Summary:
Dixon might not be the obvious choice for the new Hand of the Penn family, but since an enchanted string marked him as Fonzo’s replacement, everyone’s on board. Especially Yuri.
But with great power comes great responsibility. The new mayor’s brother is in a real pickle—but since he’s been blacklisted by the Spellcraft circuit, no one can Craft for him. When the man begs for help, even Dixon’s hands are tied.
Or are they?
Now that Morticia Shirque is officially part of the family, Dixon could prevail on her wisdom to find a good loophole. Unfortunately, the venerable Scrivener is working on her bucket list and won’t be able to advise him anytime soon.
Uncle Fonzo is no help either, since he’s suddenly dealing with his fair share of unwanted attention. Not from the law, strangely enough, but from every single Scrivener lady in town…and even a few not-so-single hopefuls.
As Dixon and Yuri scramble to solve the problem the “old-fashioned way,” one thing is certain: you never can tell where the power of Spellcraft will lead you.
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
Comic Sans #13
Summary:If a man’s home is his castle…then his stash is his treasure.
When a traveling comic book auctioneer comes to town, Dixon is thrilled to hear his father’s beloved basement stash might contain something valuable after all: a mint condition copy of the rare Eel Man #1.
But when they unearth the comic book, Yuri ends up finding a lot more than he bargained for. Now he’s no longer sure if Dixon is really the product of a loving, happy home…or if Spellcraft the only thing holding his family together.
To make matters worse, the comic book has a major “issue” of its own.
The quest to restore the comic takes Dixon and Yuri from one wonky end of Pinyin Bay to the other. Can they salvage their big find and save a marriage—or is their copy of Eel Man #1 worth nothing more the paper it’s printed on?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
It's All Relative #14
Summary:If Spellcrafters value anything, it’s family. (And a good deal from the clearance rack, and an exceptional hand of poker. But mainly family.)
So, when a long-lost relative surfaces, everyone is absolutely thrilled…until the newcomer challenges Dixon for the title of Hand.
Yuri is perfectly willing to force the usurper back under whatever rock he crawled out from, but Dixon insists on proving himself the best man for the job. A magic string chose him as the Hand, after all. And while Spellcraft can be capricious, surely it would never let Dixon down.
Would it?
To make matters worse, Dixon’s attention is divided. Not only is he scrambling through town on a magical scavenger hunt, but a Handless customer with a sob story has him searching for her lost dog. Because, as Yuri points out, there’s always a dog.
From one end of Pinyin Bay to the other, the whole family pitches in to help Dixon keep his rightful place in the final installment of this heartwarming series.
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
Bucket List #12
Original Review October 2022:
I never want this series to end! But all good things find their finish line eventually and one day, probably sooner than we'd like, The ABCs of Spellcraft will have fulfilled it's duty to entertain while conveying the zany hijinks of it's starring couple, Dixon and Yuri.
Just when you think there isn't possibly any more trouble the men(or more specifically, Dixon) can stumble their way into they find another street to travel. Just as Uncle Fonzo has stepped up into a new role, Dixon also finds his new path as the top dog , Hand of the Penn family. He's not exactly the most qualified candidate but perhaps that is what makes him perfect for the role as he has definitely seen his fairshare of the good and bad on his magical journey.
When faced with his first big crisis, Dixon goes at it as only he would: backwards or more precisely, finding a way to break a long-standing ban for assistance to the mayor's son. Dixon has definitely got the gene that says "you tell me I can't so I'm going to prove to you I can do it anyway". He may not take Yuri on a straight-line journey but they always get to where they're meant to be.
The Bucket List is another great entry in a series that is so full of fun adventures I can't stop smiling just thinking about it. If you haven't started this series yet and are a fan of heat and humor balancing with the magical side, I strongly recommend ABCs of Spellcraft from beginning to end. You won't be sorry.
Comic Sans #13
Original Review October 2022:
I hate to hear that this series is nearly over and there is only one new ABCs of Spellcraft yet to come . . . how can it nearly be done? So unfair. Oh well, sometimes the characters just stop talking to an author, if Dixon and Yuri want to keep their further adventures to themselves then that's what must be. I'll love ABCs right to the end, oh who am I kidding? I'll love and cherish them every step of the way and beyond in rereads & re-listens, the adrenaline rush may not be quite the same but the enjoyment factor will always be topnotch.
So on to Comic Sans.
With a title like that you just know comic books will factor into the trouble Dixon undoubtedly finds himself facing. Sure enough, a rare, mint condition Eel Man #1 could fetch a pretty penny and where does Dixon's dad thinks he seen one last? In his never-ending always-growing pile of stash of what-nots and doo-dads. Once the men are told of a flaw in the comic, Dixon hatches a scheme to recondition said comic . . . and that's where the true fun begins.
