I’m out of cigarettes. Normally, that wouldn’t really be a problem for me, but there’s a bad taste in the air. Something magical, something that none of the others seem to notice. It’s in the air, and I know it’s something involving magic. I prefer the taste of nicotine. Whenever I bring up this taste, Witt tells me that while smoking can definitely work, but there’s also a hundred and one spells that I can use to not smell like I just bathed in an ashtray. I tell him that people at work might get suspicious if their neighborhood nicotine addict stopped smelling like he just fucked an ashtray. He never has a counter argument. I wish he did, then we’d have something to fight about. We never fight like we used to, back in Harverbrook. Jack tells me about the spells, too, but I tell him that once he trains his venus everythingtrap to not eat pigeons, then I’ll consider not smelling like cigarettes.
I fucking hate the taste on my tongue, and I know it isn’t nicotine withdrawal, I have spells to get over that. I only ever rarely taste this, but it throws me off every time. Debs said that she tasted the same thing, but doesn’t want to run a spell to test if we’re testing the same thing. Mainly because that spell requires the two of us to kiss. She has nothing against spells that involve a kiss, most magicians don’t, I’ve seen her kiss both Jack and Grace before. It’s just that I taste like an ashtray. Or so I’ve been told. Personally, I think I taste amazing. There’s spells that clear that up, even charmed mints that make your mouth taste purely like peppermint. I know because Grace and Witt have shared some before, trading by tongue. (They still make out like teenagers. I’m told I kiss like I’m in a French film.) (I think I win by classiness.)
I walk into my favorite convenience store, Wang’s Convenience Store (Groundbreaking names, I know.) and take a quick look around. I get good things here when I’m the only customer. Seeing that it’s only me and Wang, I go through the isles and stand in front of the Chinese man. Wang wears khaki pants, a red shirt, and a black apron. He stares right through me for a few seconds, before he smiles. “Welcome, valued customer! Oh, Waller, hello.” The smile fades. Wang must have been on break. “Two packs, Camels?” He asks. They’re my default when there’s other customers.
I do a quarter turn so Wang can see the rest of the store. He looks around, and I do a quarter turn back to him. He straightens his back, squares his shoulders, and unties the strap behind his back, letting the front of the apron fall, showing the hole in his shirt, and revealing the gnome inside. “Wot’ll you be in liking, ye?” He asks, in a thick gnome accent. I have no idea where gnomes are from. Gnomes have no idea where gnomes are from. The only thing anyone knows about gnomes is that their accent is passed on genetically.
“Pixie Ash.” I say. That’s my default when I’m in here alone. It’s not made out of Pixies, and it’s certainly not made out of their ashes, it’s just a sprinkle of Pixie dust in the cigarettes. Technically speaking, it’s a girl brand, but I’ve gotten in enough fights (physical ones) that I think I can safely even it out with Pixie dust. It’s a sort of high you get from it, it makes you tingle but your brain stays in place. It gets your magic high, like your soul is wobbling around inside of you, but you don’t stumble and fall like what other drugs do.
“Right’n, would ye be liking one er two packs, meester Waller?” I’ve grown used to the gnome accent, I understand it perfectly. The basics, up until he strikes up conversation. But gnomes don’t usually do that. Which is why I like this place.
Wang walks off to the back room, he never keeps magic cigarettes up front. He also has stickers for the different brands, to slap onto the magic packs, to keep them hidden, but I never pay the extra five cents. If anyone ever asks, I just say that it’s imported. Then they stop thinking I’m addicted to nicotine, and instead think that I have a nicotine addiction to an expensive brand. But really, they’re the same price as everything else. It’s the cigars that empty your wallet.
With Wang gone, I take my wallet out, and put some cash on the counter. I look behind me as the door to the store opens, and I knock on the counter three times. It’s good form to give Wang a warning when someone else walks in. I’d also get blacklisted if I didn’t help out.
The new customer’s some girl with black hair, with a bright red handkerchief around her neck. Her crummy clothes are splattered with paint. I turn away before I grimace, tasting that foul flavor again. Some sort of black magic, I know that much. Maybe Jack and the others really do taste it, they’ve just grown used to it. Maybe that’s my superpower, I’m so used to the taste of nicotine that I recognize even worse flavors much more quickly.
