiftly rearranging itself into a frown. She stands over six feet tall with the muscular build of a gal who hauls UPS packages for a living. A Valkyrie in ripped jeans. I can see how she and Brand made a stormy physical match, if not a magical one.

She clutches, of all things, the knitted arm of a man’s sweater, the rest of the garment trailing beside her. The sweater looks to be nearly finished. A welcome-back gift for Brand? She also clutches a ball of homely gray yarn and a pair of lethal-looking steel knitting needles.

A dazed look films her eyes, as if Brand’s voice compelled her out the door before she had the presence of mind to set her knitting down.

She looks at him, at me, at him.

Who the fuck is she?

Hi, there. I wave. Pleased to meet you, too.

Abby, this is Barb, Brand says.

Brand and Barb. You two sound like a nineteen-forties horse opera in black and white. Starring John Wayne, say, and Barbara Stanwyck.

They both look at me—he amused, she outraged—and say in unison just like a longtime couple would, What?

Free-range rancher wants to roam. Lady rancher wants to fence him in.

Brand laughs, his easy merriment strained. You see, Barb? Abby’s cool. She gave me a ride from Sacramento.

Oh, I see. I see, all right. Barb fixes her furious eyes on him as if she could bend him to her will. He stands where he stands, unmoving. Nope, she’s got no power. No power over him, anyway.

She steps between us and swivels to face me, looming over me. She’s got a good five inches on me. I have to look up. I hate having to look up at lunatics.

Brand is staying with me. Gripping the knitting needles in her fist, she jabs the tips against my breastbone.

Oh, man! Is she trying to kill me? With knitting needles? The tips hurt enough to have punctured my skin, pierced flesh, dented bone. I jump back and glance down, expecting wounds and blood, but glimpse only a pair of angry red spots above the scoop neck of my top.

Hey, Barb, you know? People get arrested for less.

Hey, Abby, you get it? Brand. Is staying. With me.

I turn to him. Is everyone so friendly in Emeryville?

Cut it out, Barb, Brand snaps.

Don’t give her any ideas. My hand whips out and seizes the needles. I pulse a volt of my power up the steel. A friendly electrical shock, that’s what Barb needs.

Ow, fuck! She flinches and shakes her hand, then stares at me, wide-eyed. I’m one of Them. One of the Weird. Don’t ask me why, but I don’t think she likes me. Why don’t you hit the road, you freaky slut.

Brand grins, a lot less comradely. Catch you later, Abby. You should go.

Later, I say as they stand in the street, glaring daggers at each other. A shining example of how love and hate tangle with passion, whereas indifference means the affair is truly over.

I climb into Hi-Ho Silver, turn the ignition. I don’t make a habit of grappling strange men in front of their jealous ex-girlfriends. I’ve got too much respect and sympathy for women. Even a psychopath like Barb.

I drive away from Emeryville, wondering whether I will catch Brand later. I kind of want to, even though he’s a cad. He’s got Magic, oh yeah.

I should catch Brand later after he’s moved to a place of his own. I want to meet up with Barb’s knitting needles a second time like I want an ice pick plunged in my chest.

And what about him staying with her? Isn’t that a bit cruel when she so clearly hopes for a reconciliation and he so clearly doesn’t? Do I want to connect with this user?

Brand plays a lot of games. Games I’m not ready to play. I’m on a rebound of my own after leaving Daniel.

First things first. Land the job, line up a paycheck. Register for school, start classes. Never forget what my mother told me on her deathbed. My survival depends on learning to master my power. Survival against the Horde when they come looking for me.

I feel feverish, my cheeks and my forehead burning. When I glance in the rearview mirror, my face is the color of a boiled lobster. Brand’s great big bear hug left little to wonder about and much to fantasize.

This isn’t me. I’m not the feverish type. Am I?

Not in a million, billion years.

So why did I pull over to the shoulder and slam on the brakes? Why spill my life story? What did our clasped hands do? Why didn’t I mind he was being disingenuous, lying, jerking me around? And why do I feel so feverish?

What has Brand done to me?

You see? I set one foot outside of Buckeye Heights, and a foxy sorcerer is trying to enchant me.

Berkeley is going to be a blast.

3

University is a boulevard of eight hectic lanes, traversing Berkeley eastbound and west. A polyglot of enterprise holds court along the curbs. I spy Smokey’s Eatery featuring Bear and Waffles. Through the wide front window of Kali Copy Center, I glimpse a blue woman whirling, her dozen arms feeding doctoral theses into a dozen steaming copiers. Salaam’s Emporium purveys Carpets: Persian, Indian, Floating & Flying. Merlin’s of Berkeley offers alchemist’s supplies: Alembics, Catalytic Reformers, Orreries, Retorts, Homunculi Guaranteed or Your Money Back!

Tattooed skateboarders cruise by in the bike lane, baseball caps bill backwards. Sweatshirts with the slogan: I DON’T KNOW AND NEITHER DO YOU.

