“Guess Gunn’s done his research, and knows his sorcery.” Grace shrugs. “Look across cultures and religions from the beginning of time, and you’ll find seven as a source of mystical importance. Seven sacraments, seven sins, seven elements in some of the most secretive, powerful spells.” Grace drops her voice to a hum. “Back when the line between magic and reality was a lot more blurred, before this world started regarding sorcery with such fear and suspicion, magic was like a language among sorcerers. It was a thing to share, not a thing to hide. And for a long time, it was rumored that a worthy ring of seven sorcerers could unlock a magic within the magic. That seven was the key to strengthening gifts and surpassing weaknesses—and could even bend and flex the laws of magic itself.”
A magic within the magic. Never heard of the power of seven before, but after witnessing some of Mama’s dark spells, and how my prayers were answered in the clearing on the night she died, it doesn’t surprise me. I’ve got no doubt that magic’s possibilities are damn near limitless, for better or worse. “How’s Gunn going to pick his seven?”
“Don’t think he is.”
“What do you mean? Then who’s deciding?”
“I tried to mine Gunn’s mind, get some answers on our car ride here, but the man keeps his thoughts locked tight. But I was able to amplify some of his conversations in the car with his lackey, Dawson,” she whispers. “And I almost don’t believe what I heard, but I swear Gunn was talking about the importance of having the sorcerers choose themselves.”
Choose themselves—meaning the group of us chooses our strongest seven, instead of Gunn?
I want to crack open this conversation, push Grace a little more on all she knows, but Stock starts stirring across from her, his cot whining like a child in a tantrum. We grow quiet as he sits up, looks around. His eyes fall on the two of us, and he flashes me a smile that reminds me of his rodent manipulation last night.
“Aw, how precious. A little morning powwow. You lecturing New Girl on the wise ways of Dune family magic, Grace?” Stock reaches for his own pack of cigs. “Telling her all about the way you Dunes fuck cows to bring on the rain?” He laughs as he lights his smoke. “And shit in fields to make the sun come up a little earlier?”
“Eat it, Stock,” Grace mutters, but a horrible flush starts to crawl around her ears.
“The Dune family is known up here as a flock of strange, strange birds, New Girl,” Stock laughs. “Hate to cut off this budding friendship and all, but if you’re looking for some kind of sugar daddy, I suggest a real contender.” He blows a puff of smoke toward me. “Someone like me. I can take care of you. I’ll make sure you’ve got something warm and fuzzy to hold on to,” he says with a shit-eating grin. He wiggles his eyebrows. “That rat was just the beginning.”
“So you conjure a rat when you’re lonely at night?” I say slowly.
His smile falters a little bit. “That’s not what I meant.” He gives a sharp, forced laugh as he takes another drag to recover. “Your head’s completely empty inside that doll-face of yours, isn’t it?”
I take a deep breath, quite aware that Grace is watching, that others might be watching too. If she’s right, if everyone’s supposed to be judging and assessing everyone else’s strengths and weaknesses, and I don’t know how to use magic to earn their respect, I sure as hell better find an alternative.
“Do me a favor,” I tell Stock, slow and evenly, like I’m not somebody to mess with, like I’m someone like Gunn, “don’t speak to me, and don’t speak to Grace, until you’re ready to act like a gentleman.” I steal another breath before bringing it home. “I don’t care what a big man you think you are ’cause your daddy’s dying and you somehow stumbled into this chance. I can see right through you.” I let my eyes fall over him, from top to bottom, till I glance down at the front of his pants. I arch my eyebrow theatrically and take a chance. “And you’re small, Stock Harding. Limp.”
Stock’s face erupts red, and he instinctively puts his hand over his crotch. A few of the eavesdropping sorcerers around us start chuckling.
“You little bitch—”
“Uh, uh, uh.” I raise my finger, lean forward, feel the magic coursing through me that I don’t know what to do with, but whose heady hold emboldens me just the same. “Be a gentleman.”
I turn around and bury my gaze in my satchel, keep my shaking hands busy by grabbing a flask of water and towel to freshen up, as Grace does the same beside me. I hear Stock shift on his cot, like he’s going to move, maybe confront me, but then he stops, pauses, and mutters, “Psycho skirt.”
He launches off his mattress and stomps away as the laughter of the crowd gets a little louder, a few of them lobbing catcalls after him, “Temper, temper!” “That’s no way to be a gentleman!”
I can feel Grace’s stare as the heckling eventually fades. “Not necessarily the way I would’ve handled it.”
“Thought you said it was a bad idea to start slinging magic in here.” I keep my eyes on my satchel. “Thought we should save the magic for Gunn.”
“I did say that,” Grace says. There’s a smile in her voice. “You’re just ballsy, Joan Kendrick. And that ain’t a bad thing.”
I look up and mirror her smile, a wave of relief passing through me. “Well, you got my back last night, right? So I get yours this morning.”