Bedtime Story (31 page)

And what about magic?

Sitting down at my desk, I punched “Matthew Corvin” into the Google entry field and pressed Search. Google spat back more than half a million results for the name. When I added the word “Seattle,” the first entry brought a chill to my forearms: The Matthew Corvin Foundation.

I clicked on the link. The home page had several photos: a gala dinner, a crowd of children in front of a bus, a doctor in a laboratory, an operating room.

My hand was shaking as I clicked through to the Mission Statement.

“The Matthew Corvin Foundation is a charitable trust devoted to those suffering from brain injuries and related disorders. With a twofold approach, the Foundation provides support for ongoing research into the causes and treatment of mental disorders, and for those suffering with those and related conditions.”

I clicked through to the History page.

“The Matthew Corvin Foundation was established in 1985 as a means to provide funding for both research into brain injuries and support for those living with such injuries. The Foundation was established by Carol and Brett Corvin, and was named for their son Matthew, who suffered a debilitating brain injury at age 13.”

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, as an electrical jolt ran through me.

I scrolled down the page: there was a photo of Matthew Corvin with his parents. He looked about twelve years old, and was smiling directly into the camera. It felt like he was staring right at me, daring me.

It couldn’t be. There had to be dozens of Matthew Corvins …

But what if it wasn’t a coincidence?

Only one way to find out.

I clicked on the Contact Us button and took a deep breath. I had to be careful. I just needed information. I was just a reporter, looking for a story.

It took a long time to write the short note.

When I was done, I drove downtown to the parkade next to city hall. It was less than a block from there to the red, dragon-adorned gates that marked the entrance to Chinatown. I skirted the Chinese day-school and bounced anxiously on the balls of my feet as I waited for the light.

Hurrying along the narrow sidewalk, I dodged the slow-moving crowds, avoiding the bins of vegetables and cheap toys for sale that spilled almost to the edge of the street. I nearly missed the entrance to Fan Tan Alley—I usually did. It was easy to miss.

“The narrowest street in Canada” looked like little more than a doorway; in fact, it was a narrow corridor between two buildings, joining Pandora and Fisgard, lined with small shops on both sides, although it wasn’t even wide enough for two people to walk along it side by side.

Though people did try.

I ended up stuck behind a pair of ambling tourists, Americans by the sound of their accents, as they cooed over “the old world charm” of the alley. I waited behind them for what seemed like hours before saying “Excuse me” in as clipped a tone as I could manage and pushing past them, narrowly avoiding the man’s dripping ice cream cone.

I stopped in front of a glass door backed with a red silk curtain, which bore a sign in ornate, faux-Renaissance lettering: A
LCHEMY:
A P
LACE OF
M
AGICKAL
L
IVING
. A smaller sign, on a piece of tan paper taped to the inside of the glass, read C
ONSULTATIONS WITH
M
ME
S
ARAH
. D
AILY
. P
LEASE INQUIRE
.

I’d exhausted all of the Took resources online: Alchemy seemed like a reasonable next step.

A small chime tinkled as I opened the door. The air was heavy with incense, musky and sweet. The small shop was crammed: bins and jars of incense, statuettes, crystal balls, a display of tarot cards. I was the only customer in the store.

Back when we still spent family afternoons exploring the nooks and crannies downtown, the three of us had ended up here several times. David loved the dragon statues, and Jacqui always found a way to fill the time at the jewellery display at the counter. I, naturally, spent my time with the books.

I went straight to the bookshelf on the side wall. There were none of the cheesy paperback occult tomes that one might expect for the tourist trade, no exposés, no horror stories: the books, like the shop, were a resource for the practising Wiccan—the unofficial faith of the city—and those with a serious interest in magic.

I started at the upper left corner. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but if it was anywhere, it would be here.

“Can I help you?”

Startled, I turned toward the soft voice.

“I’m sorry,” said a tall, striking woman with thick, curly red hair that fell past her shoulders, beads and crystals woven into small braids throughout. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” She smiled enigmatically. “Is there something I can help you find?” Too angular to be called pretty, she was probably in her forties, but her green eyes looked younger.

“Answers,” I said, smiling back.

“I hear that a lot. Is there anything in particular?”

“Yes,” I said haltingly. “But I’m not quite sure what the question is.”

She nodded sagely, a gesture that didn’t seem at all affected. “I hear that a lot, too. Do you think it’s something that might benefit from a consultation with Madame Sarah?”

It hadn’t occurred to me before she mentioned it. “Maybe,” I said. “Is she here?”

“Right in front of you,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“You’re—”

“Madame Sarah,” she said, extending her hand.

“Sorry.” I took her hand and shook it. “I guess I was expecting—”

“You were expecting a gypsy, maybe?” she said, putting on an accent. “Lots of scarves, kerchief, long fingernails?”

I looked at her, dressed in a plain, cream-coloured peasant blouse, faded blue jeans, with bare feet. “Something like that.”

“Or,” she said, reading my reluctance correctly, “I could start off by helping you find a book or two.” She smiled again as she let me off the hook. “What are you looking for?”

“History, actually. Twentieth-century stuff. Occult orders in the U.K. in the first half of the century. Do you have anything that gets into that?”