That's the end of the plot I'll give away but just know that there are plenty of hi-jinks that only Dixon and Yuri can discover on their path to mint condition. What fun it is. We see Pinyin Bay characters that we've met before, we see plenty of Penn family time as well. Truthfully, I'm not sure if I'd say this is the most we've seen of Dixon's parents yet but their chemistry, their banter, their unique look at things is an absolute treat and I think it gives us plenty of insight into how and why Dixon is the way he is: delightful blend of quirky, charming, loving and all around instantly likeable. Yuri is more stoic, I think anyway, than Dixon's mom but I can't help but think when you look at Johnny and Florica Penn you're actually getting a glimpse into what Dixon and Yuri's future years will be like.
The series may be nearly over and yet after 13 novellas, The ABCs of Spellcraft just keeps getting better and better.
It's All Relative #14
Original Review February Book of the Month 2023:
Say it ain't so! The end is here! No more Dixon and Yuri! As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end . . . doesn't mean I have to like it😉.
The ABCs of Spellcraft may be over. No more new adventures for the always over-optimistic and endless ray of sunshine Dixon and his stern but never not supportive man-friend Yuri, and the incredibly intriguing cast of wacky family, friends, and occasionally not-quite friendly characters. Yes, that's sad to hear but their adventures will live on in re-reads and re-listens and they will never get old, I will never tire of re-visiting Pinyon Bay for a ride-along. For me, that statement alone is the best way to explain how much I enjoy this series and characters. I have a list of books that I re-read/re-listen to every summer, it's not that long but the year would never be complete without them and I am 99.999% certain Spellcraft has just hitched a ride on that list.
Now, as for the final entry, It's All Relative, itself.
What can be said that hasn't already been mentioned in my previous entries reviews?
Jordan Castillo Price has a unique and creative way to bring the world of magic to life, to make it real, to make one look up and expect to see a crafting, or the result of a crafting, float by your front window. Frankly I don't know how Yuri stays so calm. If my significant other had the never-ending energy that Dixon lives life by I would be off my rocker. My mother always looks at life postiviely but her views on "it's going to be okay" has nothing compared to Dixon, so I don't know how Yuri does it but he manages to not only stand by his man sanely but he does so with Dixon's family as well. His desire in Relative to see Dixon keep his place as the Hand probably tests his control more than any other obstacle the couple has tackled but he maintains his voice of calm and focus.
I've probably given away more than I intended to so I won't say more but know it's brilliant and if this series had to end, I can't think of a better way to do so. This series is simply put: FUN! FUN! FUN! FUN! and what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yeah: FUN!!!!!
Now I realize that for some 15 books, even novellas, can seem daunting if you haven't been reading as they've been released. That's a lot of zany, madcappery magic to digest but trust me, you won't regret it. Dixon and Yuri and the whole Spellcraft gang is so enjoyable the time will fly by and before you know it you will be where I am right now, the end with no more new coming and you'll be a little sad but also happy for having discovered such a crazy, fun, romantic, entertaining universe.
Bucket List #12
1
YURI
“Say, Yuri—which tie do you prefer? The purplish blue one…or the bluish purple?”
Dixon stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to our bedroom door with both ties in hand. Perhaps they had started out the same color, though one had spent more time in a shop window being bleached by the sun. While I knew much about color (one was deep periwinkle, the other faded plum) I was the last person to help anyone decide on a purple tie. I owned only three ties, myself—drab things I’d chosen to avoid drawing attention. Besides, Dixon would look just as handsome in either.
And just as nervous.
I didn’t blame him. Tonight, the Hand of every Scrivener family in the Pinyin Bay circuit might think they were attending just another dull meeting—but instead, they would witness Morticia Shirque appointing the successor she’d chosen as Head: Fonzo Penn. But while Fonzo might be the primary focus of attention, the Penn family would also “Change Hands” as he transferred his old position to Dixon.
I despise the limelight, and personally, I would have shrugged off the responsibility to someone else by now. But Dixon was not only born and raised in this Spellcraft tradition…he was chosen. He felt it was his duty to accept the position of the Hand.
Even if it was the prospect of it left him agonizing over two nearly identical purple ties.
“The plum complements the brown in your eyes,” I said firmly. I have found this tone is a great comfort to him when his thoughts are racing and his stomach is filled with butterflies. But I did need to add, “The one on the right,” to avoid any confusion. “Your right.”
Once Dixon’s hair was re-primped, his eyebrows smoothed down and his purple tie tied, there was nothing more to do but make our way to the ceremony…though he was so beside himself with nerves, he missed directing me to the proper turn-offs on three separate occasions. And given the size of Pinyin Bay, there were only so many turn-offs to miss.