She comes up to the register, leaning against it like I am. She smells like paint and smoke. I don’t know how my nose is so strong after how much I smoke. Oh wait, yes I do, it’s magic. She looks at me occasionally, more than occasionally, and I wonder what’s taking Wang so long. He’s fast with getting cigarettes, usually, but he fumbles with tying his apron. It’s glued to his fake body, but tying the top part is difficult. Or so I’ve been told.
Wang finally comes back, right before it looks like she’s actually going to speak. That’s good, I don’t like meeting new people. My friends and coworkers are enough as is. He sets the packs of Pixie Ash onto the counter, and gets me my change. Maybe I’ll use it for some jerky for breakfast. I love this convenience store, but Wang charges more for jerky. Once Wang sees the girl with paint on her, he lets out a sigh, and undoes the tie for his apron, showing the real him again. “Hello, meeses Broder, wot’ll you be in liking?”
At once, the two of us figure out that the other’s a magician. The black magic taste isn’t from her, I know that much. I put the packs away in my jacket.
“Phoenix Cinder.” Broder says. “One pack.” That brand is just some ashes from a phoenix mixed into the nicotine. Burns your lungs, but they’re sort of the same as Pixie Ash. I used to be on them, until I realized that Pixie Ash gave you the same buzz.
When Wang walks off, she takes a few crumpled bills out of her pocket, and sets them on the counter, counting them to be sure, before looking at me again, extending a hand out to me. “Kelly Broder, Meggerstonne.” Meggerstonne is another school of magic.
“Mackenzie Waller,” I say, taking her hand. It doesn’t have paint on it, so I’m guessing she paints with gloves on. “Harverbrook.” I don’t know why magicians greet each other like this, it’s not like we’re in the 1800s, where the schools you went to determined where you were in society.
She smiles, and takes her hand back. “So. Pixie Ash?”
“They’re a chick brand, but they give a good high.”
“Hey, nothing’s wrong with chick brands. Phoenix Cinder feels better, though.”
“You mean that feeling that you’re setting on fire from the inside? Oh, yeah, I love that feeling, can’t get enough of it.”
She looks my age, maybe a little younger. There used to be high hopes for our generation of mages, but that concept was abandoned when we all took up doing what small jobs we wanted to do. Turns out, when you won’t shut up about how important someone is, they’re awfully tempted to do nothing, just to spite you. Just multiply that number of asshole teenagers by a thousand and you get a good idea of how fucked the wizarding world is.
I walk out eventually, and she follows after she gets her own cigarettes. We walk off into the alley next to the store, and I put a cigarette between my lips, lighting it with my wand. Really, my smoking habit is the only reason why I’m so used to pyromancy. I can light a cigarette a thousand different ways, I just need my wand present, or an open flame. If I bothered to learn sorcery, I’d be able to light a cigarette plenty more ways. But I’ll be damned if I ask Witt to show me how.
Kelly pats herself down, looking for either her wand or lighter, with an unlit cigarette between her lips. Despite being highly amusing for me to see some chick rooting through her pockets in an alley, I keep my wand out, instead of tucking it back into my sleeve. When I move closer, she looks up, angling the cigarette with her lips as I move my wand. With a simple tap on the end of it, a puff of a red flame comes off of the cigarette. That’s another reason why I don’t like Phoenix Cinder, the initial lighting of a cigarette always has that red puff. And, depending on how well that cigarette was made, it could explode in your face. My face was dark gray for a whole hour, I had to scrub my face clean since Witt was laughing too hard to help me out with a cleaning spell. (Never cast cleaning spells on yourself if your proficiency is pyromancy, I made an eyebrow disappear one time.) (I still have a cleft in one, residual effect.) My wand’s black. It used to be a light oak in color, then it became charred. Whoops.
