Magical Influence Book One, Page 2

  Chapter 2

  I rolled out of bed that morning with a hint of a strange dream haunting me. It was just a feeling at first, a presence, like a shadow at the edge of my vision.

  If I’d had the time, I would have plucked up my dream journal, written about it, possibly meditated, maybe tried to draw a picture, even selected a color and a word to describe the feeling that was building up within me.

  Dream magic, after all, was some of the most rewarding that you could practice.

  I didn't have the time though. Instead I pushed myself up, made my bed neatly, chose some work clothes, and trotted down the stairs, growling softly when one of them practically cracked underneath my foot.

  This house really needed a lot of work. Far more than I could afford.

  “I'm heading out early this morning,” I said loudly as I walked towards the kitchen, hoping my grandmother would be somewhere close by, but not willing to track her down. “Don't get into any trouble.”

  There was no reply.

  I grabbed some toast quickly, downed a glass of water, tugged my bag onto my shoulder, and headed to the door.

  As I reached towards it, turning the door handle, I felt a sense.

  Just a feeling.

  Quick, sharp, and gone in a second.

  I knew what it was. Any witch would. A beginning, of sorts. A subtle but perceptible change in energy, as if the first dice had been cast in a new game.

  Tugging the door open, I wasn't that surprised to see somebody standing there, hand raised as if they were ready to start knocking.

  I wasn't surprised, but that didn't stop me from quickly frowning. I cast my eyes over the man, and instantly noted the badge neatly tucked into his belt.

  A police badge.

  Whoever he was, he was in a nice suit, though it didn't quite fit over the shoulders. He had short, brown hair, eyes to match, and a faint shadow of stubble over his chin. He had a particularly piercing look about him. As if he weren't so much a man but a scalpel, or a laser, or a particularly powerful torch beam.

  I wasn't the kind of girl who categorized people into attractive or unattractive; being a witch, I understood that both were meaningless categories. There were attractive qualities about every single person, just as there were unattractive. Models might have a suitably fine appearance, but you could draw up an extensive list of their behavioral faults. No package contained complete perfection.

  This man with his broad shoulders, appealing build, and straight jaw would no doubt turn heads at any bachelorette party, but from the exact look of concentrated attention, and barely contained forcefulness, he was also a lot more than just pretty.

  “Can I help you?” I asked warily.

  We very, very rarely had people come to the door. It was to do with the state of the house, the state of the yard, and our particular reputations.

  Okay, I doubted that any of our neighbors actually, genuinely thought we were witches; the couple living to the left were dentists, and the couple to the right wrote for a science magazine. They were what you would call classically skeptical folk. But they would know, deep down, not to knock on the door of the peculiar ladies in the peculiar house that just so happened to be stereotypically witchy.

  The police, of course, would have no such compunction.

  He cleared his throat. It was a uniquely grating sound. It got my attention, hell, it would command anyone's attention. It was the kind of move you could do in a fantastically noisy bar and instantly get everybody to turn around, quiet down, and stare your way.

  “Mrs. Sinclair?”

  My cheeks started to pale. “Yes?”

  “My name is Agent Fairweather,” he brought his hand down to the badge that was lodged in his belt, and he plucked it out neatly, bringing it up so I could see.

  At that exact moment I swear the clouds parted, and a ray of sunlight came down, making the damn badge glint like the edge of a sword.

  Agent Fairweather.

  Christ. This wasn't going to be good, was it?

  “What's this about?” I still had my hand on the door, and now my fingers dug into it for purchase.

  “We need you to come in for questioning.”

  “About what?”

  “About the kilo of cocaine you tried to import into the country,” he replied easily.

  If I had paled before, it was nothing compared to what my skin did now. I swear that every trickle of blood drained from my peripheries. I felt cold in a snap, and stopped breathing to boot.

  Kilo of cocaine?

  Dear God, what had my grandmother done now?

  The man looked at me steadily and very, very harshly. It was the kind of look that told me that if I chose to close the door and run, he would chase, and he would most definitely succeed in catching me.

  I finally had the presence of mind to flick my gaze past the man, down the garden path, and out onto the street.

  There were several squad cars.

  Oh, this was fantastic, completely and utterly fantastic.

  “Right,” I said, trying to stall for time, bringing a hand up, latching it onto my chin, and letting the fingers dig somewhat into my cheeks.

  My eyes probably grew wide in panic as I tried to think.

  A kilo of cocaine? There probably wasn't going to be anyway I could talk my way out of this one. I wouldn't be able to sit down with the customs official, let him know that my grandmother was a little demented, and assure him that I would never let her try to import any restricted goods into the country again.

  No, because cocaine wasn’t restricted; it was bloody well illegal. And it was a kilo of the stuff. What was my grandmother thinking? Had she decided we were so destitute that she would start selling drugs on the street corner?

  No, of course not; she would have simply found one of her ridiculous new spells on the Internet, and she would have thought that it would be fun to try it. She would not have thought at any time that importing a kilo of cocaine was illegal, would get her caught, and would land her in prison.

  “Come with me, you have the right to remain silent,” he began.

