Theoretical Magic: The Floodmouth Files, #1

ONE

Plastic tablecloths fluttered in the ocean breeze, threatening to steal hats and napkins. But all attention was fixed on the magic user starting his act on the Little Bites Cafe patio. Even the sunburned families coming back from the river tour slowed to watch.

Since the mage had commandeered the table next to mine, I had the best view in the square.

Like most businesses in the area, this cafe catered to tourists — if anyone I knew saw me there, I'd never hear the end of it. But Delia had chosen the venue, and if an actual vampire wasn't embarrassed, I wouldn't be either… though it was entirely possible she had no idea what it was like. My mentor may have looked at a map and picked the cafe closest to my workplace for our late-morning meeting.

The patio's speakers coughed to life as the mage spoke. Welcome to Floodmouth, home of vampires, magic, and… The man's baritone deepened as he raised his lavalier microphone closer to his lips and whispered seductively, reliable public transportation.

The tourists giggled. Twisting in my seat, I scanned for any sign of Delia. I was ready to abandon the table if she looked bothered, but as kitschy as the place was, the mage's spells looked intriguing so I hoped we stayed.

Though he looked twenty and had alabaster skin and jet black hair, the hair and skin were due to a cosmetic charm, and his choice of comfortable loafers made me revise his age up a decade or two. After a few seconds, the wave of laughter died down. He grinned and poured scarlet ink into a silver chalice, the movements neat and practiced. My name… is Master Vlad.

Secondhand embarrassment made me revisit my wish to stay. There were no vampire mages. Everyone knew the vampire council didn't transform humans who could work magic. Or… maybe not everyone, given the excited murmurs around me. Yes, the second vampire plague had been the focus of my PhD dissertation, so maybe I was a little more informed about the subject than the average person, but still. Some days I despaired.

The mage continued his patter as he poured black ink into another chalice, and I studied the incomplete spells on the plastic mat Master Vlad had unrolled on his table. His persona might be a sham, but he had some interesting magic. A Drake containment shell circled the perimeter, and at the center was a modified fluid movement spell. A dozen plastic chips stood in a neat stack next to the grease pencil at his right hand. Nothing I could see was particularly tricky, but it also wasn't beginner-level. At a guess, he'd trained on the east coast; the extra loop on the isolation barrier was a New York thing.

Blue ink went into a third chalice. Today, we're going to see a little history made real. From the flair of the entertainer's movements, his act had been honed to perfection over time, as expected for an artist at a premier tourist spot. But I was fairly certain he'd never performed outdoors in Floodmouth — the corners of the mat had been weighted down with stones painted an arterial crimson. The rocks were a great idea; the color was not, though I had to give the guy credit for leaning into the bit.

A woman's voice interrupted my analysis. Jen, my dear, how are you? No trouble getting away for a few moments? With the grace of a dancer, Delia Tarragona slipped into the seat across from me. As with all vampires, age had been kind to her. I'd never been gauche enough to ask, but she was probably in her seventies. If I looked that good in forty years, I'd be elated. Given her strong features and a stubborn jaw, Delia may never have been a classical beauty, but I'd bet everything I owned that she'd never been overlooked.

These days, she had pure white hair cut into short curls that framed her long face. The only sign she was a vampire was the faint aura surrounding her. It was magic, but of a different sort than Master Vlad harnessed, the energy focused internally to keep her body healthy instead of wasted on gaudy displays. Delia's vampire aura was more subtle than most, but since the majority of people here couldn't see magical energy at all, she sat unnoticed among them.

I smiled and waved her concern away. Everyone is in Seattle for an emergency summit.

Her eyes twinkled. That must be a relief.

Delia was my mentor, so I suppressed my sigh. Somebody had to stay behind in Floodmouth to do any work that cropped up. As the most junior magical evidence analyst, I'd been picked. Theoretically, I could have gone to Seattle, because one coworker, Hamilton, refused to travel by public teleportation spell, so he had stayed as well. But my boss didn't suggest I go in his place and I didn't bring it up. Learning everything about a series of vampire deaths would have been fine. Spending a week crammed into meeting rooms with a supervisor who criticized my every move? Not so much.

