“To put up with an out-of-touch ding-dong, yes.” Lisa raises her eyebrows at me. “Still interested?”
I nod wordlessly. She closes the door after me, and I’m left alone in the room, trying to catch my breath. Twenty-five thousand dollars a month. Good god. The things I could do with that money. I wouldn’t even have to work here long, I reason. Even if Ms. Magnus is completely unbearable, a month or two and I can pay off all my bills and get a down payment on a decent place to live. I can put up with any sort of bullshit for twenty-five grand a month.
I could . . . I could pay off some of Mom and Dad’s debt.
No, I chide myself immediately, squelching that line of thinking. They are not your responsibility. They got themselves into that mess.
With a little sigh, I look around the room. It’s a study, all right, with books along one wall and all kinds of creepy dead stuffed animals along another. There’s a stuffed ostrichlike bird standing in the corner, and several other dead animals in various stages of taxidermy are scattered about the room. Blech. Absently, I reach out and turn what looks like a stuffed ferret on its stand so it faces the right direction. Someone likes dead critters. I wrinkle my nose as I move toward a big glass case laid out upon an antique table, and I’m not entirely surprised to see it contains hundreds of dead bugs, all neatly pinned. Because of course.
I move over to the bookcase, wondering if this lady likes the classics. The organizer in me reads the spines to see if they’re in any particular sort of order, but as I try to read the lettering, it fades and I can’t make it out. Odd. I pick up a book. It’s written in some sort of scrawling, scribbly language I can’t understand, and the binding feels cool to the touch. I put it back and glance around, and as I do, I notice the door is open. Is it the hot jackass again? As I frown at the door, an elderly woman steps in, cane in hand. She’s wearing a floral muumuu and a bright purple turban on her head that looks as if it went out of date a hundred years ago, and she’s so old that liver spots cover her paper-thin golden skin. She is way, way too old to be the auntie of the hot dickbag downstairs, and I smile at her.
“Hi there.”
She looks up at me, and her eyes are sharp even as she sits down in one of the chairs for guests. “Far too many stairs in this house,” she says disapprovingly. “Whoever made this place never had to walk a day in heels in her life.”
I can’t disagree. I smile, nudging a statue that looks slightly out of place. I notice that the woman’s feet are bare, and her cheeks are round like a cherub’s and bright pink with rouge of some kind. “Are you here for the job?” I ask.
I look around for Lisa, but she’s nowhere to be found. The woman is a bit old, but she’s got a sweet expression on her face, and my heart hurts at the idea that she needs to find employment at this stage in her life.
The woman nods. “I suppose I am.”
“Did you . . . forget your shoes?” I smile politely. “Your feet are bare.”
“Was I supposed to wear shoes?” The elderly woman looks puzzled. “Is that a requirement?”
“Perhaps not.” I don’t want to make her feel bad. Why is she here, though? Shouldn’t the interviewers be more cognizant of this sort of thing? Maybe Lisa didn’t see the woman’s feet with her big pregnant belly in the way, though. I decide friendliness is the way to go. Older players of Spellcraft aren’t that uncommon, though perhaps not this old. “Big fan?”
She glances up at the ceiling. “Is it big?”
I fight back a giggle and pick up another book, flipping through it. More gibberish, this one with all kinds of hideous drawings in it. Again, I can’t read the spine, which is frustrating. How does anyone keep anything organized in this place? Maybe that explains some of the utter chaos. “I meant the game. Are you a big fan of the game?”
“Is it a game?” she asks, musing. “Some would say it’s more of a lifestyle.”
I think of the sheer dollar amounts I’ve spent on rare cards and the weekend conventions I used to drive to with my college friends. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.”
Lisa rushes in a moment later, all smiles. “Oh good, you’ve met.” She moves to stand next to the tiny woman, and when she struggles to stand, Lisa helps her up. “That saves me some time.”
Boy, this place is really unprofessional. I hesitate and then put the book down, moving over to Lisa’s side. “Are we really supposed to meet if we’re interviewing for the same position?” Part of me wants to leave, but the small greedy part of Reggie deep inside is screaming, TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND A MONTH! “It seems . . . a little unfair to pit us against each other.”
“Same position?” Lisa says blankly. She turns back to the elderly woman and helps her behind the desk. “What? No, she’s the witch.”
That makes me pause. Hard. That . . . seems rude. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘bitch’?”
“WITCH,” the elderly woman clearly enunciates as if I’m deaf.
“Witch,” I repeat.
“Yes. This job is for a witch’s familiar.” Lisa rolls her eyes. “Though I suppose the modern term is more like ‘executive assistant’ or some such. Whatever it is, she is the witch.” Lisa gestures at the wizened old woman. “This is Ms. Magnus of the House of Magnus.” The door opens, and the tall, dark man steps in. “That is Ben Magnus, her nephew. Also of the House of Magnus.”
“A witch house,” Ms. Magnus adds brightly. “Fine, rich magical bloodlines run deep in my family. Have for millennia. Though I do like ‘bitch,’ too.”
I make a noise that might be a protest or just kind of a squawk. Now they’re all frowning in my direction. Lisa squints at me. “What exactly did you think this job was about?”
I sit down weakly in the chair across from the desk. “A card game?”
2
BEN
This is a bad idea. Most of my aunt’s ideas are bad ones, granted, but this ranks up there with the worst of them. I glare at the woman flipping through my aunt’s books as if they’re not precious spell tomes. She’s all wrong for the job.
This isn’t a card game. This is high-stakes magic, and it’s something she clearly doesn’t believe in. The moment my aunt mentioned she was a witch, that knowing smile came over the girl’s face. The “ah, I get it now” look that said she thought she was dealing with a senile person. The young woman applying for the job smiles at me, all bright teeth and guileless innocence, and . . . yeah. She’s a bad fit for this.
She’s freckled, for fuck’s sake. No one is going to take my aunt seriously with a sunny, smiling, freckled familiar.
So I grab Aunt Dru by the sleeve of her very ugly, very voluminous floral robe and pull her out of her study. Her pregnant familiar follows behind us, ever the loyal shadow. Once we’re far enough away that the job applicant can’t hear our conversation, I lean in toward my aunt. “Send her home. She’s all wrong.”
“Oh, Caliban, darling, she’s perfect for the job.” Aunt Dru reaches up and pats my cheek as if I’m a boy of five years instead of five hundred. “You’re just being overprotective.”
“I can’t take the time to train her,” I point out. “I’m busy.”
“Then I’ll train her,” Drusilla says, as if it’s the logical answer to everything. “I trained Lisa, and look at how wonderfully she turned out.”
My lip curls as I glance at the “wonderfully” trained Lisa. The freckled woman studiously pretends to examine her nails. “Didn’t she get herself pregnant through a misfired sex-magic spell?”
“Hey!” Lisa says, frowning.
Aunt Dru smacks me on my arm. “Caliban, we don’t talk about that. Be polite.”