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Magic isn't for sissies
WARNING: No good comes from a book with magic, mayhem,
theft, murder, sass talk, demons, animals committing felonies, gleeful revenge,
and bad things happening to good people for no particular reason. This story
won’t encourage good habits and probably fine tune bad ones. The only lesson learned
is don’t lie until you know the rules.
Life in New Jersey is tough in the Great Depression, but teenager
Peter Whistler has an exceptional ability to lie. He hones his talent,
convinced it’s the ticket to easy fortune. He certainly doesn’t foresee the
arrival of a murderous conjuror with mysterious designs on a little blind girl
named Esther. Drawn into a nefarious plot to unleash a demon, Peter leads
Esther and an enchanted terrier on a desperate escape to New Orleans and meets Amelie
Marchand. Like all well-bred Louisiana gals she’s trained in deadly martial
arts, but with a murderous stepmother, Amelie has troubles of her own. Peter
and Amelie’s one chance for survival is to head deep into the bayou and seek
help from a mad shaman known as the Frog King.
Welcome to an alternate 1930s where both jazz and magic fill
New Orleans’ air. Can a little luck, mystical lies, and a dash of Cajun crazy
help Peter harness the power to kill an immortal demon? If not, the Depression
will be a picnic by comparison when hell arrives on Earth.
Excerpt
The Grimaldis knew the truth about Pike. He drove
their car, so they must be involved in his scheme. A little snooping to
discover the truth, and then Mrs. Hart could get on the horn to the Feds. I
imagined a squad of G-men storming Grimaldi’s Market and then Nico and
Carlotta’s faces peering morosely out the back of a paddy wagon as it drove
through town. Maybe I could even convince the coppers to stop for Chauncey.
The unlit streets were deserted as I made my way to
the Grimaldi’s house. The black roadster was parked outside the garage. A light
shone in a downstairs window, so I snuck across the lawn and peeked in.
Pike sat at the kitchen table; fingers clasped
placidly in front, not a glowing eyeball in sight. I gave myself a mental kick
in the pants for being such a dope.
The Grimaldis huddled over a piece of paper. Mr.
Grimaldi looked up and cleared his throat. “Everything is in order. The
carriage house suited you?”
Pike slid an envelope stuffed with cash across the
tabletop. “Yes. It was private and exactly as described. We have a deal.”
Mrs. Grimaldi snatched at the bills with undisguised
greed. “We wouldn’t do this, you understand, but the Feds raided all the local
speakeasies. Our best clients shut down. Times are tough.”
Mr. Grimaldi scrawled a signature on the paper and
handed the pen to his wife. She added hers, and then Pike tucked the paper in
his pocket. “You needn’t be concerned about the girl.”
My ears pricked up. Girl? What girl? If Pike meant
Mrs. Hart, the doctor needed to get his own eyes checked.
Mr. Grimaldi shifted in his seat, a flush tinting his
fat cheeks. “People might get the wrong impression if the arrangement is
discovered. You understand—they don’t realize our actions are for her own
good.”
I sucked in my breath. Mr. Grimaldi lied big time.
“Don’t worry. No one will ever find out.” Pike’s voice
was as cold as midwinter ice.
A teensy doubt jabbed at my mind that all this had to
do with gangsters, but I brushed it roughly away. Pike and the Grimaldis rose
from the table. I darted from the window and ducked behind a tree right before
the kitchen door opened.
Mrs. Grimaldi beamed at Pike. “If you need anything
else, don’t hesitate to stop by.”
The dark man set the fedora on his head and snapped
the brim over his eyes. “I’m quite satisfied. You won’t see me again.”
True.
For some reason, the truth shook me more than a lie. Mr.
Grimaldi closed the door, but Pike remained on the stoop. The kitchen went dark
and then a light switched on in an upstairs bedroom window.
I peered from behind the tree. Why did Pike wait? To
rob the joint after they fell asleep? If so, I had no plan to stop him. I had half
a mind to help.
The bedroom light flicked off and the yard went pitch
black. One second…two seconds…three seconds…A yellow beam danced across the door, and my throat
nearly closed in terror.
That was no flashlight.
The ray from Pike’s eyes narrowed and focused
pencil-thin. The smell of burning wood drifted across the lawn as he etched a
smoldering hieroglyphic of a flame in the middle of the door. The outline of
glowing embers flared and then snuffed out. Pike stepped back from the stoop.
He paused for a moment as if to admire his handiwork and then sprinted down the
alley.
Heart thumping, I darted to the door. My fingers stroked
the spot where I last saw the little flame. The wood was still warm.
I snatched back my hand. The wood now blazed hot, more
scorching by the second. The glowing outline flared to life again. A spark shot
out, soared overhead, and landed near the chimney. Patches of shingles exploded
in flames.
A long thin spark slithered from the symbol, a fiery
snake writhing toward the keyhole. Without thinking, I reached to sweep it away
only to jerk my fingers from the scalding heat. The spark slid into the
opening. With a roar, a curtain of fire engulfed the downstairs windows.
In a panic, I banged on the door. “Wake up! The house
is on fire!”
A thick choking cloud of smoke billowed under the
doorframe, and I staggered back in a coughing fit. In a blink, the first floor
was an inferno. How did the fire spread so fast? Mrs. Grimaldi’s terrified
screams cut through the crackling fusillade of flames.
Blistering heat drove me across the yard. The
panic-stricken face of Nico Grimaldi appeared at the bedroom window struggling
to open the sash.
Crrrack.
The wooden supports inside the house splintered and
gave way. Mr. Grimaldi vanished in a thunderous crash as the second floor
collapsed on the first. His wife’s screams cut off.
Multiple sirens wailed in the distance. I stumbled
down the alley as hot cinders rained from above. Embers lit on my clothing, and
I slapped them away. The Grimaldi house was now a nightmare of hellfire. I
flinched as all the outside walls caved in with a deafening roar.
The first of the fire trucks screeched around the
corner. Cops would surely follow asking questions I couldn’t answer. As I ran
across the street, the glare of a headlight caught me for an instant.
Tires squealed, and a man yelled, "You there, stop!"
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*Stephanie West (PNR & SFR)