Eventually, I pulled down the service road we had doubled back to. There was nothing there but an elaborate drainage ditch on one side and a furniture store called Have A Seat on the other. I did a three-point turn at the entrance to the cracked asphalt parking lot to retrace my steps yet again, when Dixon said, “Where ya going, Yuri? We’re here.”
I hit the brakes, turned to Dixon, and narrowed my eyes.
“Look,” he said brightly. “The welcome wagon.”
At the edge of the drive, the Pinyin Bay Perch emerged from behind a ragged bush, holding a sign shaped like an arrow. I knew the mascot from Precious Greetings—or, more accurately, the costume—but I had no quarrel with it. The furry, striped pelt looked as if it had been laundered recently, though it was growing a bit threadbare in patches, and the tips of the red fins were beginning to fray.
“Okay, there’s not actually a wagon involved in a welcome wagon,” Dixon allowed. “Just one of those quaint American expressions you love so much.”
“I do?”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if he were on a wagon? Or maybe pulling a wagon behind him. Ooh, I know, he could be doing a handstand in the wagon while someone else pulled him—especially if that someone was a miniature horse. Either way, it would be a real sight to see. The Pinyin Bay Perch is such an important part of the city’s history, it’s practically an institution.”
If any city would place undue value on a tattered costume, it would be Pinyin Bay. “But why the furniture store?”
“It’s bad luck to induct the Head on a property with ties to any one Scrivener family, so as not to show any favoritism—and this place is totally Handless.”
I squinted harder.
“Besides, there’ll be plenty of places to sit.”
We coasted past the Pinyin Bay Perch, who waved listlessly. Dixon waved back. As we rolled into the parking lot, I spotted Fonzo’s Buick and pulled up beside it. I said, “I suppose I should be grateful we weren’t on the bandstand in the park, where pieces of airplane rain from the sky.”
“That only happened twice. And it only killed someone once—so, statistically speaking, it’ll probably be free from airplane parts for at least a few more months.”
The automatic doors whisked open to a drab, low hangar of a building, filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of chairs. Collections of chairs were gathered into conversational groupings like flocks of seagulls squabbling on the beach. They had been matched not by style or function, but rather, color. In the hands of the right designer, it might have come off as edgy, even artistic. But here, in this plain bunker of a showroom, it simply looked strange.
As soon as we cleared the threshold, a pale Handless man in a rumpled suit rushed over and said, “Welcome to Have A Seat, where we make tushies happy!”
Dixon said, “Is that your official slogan, or…?”
“We are just looking,” I snapped—a necessary response in America, I have discovered, where salespeople will descend on you like a swarm of persistent sandflies if you do not refuse to be cowed into buying something you can’t afford.
But instead of backing off, the salesman simply deflated. “I don’t get it,” he complained. “This is the most foot traffic we’ve had in...well, forever. But not a single sale.”
Probably because Scriveners are so notoriously cheap. They would rather truss together a chair with splints and packing tape than spend their money on a new piece of furniture.
“Don’t worry,” Dixon said. “Your slogan might need work, but word of mouth is invaluable. Just let your shoppers browse to their hearts’ content, and no doubt they’ll tell all their friends about what a relaxing shopping experience they had in your store.”
For a shop full of chairs, it was anything but relaxing. But at least Dixon’s reassurance encouraged the anxious salesman to retreat.
Not only were chairs huddled in crowded, color-coded groups, but they were crammed on shelves ten feet tall, forming a maze. Chairs on their sides. Chairs upside down. Chairs disassembled, reassembled, and nested together like great stacks of paper cups in a break room. We wended our way up and down the aisles until we caught the sound of some familiar voices.
Lucky for us, when Sabina complains, she does so loudly.
“How long is this dumb thing gonna take? We can’t stay out all night, ya know. We’ve gotta put the baby to bed.”
We turned the corner on a precarious stack of barstools and found Fonzo checking his watch. “It’s barely six.” He gestured at Vano, who was jiggling Tuesday in a sling that I suspect was meant for groceries, given the onions and potatoes printed on the fabric…but it seemed to fit the baby well enough. “And your kid could sleep through a tornado. Unlike you, at that age. Your mother and I used to drive you up and down the block for hours on end just to get you to stop crying.”
“That explains the console scar on my forehead. Would it have killed you to use a car seat?”
“Adversity breeds character. Anyhow, you don’t see a new Head every day. It’s history in action. Morticia Shirque has been in charge of this circuit since my father was a twinkle in your great-granddad’s eye.”
“Dad—ew!”
At Sabina’s side, the baby began to fuss. Tuesday was not generally a demanding child, but given the chemical smell of fake leather coming off the store’s goods, I couldn’t blame her for being uncomfortable. Vano brightened when he spotted Dixon and me.
