Blood Like Magic, page 12
I need to get it done, because if I’m honest, I would rather kill someone than let Eden die, no matter how much I hate the idea of it.
Right now, the task is the task.
And I don’t plan to fail a second time.
CHAPTER NINE
I’m at the start of my month-long Caribana deadline, and already time is slipping through my fingers. Three days passed with the house cloaked in a suffocating silence where I spent most of my time hidden in my room. Which, granted, isn’t super responsible, but I can’t just learn that I need to murder someone and jump into courting my victim the next day. The family, meanwhile, has been living on takeout, with Keis bringing fixed plates up to me.
But today I need to bake.
Now the flakes of butter and flour stuck to my fingers are as close to soothing as I can manage.
The kitchen is empty except for Keis, who’s sitting at the island doing self-study on her tablet. She usually goes to the café around the corner on Saturday to treat herself to coffee and a cheddar scone. And yet here she is. I get the feeling she’s concerned about me.
She scoffs. “I felt like studying at home. I doubt you’re going to run out in a panic and stab Luc with a kitchen knife.”
“I’m not in love with him, so there’s no point in doing that now.” I flick a piece of dough off my fingernail. “And you never feel like studying at home because every time Granny or Uncle sees you doing it, they give you some sort of lecture about honing your gift instead.”
Keis presses her lips together.
“Do you hate living here?” I haven’t forgotten our discussion on the day I accepted the task. How she avoided questions about staying in the house.
She pushes out a groan. “I’m seventeen, and I have no money that doesn’t come from my parents. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But would you like to?”
“Do you plan to stay in this house until you die?”
“Yes.” Why not? I like waking up and coming home to a full space with its normal loud chatter and activity.
Keis stares at her tablet.
Conversation over, apparently.
I was able to hook our family almanac up to my hijacker tech so it can trick my eyes into seeing a hands-free visual of Mama Tolen’s recipe for coconut biscuits floating in the air the same way it shows me messages that come through my phone. Well worth the money. A combo of Mom working extra hours and me hustling to push our products.
Keis won her hijacker chip in a feed show called Quiz Kids when we were younger. They gave out prizes if you got in the top ten, and one year she managed it. Out of hundreds of thousands of kids all over the world. She has the oldest model of hijacker tech on the market, but she earned it.
My cousin is meant for great things. Even if in her mind, some of those mean living away from us. “Did you get in contact with Rowen about the internship?”
“Yeah, they have a Q&A in a couple of days that I’ll be going to. She said her uncle has my feed info, and I can go up to him after the session to introduce myself.”
“That’s amazing.” I beam, folding the biscuit dough over itself a few times to make the layers. “Anything from NuGene? I saw on the feeds that sometimes they do exclusive invites to a group tour.”
Keis looks up from her tablet, her mouth slack. “You think they would be inviting me to that?”
I wash my hands in the sink and pull out my phone to double-check that I didn’t miss an invite. I search “NuGene” in my inbox, but all I get is the odd “You’ve WON a FREE NuGene procedure” junk message.
When I go to pull out an EcoOven baking tray for the biscuits, the telltale red ON light is a dim black. “Hack me,” I mutter.
“We need a new one,” Keis says.
“With what money?”
I flip the switch back on the oven and stare at my feed screen. Tapping on the small button that proclaims “romantic match” leads me, once again, to Luc’s feed. He’s got new ratings. The first one is a two-star.
Went to a Q&A hosted by him, and he wasted the entire session picking on this poor girl who, granted, is never getting into NuGene, but there’s a polite way to say it. —[Name Hidden]
My face flushes, and I wrinkle my nose. The person who gave it wasn’t even brave enough to have their name linked to it. They probably don’t want to ruin their chance at getting an internship.
I move on to the second rating and look at the little avatar of Keis with her curly hair in a pineapple bun that proclaims one star. “You left him a bad rating? You never rate people. Also! Everyone knows one star is, like, for serial killers.”
Keis grumbles, “Works for assholes, too.”
“You could have hidden your name!”
“Didn’t want to.”
“ ‘Seems more interested in making others feel small than searching for prospective intern talent, as is his job. It’s a sad world when people of a certain privilege have no interest in paying it forward and becoming productive members of society,’ ” I read and cringe. “You have to take it down!”
“Nope.”
“No wonder you didn’t get an invite back!”
“If my personal opinion of an employee means I don’t get an internship, then I don’t want one.” She sets her tablet down with an unnecessary clatter. “He has everything given to him. Sure, he had to get the sponsorship, but after that it’s smooth sailing. And what does he do with that privilege? Picks on others.”
I sag against the counter, squishing one of my biscuits. “You can have your opinion, but you don’t have to air it publicly.”
“I’m not taking it down.”
“Urgh! I’m sending a message to him.” It’s as good an opportunity as any to reconnect with Luc since I’ll have to try and meet him at some point, and I’ve already wasted three days avoiding it. I can’t expect to fall in love with the guy if I never speak with him.
Focus on falling in love. I just need to focus on that and try to think less about the whole murder thing.
