Not Magic

KNOT MAGIC: an April Fools' tale of trickster magic and lost love

"There's your target," Drusilla said, staring daggers at the stage where a pompous politician was droning on and on about the contributions of whoever was about to be awarded the post of Special Investigator and Prosecutor of Witchcraft.

Morgana glanced up, made a moue of disappointment, and looked away. "Not interesting," she said, waving a dismissive hand at the stage.

Drusilla laughed. "Look again," she challenged. So Morgana did.

The old, fat politician had been joined onstage by his physical opposite in terms of masculinity; a tall, gorgeous young man with shoulder-length black hair in long, elegant waves bowed politely and stepped up to the podium.

Morgana's sexy bits suddenly awoke and began tingling. She sat up straight and leaned forward, eyes sparkling.

"I detect a sudden spike in your interest level," Drusilla said with a mocking smile at her best friend. "You're so predictable," she added, elbowing Morgana gently.

Morgana smirked, giving Drusilla an indignant but very small shove. They had to be careful not to draw attention, which was difficult in a crowd of this type. Three-quarters conservative men, strait-laced, religious, disapproving - this type was always,

always

irresistibly drawn toward the very women they claimed to despise.

"Shall I give you details?" Drusilla teased softly.

"Oh, very well," Morgana huffed, hunching her shoulders. "If you must," she added.

"Kenzo Futaba. Rising conservative star, ordained Jesuit lawyer, and now Special Prosecutor of witches and wise women. He's spearheaded multiple investigations and is wily enough, we suspect, to plant evidence without being detected - which he then uses to bring us down in whatever way he can. His misogyny probably boils down to Mommy Issues - no surprise there. Arrived here from Japan at age five with his mother and was abandoned by her at St Pat's Cathedral not long after that; taken from the Church orphanage at age eight and adopted by Cardinal Soria; graduated seminary top five of his class, bishop-in-training, sushi chef on the side -"

Morgana interrupted. "Wait wait wait. Ordained?

He

took

celibacy

vows?" she was incredulous.

"That's what stuck out to you, huh? Why am I not surprised? Yep, celibacy vows. Damn shame, too, I'll agree with you there. Made two years ago upon seminary graduation. Unbroken, so far as we can discover, which is no small feat given the fact he was quite the Ladies' Man prior to entering seminary six years ago."

"I wonder what made him take it that far," Morgana said. "What a waste."

"It hardly matters if

you

set your sights on him. He's got zero chance against a Love Warrior like you, poor man," Drusilla said, putting a fond arm around her friend's shoulders.

"He probably hates redheads," Morgana pronounced with deep pessimism.

"But he definitely loves cats," Drusilla countered, which made Morgana look up with a fiendish light in her eyes.

"Oh,

does

he?" she breathed.

"Documented weakness for cats of all kinds. The one type of charity he donates any of his wealth to? Feline rehab facilities. From what I can find out, he's never been able to adopt one, but his deepest, darkest secret is his past volunteer work in kitten nurseries."

"Stop teasing me," Morgana demanded. "This better not be an April Fool's joke - that starts at midnight, no sooner."

"It doesn't mean he's an easy target, Morg," Drusilla cautioned with a laugh. "He doesn't have the body of Adonis for nothing - holds several high-degree belts in various martial arts, and is a champion fencer too."

"None of that matters once he eats or drinks from my hand," Morgana pointed out. "And now I have an easy way in. I bet the Vatican's the source of his wealth at such a young age?"

"Bingo. He won several international cases on the Vatican's behalf, gaining them the right to keep stolen treasures from around the world," Drusilla said.

"Well, if I needed convincing, I don't anymore. Thanks, Dru - this might be fun after all!"

"Need any help?"

"If I do, you're my first call. I doubt it, though. This might be my easiest takedown yet," Morgana said, eyeing her prey as he stepped forward to accept his award. He then gave a brief, predictably hostile speech in a predictably sexy voice about the urgent need to stomp out all traces of witchery in society, no matter how long it took or how bloody it got. At least it was short, Morgana thought wryly.

"Be careful, Morg," Drusilla said, feeling a sudden frisson of unease. His voice had a unique resonance, something that spoke of unplumbed depths. "He sounds... different."