  I tuned out as he read me my rights. My eyes growing wider with more and more fright as I did.

  There would be no reasoning with this man. But I wasn't so far gone that I couldn't see it from his side. To him this would have to be the easiest narcotics arrest in the history of man. Somebody ordering a kilo of very illegal drugs over the Internet and having them sent to their home address. No smuggling it over the border sewn into bags, tucked into car trunks, or squirrelled away in fresh produce.

  No, just your home address, and a completely traceable purchase record.

  “Oh Esme, what are you doing?”

  The last person I wanted to see trotted up behind me.

  I turned to shoot Granny a very stony, warning glance.

  She didn't pick up on it. But she did turn towards the Agent on my doorstep, and offered him a toothy smile. “Hello, handsome man. Are you here to take my granddaughter on a date?”

  I could have died at that moment. And I did pitch forward, giving a painful wheeze of embarrassment.

  The man didn't move a muscle. He didn't burst out into laughter, and neither did he decide it was time to forgo the pleasantries, clap me in irons, and drag me off to prison.

  “My name is Agent Fairweather, I am here because your granddaughter has illegally imported proximally 1 kg of cocaine,” he began.

  But my dear old grandmother wouldn't let him finish. She clapped her hands together. “It's here, fantastic, I've been waiting for it for almost a month now. I have my paperwork, I can just go and get it. You can leave it on the kitchen table if you'd like.”

  I started to shake, I really did, but not out of laughter. Though a part of me, a distant, entirely dissociated part, could see the funny side here.

  I watched Agent Fairweather and noted his exact expression.

  His eyebrows drew down, his lips slightly opened, and his head turned to the side as he
stared at Mary askance. “Madam, this is a serious,” he began.

  “I know, the man I ordered it from in Colombia said that it wouldn’t take more than two weeks. This is very serious. It's been a month now. I've been waiting too long, and I'm not entirely sure if I'm going to give him good reviews on his website.”

  This couldn't get any worse, it really couldn't.

  The man put up a hand. “Are you,” he pointed to me, then turned around and pointed to my grandmother, “or you, Mary Margaret Sinclair?”

  My grandmother patted her chest, shot up her hand, and waved it as if she had just won the lottery. “That would be me, my handsome young man.”

  I couldn't take any more of this. Gritting my teeth together, I faced her. “Stop calling him that. And shut up.”

  It was probably the wrong thing to do. It was probably showing that I was complicit in this crime or something, but I couldn't take the pressure any longer.

  “Fine, whatever, you're both coming in,” he concluded, obviously dealing with his confusion by realizing he could figure it out later, just as long as he had both criminals under wraps.

  Granny narrowed her eyes. “Don't you want the paperwork? I mean, I was very attentive to my granddaughter's wishes. She said, no she practically harassed me over the fact that I must do my paperwork before I import potentially restricted goods into the country. And I've done it.”

  I hid behind my hand, closing my eyes, and enjoying every moment of it. If my eyes were closed, it were almost as if everything was a dream.

  Almost.

  The man cleared his throat again. “I'm going to have to take you into custody. You have the right,” he began.

  My grandmother waved a hand at him. “Are you telling me you don't have my drugs?” her tone, which had previously been quite pleasant, suddenly got an edge to it. It was the edge that reminded me of the once powerful witch within. It pitched higher, and she straightened up, her chest puffing out a little, her eyes narrowing. And if you had been really attentive at that moment, you might have seen a cloud pass over the sun.

  “No, madam, I do not have your drugs. Now you have two options. You walk with me to the car, or I handcuff you. Which one is it?”

  “You don't have to handcuff her; we’re going to come peacefully,” I jumped in quickly, waving my hands around nervously.

  So much for getting to work early. I doubted I’d be getting to work for the rest of the day, if not the rest of the week, and hey, maybe not for 10 to 20 years, depending on what sentence the Judge handed us.

  “We’re not going anywhere with this terribly handsome young man, unless he’s taking you out on a date,” my grandmother pointed out.

  “Stop saying that,” I growled at her.

  “You have to go to work, and I'm busy; I'm digging a hole in the backyard, six-foot deep, you know, takes a while,” my grandmother waggled her eyebrows at the policeman as she pointed that fact out.

  Six-foot deep. Well great. Fantastic.

  That was just the right detail to add whilst having a conversation with a Federal Agent about your serious narcotics violation. Now he would think my grandmother was a murderer to boot.

  His eyes narrowed. Boy did they narrow. And he looked right past my grandmother and me and into the hall. His gaze latched onto the overturned pot plant, the one I still hadn't bothered to clean up. Then they zoomed around, saw the broken chair my grandmother had smashed with a mallet for one of her spells, and all the while his expression became darker and darker.

  He reached into his pocket, brought out his radio, and mumbled something into it.

  I didn't exactly need to know the specifics; I got the general gist.

  In seconds the police in the squad cars outside were making their way up the garden path, and more than a few of them had their hands on their weapons.

  Yesterday it had been mud pies in the yard, today it was a narcotics violation and a potential allegation of murder.

  This was the life of a modern witch.

  No glamour, no glitz, no brooms, just trouble.