“Just in time,” he murmured. “Tuesday is always thrilled to see her favorite uncles.”
While I am not so sure an infant of her age even registers the fact that Dixon and I are anything more than a couple of fake leather chairs, I felt a bit of pride welling up inside over this statement nonetheless.
Vano unlooped the sling from his neck and headed toward Dixon with the baby, but Dixon waved him in my direction. “I’d love to hold her—but I can’t afford to have another spit-up incident just now, not when I’m about to go in front of all these people.”
“Gotcha.” Vano veered my way with the potato-and-onion printed bundle. It had looked manageable enough hanging around his neck, but as he passed the baby to me, I suddenly felt ill-prepared to accept such a delicate burden. Every time I held the baby, thoughts of inadequacy raced through my mind. What if I dropped her? What if I held her too tight? Maybe Sabina’s encounter with the Buick’s console had bred character, but I had no desire to be the one who squashed the next generation.
But as Tuesday regarded me with her huge brown eyes, blew a spit bubble, and began to coo, a sense of elation mingled with my fear. Though practically frozen stiff, I managed to hug her to my chest with just the right amount of force.
The baby wriggled and flashed her tiny gums in a broad smile. According to the internet, infants cannot truly smile until they are at least six weeks old, and Tuesday had not even been with us for quite a month. But we’d all known there was something special about this baby….
Or, in this case, especially stinky.
“Whoops, I could’ve sworn she was done pooping.” Vano held out his hands to take the baby back.
“And there’s not even a changing station in the restroom,” Sabina complained. I was not about to be bested by a dirty diaper. “I will handle this. We have a spare diaper in the truck.”
Frankly, the desire to prove my mettle was not my only motivation. As I wove through the aisles, I gently cupped Tuesday to my chest and whispered, “I envy your ability to carry on as if this were just another trip to the chair store. Tonight, your Uncle Dixon will receive a great honor. (Okay, your grandfather, too.) Seeing the Hands of all the families in one place, I am confident the volshebstvo has chosen well. Among all those tired old Scriveners, Dixon is sure to shine.”
Holding the baby never failed to make me self-conscious, but changing the baby was another matter. I have always found solace in making myself useful. In the open door of the truck with a blanket spread over the bench seat, I swapped out the diaper with quiet efficiency, holding my breath to escape the worst of the stink.
Once I fastened the new diaper in place, I finally found the words to express what was worrying me. “Hopefully Dixon does not shine too much. He has seen the world, but these other Scriveners have been in Pinyin Bay their whole lives. Their only ambitions are for a good hand of poker and enough paying customers to keep the lights on. What if they find Dixon too exuberant? Too colorful? Too…Dixon?”
Tuesday gave this worry a moment of consideration, then replied with a thoughtful bubble of spit.
Since that was probably all the input she would have on the matter, I decided we should head back in. The salesman tried to accost me when I re-entered, but a firm look from me froze him in his tracks. I threaded up and down the aisles, annoyed with the fact that the stacks upon stacks of chairs all looked the same. Somewhere in the distance, Sabina found something else to complain about, and I was able to follow her voice and make my way toward the gathering….
Only to turn a corner and find myself in a dead end of floor-to-ceiling chair piles. And while I might be able to create an exit with a well-placed shove, I refused to be the cause of a scar on the baby’s head that would rival the console-shaped mark on Sabina’s temple.
I heard Morticia’s strident voice cutting through the dull murmur of the gathered Hands. “All right, everyone, let’s take our places and get started. I don’t want to be here all night. Things to do—and I’m not getting any younger.” It came from perhaps two aisles away, and yet I could not tell which way would lead me to the gathering, and which would loop back to the customer service desk.
Had I passed that particular stack of barstools on my way in, or was this another, nearly identical stack? I tried to get my bearings, and of course neither Sabina nor Morticia was speaking now—and all I could hear was the muted drone of many hushed voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
If I did topple that wall of chairs, I could always claim it was an accident. But since Dixon might very well be quietly fretting on the other side, I could not risk it. I found myself in another dead end—or was it the same one from before?—and whirled around to find a solitary figure blocking my way out.
It was a middle-aged Scrivener woman. Tall. Gaunt. And dressed as if she’d blundered into the custom upholstery display and snagged a bunch of fabric on her way past. Her black hair was long and elaborately curled, threaded through all around her head with flowers. Plastic flowers, at that, judging by the colors. Vibrant primaries. Neon pink. Sparkling purple. A veritable rainbow of plastic blossoms which was so heavy, it practically clattered when she gave me a nod.
“So…that’s the new great-great grandchild? Lady Luck truly smiled on Morticia to provide the family with a girl.”