Morgana had noticed it too; a subtle discordance she could not quite articulate. "Curiouser and curiouser," she murmured.

"That's all well and good, but curiosity killed the cat," Drusilla pointed out grimly.

"And satisfaction brought her back," Morgana countered, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"When do you start?" Drusilla asked with a laugh.

"No time like the present," Morgana said. "All the trickster energy coming to life for April Fools' Day makes it almost

too

easy." With that, she blew her friend a kiss and wound her way sinuously through the crowd of 75% men in suits and ties. As always, too many of their eyes lingered too long, so she put a glamour in place to make herself appear to be as much of a potato as the majority of

them

were, despite their expensive tailoring. She was Fae enough that glamours always came easily to her, but trickster energy gave her an additional boost; deception is nigh-effortless around those who

want

to be fooled.

She pushed her way into the path of the young Japanese Adonis, extending her hand when he passed with the same name she always used for crowds and circumstances like this. "Frank Forter," she said gruffly when he took the pudgy-looking hand that both was and was not hers in his. He was even more gorgeous up close, dammit, she thought irritably. His hand was much bigger than hers, dry and strong, though beautifully shaped with long fingers.

"Kenzo Futaba," he replied, his gaze sharpening with suspicion as he noted the feel of the hand he had just taken; it had been an effort of will to touch it, so obviously did it exude the perpetual clamminess typical of short, plump, nervous men. He could not help but notice it felt nothing like it looked - slender, with delicate fingers but a firm grip. A hand he could easily crush if he chose.

She was so distracted by her inspection of him that she did not at first notice his sharp double-take as he took her hand. His grip tightened suddenly, and her pulse quickened when she realized her glamour had not quite convinced him. He was eyeing her as closely now as she was him; this would never do.

"Middle name Norbert?" he asked suddenly, his eyes predatory.

"Close," she replied gruffly, though she knew her cover was now questionable at best. "Norman."

"Nice to meet you, Frank N. Forter," he said with scorn that could not quite hide a note of intrigue. He then turned away and answered the beckoning finger of one of his church-masters, she noted with disgust.

"Not as nice as you think," she muttered under her breath as she gave him some room before she followed. She did not want to acknowledge it, but she was disconcerted; he seemed somehow very familiar, but more importantly not half as stupid as most of the men she dealt with in her work. This would be more of a challenge than she was used to. A tingle of excitement coursed down her spine, and she began to plan her attack, taking full advantage of the coming day's prankster spirit.

***

Kenzo Futaba exhaled a profound sigh of relief upon arriving back in his new house several long, boring hours later, at just after midnight. April first; the holiday for Fools. They could have it, as far as he was concerned.

He had moved into this place on the Ides of March barely two weeks ago, but the movers had unpacked to his specifications and removed all inconvenient traces of upheaval. It was a perfectly apportioned space, filled with the things he treasured most. So why did it feel desolate?

A cat, he reminded himself. He needed a cat. Had always wanted one, but could not have one in the orphanage, was still not allowed one after the Cardinal adopted him, and could also not have one in seminary. He wondered what it would be like not to be lonely, and if maybe it was time to reward himself; perhaps he could also indulge in a dalliance with some convenient woman.

It had been too long since he enjoyed the touch of a woman, smelled her scent and plunged into her willing flesh. One reason he chose to live apart from the Church as he pursued his studies and political career was so he could indulge his flesh when he chose. There was no point trying to maintain a moral standard no one really believed in, he thought cynically. That shit was just for the

hoi polloi

.

He stripped naked, finally free of his uncomfortable dark suit and dog-collar, then shrugged into his favorite robe - a traditional Japanese

hakama

he would never allow the Cardinal to know he had; the Church disapproved of his 'heathen bloodlines', they had made that clear in all their lectures about how grateful he should be.

Finally at ease, he sat on the sumptuous velvet-and-brocade sofa with a sigh, approving of the orderly mahogany bookshelves that flanked a merrily blazing fire in the elegant stone hearth. His doorbell rang, which made him groan in irritation. There was no one to open the door, because he had sent everyone home for the night. He leaned back, hoping whoever it was would be swallowed up by the earth rather than ring again.