Turning at University onto Oxford, mindful of a herd of Priuses stampeding silently up the eastbound lanes, I fetch from the glove box a printout of the ad I’d found:

GREAT JOB IN BERKELEY

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY

FLEXIBLE HOURS APARTMENT PROVIDED SALARY NEGOTIABLE

APPLY IN PERSON ANYTIME

A job too good to be true? Perfect for a student like me returning to college, facing her first course load? So what’s the catch?

I scan the printout for directions: South on Oxford. Cross the intersection at Bancroft. Continue on to Fulton.

I hear bells as resonant as church chimes tolling the hour of six p.m. Above the soaring dark foliage of eucalyptus and pines, beyond the flat rooftop of Wheeler Auditorium, stands the source of the sound: the famous Campanile. At the top of the Venetian-style bell tower a golden beacon beams through the twilight stealing over the eastern hills.

Below the Campanile cluster turreted gothic buildings of dark brick, and my heart leaps. The Berkeley College of Magical Arts and Crafts! I recognize the distinctive profile of the towers from the website. How I long to go and learn Real Magic there! If only things work out!

A left on Dwight Way takes me up a block from trendy shops and mom-and-pop businesses to a residential neighborhood of well-worn houses and apartment buildings. A right on Hillegass, a left on Derby, then a sharp right onto Mirage Way.

It’s a slip of a street, an alley overgrown on either side with gnarled old oaks and spreading elms. Crooked sidewalks lead past the ragged rock gardens of vintage brown-shingled craftsman houses. The streetlights have yet to turn on, and shadows play hide-and-seek with sunset’s rosy glow.

The perfume of Magic infuses the evening air, a scent of red roses and some sweet spice. I hear the jangle of a wind chime, the mew of a cat.

Hi-Ho Silver and I cruise slowly now, searching for the address. There it is, the number stenciled on the curb in iridescent white paint: Seven Mirage Way.

A cobblestone driveway angles up from the street to an apartment building set back in a grove of willow oaks. I cruise through the welcoming wrought-iron arms of an ornate gate, pull onto a roundabout bordered by manicured boxwoods and lacy fan palms. A fountain drizzles water over marble angels poised above a pool. Amber lamps atop wrought-iron lampposts glow on, lighting the roundabout in gossamer gold.

I turn off the ignition, pull the parking brake, climb out and stretch, savoring the restorative crackle of my travel-weary joints. Good car. I pat the little chrome galloping mustang next to the door. The mustang tosses his tiny chrome head and snorts.

I catch my breath.

I’ve never seen any place like it!

Five stories of Mediterranean magnificence rise before my eyes. Andalusian windows punctuate the peach stucco walls, the sills and the eaves meticulously trimmed in ivory and teal. Half-moons of terra-cotta tiles adorn the gambrel roof. A forest of stonework chimneys promises cozy fireplaces inside.

Two lions stand guard on either side of a glorious door, each with his paw raised up, his jaw agape in a silent marble roar. Inlaid in the cobblestones, a bronze plaque engraved with a cipher sets out a powerful spell conceived by Cabbalist magicians two thousand years ago:

A B R A C A D A B R A

A B R A C A D A B R

A B R A C A D A B

A B R A C A D A

A B R A C A D

A B R A C A

A B R A C

A B R A

A B R

A B

A

A richly ornamented arch soars over a carved oak door. As I gaze up in sunset’s last glow, I see chiseled deep in the arch the name of the place:

THE GARDEN OF ABRACADABRA

4

Before I can take one step toward the great destiny I claim as mine—wham!—the door bangs open and a funnel cloud whirls out.

I duck behind Hi-Ho Silver, peer through the windows.

The eerie, greenish cloud twirls across the roundabout, a miniature twister the size of a child blasting dust, gravel, and dry leaves from its meandering path. Leafy streamers of the willow oaks sweep back like green hair on a bevy of tree women.

The blast tips my Mustang onto two wheels, fore and aft, nearly overturning twenty-five hundred pounds of aerodynamic style on my head. I shove my shoulder against the driver’s side door and push with all the strength weightlifting has buffed me up with. As if that’ll do any good. I clutch the side-view mirror with my right hand, shield my eyes from flying debris with my left.

Now a dog—a barrel-chested, long-limbed, smooth-coated black beast the size of a Shetland pony—lopes out and leaps at the funnel cloud, barking, snarling, snapping tyrannosaurus fangs.

I recognize the breed: Great Dane. Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs. I just don’t trust a leaping, snarling dog the size of a Shetland pony. I consider climbing in my Mustang, then dismiss the idea. What if Hi-Ho Silver overturns with me trapped inside?

A scowling woman strides out after dog and storm. She wears black jeans like a second skin, an embroidered peasant blouse, and high heels of a red patent-leather so shiny the shoes sparkle. A mane of silver-streaked sable spills to her waist. She brandishes a mason jar and the screw-top lid.

I recognize the label: 365 Organic Pasta Sauce. My sauce of choice. A sauce for which I’ve driven ten miles from Buckeye Heights to Oakley Falls because Buckeye Heights, to its shame, has no Whole Foods.