While most cultures prefer male children, Scriveners are eager for girls. Not only will they someday provide more offspring to add to the family, but a lucky one might win the heart of a Seer.
Yet another way in which Dixon managed to break the mold.
The woman took a step closer, peering at Tuesday through mascara-clotted lashes. The layers of her strange outfit swished as she walked, and the plastic flowers bobbed in her hair. But as ridiculous as she might have appeared, her eyes were shrewd.
“Potatoes,” she said.
Shrewd…or crazy.
And then I realized she was talking about the shopping bag in which Tuesday was wrapped.
“Potatoes are very auspicious. They’re a symbol of prosperity. Cut up a potato and plant the eyes, and you’ll find yourself overrun with potatoes when the season is through. Onions, though, are another story. What other vegetable will cause even a grown man to cry?”
“Superstition,” I said bluntly—even as I was itching to make the sign of the koza and ward her away. “The baby fits inside. That is all that matters.”
“Interesting. I would think if anyone would understand the importance of symbols, it would be a Seer.”
“You know who I am,” I said.
“Indeed, I knew it the moment I heard your accent, since a new Seer is always big news for a circuit. I am Fortunate.” To make my acquaintance, I thought she meant—Americans are always claiming such ridiculous things. But then she said, “Fortunate Jones, Hand of the Pinyin Bay Jones family, no relation to the Strangeberg Joneses. A good many Scrivener forebears claimed the name Jones on Ellis Island—probably to escape some debts. Pity. No doubt surnames from the Old Country would have so much more panache.”
I wondered which country she was referring to, since Scrivener populations have cropped up all over the world, from Austria to Zimbabwe.
I did not ask. And the woman kept talking. “You’d be better off swaddling the child in a MallMart bag.” She rifled through her outfit and pulled a streamer of blue fabric from among the swatches, waggling it under my nose. “Blue is a lucky color, inviting wealth as broad as the sky and as deep as the ocean. Those bags might be a bit itchy, mind you, but you can’t beat the price, since they give them out free on the first Friday of every month. But you know all about color. Don’t you, Seer?”
Enough to know periwinkle was no different from a dusty plum as far as most people were concerned.
Fortunate looked me over, assessing me from the top of my shorn head to the tips of my worn shoes. “I know you’re rather attached to the Penn boy, but the Jones Family would be willing to offer you a very lucrative contract.”
“Are you mad?” I blurted out.
“Just pragmatic. Everyone knows the Penns don’t exactly rake in the big bucks—hardly enough to support you, Rufus Clahd, and that exuberant Boardwalk fellow. And while Dixon’s little Uncrafting hobby might be...interesting…it leaves him with no use for a Seer.”
“The Penns are not just my employers. They are my family.”
Her gaze grew even more cunning. “Are they? The girl secured Vano—quite a catch—by having his first child. But unless Seers possess certain talents I don’t know about….”
“We should rejoin the group,” I told Fortunate firmly, since the conversation was veering into territory I had no desire to explore.
Comic Sans #13
1
DIXON
Sunday dinners at my parents’ house were always such a treat! Mom put the leaf in the table and greeted us with big, squishy hugs, Dad wore his favorite vest and regaled us with stories, and Yuri and I got the chance to not only avail ourselves of some delightful, non-take-and-bake-pizza home cooking…but to break bread with the very best parents in the whole world. Though maybe Yuri shouldn’t have broken the bread so forcefully.
There were crumbs everywhere.
Mom eyed the crusty fragments with a sigh and said, “Told you we should’ve just taken a cheese grater to the black parts instead of trying to power through them. It’s like trimming a callus off your toe with lots of small passes—eventually you get down to the soft part. More mashed potatoes, Yuri?”
Yuri looked oddly full as he shook his head, even though he’d hardly touched his plate. I’d warned him not to pre-eat before we came, but he’d scarfed down a stray piece of cold pizza anyway, and now he’d ruined his dinner. No doubt he was just being polite and making sure there was enough for everybody.
So considerate.
And it did leave plenty more for me.
The potatoes were my favorite—the box kind, made with plenty of margarine—and Yuri’s loss was my gain. I was reaching for the potato scooper when something zipped across the tabletop, grabbed a crumb of bread, rappelled down the tablecloth on the opposite side, and disappeared under the china cabinet.
“Was that…a mouse?” I asked.
Mom rolled her eyes. “You should know—you brought it home from Precious Greetings.”
To be fair, I’d brought home lots of critters from Precious Greetings back when we’d cost Emery Flint his business. I couldn’t be expected to remember each and every one.
“I thought you shooed it out the door,” Dad said.
“Apparently it came back,” Mom retorted. “Must’ve known which side its bread was buttered on.”