It was nice to have a week without my boss noting every coffee refill and phone call. But I was still trying to impress Delia with my professionalism, so I merely smiled and said, How are you?

Excellent. Before you ask, I'm still working on getting funding for the analyst position, so no news there, unfortunately. But I have a meeting with two of the board members later this week, and I think I can talk them around. She lifted the laminated menu. What's good here?

People seem to like their cake pops. Possibly because cake pops were easy to eat while on the move. Or maybe because they were the cheapest thing on the menu. Either way, the seagulls had perfected the art of swooping in and stealing the treat before the tourists blinked.

Delia was silent as she studied the menu — just long enough for me to wonder how offensive the vampire-themed puns and stereotypes really were. Then her lips quirked up. I need to get out more often.

This was a disaster. Sorry. Why don't we find someplace else? There's a decent coffee cart around the corner. I should have offered to come to her, either before work or after.

Nonsense. A bit of silliness is exactly what I need. She flagged down the server, a young woman with the unbothered facade of a university student who was only there for the paycheck. I'll have the Blood Spatter Surprise and a plain coffee. What will you have, Jen? My treat.

Scarlet Pops and a coffee, please.

Once the server had left, Delia leaned forward. Still having trouble with your supervisor?

When I'd finally decided to leave academia last year, Delia's plan to hire me to develop spells for public applications had fallen through at the last minute, for reasons neither of us understood. In the aftermath, she'd become my mentor and friend and suggested I apply for my current position at the Federal Bureau of Magic Enforcement. We both agreed my resume would be stronger if I stayed at the FBME for at least a year, but I relied on her for practical tips to stay sane in that environment.

Your suggestion to copy her on any direct requests helped, I admitted. Occasionally, she replies that she doesn't need to micromanage my workload, but at least she's stopped complaining that I'm taking too long on my cases.

That's progress. It may just take some time for the two of you to work out the best way to communicate. And that's on her, since she's the one in charge, she added. How is it going with the rest of the team?

I shrugged. I'm the newest hire. Not just that — I was the only one who hadn't transferred in at a higher grade from another federal organization. The hierarchy of agencies was ill-defined and added complexity to the power dynamics, but everyone agreed I was at the bottom of the pile.

Next to us on the mage's table, a three-dimensional tableau was forming above the plastic mat, the scene loosely based on the jailbreak of the infamous outlaw Katie Tucker. Cerulean streamed out to form the Flood River and next to it, amber ink sketched the seven-story Italianate building of The Vault — current home of the Federal Bureau of Magic Enforcement. The animation used a variant on Tsu flow mechanics that I'd never seen before.

The tour boats and water buses of the modern river had been replaced by a lone rowboat on the banks, which I chalked up to artistic license. In 1905, traffic on the Flood would have been heavy, since Floodmouth had been one of the most active ports on the Pacific and the river had been used to bring goods inland to the rest of California.

As an extra touch, the mage populated the scene with models of people, basing the features on cafe patrons. Each time he drew on a plastic chip and imbued it with magic, another table chattered excitedly as someone recognized themself. So far he had five members of Katie Tucker's gang in place on the roof of The Vault, ready to invade and free their leader. A small child darted across the patio to drop a bill in the mage's open case.

I wondered who Master Vlad would model Katie Tucker after. Probably whoever he thought might give him the largest tip.

Delia looked faintly amused by the show, but she stuck to the topic. You may be the newest, but you're also the only one with an advanced degree, correct? I suspect they're intimidated. And concerned about their own advancement.

The idea of anyone being intimidated by me was ludicrous. I'm the only one who can't do magic. Being able to perform magic wasn't technically necessary when documenting spells, but I had no illusions that I was on a promotional fast track.

Before Delia could respond, the server came back with our order. My cake pops were coated in white chocolate that had been dyed red. Though the texture looked nothing like blood, the color was pretty close. They were served in a magically cooled cloche with the Little Bite's logo, addressing two problems: melting chocolate and seagull attacks.

