“It’s Ben, Auntie, and I think we should.” I straighten, glaring at Lisa. “If she’d been better trained, perhaps you wouldn’t be looking for a new assistant.”
Lisa glares at me, all belly and outrage, but I don’t care. I’m not going to mince words to spare her feelings. My aunt is in dire need of a familiar, and it’s clear to me that once again, I’m going to have to step in and clean up the mess that follows in Dru’s wake. “Send her away, Aunt Dru. We’ll petition the Society of Familiars and see if they can send you a temporary assistant.”
“Forget the society,” Dru says, patting my arm. “I like this young lady. She’ll do nicely. And I need an assistant, pronto-haste.”
“Posthaste,” I correct. “And I don’t care if you like her.”
“Well it’s not as if you’re swimming in assistants, either, Caliban.” My aunt puts her hands on her hips. “So I can’t borrow yours.”
My nostrils flare, and I fight back the urge to lose my temper. My . . . inability to keep an assistant is a sore spot I’d prefer not to poke at right now. “Send her away.”
“No.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering if there’s a potion I can make for the throbbing migraine building behind my eyes. “You know how this is going to turn out, Aunt Dru. Do you remember Benedict?”
“Benedict . . . Benedict . . .” My aunt flutters her lashes and pretends ignorance. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“The Puritan? The one you recruited because you liked his smile? He drove you out of Salem.”
“Well, maybe I was tired of Salem,” Aunt Dru says defensively. She lifts her small chin defiantly. “You don’t know for sure, Caliban. Maybe I was just tired of wearing black and white.”
“Ben,” I say again. The name “Caliban” is as dated as my aunt’s spells. “Let me remind you how this is going to turn out, then.” I jab a finger at the door to my aunt’s study. “That woman is going to take the job, because she’s desperate. She reeks of it. You’re going to bring her in. You’re going to show her things that are going to blow her mortal mind, and she’s going to flip her lid. She’s going to run off and tell the world about what she saw, and the other houses are going to panic. We’re going to have every witch and warlock on the East Coast in our hair, and all because you can’t wait a few weeks to get a professional!”
My aunt scowls up at me, her mouth tight. “You’re yelling, Caliban—”
“BEN!” I roar. “It’s been Ben since 1807!”
“Ben is not a good Roman name,” Aunt Dru says with a sniff, dismissing everything I’ve said. She puts a small, wrinkled hand on my sleeve. “And I do hear your concerns, darling. I do. But they’re easily fixed.”
“How?” I ask flatly.
“What about a spell?” she asks.
Behind her, Lisa snaps her fingers. “Or a nondisclosure.”
“Perfect,” Aunt Dru continues. “A nondisclosure spell.”
“Actually I meant a contract,” Lisa interrupts. “A nondisclosure agreement. All the big businesses use them nowadays.”
“Spell, contract, same thing.” Aunt Dru shrugs and then pats my arm again. “It’ll be taken care of, Caliban dear. Now if you don’t mind, I need to put my hair in curlers. Julia the Younger went to an antique sale this weekend and found the ugliest vase shaped like a chicken. She wants me to come see it for myself.”
“We’re not done here,” I say wearily. “Nothing’s been decided.”
“It’s been decided,” Aunt Dru says breezily. “I like this girl. I’m hiring her.”
When my aunt is like this, she’s impossible. No wonder Chicago burned in 1871. She was too stubborn to put out her fire spell then, and she’s too stubborn to get rid of the girl waiting in her study now. I scowl, thinking about the applicant. Her big, easy smile. Her confusion as Dru mentioned actual spellcraft.
Her freckles.
This is a fight I’m not going to win, and I have places to be tonight. I have to catch a flight to Boston for the meeting of my warlock order, and attendance is mandatory. If I had a familiar, I’d just send him, but . . . I rub a hand down my face in frustration. “Give her a week trial,” I say, deciding to try to compromise with my aunt. “Teach her nothing important, nothing urgent. See if she has what it takes. If she fucks up, cast a memory-clearing spell or curse her. I don’t care which. Just make it stick, and send her on her way. When I get back from Boston, I’ll help you find a real familiar. All right?”
“You’re so very thoughtful, Caliban.” My aunt winks at me as if I’m not on the verge of losing my temper. “Always looking out for your dear old auntie.” She pats her hair. “Now I really do have to get my curlers. Lisa—”
“Coming,” Lisa says, waddling after my aunt.
My jaw flexes. I watch the two women depart, and I can’t shake the feeling that this is a mistake. This is idiocy. You never hire off the street for a familiar. Never. Even the greenest warlock knows that. I can only imagine the shit I’m going to get at the annual weeklong warlock meeting that starts this weekend, and I run my hand down my face again. When I look up, the door to my aunt’s study is open. The girl stands in the doorway, frowning at me.
“Did . . . did she leave? Is the job interview done?”
“Yes,” I snap, storming past her and heading for the stairs. “You didn’t get the job.”
REGGIE
What a diiiick.
I stare after him as he heads away. There was no need for him to be ugly like that; there really wasn’t. I fight back the crushing disappointment at another job slipping through my fingers and turn back toward the small, cluttered office I’ve been left in. There’s a stack of books on one corner of the desk, and while I should probably get going, the neat freak in me won’t let me leave without trying to tidy things a little. So I go through the books, trying to alphabetize them, but when that proves futile because I can’t read the writing, I organize them by color and size. I dust a little and line up the jars on the shelf, making sure they’re all label out and alphabetized as well.
As I do, the door opens again and I jump. “Oh, I’m sorry—”
The small, sprightly woman in the garish robe now has an absolute mountain of haphazard curlers in her white hair. She beams at me, all apple cheeks and wrinkles. “Already getting started, I see?”
I hesitate, my hands going behind my back so I don’t move forward and straighten a curler about to slide down her forehead. “I thought I didn’t get the job? The gentleman said—”
The elderly woman titters, waving a hand before thumping into the nearest seat. “That was my nephew, Caliban. He is most definitely not a gentleman. And he’s just grouchy. I think all warlocks are, at heart.”
Right. This magic stuff again. I eye my surroundings. The first time they threw up the whole “magic” word, I immediately wanted to leave. People that think they’re truly casting magic? That’s insanity, and all the trappings here just feed into it. But as I straightened up the room, I realized how disappointed I was that I didn’t get the job. The money sounds amazing. Life changing. I realized I didn’t care if they were a little deluded about magic being real. There are people that dress up like Victorians and live their lives, right? There are people that think they’re vampires. I can go along with some Gandalf crap for twenty-five grand a freaking month. So when the older lady waves a hand in the air, I feel a stirring of hope again.
“So I’m still in the running for the job?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can have the job,” Ms. Magnus declares. “Unless you’re diabetic. Wouldn’t want you passing out all the time. Or anemic.”
Er, okay. I’m pretty sure diabetics don’t just drop in the streets, so I’m not sure why she thinks they’d pass out all the time. I chalk it up to more kookiness. “So . . . when do I start?”
“When can you move in?”
My eyebrows go up. I hadn’t considered that part of the job. “Oh, am I moving in?”
“How are you going to assist me if you don’t?” She looks confused. “On that World Wide Web thing?”