Spellbent Read Free Page A

gently. “If you’re not feeling well, we should put this off until tomorrow night.”
    “No.” He shook his head as if to clear it. He gave me a quick, unconvincing smile, then fixed his eyes back on the road. “I’m fine. Let’s do this thing. I told the Warlock we’d hit the Panda Inn for karaoke and a late dinner tonight.”
    You mean late drinks, I thought, irritated, but didn’t say anything. I couldn’t really fault Cooper for wanting to hang out with his half brother; it was good to see Cooper happy, and he and the Warlock always had fun. The Warlock’s boozy come-ons were tolerable. I Just wished their nights out didn’t always end with Cooper puking up Suffering Bastards and Mai Tais at five in the morning. As with stinky ferrets, Cooper refused to use any anti-poisoning charms on the grounds that a night of drinking ought to feel like a night of drinking.
    We left the freeway and drove up Broad Street. On one side loomed the St. Joseph Cathedral, which had been home to more than its share of miracles because it was so close to the Grove; on the other was the high stone garden wall that surrounded most of the park. The fence had gone up in the 1960s when traffic got bad enough that wandering Grove creatures started running a real risk of getting squashed by cars.
    The only open side faced the Statehouse, and it was also the only part that attempted to masquerade as a standard city park. There was half an acre of mowed lawn, some decorative cherry trees, a goldfish pond surrounded by concrete benches, and a few picnic tables. A line of ward-charmed rocks marked the border between the lawn and the western edge of the Grove. The wards were subtle, but effectively kept most mundanes out of the Grove and reminded most Grove denizens to stay put.
    Cooper turned the Dinosaur left onto Third Street and then took another left into Taft Park’s tiny parking lot. He gunned the motor to get the huge car over the curb and drove it across the grass, dodging picnic tables and startling a small flock of sleeping Canada geese. The tires left no marks on the turf; Cooper had long ago enchanted the wheels.
    “Yuck. Grass is probably covered in goose shit,” he said as the geese flew off, honking alarm. “Annoying birds.”
    “Could we use it for anything?”
    “Use what?” he asked. He hit the brake and put the car in park. We were about a dozen yards away from the fishpond.
    “Goose poop.”
    That’s the core of ubiquemancy: Magic is in everything. The spellcaster just has to figure out what kind of magic, how it can be used, and then invoke it in a spur-of-the-moment chant that sounds like a Pentecostal speaking in tongues to those who can’t understand the primal languages. Unlike other magical disciplines, ubiquemancy seldom involves calling on spirits directly. Instead it relies on instinct, improvisation, and imagination to focus ambient magical energies.
    Some people think that we can do any kind of magic with ubiquemancy, and while that’s theoretically true, in practice it’s a whole lot trickier, especially if things have Gone Terribly Wrong. It’s not just about coming up with the right words. It’s a lot like singing—some spells are about as hard as “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but some of them are as challenging as La Bohème. Few singers can do a difficult aria the first time out of the gate, and if they don’t have the right natural range they might never be able to. do it. And even if a singer has range and skill, being able to improvise and perform a brand-new aria right there on the spot while the audience is ripping the chairs out of the aisles and throwing them at your head. . . well, like I said, it’s tricky. But then again, you can get lucky sometimes.
    Ubiquemancy worked very well with Cooper’s manic, live-for-the-moment mind-set. People who dismiss the style call Cooper and our kind Babblers; the name’s stuck enough that even those who respect the art use it.
    Magical talent