Hi, Luc! I feel like we got off to a bad start, and apologies are warranted on both sides. I will go first and say I’m sorry about the rating my cousin left on your profile. I wondered if you would want to meet up and discuss NuGene more? Thanks!
I shoot off the message before I can change my mind and cut out and pile the biscuits on my tray before sliding them into the oven.
His answer comes back faster than expected: No.
I resist the urge to throw my phone at the wall.
“Told you.” Keis’s smugness is palpable. “He’s an asshole.”
“I know he is! He’s also my top genetic match and my only lead for completing this task, so I have to talk with him.”
My cousin frowns. “You’re really going to do it?”
“I’m not going to let Eden die,” I snap.
I type back my answer: No? I’m not sure what you mean?
No, I don’t have anything to apologize for. And no, I don’t want to meet with you to discuss a company you seem to have no interest in.
Okay. What about a non-NuGene-related meeting?
No.
“I actually want to kill him now!” I hiss.
“You have to love him first, remember?”
My fingers shake as I type out my response: We’re a 92% genetic romantic match, and I’m trying to get to know you despite your efforts to be as unpleasant as possible. Do you not care about connecting with your match?
I don’t have time to date right now.
I’m not trying to date you! You think I want to be matched with a garbage person with a two-star rating? I’m working with what I’ve got!
I type out the last message without hitting send.
Keis’s eyes are wide with glee. “Please send it.”
“I’m not going to send it.” I delete the message and close my feed. When I move to check the biscuits, the oven has shut off again. I flip it back on.
At the very least I’ll get the money from NuGene for wearing that monitor. They sent a message that they would be available for pickup tomorrow. That’s two hundred dollars. I’ll need at least eight hundred more for a new oven. I would have to save up my allowance for almost a year to make that much. Mom giving me twenty dollars a week is already generous. I can’t pester her for more.
I flick through contest feeds in the area. Most of them are by chance, which I enter but don’t expect much from. It’ll be better if it’s something skills-based that I can at least be semi-confident about winning.
“Aha!” In one of my usual recipe feeds there’s a local Toronto contest for the best heritage recipe with a $1,000 prize. You need a minimum of 2,000 food-interest-identifying feed followers to participate. I have 2,372. Almost all of whom are food-interested people.
“Is that where you should be expending your energy right now?” Keis wrinkles her nose at me.
“I have to fall in love with Luc. It’s going to be difficult, and I’ll need a break every now and then.” And I would rather not have to think about murdering someone 24/7.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat. “There has to be a way around this task. Maybe it’s a metaphorical destruction?”
“How do you destroy someone metaphorically?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Try and figure it out before time is up. Meanwhile, Luc is being less than cooperative, so I’m going to look into this recipe thing for a bit.”
I pull up a stool at the island and grab the tablet, canceling Mama’s biscuit recipe holo so I can concentrate. Most of the recipes I find are in our family almanac, which holds the digitized paper records and digital-first records of the Thomases.
It did start out as a real almanac—a yearly catalogue of important dates and information for witches that was passed between families. But at some point, it evolved, and individual families started making their own, just for them. Eventually, we all added our own ancestral histories, diary entries, instructions for future generations, and more. It expanded beyond what an almanac is supposed to be, but the name stuck.
Most of the time I end up tweaking the recipes in there, but this is a great place to start. I do a search and set the results to come up by name, listing the most accessed ones first. Usually, I randomize the results, but I want the best choice this time. The results are filtered, and dozens of entries, all under the name “Mama Elaine,” are listed at the top.
“Who is that?” Keis asks.
I shake my head. “Never heard of her.”
Mama and Papa, or the gender-neutral Bibi, aren’t sentimental names. They’re titles given to ancestors who have done something significant to receive the honor of assigning tasks. When Mama Jova died, one of the existing ancestors must have suggested that her time on Earth warranted becoming a Mama. Every one of the honored ancestors voted and deemed her worthy of the title. She would have presented herself to whoever was Matriarch of our family when she died, and that woman would have recorded it in our almanac.
Granny told us stories of each and every one of our fifty-three Thomas-named Mamas, Papas, and Bibis. But I’ve never heard of Mama Elaine.
I tap on her name, but her profile is blank. No photo, no gift log, no marriage records, not a single piece of information. Just her recipes and another note of what looks like a feed recording. I tap on it, and a red lock icon pops up.
“Try thomasfamily1,” Keis says.
Granny is of the generation that uses the exact same password for everything, so we know her code, even when she tries to lock things in the almanac. “There’s not even a place to type a password.”
Dad slinks into the kitchen, likely lured by the scent of baking biscuits. I try and cook something around lunchtime on weekends for everyone.
“They’ve got butter in them,” I say, as if that matters. Dad isn’t as devout with his veganism as Priya. He won’t touch meat or fish, but he’s hard-pressed to pass up a baked good.
“That’s okay.” Dad looks at Keis and me, and rocks back on his heels. “What are you girls up to?”