Delia's Blood Spatter Surprise turned out to be a vanilla cupcake with a raspberry cream center and raspberry syrup flung over the buttercream frosting. Suppressing a smile, she began eating with a fork and knife. That may be an advantage in certain situations. Traveling to other cities, for instance. Not all places are as welcoming to magic users as Floodmouth.

I wasn't cut out for life anywhere else. I loved my crazy city, with its magic, vampires, and yes, reliable public transportation.

In Floodmouth, we still got tourists thinking vampires had fangs (they didn't), sucked blood (no, again), and were burned by light, holy water, or garlic (wrong on all three counts). There was a grain of truth in there. Vampires fed on human energy and that required a break in the skin, but it was done with sterile instruments in a highly regulated environment, and nobody was permanently harmed. Vampires didn't need to eat food, but they could eat anything they liked, including garlic. Sunlight wasn't a problem.

But Floodmouth never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Case in point: we were seated in a cafe full of people dying to see a real live vampire, and everyone was watching the show and ignoring Delia. Even I owned a hoodie stamped Bloodmouth U with tiny fangs dripping blood, a souvenir of a night out in Booksellers Row when I'd forgotten to bring a jacket.

The breeze picked up and I reached out with one hand to keep the entertainer's plastic mat anchored to the table, then pulled my hand back when Master Vlad narrowed his eyes at me. Did he think I was going to yank the mat away? Explaining would interrupt his show, so I folded my hands in my lap and hoped for the best.

With a theatrical wave of his arms, Master Vlad directed attention back to the scene in front of him. It had just struck noon and all was quiet… Magic flowed from his fingers to the final plastic chip as he set the spell. The unchanging tableau sprang to life as tiny waves bobbed on the surface of the river and the people on shore ran toward The Vault. Black ink billowed from the third floor and a sturdy woman leapt from the roof toward the river, her wrists and ankles still shackled.

Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised to see Delia's face on Katie Tucker since the vampire had all the subtle trappings of wealth, but seeing a vampire's face on the most famous magic user in Floodmouth's history made me blink. Delia let out a delighted laugh.

My phone buzzed with a text from Hamilton. SA Salt came looking for you. I stalled, but you should get back here. Crap. Supervisory Agent Salt was in charge of the FBME agents — all vampires — on the sixth floor. I didn't work for her. We'd never interacted. How did she even know my name? And why wasn't she in Seattle with the rest of the FBME vampires?

Delia leaned forward. Do you need to leave?

Sorry, I said.

Delia waved my apology away as we stood. "Entirely my fault for asking to meet during working hours. Do you like opera? I have an extra ticket for Tuesday. La Bohème. It's Attilio Pagano's farewell tour, and having heard him in person will be something to tell your grandchildren. But no pressure — I know opera isn't everyone's cup of tea."

I've never been, I admitted. With a wary glance at the circling gulls, I wrapped the remaining cake pop in a napkin and shoved it in my pocket.

Well, I won't put you on the spot, but if you'd like to go, send me a message. I'd be delighted to have you along. Her attention was diverted by Katie Tucker's flight across the Flood River, accompanied by her gang. Tiny vampire figures fired guns at the fleeing criminals, only to be driven back by spells. It was a scene worthy of a movie and bore zero resemblance to eyewitness accounts, which mentioned more subterfuge and sabotage and less cinematic spectacle.

Delia smiled again as she saw a version of herself throwing fireballs, and detoured to leave a large bill in the mage's open case. Master Vlad winked at her. Then he froze, as he finally noticed the vampire magic. His smile took on a pained rictus. But Delia turned and joined me, giving every indication she'd enjoyed the show.

As we reached the edge of the patio, a cluster of circling gulls dove to grab the stones holding down the plastic mat. They quickly realized the weights weren't cake pops and dropped them as they flew away, but the damage had been done. The ocean breeze flipped up a corner of the mat and suddenly the Drake containment shell inverted, splattering ink on everyone with a front row seat.

