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Writer's pictureJ. Joseph

One Truly Magical Night

It gets frustrating sometimes. That phrase, I put the cart before the horse. Every once in a while I think it applies to me. Because, damn, sometimes my classes make me realize why shit I learned in my Blood Practicum worked the way they do, and sometimes the shit I learn in Principles of Mystical Theory-Scale makes me think I’ve lost my goddamn mind. That said, it still ain’t really my problem. My problem is this fucking Apprehension course. It’s like it doesn’t even follow the same rules as anything else. It’s almost more similar to some of the more advanced Blood based curses, but somehow using the costs of passive practices, but also because a lot of the practices are more indeterminate temporally and physically, they suddenly get a whole different set of rules about how and when determinate costs draw from their sources. That’s why I still have to do these terribly demeaning meetings with Natalya. Not that she’s a bad person, just having to go to these feels wrong. I know I’m great, and I’m going to be great, and the fact that this dumb curriculum means I have to take these classes that are basically useless is, well, nevermind. At least, from the lack of everyone knowing about them and giving me that look, where they’re split between pity, ridicule, and smugness, I know she hasn’t told her pals about this. Whatever Therese has over her, it’s gotta be good.

Sitting down at the booth, I sigh and pull out my Basics and Overview of Apprehension textbook and notebook. I settle in, start reviewing the stuff from this week. Checking the homework due tomorrow. That sort of stuff. With a smile I nod at one of the servers to have him come over. “Hey Mike.”

“Greg. It’s a bit early, you still getting the usual?” Mike asks. It’s good to be known.

I shake my head. “Nah, going out later. Just something snacky.”

“Can do,” Mike says. He looks down at my notes. “What’s all this?” he asks.

“Schoolwork,” I admit, “I wouldn’t try to understand it. I barely do.” I let out a forced chuckle. He laughs along as he heads back towards the kitchen. Good guy, that Mike. Relatively speaking, at least. Cracking my knuckles and flexing my shoulders, I dive back into the work.

I get through about three of the homework questions by the time Natalya arrives. She sidles up and slides into the booth across from me. “I see you’re already started,” she says, looking at my work.

“Not really,” I admit, “Just using the notes to check over my homework.” I notice she's unfocused. Got a worried look on her face. “Something wrong, Natalya?” I ask.

“How many times do I have to ask, call me Nat,” she protests, “Only Therese calls me Natalya anymore.”

“That would be impolite,” I counter, “And you’re being more irritable than usual. So, something is wrong.”

Natalya sighs. She knows I’m right, she’s likely just debating admitting it. “Not really, but kinda. I don’t know. I think Ike might be, well, something is up with him.” Then, she looks at me, and remembers who she’s talking to. “Not that you care.”

“I don’t really know Isaac,” I admit, “But he’s your friend. Why not just ask?”

Nat laughs. “We’re friends, but… Let’s just say the League of Evil doesn’t exactly work like that.”

I shake my head. “Why not?”

“Because,” she starts. Before she can figure out her answer, Mike comes back with a wing plate. “Oh, could I have some fries?” she asks Mike mid thought, then, before he responds, continues. “We just, it’s complicated.”

“Sure thing,” Mike replies.

She smiles at him. “Thanks.” Then, once he’s gone, she turns back to me. “Just leave it at that.”

I cock my head. “I am simply concerned about your tutoring ability,” I say.

“Shut up,” she spits, then shakes her head. “You got to understand, he and Ali, they’ve got a thousand thousand plates spinning at all times, it seems. And bothering him if it turns out to just be one of those plates wobbling would only serve to cause more to start wobbling.” She adds on the obligatory, “If that makes sense,” a statement only ever added when the explanation makes no sense.

“Very well,” I say, then, taking a bite of chicken, I ask, “Alright, so let’s start.”

She looks at me expectantly. “What do you want to begin with?” she asks.

I push all my notes from Apprehension aside and spin around my Scale notes, then my old Blood Rituals notes. “That shit can wait, I don’t need nor really care. This bit here’s really bugging me. How can I reconcile the Principles of Affectability with the de Roche Rules of Sacrifice’s Law of Returns?”

Nat sighs. “A real specific question, right out the gate today. Give me a second to read over your notes, and ideally can it wait for my fries?”

I shake my head. “Sure, I suppose,” I sigh out.

It takes Mike a minute to arrive with her fries. It takes her another one before she feels comfortable answering. “They’re not really in the same lane, only really tangentially related,” she starts, “de Roche’s Law of Returns is focused on the external, whereas the Principle is about the actual elements of the working itself. Think about it like a river. De Roche is telling you where the river is going, but the principle is about how it gets there.” That’s a good starting point for our discussion.

The hour our tutoring sessions last goes similar to that. I ask a question that is entirely too specific to be helpful, she glances at the notes and provides an incredibly simplified answer, then we have a long discussion about that answer to figure out details and specifics. Normally, we cover about three questions. Today we manage to get through four. Not that the third one should really count. It was about most Lasting Apprehension of Essences’ timing and instance rules, and even though we talked it through thoroughly, I’m still not certain I really understand how the instance rules fits with a non-instanced working. Hopefully between class tomorrow and the homework next week, we won’t have to revisit the question.