Six years since he’s been back, and interacting with him is still strange. It’s like talking to a relative you haven’t seen for years who tells you stories about the things you did when you were little that you can’t remember. Not like someone who I live with and see every day.
He left a hole in my life, then came back as a different shape. He doesn’t fit anymore.
Now, with the task, it’s even worse. His eyes shift anywhere but on me, and even his breathing looks uncomfortable. If only Keisha were here, she could loudly point it out for us.
I turn the tablet in his direction. “Do you know who Mama Elaine is? Her feed recordings are locked.”
His lips recoil like he’s bitten into a rotten mango. “Why are you looking into her?”
“I’m going to enter a recipe contest. I went to look at hers, but her profile is blank.”
He comes forward and taps on the recipe section. “They’re unlocked.”
“Okay, but who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Keis lets out a laugh, and Dad’s eyes widen. “You’re not in my head, eh?!” he barks.
We both jump at him using his old loud voice, and Keis crosses her arms. “I’m not trying to listen, but nothing rings louder than a lie.”
“If it’s locked, it’s for a reason.” With that, he rushes out of the kitchen, his mission for biscuits forgotten.
I turn to Keis. “What was he thinking?”
“It’s all over the place. The reason I concentrate on your thoughts is to block people out. But lies, like high emotional thoughts, are loud. He said ‘I don’t know,’ but what rang back is ‘Stop asking me.’ ”
I slouch on my barstool. “After I mentioned Luc was Justin Tremblay’s sponsor, the adults all acted weird. You didn’t get anything from any of them then, did you?”
“Not much. It was like everyone was screaming at once. They’re not fans of Justin, your dad the least of all of them, that’s for sure.”
Why would they hate Justin Tremblay? If they knew him somehow, he would be an outsider who came into the community. Could it have anything to do with what Rowen said about one ruining things?
“You know better than to get caught up in Rowen’s web of secrets. You wondering about what she said for hours is exactly what she wants. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Did you hear anything else?”
Keis squints at the island tabletop. “I don’t think I heard it right.”
“What was it?”
“I swore there was a thought of Uncle Vacu.”
“Uncle Vacu?” We haven’t seen Alex’s dad in years. He was the only one of our immediate family to get an education through a sponsorship from Mount Sinai Hospital. Uncle was starting his practice when he got into Mod-H, and everything went downhill.
Women from witch communities all over the country used to come to have him do their births. It guaranteed their child would be born healthy. It’s why he chose to be an OB/GYN, so none of his patients would ever lose children. He’s an asshole, but one with a proper moral compass. Before the drugs, anyway. It’s not exactly easy to be righteous when you’re controlled by addiction.
He left Alex alone for days in their apartment when she was eight without telling her where he was going or checking in. Somehow Granny figured out what was happening and brought Alex to live with us. Uncle Vacu never came to claim her. When he did come, he stole family artifacts to sell and didn’t say a word to his daughter. After that, Granny changed the locks and removed him from the spells allowing access without a key.
“Everything is so weird now,” I mutter, turning the now shut-off oven back on.
Keis drawls, “An ancestor telling you that you have to murder someone will do that.”
“I also have to fall in love in a month. Is that even a thing?”
“I’m not the person for that.”
My cousin isn’t disinterested in romance. I’ve seen her eyes linger on the odd boy passing by in the street. She’s just too busy with school to bother.
I tilt my head. “Love at first sight is a thing, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a little late for you on that.”
Groaning, I retrieve the tablet, scroll through Mama Elaine’s recipes, and find a treasure trove of Trinidadian dishes. Homemade pholourie, six different kinds of tamarind sauces, sweet bread towering four layers high, and more.
Cooking wasn’t just a hobby for her; she put her heart and soul into her dishes. Why couldn’t she have been the one to assign my Calling?
I lean my head against the island countertop and let out a strangled whine. Keis pats my head like I’m a sad dog instead of a girl with a hacked task.
“Monday,” I say, words muffled from my arms. “Monday, I’ll go see Luc. I’ll get going on this for real.”
“Don’t interns there have Mondays off?”
“Get sparked, fine, Tuesday!”
Falling in love in a month. Maybe it’s impossible, but I need to try.
And I need to stop thinking about what comes after.
CHAPTER TEN
I walk into the white NuGene building on Tuesday afternoon after helping Granny and Mom bottle our Thomas Brand Curling Custard. The labels have to be stuck on by hand. Trying to do it with magic makes them come out messy. It’s usually relaxing. Today it was a silent inquisition. They talked about feed shows and gossip like normal, but their eyes followed me as if the way I flicked on a label would reveal something about my task progress. Meanwhile, the tension between the two of them was as thick as the custard we were labeling. My guess is that Granny either hasn’t chatted with Mama Jova, or she did and it didn’t go well. As far as we know, my task is going to stay as is.
When they first opened the NuGene building, the receptionist was a NuSap unit. Not anymore. Bad PR isn’t worth the money that was saved by using them instead of people. Eerily, the NuSap didn’t look much different from the South Asian–looking human receptionist who greets me. It’s as if they purposely hired someone who looked like their old android.