Yuri made a small noise of agreement, and Dad said, “We can’t just have a rodent running around loose. Mice attract other mice—and they’re notorious for getting into Seens and nibbling on the paper. Once we lost an entire week of Rufus Clahd’s work that way.” He stood from the table and brushed crumbs from his lap. “I’ll dig out the mousetraps.”
“But, Dad!” I said. “This is no stranger-mouse. You can’t just squish it. Maybe you should round up all the Spellcraft in the house and leave it at the office until we can trap the little guy and put him in a new (and more secure) home.”
Mom scoffed. “If you took all the Craftings out of this house it would probably fall down around our ears!”
Dad agreed. “And we’ve been here so long, adding to the collection over the years, I doubt we’d even be able to find them all. But what if…?” His eyes flicked side to side as he stroked his lustrous five-o’clock shadow in thought.
“Johnny...” Mom said in a don’t-you-dare tone of voice.
A tone that Dad totally ignored. “I can build a better mousetrap!”
“Aaand here we go,” Mom said.
Yuri narrowed his eyes. “What is problem?”
“Johnny is always full of beans whenever inspiration strikes, but mark my words. Before it’s even halfway done, he’ll get bored with the whole thing and just end up wasting a bunch of time, energy and money.”
“We’ll never strike it rich with that attitude,” my father said. “How about this? Not only will I make the best darned mousetrap anyone’s ever seen—but I’ll prototype the invention using nothing but repurposed materials from my stash.”
“Fine.” Mom thrust her hand across the table to shake on it. “And if you actually finish this prototype of yours, I’ll be the first to congratulate you.”
Dad waggled his eyebrows. “In your lacy red brassiere.”
“Wow, would you look at the time?” I said. “We almost missed the Pinyin Minute.” I scrambled for the remote control and started clicking furiously, hoping for something—anything—to interrupt the conversation before I heard anything more about my mother in sexy undergarments. After umpteen clicks, I finally managed to angle the beam around Dad’s recliner and power on the TV.
Pinyin Minute is a news spot that historically featured puff pieces of local interest, from store openings to road closures. But since my friend Charlotte started reporting the news, it had become a heck of a lot more interesting…though not necessarily more reliable. I’ll say one thing for her conspiracy theories: they made the news way more fun to watch.
I clicked to the right station and upped the volume to cover any more potential underwear talk.
—murder rates continue to spiral out of control. Stay tuned for your local news after this message.
“Oh good,” I said, “we’re just in time!”
All talk of unmentionables ceased as we all hummed along with the jingle for a nearby dry cleaner, right down to the very last note. Then, as we watched expectantly, the video quality shifted to something square, grainy, and generally oversaturated. A flesh-colored blur filled the screen, accompanied by the whispered admonishment, “Just because she’s your grandmother, Harold, doesn’t mean she can’t also be a spy. Wait, why didn’t you tell me we were—? Ahem.”
The blurry figure backed up and resolved itself into none other than my old pal from the Barge of the Bay, looking intense and vaguely frazzled. In other words, like she always did.
“While most folks these days consume their entertainment on various screens—and don’t get me started on what all that blue light is doing to your brain—the latest buzz on the street is surrounding something a lot less high-tech: comic books.
“It may be hard to imagine, but in the golden days of comics, you could purchase an issue for as little as one thin dime.
“But those ten-cent comics are huge collector’s items now. In fact, one particular comic—Eel Man #1—is worth a whopping ten thousand dollars. If you’re lucky enough to have a mint condition copy in your possession, that is.”
The image of Charlotte talking cut to a still shot of a cheesy comic book featuring a guy in a cape beating up a bank robber. Did bank robbers really all dress like that back in the fifties? Frankly, I thought he looked more like a Beatnik. Though maybe that was part of his plan all along….
“Hold on,” my dad said. “I’ve seen that comic before.”
The camera switched back to Charlotte. “Eel Man was a short-lived comic that fizzled out in less than a year, but its original creator hailed from our very own Pinyin Bay.
“According to a recent press release by an anonymous traveling comic auctioneer, Eel Man was not a particularly well-drawn comic. The storyline is a pastiche of several more successful comics of the day. But the comic book factory was lost to a freak lightning strike, leaving very few mint condition Eel Man comics in circulation. He estimates there are no more than a handful of Eel Man #1 comics left. And in all likelihood, if those issues will turn up anywhere, that anywhere is Pinyin Bay.
“Anyone wishing to auction off their copy of Eel Man #1 should bring it to the Pinyin Bay Journal office by the end of the day Friday.”
“And don’t be late,” an off-camera voice added. A vaguely familiar voice. “Once I leave a town, I don’t come back!”
Dad clicked off the TV, insisting, “I know I’ve seen that comic. It was in the bottom of a box of flyers I ordered back when Practical Penn first opened. The printer was using them as filler.”