I exhale the smoke through my nose, and make my wand disappear up my sleeve. Haven’t smoked with anyone outside of work for a while, so this is a little different. I lean against one wall, Kelly leans against the other. We’re directly across from each other, smoking in the alley. I can already feel my magic starting to wobble. It’s like being in a stream, but you can’t feel how wet the water is, just the current. Usually, the stream isn’t moving, the Pixie Ash keeps it moving. I no longer taste the black magic.
“Alteration and illusion,” she says, before going back to smoking, keeping her eyes on me. She has black eyeshadow, bringing out her blue eyes. Mine are brown, a real dark brown.
After a long drag, and an even longer exhale, I answer “Dueling and pyromancy.” Really, pyromancy should be first, I haven’t fought another magician in forever. Haven’t even punched anyone in a good month. I’d still kick Witt’s ass, though. I would, except he could cast something on my fist and make it weigh more than gold. His magic works fast, he doesn’t even need to use actual spells at this point. Jackass.
“You look the type.” She says, in the nicest way possible. “I mean, not that you look like a thug or anything,”
“No, I got it.” I tell her. “I get that a lot.” With the cleft on my lip, and the cleft in my eyebrow, most people assume that immediately. I’d heal those up, or have Jack heal it, but I like how people are scared of me just by seeing me. I get a sick kick out of it. Kelly doesn’t seem phased. I like that, too. “You look like you were on the losing end of a paintball match.”
She laughs. Still got it. “No, just the aftermath of painting. My clothes are easier to wipe on than rags.”
I nod. “What do you paint?”
“Anything. It’s just fun to do. And a good excuse to use magic.” She sort of reminds me of Witt. The magic usage, at least. He uses magic for anything. Opening bottles, locking and unlocking doors, putting out my cigarettes from across the room (asshole), and flicking light switches. But then again, I use magic to light cigarettes. I don’t think I’ve used my lighter in forever. But then again, the lighter’s so imprinted with my magic that I can probably use it as good as I use my wand. As long as it’s for pyromancy.
Grace has told me that I have ‘dead eyes’. The type of look that doesn’t give off emotion or much feeling. Some people like it, some people find it unnerving. Kelly’s eyes are attentive, focused on mine. I don’t know why I’m focusing on her eyes. Maybe because we’re keeping eye contact while we smoke. I take my cigarette away, opening my mouth to speak, before I taste the black magic again. Something’s wrong, it’s getting stronger. At this point, I should be feeling a magic disturbance, from how strong the flavor is. Maybe it’s the Pixie Ash keeping my magic moving that keeps me from feeling it. I should tell Jack. Gargle some mouthwash, brush my teeth, give him a kiss to let him know what it tastes like, see if he can pull off his pathfinding to the source. But not right now. I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth to ignore the flavor, and I open my mouth again. But she’s already speaking.
“So what do you do?” She asks.
“I load trucks for an office supply store.” I tell her.
“Oh. Do magic office supplies exist?”
I think back to when Witt fought a troll with a magic stapler. I hate his sorcery, he can turn any random bullshit into a magical tool. “Depends on where you look, but I’m sure they do.”
She nods, and takes another drag. I wonder if she can taste that black magic, too. I’m not going to ask, because typically you have to pull off a kissing spell to check if two people are tasting the same thing. And even then, we’re smoking, so we’d be tasting Pixie dust and the ashes of a phoenix. She coughs a few times, but tries not to. Must be the Phoenix Cinder burning her lungs, because black smoke leaves her lips. “That’d be-” she coughs. “That’d be cool, a magic fountain pen.” It could be, I just don’t know how. I picture Witt waving around a fountain pen, casting spells. Then I picture on fire. That makes me smile. My smile makes her smile.
“I guess it would.” I say. I still don’t know how, but I say it anyways.
I finally put out my cigarette with my heel. I wear boots, I don’t know why Witt wears loafers all the damn time. Boots are practical. I can kick someone’s ass with boots, I can walk anywhere with boots. Loafers make you look like an asshole. At least, it makes Witt look like an asshole. She does the same, with her Doc Martens. They look better than my boots, even with paint on them. “Want my number?” She asks. I need to find out where I put my mobile.
“Couldn’t hurt.” I say. She takes a Sharpie out of nowhere, and walks up to me. I give her my palm, and she writes it down.