As the hour wraps up, Natalya smiles a half-hearted smile. “Alright,” she tells me, “I should probably get going.”

“Something big planned?” I ask.

Natalya smiles, truly this time. “Something like that,” she says, “You know as well as I, one doesn’t keep the devil waiting.”

I laugh. “Tell our favorite little devil that I said hello,” I joke, then start putting all my notes back in my bag. “I need to get going, too, anyways.”

“Something important?” she asks.

I nod. “Most definitely. Date night.”

“Ah,” she jokes, “Good luck, you’ll need it.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

She cocks an eyebrow. “You’ve met you, right?”

“Only in the mirror,” I joke back, “But that’s just a pale reflection of who I am.”

She shakes her head at my joke. “Have fun,” she says as she stands up and heads out. It takes me a little longer to gather all my things. After paying the bill and leaving a tip, I head back to my dorm to get ready. Gotta look good, after all.

I rinse off in the shower real quick, then head to choose my outfit. Dipping a pair of fingers into the small bowl of my blood on my dresser, I trace the symbol of warmth on my hand, and the water still sitting on my skin and my hair vaporizes away quickly as the blood burns away. Grabbing my tight green dress shirt and a pair of slim slacks, I get dressed. Going to a relatively fancy place means I probably shouldn’t wear my hoodie. I also don’t want to go too fancy, either, especially if Katie isn’t. Maybe go with my leathers? I wish I could know what she’s wearing. Looking at my notes really quickly, I see a simple scrying ritual that Abdul showed me last year. Not strong enough to be normally useful, but it should be able to check on the outfit at least. I fill the sink with water, and begin the chant, holding my hands to either side of the basin. My stomach feels weird, but the water flattens and a picture of her outfit shakily appears in the water. I am right to check, she’s going full fancy tonight. Opening the sink’s drain and letting the water run out, I head back to my closet and grab my sport coat. Swinging the thick, wool jacket on as I head out, I leave campus to head into town and meet up with Katie.

I see her, in all her gorgeous glory, outside of La Chèvre Savoureuse. She smiles as I approach. “You clean up nice,” she says.

“You don’t do such a bad job yourself,” I reply with a smile. Together, we head into the restaurant.

The date is as fun as all the others. It’s been a while, though. I’m the first to admit that this year, with my required courses, has been a rough time. I’m not great at making the time. She, somehow, understands. We smile, and tell what stories we can about our lives. I am enthralled by her stories about life as a teacher and the sort of shenanigans her students get in. And she, in turn, is somewhere between horrified and intrigued by every story I have involving Therese. And since Irene and Abdul have become friends, I have far more Therese stories than I used to. We laugh about my struggles, and her exasperations, and the world’s inevitable collapse. All those normal things to laugh about. After a delicious meal and a beautiful desert, we leave the restaurant. I start walking her home.

As we walk down the road, some men in a car start saying rather rude stuff to us. Mostly directed towards her in her current beautiful, tight dress. I turn, but she stops me. “It’s not worth it, Greg,” she says. Seeming to just be wringing my hands, I perform a quick Ritual of Naming. As my gaze lingers upon the car for another second, I see burned in the space about the driver and passengers both their names and their individual existence indicators.

She’s right, of course. There’s a lot of risk in an open fight, and three on one is never good odds. “You’re right, as always,” I say, shaking my head, “It’s just…” I sigh. That doesn’t mean they should get away with it. I bite the inside of my lip, so it bleeds.

“I know, but pushing back too much just makes it worse,” she says. Using my tongue, I draw a curse of sloven carelessness on my inner cheek in the blood. Then, pressing on the glyph, I think the curse as loudly as I can, using each person’s existence indicator as a basis. I can feel the blood boiling. Good.

Once the boiling has subsided, I smile. “You’re right. I just want tonight to be wonderful.”

“I’m with you,” she says, “It already is.” As though to prove herself wrong, she buckles over in pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She writhes. “I don’t know,” she forces out, clearly making an effort to get each syllable out of her mouth. “Everything?”

I look in fear. “I need to get you to a hospital.” She won’t be able to afford an ambulance. Not on her teacher’s salary. I call the next best thing. “Therese. Katie’s sick. Can you get her transport to a hospital?”

“Emergency?” Therese asks.

“Yeah,” I answer quickly.

“Where?”

I look around. Paulson’s Furniture is across the street “Across from the furniture shop on fourth?” I say, worried.

There’s a moment, then she says, “Done.”

“What’s?” Katie forces out.

“I don’t know. A car’s coming to take you to the hospital.”

As though on cue, someone pulls up in a Suburban. “Get her in the back, quick.”

“Thanks,” I say as I carry Katie into the SUV.

The driver shrugs. “She told me to do it, so here I am,” he admits as he accelerates towards the hospital. “Any idea what’s wrong?” he asks.

“No,” I say, “But we’ll figure it out.” I hold her hand as I cradle her head. “Everything will be okay.”

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