“I want to talk about what’s going on with Speedy Mart.”
The caller was male. He talked a little too fast, a little too hushed, like he kept looking over his shoulder. One of the paranoid ones.
“Excuse me?” I said. “What does a convenience-store chain have to do with magic?”
“There’s a pattern. If you mark them all on a map, then cross-reference with violent crimes, like armed robbery, there’s an overlap.”
“It’s a twenty-four-hour convenience store. Places like that get robbed all the time. Of course there’s a correspondence.”
“No—there’s more. You overlay all that on a map of ley lines, and bingo.”
“Bingo?”
“They match,” the caller said, and I wondered what I was missing. “Every Speedy Mart franchise is built on the intersection of ley lines.”
“Okay. That’s spooky. If anyone could agree on whether ley lines exist, or what they are.”
“What do you mean, whether they exist!” He sounded off
ended and put out.
“I mean there’s no quantitative data about ley lines that anyone can agree on.”
“How can you be such a skeptic? I thought this was supposed to be a show about how magic is real.”
“This is supposed to be a show about how to tell the real thing from the fakes. I’m going to say ‘prove it’ every time someone lays one on me.”
“Yeah, well, check out my website, and you’ll find everything you need to know. It’s w-w-w dot—” I totally cut him off.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, long overdue for a rant. “People are always saying that to me, how can I be a skeptic? How can I possibly be a skeptic given what I am? Given how much I know about what’s really out there, how can I turn my nose up at every half-baked belief that crosses my desk? Really, it’s easy, because so many of them are half-baked. They’re formulated by people who don’t know what they’re talking about, or by people trying to con other people and make a few bucks. The fact that some of this is real makes it even more important to be on our guard, to be that much more skeptical, so we can separate truth and fiction. Blind faith is still blind, and I try not to be.”
“Houdini,” Professor Olafson said. I’d almost forgotten about him, despite his occasional commentary.
“Houdini?”
“Harry Houdini. He’s a good example of what you’re talking about,” he said. “He was famous for debunking spiritualists, for proving that a lot of the old table-rapping routine and séances were simple sleight-of-hand magic tricks. What many people forget is that he really wanted to believe. He was searching for someone who could help him communicate with his dead mother. Lots of spiritualists tried to convince him that they’d contacted his mother, but he debunked every one of them. The fakery didn’t infuriate him so much as the way the fakers preyed on people’s faith, their willingness to believe.”
“Then he may be one of my heroes. Thanks for that tidbit.”
“Another tidbit you might like: He vowed that after he died, he would try to send a message back to the living, if such a thing was possible.”
I loved that little chill I got when I heard a story like this. “Has he? Has anyone gotten a message?”
“No—and lots of people have tried.”
“Okay, let’s file that one away for future projects. Once again, thank you for joining us this evening, Professor Olafson.”
“It was definitely interesting.”
So was his tone of voice. I couldn’t tell if he loved it or hated it. Another question to file away.
Matt and I wrapped up the show. I sat back, listened to the credits ramble on, with my recorded wolf howl in the background. Soon I’d have to go back outside, back to the real world, and back to my own little curse, which I didn’t have any trouble believing in.
New Moon stayed open late on Friday nights, just for me.
Restaurant reviews describe New Moon as a funky downtown watering hole that features live music on occasion, plays host to an interesting mix of people, and has a menu with more meat items than one might expect in this health-conscious day and age. All in all, thumbs up. What the reviews don’t say is that it’s a haven, a neutral territory for denizens of the supernatural underworld, mostly lycanthropes. As the place’s co-owner, that’s what I set it up to be. I figured if we could spend more time relating to each other as people, we’d spend less time duking it out in our animal guises. So far, it seemed to be working.
The bartender turned the radio on and piped in the show Friday nights. When I walked through the door, everyone—the few late-night barflies, the bartender, the wait staff—cheered. I blushed. Part of me would never get used to this.