Chapter 2

Two

"A sorcerer must be in control of himself if he is to control magic." — Sorcery in the Age of Reason.

Augustus Valentine Vance knew one true thing: a good sorcerer needed a collection of magnificent scarves. His scarf, hand dyed black silk with gold patterns, was currently serving the noble purpose of keeping the overcast sun out of his stinging eyes.

He’d woken on a leather chaise in his lounge room, his mouth tasting vaguely of smoky herbs, and had the alluring musk and flower scent of a woman in his nose. It took him a few moments to realize he had no idea how he got there.

"William! I need some water," he called loudly before he remembered that Will had died seventy years beforehand.

Augustus cursed and got to his feet. His boots were wet, so he kicked them off and made his way to the kitchen.

He had three tall glasses of water and stared at the roses outside of the window. He remembered needing a drink the day before (or had it been the day before that?), and he’d gone out, determined to find one. He should still be passed out or nursing the mother of all hangovers.

Instead, he felt disturbingly clear, like a blank slate. He never felt that way, even when he was sober.

Had he been drugged? There were some members of Melbourne’s supernatural community who wished him harm, the fucking Druids for a start, but he’d been on peaceful terms with even them lately.

Augustus went to the bathroom upstairs, stripped, and examined himself for bruises or curses, and found none. The only thing that felt amiss was that he wanted to eat.

"Something is definitely wrong," he said to the reflection in his mirror.

It wasn’t until he was under a hot shower, imagining the pile of pancakes he was going to devour, that he remembered a red door, a talking cat, and a saint with eyes big enough to swallow him whole.

If Augustus had been an ordinary man, only two thoughts would have gone through his head at that moment. Being a sorcerer, who are known for overanalyzing everything, Augustus was suddenly faced with several:

1. The family of saints living in Melbourne wasn’t a rumor.

2. Just how drunk had he been to want to tangle with them?

3. Did a cat really talk to him?

4. Christ, he hoped he had been polite.

5. Would the saint’s shining silver hair feel as soft as it looked?

6. What had been in the tea he had drunk?

7. How did he walk away from such an encounter not only in one piece but feeling better than he had in the last decade?

Augustus dwelt on those seven thoughts and did his best to ignore the looming presence of an eighth. How did he find a saint that didn’t want to be found?

* * *

"Woah, slow down. Are you talking about the mother or the daughter saint?" Flynn asked a week later. Flynn was Augustus’s gardener when he wasn’t being a forest sprite.

He was on friendly terms with all the trees in Melbourne’s inner city and was the best person to ask about gossip because the trees were nosey and loved to talk. They also remembered everything, whether curses were involved or not.

Augustus had told him about the saint, and Flynn had quickly consulted the trees for what they knew.

"Must be the daughter. There was only one, and she didn’t look much older than thirty," Augustus said, watching Flynn encourage the roses to bloom.

"That’s not saying much. Look at you. Did she yell at you?"

"Not that I can remember."

"The few creatures that encountered the mother and could still remember her to tell the tale were sent running by her somewhat sharp tongue. She hated other magic users. If you came out of the encounter unscathed, it must’ve been the daughter." Flynn considered the bloom in his fingers, lost in its perfect spirals. "Why do you want to find her again? Seems like a dumb idea."

"You know me. I like to be on friendly terms with all the mad and magical."

"Don’t lie to me, sorcerer."

"Maybe I liked her."

"You don’t like anyone, another lie."

Augustus sat down under the flowering jacaranda tree, flicking the purple flowers off the seat so they didn’t stain his jeans. "The truth is I’m…curious."

Flynn had known Augustus for a long time and could tell when his friend was working on a problem in his head. He’d never considered a saint a problem, but Augustus wasn’t like other men in his thinking. He was also holding back.

"Closer to the truth, but not quite there," the sprite pushed.

"She did something to me. I want to find out what." Augustus folded his arms.

Now that his guard was down, Flynn could see that something had altered in his friend. As a sprite, he could sense the change of seasons, and a scent came off the sorcerer that called to him of spring storms.

"In what way?"

"It’s hard to explain. I feel…different. I need to find her."

"That’s not much to go on, sorcerer. Are you sure it’s not your dick clouding your judgment?"

"No," Augustus said.

"Why? Was she ugly?"

"I…I don’t think so. I can only remember black eyes and albino hair. Not enough to form a clear picture for my mind or my dick."

"It’s curious that you remember her at all. Maybe you were meant to find her," Flynn reasoned.

"Or I got lucky when I was drunk off my face."

"No one is that lucky. Do you want my advice?"

"If I have no choice."

"Go for a walk and see what happens."

"That’s not going to help anything," Augustus argued.

Flynn turned back to the roses. "From what I’ve heard, you find saints when you need them, and if there’s anyone in Melbourne who needs a saint to perform a miracle on them, it’s you."

Augustus, who hated that his pain was close enough to the surface to see, told Flynn to fuck off…and then he went for a walk.

* * *

The laneways of Melbourne were a maze of cafes, clothing stores, restaurants, and jewelers. Augustus had tried to remember where he’d been when he’d found the teashop, but like her face, the memory of the storefront had been narrowed to a red door. This information didn’t help him in the slightest.

"Come on, Augustus, you used to be good at this," he said to himself.

He rolled his shoulders, shook out his hands, and reached his magic out to find traces of the saint.

He focused on the details he did know: the jars of tea, the rude cat, the red door, the feminine scent of perfume, and the clean hair that he hadn’t managed to stop smelling.

It wasn’t until he focused on how he’d been feeling (drunk and wallowing in ages-old anger) that he felt the magic of the shop hit him hard in the face.

He turned around and headed right, following a call that rattled through him and pulled viciously on the years of grief he worked so hard to keep a lid on. He put a hand against a gratified wall, sudden nausea overwhelming him. It felt like the shop had hooked around his deepest pain and was trying to rip it out of him.

"Sweet Mary, mother of God, what are you?" Augustus wheezed.

It was almost a relief when he turned left and right again and found a shining red door in the wall of a brick building.

When he twisted the handle, the ripping and pulling inside of him stopped. He pushed the door open, and there was the saint, looking like she was about to call down the vengeance of God to strike him dead.