His hopes were dashed by a second, more strident ring a minute later.

He got up cursing, a habit he indulged in private even more since his ordination into the priesthood. He looked through the peephole first, reluctant to undo the triple lock for anything trivial. Still, what in his life counted to him as

other

than trivia? - he asked himself bitterly before flinging the door open.

No one was there, just as he'd seen through the peephole; he was irritated with himself for opening it despite knowing that.

Except the mat was not, in fact, quite empty. There was a small cardboard box in front of the door.

Kenzo eyed the box suspiciously, then poked it with one foot. Something moved inside it, and he was about to slam the door and call the police in case it was something dangerous when a plaintive mew escaped it, stopping him short and sharp. He approached the box cautiously, eyeing it with inquisitive suspicion that had a large bubble of hope growing underneath it despite himself.

Sure enough, he opened the box to find a bright ginger tabby kitten with ridiculously wide blue eyes gazing up at him. He melted immediately; he had just been wishing for a cat, and this kitten showed up like a sign from the god whose priesthood he had joined despite his lack of faith.

"Doushita, nyan-nyan?"

he murmured, reaching one long finger toward the tiny pink nose, which sniffed it. The kitten took its time inspecting his finger, then, decision made, shoved its small furry head against his hand, purring like a miniature motorboat. Smitten, he picked up the tiny creature by its scruff as its mother would, then draped it over his broad shoulder and went back inside to get some tuna.

"How'd you know I was wishing for you?" he murmured as he watched the kitten devour the tuna with enthusiasm. "If I believed in a god, I'd thank him. You're exactly what I needed." His face was lit with a soft glow of contentment no one who worked with him or had gone to school with him - or even slept with him - had ever seen.

The kitten stretched and yawned, turning away from the tuna after eating about half. She rubbed her head against his arm, purring, then curled up with her little chin resting on his hand. He laughed softly at her sleepy protests when he picked her up - it was a 'she', he had checked - and deposited her on the couch, where she curled into a contented circle of ginger fur, one blue eye cracked open, watching as he poured himself three fingers of whisky in a cut-crystal tumbler.

"Perhaps I'll name you Amaterasu," he told her, feeling a small, spiteful satisfaction at invoking the name of the Shinto sun goddess. The Church would certainly disapprove - at least the part of it he had the misfortune to belong to so completely, by no choice of his own. "It fits - your fur is bright as flame," he decided. "I'll shorten it to Tess in front of churchy types."

Suddenly the newly christened Sun Goddess rose and hissed, her tail bushing out as she directed all her tiny feline hostility at the dark shadows in the next room. He looked up and set the tumbler down. He had more respect for the instincts of cats - even miniature ones - than for the religion he professed or the politics he preached.

"What is it, little one?" he murmured, scratching the top of her head lightly as she continued to bristle. Her small triangular ears were laid flat back against her head. She looked up at him, her eyes cerulean pools of innocence, then looked back into the shadows and began growling.

"Nothing's there, look," he told her, walking toward the other room. His phone rang in his hand, startling him into a curse. He cursed again when he saw it was a call he would have to take, and wandered away from the firelight and the kitten. He didn't want his day job to touch the sanctity of this lovely evening that was starting to feel like the home he'd never had and always dreamt of.

The kitten's ear stayed cocked in his direction as his voice trailed away into the cavernous depths of the house. When she gauged he was far enough away, she transformed quickly back into the petite redheaded witch Morgana, who immediately went to the front door and opened it silently to retrieve a bag she had left in the azalea bushes just beside the porch steps. She closed the door just as quietly, then brought her bag to the counter, keeping a sharp ear out for Kenzo's return. He was still unpleasantly occupied, judging by the carefully cloaked irritation in his deep voice.

Nodding in approval, she silently thanked Drusilla, who was expert in manipulating soundwaves with her spells and was currently impersonating the Cardinal on the other end of the unwanted phone call. The trickster spirit of April Fools' seemed to be helping their deception along.

Morgana uncapped the potent tranquilizer she had mixed, guessing from long experience that this sort of man would be a solitary drinker of some form of hard liquor. The potion's flavor was subtle enough he would probably not detect the difference in the whisky's sharp flavor in time to avoid its effects. She poured in a larger dose than she normally would, having been deeply impressed with the muscles in his arms and shoulders when he'd carried her inside.