“Well, our magical history books are down here. There’s not much on the twentieth century, though. Hermetic Egypt we’ve got loads on.” She smiled. “The twentieth century, less so. And I’m getting the sense that you’re looking for a bit more than Aleister Crowley and ‘do what thou wilt’ …” I nodded. “I don’t think I’ve got any books here that are going to help you with that,” she said. “But you could talk to my mother.”

“Your mother?”

Sarah nodded. “It’s her shop. She trained me, like her mother trained her.” More than retail skills, I assumed. “She’s the one you should talk to if you’re interested in magical history.”

Any little bit of information, anything at all.

“Could I?” I asked. “I mean, if it’s not too much of an imposition.”

“Hang on, I’ll check.” She stepped to the cash desk and opened the small door behind it. “Mum, are you busy?” she called, traces of an English accent surfacing. “Got a man out here who’d like to talk to you.”

I couldn’t hear any response from the backroom, but Sarah nodded and waved me over. “We were just having tea,” she said, as she led me through.

David half walked, half stumbled the few steps to the fire, supported by the magus. Although the old man looked fragile, his body was sinewy and strong.

Captain Bream drew a heavy blanket from one of the packs. “You should get out of those clothes.”

David nodded. Every few moments another wave of shivering racked his body, started his teeth rattling inside his mouth.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling the cold fabric away from his skin, struggling to get it over his head, and it came off with a wet suck. His fingers were too stiff and thick to easily manage the hook on his pants, but eventually they came free and he pushed out of them like a snake shedding an old skin. He wasn’t wearing anything under them, and he tried not to look down at the strange body he was inside, the muscles, the hair.

The hair?

This is worse than gym class
, Matt muttered inside his head, but David was too cold to care.

He wrapped himself in the blanket. It was rough, and smelled of horse and smoke, but it was warm, and he crumpled to the hard ground at the edge of the fire, as close as he could get to the flames without getting burned.

“We’re heating some wine for you,” the magus said, concern heavy in his face. “To build back your strength.”

I guess they’ve never heard of hot chocolate, David thought. He was shocked to hear Matt laugh.

You can hear what I think?
David asked silently, lowering his eyes to the flames.

Apparently
, Matt said.

The fire leapt and crackled, the colours dancing hypnotically.

What happened back there? In the cave?
David asked.

You took me inside of you. All of you?

There wasn’t much left
.

Like your soul?
David didn’t know much about church, but he had a certain sense of how a soul worked: like a personality, or a spirit.

I don’t know
, Matt confessed.
Whatever was left after the Sunstone…

What …?
David began, then stopped, not sure of how he should ask.

But Matt had already understood the question forming in his mind.
The others in the cave? I can only guess. The water … They might still be there, but you taking the Stone might have released them. Maybe they’re floating around somewhere …

David felt a cold sadness, even as his muscles and bones warmed with the fire.

“How are you doing?” the magus asked.

David looked up. “Getting warmer,” he said slowly.

“Here,” the magus said. He extended his hand, holding a cup. “Be careful. It’s hot.”

David took the cup gingerly, the scent of the wine and spices in
the steam strange and unpleasant. “Thank you,” he said, holding it carefully to his chest, trying not to inhale. The smell made him want to throw up.

“Drink up,” the magus urged. David caught the sympathy and warning in his voice. “You’re going to need your strength.”

David heard the crunching of stones under boots on his other side.

“How are you faring?” Captain Bream asked.

“Better,” he managed. He took a careful sip of the wine, trying not to gag.

“Good.” The captain nodded.

He surprised David by hunkering down next to him. “Then maybe you can tell us what happened after you crossed the bridge. And about this—” He set the silver cylinder down in front of them.

I don’t know what I might have expected the backroom of a magic shop to look like, but it certainly wasn’t the bright, modern kitchen that Sarah led me into. And Sarah’s mother certainly didn’t conform to any idea I might have had of an older witch: she looked like a fairy-tale grandmother, down to the chubby, rosy cheeks and the floral dress, more likely to offer you a cookie than to bake pies out of children.

“Mom,” Sarah said. “This is …”

I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Chris. Chris Knox.”

“And this is my mother, Nora.”

She didn’t so much shake my hand as clasp it warmly between hers, smiling broadly. “Lovely to meet you, Chris. Please—” Releasing my hand, she gestured at the empty chairs. “Have a seat. Sarah and I were about to have tea. Can I get you a cup?”

I nodded, but Sarah was already on her way to the kettle.

Sitting herself back down in her chair, Nora pushed a plate toward me. “You’ll have a cookie?”

I couldn’t help but smile.

I was surprised when Sarah sat with us.

“We’ll hear the bell if anyone comes in,” she explained.

“Ah.”

“Mum, Chris is looking for some information about magical orders in England, especially in the ’30s and ’40s. Aleister Crowley and them.”

“Not Crowley,” I hurried to clarify. “But people who had been affiliated with Crowley—”

“Fellow travellers,” Sarah said.

“—who then went off to form orders of their own.”

“It sounds like you have someone particular in mind,” Nora said, before biting into a cookie.