The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic 0)(51)
There was a fellow in Washington Square Park who dispensed certain illegal items needed for such spell work—vials of blood, the hearts and livers of animals—who warned Vincent to be careful in the occult world. What you send out will come back to you, this fellow had whispered in a thick voice. Not once but threefold. What do you think happened to your predecessor? Are you ready for that, brother?
Vincent ignored the advice. He knew he was squandering his talents, but he didn’t give a damn. There was always a price to be paid. What you get, you must also give. But he had cash now, and he didn’t seem in the least bit jinxed. At least, not yet. In fact, he was gaining an audience in the Village. He’d helped this along with invocations from The Magus, but so what? Fame was addictive, even the tiny bit he’d garnered. People crowded round him in the park, and often a group was gathered there waiting for him before he arrived. But he wondered if it was magic that drew them to him, and, when they dispersed, he felt more alone than ever. He could make it happen if he wanted to, the crowds, the fame, the records, the stardom. But what would the price be? He thought of a story Franny had told him when he was a boy. A minstrel used sorcery to climb to the heights of fame. Don’t worry about the price, the wizard the musician had gone to had advised. And then the time came for reparations, when it was too late to change his mind. Only then did he discover that the price was his voice.
On the night of his birthday Vincent wandered home in the September dusk, a tall, stark figure, rattled by the magic in which he’d recently been complicit. Every time he had sold a spell for some perverse intention—to ensure that a rival would fail or a wife would disappear—he felt he’d sold a portion of his soul. It paid the bills, but he slept fitfully and then not at all. In the middle of the night he dressed and walked the streets in a daze, with a hollow feeling, as though he were famished and couldn’t get enough to satisfy his hunger. He wanted to stop, but magic took hold and wouldn’t let go.
He was turning eighteen, but he felt so much older. Master of denial, master of dark magic, master of lies and loneliness. What good was it to be a conjurer if he couldn’t conjure his own happiness?
Now he was late for his own birthday dinner. Jet was making his favorite meal to celebrate: coq au vin, with potatoes and fresh peas. Franny had baked Aunt Isabelle’s tipsy chocolate cake, the mere scent so intoxicating a person could get drunk on it. Still, he wasn’t ready to face a celebration and pretend to be happy. He found an empty bench in Sheridan Square and gazed at the old streetlights, there for over two hundred years. He made them dim, then go black. He could go in a bad direction and he knew it. What would happen then? Would he lose his voice? Be unable to make amends?
He smoked a joint and tilted his head up. There were no stars in the sooty sky. Eighteen years of being a liar, he thought. When he looked down he saw that a creature was staring at him.
“If you’ve come for me, you’ve made a mistake,” he warned it. “I’ll turn you into a rabbit.”
The animal came close enough for Vincent to feel its hot breath. It was no rabbit, but a black German shepherd, without a collar or leash. The dog faced him with a serious expression, his eyes flecked with golden light. Vincent smiled despite his glum frame of mind. “Friend or foe?” he asked. The dog offered his paw as an answer, and they shook. “You’re very well trained,” Vincent said admiringly. “If you have no name, I’ll call you Harry after the greatest magician, Mr. Houdini. I would discuss your situation further, but it’s my birthday and I have to go home.”
The dog trailed him across Sixth Avenue, following to Greenwich Avenue. Vincent looked over his shoulder before coming to an abrupt halt. “If that’s what you have in mind we might as well walk together. We’re late for dinner.”
Vincent had no friends, yet after he’d come home, Franny overheard him conversing with someone in the entrance hall. Curious, she went to peek. There was an enormous German shepherd who waited patiently as Vincent hung up his coat. Male witches were often known to have black dogs, or so the texts in the library had stated. Immediately, Franny knew this beast was Vincent’s familiar, his double and alter ego, a creature of a different genus that had the same shared spirit.
The dog shadowed Vincent into the kitchen, then lay beneath the table, waiting for his master’s next move. Jet’s little cat let out a howl when it spied the huge dog, then leapt from Jet’s arms and raced from the room, skittering up the stairs to the safety of the second floor. The dog merely watched impassively. He clearly wasn’t about to humiliate himself by giving chase.
“Poor Wren!” Jet sighed. “Her home life has been ruined by a sibling.”
“Like ours?” Franny teased.
“You know you were both thrilled when I was born. Or did you hire that nurse to get rid of me? I could forgive you if you tell me there’s a tipsy chocolate cake,” Vincent said, far more upbeat than usual, delighted to find he could be surprised by fate.
“If you tell us who your friend is,” Franny countered. As his birthday gift, she’d wished he wouldn’t be so alone, and had burned a paper coated with honey to complete the spell, and now here he was with a companion.
“He’s Harry.” At the mention of his name the dog picked up his huge head. “He’ll be staying with us from now on.” When the sisters exchanged a look, Vincent added, “You have to admit, we won’t have any robberies with him around.”