"That's a quality physique all right," she murmured as she put the remainder back in her bag and hid it under a chair in a deeply shadowed corner. She put a light glamour on it for good measure, then turned back into the fuzzy ginger kitten feigning sleep just as he returned on silent feet, his face puzzled and slightly suspicious. The look softened when he glimpsed the little bundle of orange fur, his lips curving in a rare smile.

He lifted the tumbler and took a long swallow of the burning liquid, enjoying the fiery trail it left on the way down his throat. He needed it even more after that strange call from his adoptive parent. Why would the Cardinal call just to ask how the evening had gone and if the house was to his satisfaction? He had never made wellness checks before.

Kenzo settled beside the kitten, trying not to disturb her, but pleased when she immediately woke and daintily crossed the couch cushions to sit on his thigh.

This was also quite well-muscled, Morgana thought, though her human lust normally did not translate when she shifted her shape. She was going to enjoy this job, it seemed. He was physically her ideal, which had never happened before. Silky black hair in long layers to the middle of his back, dark eyes tipped up at the corners, perfect features and a grace that bordered on feline, for a great clumsy human creature.

She purred in approval, nuzzling his hands and leaping up to his shoulder for a better view of his chiseled jaw, exquisite cheekbones, and the glorious fiery depths in his dark eyes - though she wondered how much of the red and gold in them was simply reflected from the cozy fire that still crackled in the hearth.

His eyelids began to droop sooner than she expected, waking her from the trance she'd fallen into, locking gazes with him and lost in unexpected thoughts. His hand faltered in stroking her fur, then dropped. She saw the beginnings of alarm in his sleepy gaze, the knowledge that something was wrong, but he had caught on too late.

She had to admit he'd surprised her, naming the kitten after a pagan goddess; there might be hope for him yet, she thought, as she shapeshifted back to her human form.

***

Kenzo, drugged but not quite asleep, thought he was dreaming; how else could he be seeing his kitten transform into a woman? She stretched, naked in the firelight that seemed to caress her skin. Even more shocking, he

knew

her. This was a girl he had known in dreams all his life, though not even with Fleur, his longest-term lover, had he met her likeness in the harsh light of reality.

Still, he preferred the kitten. Kittens were not as whiny or demanding as women. Not to mention the drawback that women were full of lies and spite.

His drugged, stressed mind wandered back in search of a time free of resentment, all the way to the halcyon days before his mother - his own

mother

- sold him off to the church and walked off giggling with a white man who had refused to accept her with the added burden of another man's child - especially a child of a different race.

He first dreamed of this red-haired girl years before he and his mother left Japan. He had believed she must be a child goddess, because he'd never met a real person with hair like the sunset, eyes like the sea, and skin like the moon; they did not exist in the tiny mountain village of his birth. She was kind in his dreams, smaller than he was, but leading him by the hand through a deep, dark forest.

She often appeared in his nightmares after his mother abandoned him, seeming to keep pace with his age, as if they were growing up together. She was a beacon he looked for in every bad dream, knowing if he found her, they would guide each other to safety and she would let out a ringing laugh that dispelled his fears. She sometimes took the form of a ginger tabby kitten in those dreams, he recalled with hazy surprise that he had not recognized her in the box on the porch. She was probably the reason he'd fallen in love with the entire feline species. All this was definitely another dream.

But it had been

years

since he saw her. She deserted him once he committed to the priesthood. The last time he'd seen her in a dream, he was calling her to come to him; but she stood apart, tears streaking silver down her face. Finally she turned her back and walked away. The last he saw was a flicker of her red tresses, soon swallowed by shadows.

His heart had fully broken then; he repaired it the way many humans do - with anger, gluing the pieces back together with thick, bitter misogyny. His little goddess, the closest thing to family he had as a ward of the Church, functionally orphaned, had been no more faithful than his mother; he was determined never to trust a woman again. He reveled in his work against feminist causes, taking delight in causing women the same misery they had caused him, using them for sex and dumping them, one after the next in a long line until Fleur.