Page 10 of Magic for Nothing

“They don’t get many North American recruits, because they’ve never been able to establish a strong presence here,” said my grandmother. “They mostly operate by sending strike teams, purging whatever cryptid presence they find, and retreating back to Europe to lick their wounds. This continent has never offered them fertile soil on which to plant their specific flavor of hate.”

“Which is amazing, because it’s not like America has been quick to reject all the other kinds of racism people have tried to encourage here,” said Artie in a low voice. His mother shot him a sharp look. I tried not to snicker.

I failed.

“Most of the North American recruits they do get are people who’ve been harmed by cryptid activity in some way,” said Mom. I looked back to her. “We have a cover story for you. Remember the Black Family Carnival?”

“Apraxis wasps, right?” I asked. “They took out the whole company.”

“As of right now, they took out all but one,” she said. “We’re setting you up as a daughter of two of their acrobats, who was in New York taking your SATs when the wasps hit the carnival. You finished college, but you never stopped thinking about what happened to your family. You want revenge. You heard a rumor about a group that could help you get it.”

“Carnie brat,” I said. “Okay. That’s something I can do.” Before roller derby, I was a cheerleader, and before I was a cheerleader, I was a tumbler, spending my summers training with the Campbell Family Carnival, otherwise known as “Great-Grandma Fran’s side of the family.” I’d loved it there. It had been clear almost from the start that I wasn’t going to have the right build for competitive gymnastics, so we’d moved me into circus classes, teaching me trampoline and trapeze routines, all performed with a dizzying array of safety precautions standing by to keep me from breaking anything I might need later.

(My sister has a tendency to throw herself off buildings for fun. Apparently, she thinks gravity doesn’t apply to pretty people. I don’t mind falling—it can be pretty cool under the right circumstances—but falling without a net is not my idea of a good time.)

“The fact that you supposedly went to college for four years will explain why you’re a little rusty, and your core skills should still be good enough that you can fake anything you don’t feel totally up for. Artie’s going to set up a new ID for you, and run it through Uncle Al for any bells or whistles that you need.”

“Nobody does a fake ID like Big Al,” I said.

“That’s right,” said Mom, missing the humor entirely. “It should be ready by the end of the week. We’ll fly you to Toronto, have you take the train to New York, and fly you from there to London. That way, there’s no clear connection between your new identity and the West Coast, much less Portland.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” I said. We had no idea what kind of monitoring capacity the Covenant had. We as a family and an extended network don’t have the ability to put a trace on a passport—we can watch the airports, we can monitor known crossings, but we can’t tell exactly when someone entered or left the country. We had to assume the Covenant could. We had to avoid drawing obvious lines.

“Yes. Everything.” My mother closed the distance between us with remarkable speed. My father was right behind her. They engulfed me in their arms, giving me no time to dodge or backpedal.

“Everything,” she whispered, and I realized two things. One, that she was crying, and two, that they had really tried to find another option. They had searched. Because there was every chance they were sending me to my death for the sake of the rest of my family, and for them to be willing to do that, they had to be absolutely sure there wasn’t any other way. What the hell was I getting myself into?

“I’m going to go pack,” I muttered, and ducked out of their embrace, fleeing up the stairs.

As I should probably have expected, Mary was sitting on my bed when I got to my room. “We need to talk,” she said, without preamble.

“Nope,” I said, heading for the dresser. “I need to pack. You can help, if you want. But no talking.”

“Annie . . .”

“You’re still talking.”

“Annie, I can’t come to England with you.”

I stopped in the act of opening the top drawer, trying not to show how much that simple statement rattled. Then I shrugged, and said, “So? Neither is anyone else. Is the Covenant a good place for granny panties, do you think?”

“Annie, look at me.”

I turned to look at her. “What? I have to go. You know I have to go.”

“I know you’re still setting things on fire. I know you can’t control your pyrokinesis. I know it took your great-grandfather years to get his magic to do what he told it. You’re going to get caught, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“I can handle myself.” I rolled my shoulders in a shrug. “Trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you do. Annie—”

“You can’t tell them!” I paused, surprised by the vehemence in my own voice. Then I sighed. “Please. You can’t tell them. They need me to do this. They never need me to do anything. I’m the backup kid. If I’m ever going to prove myself . . . please. Don’t blow my cover.” I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want anyone else to go in my place.

Brains are complicated sometimes.

Mary looked at me gravely. Finally, she echoed my sigh with one of her own and stood, walking over to offer me her hands. I took them.

“I’ve been this family’s babysitter for more than fifty years,” she said. “You’re the youngest of your generation, and no one’s been making me new kids to watch lately. I’m going to be a little over-attentive.”