Shouting tourists leapt to their feet and wiped at their clothes and skin in dismay, smearing black, red, and blue ink with Little Bites branded paper napkins.

Delia looked at me. "That's what you were trying to prevent."

Yeah… I shrugged. A Drake shield is great for demonstrations when it's set up on a solid base. But it's prone to inversion if the base isn't planar. And the seagulls around here really like those cake pops. My phone buzzed again. Thanks again for the coffee and cake.

My pleasure. Delia glanced back at the cafe patio, where Master Vlad was surreptitiously packing his case while the manager and servers rushed between patrons. This was delightful. I really must get out more often.

I jogged back to work, leaving Delia sipping her coffee and watching the spectacle.

TWO

The Vault had seven stories, but strong wards were easier to protect below ground, so the magical evidence technicians lived in our own little basement world. Above us, the first two floors held the bureau's civilian administrators, mostly human, who dealt with timesheets and all the HR violations. On the third floor, there were temporary holding cells and offices for visiting law enforcement. The fourth floor held the armory. One floor up, the humans crazy enough to be on the entry override teams had offices, though they seemed to spend most of their free time running up and down the stairs and bragging about how much they could deadlift. Needless to say, the humans of the fifth floor were easily distinguished from those who worked in the basement.

Finally, on the top two floors, the FBME agents had offices. As far as I knew, they were all vampires, but I'd never gone up there to check. Vampires were less affected by most spells, so it made sense for the bureau to hire them. On the flip side, humans who wanted to be federal operatives gravitated toward other agencies, where vampires often weren't welcome.

There was no sign of Supervisory Agent Salt as I hurried down to the basement, and only Hamilton was visible when I opened the fire doors. Because we documented spells used for everything from terrorism to illegal surveillance, the basement workspace was structurally reinforced and had spells dividing the room to stop the spread of magic. I shared a section in the back corner with Hamilton. Given my own popularity, our proximity told me everything I needed to know about Hamilton's career progression. He wasn't bad at his work, but his personality quirks meant he'd never get promoted.

I made it to my workspace, feeling vaguely guilty about having been caught elsewhere — which was ridiculous, since I was an adult, and my job paid me for results, not to sit in one place. Across the aisle, Hamilton didn't look up from the lockbox he was working on. He'd been getting shocked intermittently all morning, but so far he'd refused my help.

Thanks for the heads up, I said as I unlocked my desk drawer and removed the head-knock charm I'd been documenting.

It's never good when upstairs comes looking.

Think I should go find Salt? Or just wait?

If she didn't message you directly, I'd wait. Maybe you'll get lucky and something else will distract her. Then he yelped, muttered an obscene threat under his breath, and followed it up with a snarled, And your mother, too! It skirted HR rules about creating a hostile workplace. In the Federal Bureau of Magical Enforcement, nothing was real unless it was documented, and it would be hard to fire someone for the things he yelled. Not that I would complain anyhow, but we worked with more than one person whose method of climbing the ladder was to clear out nearby rungs.

Leaning one elbow on my desk, I said, You ready for some help?

He looked over and held up the back of his hand, all fingers pointing toward the ceiling. Read between the lines, Perkins.

We grinned at each other.

Jason Hamilton wasn't a bad guy, even if he did have a few quirks. A skeletally thin white man in his forties, he ran ultramarathons in his free time and believed — or claimed to believe, anyhow — a vast array of conspiracy theories.

Hamilton went back to torturing himself, and I focused on my report. The triple knot forming the power circle was first described by Doyle et al in Annals of Magic, 1948. Though once commonly used in North America, a survey of mages in 2010 showed most prefer the so-called Helicate Twist, aside from those trained at the University of Guelph. I made a note to add the proper citation. Knowing that whoever had made this thing had trained in Canada might help the FBME agents find this mage. It was only through luck that the charm hadn't killed someone. Having the citations would help build the case if it went to court.

But even as I wrote up my findings, part of me worried about why Salt had wanted to talk to me. Finally, I locked the charm back in the drawer and stood up. I can't deal with this. I'm going to find Salt.