“I remember those flyers.” Mom gave Dad the side-eye. “We couldn’t use them, thanks to a typo in the word public. I thought you said you threw them out.”
“And so I did. Erm…say that, I mean.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “What? The backs of the flyers make for perfectly usable scratch paper!”
Dad always gets a certain look about him when he’s getting ready to dive into his stash. His eyes light up with anticipation. His stance develops a pointedly forward slant. And his fingers twitch like they simply can’t wait to paw through all his dubious treasures.
Mom, on the other hand, is not a big fan of the stash. While she appreciates that its sifting, sorting and overall curation brings my father no end of pleasure, she worries that someday we’ll find him buried under a collapsing pile of knicknacks, gewgaws and general detritus.
I patted Mom’s shoulder in consolation. “Look at it this way.
At least now Dad can stop worrying about that mousetrap.” At the top of the basement stairs, Dad turned back and snapped his fingers. “Thanks for the reminder—while we’re looking for Eel Man we can keep an eye out for likely mousetrap parts!”
Mom whacked me ineffectively across the butt with a kitchen towel. “You had to go and bring up that darn mousetrap!”
Whoops. “We’ll just head downstairs and make sure he doesn’t get buried. Come on, Yuri, let’s go!”
It's All Relative #14
1
DIXON
The Practical Penn Spellcraft shop has been in my family for years. My folks partnered with Uncle Fonzo to start the business while I was still in diapers—and, for the record, I was very easy to potty train, unlike Tuesday. Probably because even at that tender young age I was so concerned about disappointing anyone—while Tuesday is probably the least motivated baby I’ve ever known. Though she’s so utterly adorable, no one really minds.
I’d spent my childhood at Practical Penn playing hide-and-seek with my cousin in the various offices. My school years doing homework on a desk where enchantments were Scribed. And, more recently, the occasional weekend helping clean out the cages of the various small animals we’d inherited from Precious Greetings.
But as for actually working there as a Spellcrafter? Between my walkabout after college and the span of time I’d endured as an unquilled WheelMeal driver, the hours I’d clocked in the family business were surprisingly few.
I plucked a curved piece of metal from the supply cabinet and held it up for inspection. While my inventory list did contain some pretty obscure items, we Scriveners do know our stationery well. Surely it was just a matter of eliminating the various tools I recognized, and whatever was left would cause recognition to dawn.
I was debating whether the object seemed more like a distance page-turner or a rubber band stretcher when I realized a shadow had fallen across the curve of the metal. I turned and found my mother filling the doorway to the supply room, hands on hips, looking very businesslike indeed. She knew this office inside and out, so surely she’d know what it was. The trick was in not letting on that I didn’t. I smiled my winningest smile and said, “So, if one were looking to loosen up his rubber bands….”
“Give me that.” Mom snatched the mystery object out of my hands and tucked it into her cardigan. Either she has extra pockets in there or she’d just developed the ability to hold onto various small items with her body mass—a handy trick to be sure. “It’s the arm that holds a globe on its stand, but the globe shattered years ago and the stand turned to rust. I’d better get rid of it while your father’s off running errands.”
I turned to the list in my hands and added the words Globe Holder…then dutifully crossed them off.
Mom blinked in that way she does when she’s counting to ten. “Dixon, is this really necessary?”
“The Annual Reckoning must be completed in an orderly manner,” I said brightly, quoting a pamphlet I found stuck to the back of a desk drawer in Shirque Mansion. It was printed in 1948, so all the men in the photos are wearing hats and smoking cigarettes—but fortunately, Spellcraft traditions themselves are pretty timeless.
“Everything’s there in black and white on the spreadsheet I printed out,” Mom said. “All you need to do is sign it.”
“If I wanted to scrape by doing the bare minimum, then sure. I could read through the spreadsheet, ink my very fetching signature at the bottom of that form, and be done with it.”
“You think that’s the bare minimum? Your uncle never even bothered to sign the darned thing himself, let alone read it. Look, I get that you take pride in being the Hand of the family. None of us can argue with that. But no Hand in their right mind would do all this manual bean-counting unless they were planning to Fold.”
Obviously, the last thing I wanted to do was liquidate the business and leave everyone in my family unemployed. Not to mention invalidating the work order that kept Yuri in the country.
However….
“These beans you’ve just referenced—I’m not seeing them on the spreadsheet.”
The chime of a customer coming through the door interrupted our lively debate, and Mom threw her hands in the air and bustled off to go see what they wanted. And since the tallying of staples, pencils and paperclips had indeed grown truly tedious, I followed her out to the front counter.
