The phone hasn’t been in her pocket a minute when it buzzes again.
She decides to let him in on the problem.
“Somebody’s sending me odd texts.”
“Why don’t you turn it off?”
“Good idea,” she says, and starts to, then doesn’t. “Only I’m intrigued.”
“By what?”
She considers him; he only just clears her threshold for minor confidences.
“What do you see?” she says, showing him her phone.
“A horse.”
“Yeah. A horse.”
She scrolls down.
“More horses,” he says. “Are you an equestrian?”
She shakes her head no.
He sees them.
That’s something.
Now she knows the texted photos are not themselves magical, though she’s picking up magic around them, and the sender’s number is blocked. She’s sure that if she saw it, it would be international, originating in Ukraine. It’s the middle of the night over there. She turns the phone back to herself, scrolls down the photos, all twenty-something of them showing different horses: bays, roans, and blacks; Arabs, quarter horses, and Belgians.
This is an attack.
This is how wizards fight; they begin by psyching out their opponent.
It’s not going to work on me.
Horses?
My hacker must be a man, and a very silly man.
“May I try your sake?” her date says.
She looks at him as if only just realizing he’s there.
She gets a tickle in her ear, telling her there’s a conversation she may wish to eavesdrop on. She swivels a sort of invisible cat’s ear toward the kitchen.
… way too hot for that creeper, I don’t know how he even gets them here.
Well he’s hot, hot’s not his problem. Kinda looks like a watered-down Johnny Depp. He’s just clueless. Wonder what he drew for this one.
Do you think they sleep with him?
Some, I’m sure, or he wouldn’t keep dropping Benjamins. Must be a trust fund kid. Told me once he’s an actor, his Visa has three first names like an actor, Michael Oliver Scott or something, but they don’t make that kind of money, not in Chicago. Unless it’s commercials.
She listens for another moment, making eye contact with Michael Anthony Scott.
She smiles at him.
He’s still waiting for an answer about the sake, wondering what game she’s playing.
As he’ll find out in less than a minute, she’s playing the “finish her sake and leave her date at the restaurant” game.
She’s also playing the “steal his wallet with a spell” game.
She’s also just about to play the “what’s in its pocketses?” game.
When he fishes for his wallet, he’ll find a piece of paper with a child’s crayon drawing of a crying man getting arrested outside FUGU SOOSHI. When he shows it to the manager as evidence that somebody must be playing a prank on him, the manager will not see the child’s drawing. What he will see will be a newspaper blurb about local actor Michael Scott’s dine-and-dash arrest at a Ravenswood pizza parlor, complete with mug shot.
Radha, sitting on the zebra-skin seat of her idling Mini Cooper, dictates the nature of the drawing, the photo and text of the article, and where she wants these articles placed into her phone, into an app she made for herself, clicks Preview, giggles, then presses Cast.
She drives off toward home.
As she turns onto Damen, she sees a homeless man sitting on cardboard, two dusty-looking heeler dogs napping near him.
She rolls down her window.
Throws the wallet.
It skids to a stop between his legs.
“Do as thou wilt,” she says.
He grins, gives her a thumbs-up.
Plays a peppy version of “Blue Skies” on his kazoo.
76
Later.
Radha sits before her computer.
She wears her Muppet Show onesie, a footed onesie with Animal on each foot.
Her roommate, a flamingly, fabulously gay dancer, a Michael who spells his name with a Y and has no idea she’s a witch, won’t be home from rehearsal until well past midnight; Equus opens in less than a week. She designed the poster graphic, three dancers in horse masks frozen in synchronicitous movement against a pear-green backdrop. The masks have a dystopian look, something H. R. Giger might have designed, and they appear off-balance, about to topple. She’s really proud of this graphic.
She is less proud about the persistent low-grade infection her computer seems to have. No amount of flushing, warding, or spell encryption seems able to do more than keep it busy. It has interfered with her ability to track the Ukrainian, it won’t let her corner it, and it finds and infects any other devices she tries to use the web from.
I’m the vector.
It hides in me somehow.
This is masterclass cybermagic.
How’s he doing this?
She’s working on a spell to create a sort of antibody for the system, and she’s pretty sure it will work, but writing the intruder-specific code takes time; and she has to get the blood of a watchdog. She has the dog picked out, a German shepherd that has barked at her from behind the white wrought-iron gates of a house two blocks from her complex, on the way to the chocolate shop. She can make the pooch take a nap with a spell, but she’s not good with animal magic and it will cost her juice she needs to find the computer bug.
She’ll go no-frills on the tranquilizer, get it from a vet.
But she really hates needles.
Maybe she’ll charm or pay a phlebotomist to come with her.
And once the infection is flushed, she’ll be able to take the offensive. She found a really ugly Brazilian spell that liquefies bones, and she’s already practiced on a lamb shank. The poor thing actually danced a spastic little dance and smoked from its holes before it balloonishly collapsed; she’s more than ready to try it on her Slavic friend.
She’s never been in a duel with another user before, and, if she’s a little scared, she’s even more excited. Americans have the best computer magic, and she’s one of the best in America. It’s a game for young witches. Maybe only sealiongod@me.com is better, but he’s out in San Francisco.
All right.
A Greek yogurt with almonds and honey.
A glass of Gewürztraminer.
An hour of code.
Then another glass of Gewürztraminer while Mykel rubs his calves with tiger balm and bitches about the director’s choices.
When she comes back from the kitchen, something’s wrong.
The screen saver with the three horse-men has turned into a GIF; the figures now move in a loop, executing a plié and scoop over and over again.
Fuck! He’s through!
She spits the yogurt-covered spoon out of her mouth.
One of the horse heads now noses against the screen, bulbs it out like soft plastic, pokes through.
It happens slowly, then fast, as if someone sped a film up.
A real horse’s head, a real man’s body, and the monster births itself through her computer, knocking over her chair.
The other two simply appear behind it, piggybacking on its magical entry.
She’s about to use her Brazilian spell when it occurs to her she’s not sure what these things are made of, if they even have bones.