Page 35 of Magic for Nothing

My suitcase rolled down the belt. I grabbed it and made for the door. I needed to hurry if I didn’t want to miss my bus.

One nice thing about jet lag: it can lend an air of resigned unreality to everything, so situations that would normally seem time-consuming or pointless become dreamlike and fine. I picked up my prebooked ticket from the Greyhound window and climbed onto the bus that would take me to Madison, pausing only to get a Snickers bar and a bottle of Dr Pepper from the vending machines in the bus depot waiting room. My high-calorie snacks tasted like high-fructose corn syrup, cheap chocolate, and chemicals. In short, American. I was home.

I was one of the first people onto the bus. Moving quickly, I jammed myself into a window seat, unzipped my backpack enough to let the mice see out the window without revealing themselves, and put my head against the glass, closing my eyes. Sleep came almost instantly, hitting me with the hammer strength that only seems to follow travel. I never even felt the bus engine come to life. I was gone.

“Priestess.”

The whisper was low, insistent, and next to my ear. I made a grumbling noise, and didn’t open my eyes.

“Priestess, the Driver of Buses has announced our stop. If you do not wake, I fear we will journey onward to Parts Unknown.” A sharp tug on my earlobe punctuated the words.

Aeslin mice have remarkably sharp little claws on their handlike paws. When an Aeslin mouse grabs something sensitive, like an earlobe, it’s hard not to pay attention.

“Ow,” I muttered, and opened my eyes. Rolling fields of wheat almost ready for the harvest greeted me.

“Hail,” squeaked Mindy, still barely above a whisper. She could teach classes on stealth to the rest of the colony when she got home. “No one has troubled your slumber. No one has touched you, or attempted to claim that which is not meant for them. Have we Done Well, Priestess?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, and yawned. I usually try to avoid talking to myself in public, but this was a Greyhound bus: no one would pay attention or care, as long as I kept it to a low roar.

Of course, that didn’t mean Robert wasn’t nearby. Maybe I was being paranoid, but the nice thing about paranoia is the way it can keep you alive.

“Have you seen Robert?” I asked, pitching my voice as low as I could.

“No, Priestess,” said Mindy. “He did not board this vehicle. For now, we are In the Clear.”

“Great. Get back in the bag.” I felt her scuttle down my shirt. Yawning again, I sat up and pulled the second half of the Snickers bar out of my pocket. Midway through the motion, I realized there was someone sitting next to me: a wild-haired teenager with eyes as wide as saucers. Oh, joy and rapture. A civilian. I didn’t even bother to smile as I looked at him and asked, flatly, “What?”

“Lady, I don’t want to like, freak you out or anything, but a mouse just ran into your backpack.”

I nodded. “I know. She’s mine.”

He blinked. “You don’t keep her in a cage?”

“Why would I? She knows better than to chew on my books, and it’s not nice to animals to keep them in little prisons. I believe in a fair and equal relationship between people and members of the animal kingdom.” I scowled at him. “Why? Don’t you?”

Confronted with what he was probably assuming was a member of PETA—and not having noticed my leather shoes—he shied away. “Totally, lady, whatever you say. I just wanted to help.”

“Well, thanks, but I don’t believe in ‘help’ that enslaves my fellow creatures.”

He shook his head and turned away. Not before I heard his mutter of “Freak.” I didn’t contradict him. The last thing I wanted to do was strike up a conversation with someone I would never see again when I was jet-lagged and exhausted. I needed to save what strength I had.

Then the road bent, just a little, and the Madison skyline came into view.

It wasn’t as tall as Chicago or as iconic as London or even as urban as Minneapolis, but there was something to be said for seeing a city appear and knowing I’d be staying there for a while: that I’d have time to unpack my things, wash my clothes, and maybe even re-henna my hair, depending on the facilities at the carnival. My first stop was a motel at the edge of the college district, bare bones and dirt cheap, with clerks who wouldn’t ask too many questions and other residents who wouldn’t notice if I lit myself on fire. I’d get a good night’s sleep, shift myself a few hours back onto local time, and check in with Margaret before I went to find the carnival.

Everything was going to be fine. This time, for sure, everything was going to be fine.

Everything was not going to be fine. Nothing was ever going to be fine again.

The motel where I was staying looked like the sort of place that would feature heavily in a horror movie, something indie with “Camp” or “Blood” or “Night” in the title. Not a major release by any stretch of the imagination. They didn’t ask to see ID when I showed up to check in, which was basically the biggest warning sign they could have flashed in my direction.

“Have a nice stay,” said the desk clerk, handing over a key—an actual key, not a magnetic key-card—attached to a plastic fob.

“I’m going to get murdered here,” I said genially, taking it and leaving the lobby before something in there could accidentally come into contact with my skin. The place didn’t look like it had been cleaned since the 1970s, if ever. It was possible the depressing atmosphere had caused even the mold to shrivel up and die, leaving the motel preserved for all eternity.

Outside, the motel followed the classic Middle American theme, with doors pointing toward the parking lot and a metal railing stippled with rust surrounding both the stairs and the second floor. I hefted my suitcase against my hip to keep the concrete steps from destroying the wheels, walking past door after identical door until I reached the one assigned to me. The key stuck when I jammed it into the lock. I wiggled it hard, forcing it all the way in before opening the door to reveal a tiny room with a single queen bed, a floral bedspread, a television that was probably older than I was, and two members of the Covenant of St. George.

I did not scream. I did not slam the door. I did freeze, but I think that can be forgiven: six weeks of pretending to be an ally does not undo a lifetime of sensible fear. The Covenant were not my friends.