Hamilton snorted without looking up. It's your funeral. Then he grunted as the box shocked him again.

That's it. I'm afraid to leave you alone with this thing. I walked to his workbench, flipped the latch on the lockbox, and lifted the lid. Tada!

Hamilton stared at the lockbox and then at me. What the…? How did you do that?

Flipping the lid closed, I centered the box between us. Okay, so you see the anti-vampire ward here, I said, pointing to the runes on a band around the center. That would keep any vampire from coming within arm's length.

Right.

And then this section here is the shielding keeping the box hidden. This lockbox would tend to be ignored unless someone specifically looked for it — or it was in the magic-dampening Vault. The search team that found it had either known it was there or had done a thorough grid search of the room where it had been stored.

Agreed.

Under the shielding spell was a tangle of spell knots I'd seen when Hamilton had pulled the lockbox from evidence. At first glance, they looked like decorative swirls, just like the other fake runes — it was a common tactic because it slowed down half-trained mages. Better to waste hours researching spells that didn't exist than risk losing a hand by triggering an unfamiliar exploding charm.

But I'd seen these specific swirls before. One of the primary sources I'd dug up when writing my doctoral dissertation was a group of scrolls held in a cask with both the anti-vampire runes and this spell protecting it. I'd spent two weeks analyzing the spells and then hadn't needed any of it for my dissertation, but no learning is wasted.

I ran my fingers along the swirls. This reacts to the presence of any external magic. With a quick grin, I added, It converts it into a pulse to the nerves, and the strength is related to the power of the external magic.

As the morning had progressed, Hamilton had tried a series of spells with increasing power to get into the chest. I hadn't been kidding when I'd said I was worried about leaving him alone. If he'd kept going for another hour, he would have thrown something stronger at it in frustration, and it would have knocked him into the wall.

So you figured it out this morning and let me shock myself for three hours? He laughed and shook his head. I'm proud of you. That's cold.

I thought maybe you had a different method of getting around it, I lied. You know me, always bowing down to your greater experience.

Brat. He reached forward and hissed as it shocked his finger again. Hang on. Why did it do that? Then he answered his own question. Because I have my personal wards up. He closed his eyes and dropped his wards. When he opened them again, he reached forward and flipped the lid open. Nice!

Personal wards weren't a problem for me, of course. Though I could see spells, design new ones, and disable traps, I was a magical dud. In academia, that wasn't a big problem; theory was the important part and there were plenty of mages around to cast a spell. But out in industry, nobody cared about the theory — they just wanted results. I had standard anti-theft and anti-corrosion wards on my bicycle, but I didn't bother wearing cosmetic charms at work.

We leaned forward to see what the spell had been protecting. Inside the lockbox were bundles of cash and a spiral-bound logbook. Huh. If you show up tomorrow in fancy clothes and some bling, I'll know what happened.

As if these clothes aren't as fancy as they get, he responded, offended. He rubbed his tie, a garish nightmare of blotches in a pattern he claimed warded off surveillance. With anyone else, I'd assume the tie was a joke, but I could never tell with Hamilton. I might buy another of these beauties, though.

Stealing evidence would be harder than getting a second job to earn the money directly. The Vault was warded against that sort of thing. It's not one-of-a-kind? That's the best evidence that a demon portal really did open in Eugene in 1964.

Of course it did, he said with sincerity. He grinned and flipped the lid closed and open again. Don't tell anyone about this. I want to get McPherson when she gets back.

Just keep an eye on her, I called back as I walked toward the exit. I'm not sure how much power it can reflect before it fizzles.

Yeah, yeah, it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

I ran into SA Salt — almost literally — in the lobby when the elevator doors opened and she stepped out. Selina Salt had been an Olympic shot-putter, and she still had the same physique, though it was softened by her carefully tailored suits. Rumor had it she'd once dangled two mages over a four-story drop, one in each arm, to keep them from running away or attacking her while she was waiting for backup to arrive. Sure, she was a vampire, but that didn't give her extra speed or strength — it just changed the source of