Well, all right! We’ve got something in common, this fierce lady and me, and I’ve learned a vital statistic about my new neighborhood. Somewhere—closer than ten miles, I hope—a Whole Foods eagerly awaits the swipe of my MasterCard.

Senor, get down, the woman commands, but the beast keeps leaping and snarling and snapping. She shouts, SENOR, SIT! OR NO PARTY FOR YOU TONIGHT.

The Great Dane meekly drops on his haunches, doggy adoration for his mistress shining in his big, brown eyes. A tongue the size of a dish towel lolls between the fangs. Senor wears a red cotton paisley kerchief and the hefty silver chain-links of a serious choke collar. Which, I’m guessing, is de rigueur canine attire in Berkeley.

The woman shakes her finger at the funnel cloud and holds up the jar. Get back in there, you little shit.

The funnel cloud playfully circles the roundabout, stirring up another blast of dust, gravel, and dry leaves.

The woman chases after it, tapping the jar with her long, scarlet fingernail. Tap tap, tappety, tap tap tap. Dorothy Gale, don’t make me tell you twice.

It’s a spell, has to be, the tapping of her fingernail. I want to jump in the jar myself.

The funnel cloud whirls up to the mouth of the jar and shudders. Whirls away, whirls back. Then dives inside.

Talk about a tempest in a pasta sauce jar.

The woman claps on the lid and screws it tight. She shakes her finger at the imprisoned funnel cloud, which spits angry little bolts of lightning. Now you behave.

My Mustang rights itself, landing on all four wheels with a resounding thump. As for me, I crouch next to the driver’s side door, clutching the side-view mirror, peering through the windows.

She finally notices me. Hello over there. Dorothy Gale has been so naughty today. You all right, miss?

Excellent, thanks. I stand up and calm my pounding heart. What’s a little funnel cloud?

Good, I’m glad. Her dark, sardonic eyes appraise me, then turn to Hi-Ho Silver. She takes her time looking at the license plate which is embossed with the name of the county where my mother registered the car: Buckeye Heights. You’re far from home. Just visiting or looking to stay?

Oh, I’m starting a new life and I’m hoping to stay.

I don’t know if any apartments are available. We tenants at the Garden of Abracadabra tend to stay a long, long time.

"Actually, I’m looking for an apartment and the job."

Hah, the job. Her eyes soften. Poor old Stanley. Always so grumpy. Some people are just like that, I guess. He’s the one you want. You’ll find him in Number One. Senor and I live down the hall. Come on, I’ll show you the way.

Thanks, you’re very kind.

Don’t mention it. I am Esmeralda Tormenta.

I’m Abby Teller.

Her eyes widen with alarm. Her olive complexion turns pale. She pulls a Cross on a silver chain out of the neckline of her blouse and eyes my license plate again.

Senor growls, spit dripping off his lip.

Abby Teller of Buckeye Heights?

She doesn’t need a crystal ball to scry that. That’s me.

Next I suppose you’re going to tell me your father was Jorge Teller, your mother Alice Teller?

Right again. She’s spooking me. And annoying me. How do you know my parents’ names?

Well! Abby Teller is famous. Everyone in the World of Magic has heard of Abby Teller. She backs off, never taking her eyes from me. As if I’m dangerous.

Senor lifts his lip, baring his fangs.

I feel the same about her and her dog. I don’t understand.

Neither do I. Abby Teller is dead.

I laugh out loud. What?

Abby Teller has been dead for years.

You must be mistaken.

I don’t think so. Abby Teller from Buckeye Heights died as a child of eight.

No, you really are mistaken. My father died when I was eight, not me.

Everyone knows Abby Teller died as a child by her father’s side.

I’m not just spooked and annoyed, I’m getting angry. Confused and angry. Is she mocking me? But why? Every day since his death, I’ve missed the sunshine of Papa’s love. How dare she add insult to injury?

On her deathbed my mother told me secrets I’d never known. Family secrets. Terrible secrets. An awful thought strikes me now. Did she tell me everything?

Why would this stranger fabricate such a strange story?

I take a breath. I need this job, need this apartment, need this paycheck. I need to start school, need to master my power. I need all these things tonight. Right now. Whatever it takes. I smile.

As you can see, I’m not dead. When she brandishes her Cross, I add, Or undead. I press my left hand on my amulet. I swear on the Eye of Horus, I am Abby Teller of Buckeye Heights and I am well and truly alive.

Esmeralda peers at me. You wear the Eye of Horus?

The silver amulet smolders in the hollow of my throat. The arch of an eyebrow, the stylized eye, the curvilinear slashes, all set inside a silver triangle.

My father left it to me. And I further swear I’ve driven all those miles from Buckeye Heights to study at the Berkeley College of Magical Arts and Crafts.

My mention of the college changes everything.

Esmeralda gasps. A little gasp, true, but an expression of awe and respect, just the same. The people at the college, they know who you are?

"I applied online, they accepted me the same day. Yes, they know who I am. I’m hoping to start my first class tomorrow afternoon, if I can scare up the tuition. Esmeralda, I’ve got to land this job.