A red-haired woman in her mid-thirties stood in the lobby, visibly fretting. There was a nylon strap of some kind in her hands, and she twisted and re-twisted it nervously as she rocked from foot to foot, scanning all the various signage, from the jaunty “Got Problems? Spellcraft is the solution!” to the stern, “No Bad Checks…Or Else.”
“Can I help you?” Mom asked the woman, in a brusque, no-nonsense way most Handless find oddly comforting.
“Gosh, I sure hope so. I was told that—”
Outside, a car horn blared. Not just a polite toot-toot, either, but a long and weirdly loud bellow that went on and on. I hurried around the counter and pressed my face up against the glass to see what such a beepable offense might be, only to find a little old lady pawing desperately at her steering column trying to get her horn unstuck. A truck driver had stopped to help her, but despite his intervention, the honk just kept right on honking. Eventually, he gestured in the direction of the nearest mechanic, and the old woman hastily drove off, the beep fading behind her as she turned a corner and was gone.
“Wow,” I said, “that must’ve been painfully loud from inside the car. I’d hate to have all that beepage blasting right in my face. Good thing the horn on our truck stopped working ages ago.” I turned toward the customer. “Now, how can we help?”
“This is a prime example!” she said. “Every time I—”
A raucous clatter cut her off. I whirled around and saw the truck that belonged to the helpful driver had opened up, and hundreds upon hundreds of cans had fallen out the back. I was excited for a split second there, imagining such syrupy delights as fruit cocktail and cherry pie filling up for grabs, distributed throughout the neighborhood like tiny treasures waiting to be stumbled upon later. But then the vegetables painted on the side of the truck quashed my nascent fruity fantasies.
Still, the spill was entertaining. Those cans could really roll! Though why they were just loose in the back of the truck to begin with was anyone’s guess.
Eventually, the cacophony ebbed long enough for the red-haired customer to say, “I can’t take much more of this. I need someone to—”
Suddenly, we were enveloped by the rousing sound of a marching band. Through every speaker in the building, from the stereo that usually piped in Musak to the intercom no one ever used (as it was a lot quicker to just yell) some vaguely patriotic parade music blasted forth. Rufus Clahd reeled out of his office with an empty CD case in his hand—the title of which was March! March! March! He waved it around a few times, then stumbled back in.
Mom held up a Just-a-Sec index finger and bustled off to help our Seer with his musical selection. That left me standing there in the lobby with the customer—not usually a problem, but the fact that we couldn’t talk was surprisingly awkward for me. I offered her an encouraging smile and she tried her best to smile back, though really, it came out as more of a wince.
Banging and clanging ensued, and the rousing march went skip-skip-skip, sounding oddly techno as it stuttered over the end of a cymbal crash replaying the blat of a trumpet. Several bangs later, the march fell silent, and my mother stomped out of Mr. Clahd’s office, muttering, “Why we let him have access to the sound system, I’ll never know.”
The customer was just about to try again when Mom cut her off with, “Not one more word, young lady. Not until I get a look at that piece of Spellcraft in your pocket.”
The customer sagged all over with relief, pulled out the paper, and slid it across the desk.
The Seen was adorable—something right out of a children’s book, with a poodle frolicking in a green field of grass dotted with pastel wildflowers, puffy clouds overhead, and a butterfly circling lazily in the sky.
But the Scribing overlaid on the clouds was downright puzzling.
Nobody listens to me.
“I see the problem,” Mom said, as the customer nodded so vigorously I was worried she’d make herself dizzy enough to keel over. Not that that’s ever happened to me. Lately. “Crafting a Spell is challenging enough. It’s part discipline, part innate ability, and part luck. Most people who discovered a Crafting like this on their person would just tear it up, and it’s a good thing you didn’t. That might only make things worse. If you figure out who saddled you with this thing, you’d have a good case against them—though bringing it to the authorities would be a challenge in the state you’re currently in.”
The customer shook her head no.
“That’s good. I don’t recommend involving the law where something like this is concerned. Litigation and Spellcraft are an unpredictable combination. My advice would be to neutralize the Crafting—which just so happens to be my son’s specialty. But it doesn’t come cheap.”
The customer whipped out a credit card and flapped it up and down.
“Fine. Dixon?” Mom gestured at the Crafting. “It’s in your capable hands.”
Bursting with pride over my mother’s genuine praise, I gingerly picked up the Crafting and took it back to my office. It was the smallest office with the worst view—and it smelled like burnt mozzarella—but now it was so much more than a place to keep the nocturnal animals no one wanted in their house. Don’t get me wrong, the super loud toad was still there…but he was currently asleep, so he made a perfectly acceptable office mate.
Aside from the cages and tanks, there were now various Spellcrafty things a Hand might need. Copies of all the contracts and forms involved with the business. A giant box of dubious receipts. Contact info for the other local families, as well as a pile of generic gifts I might give if a social obligation cropped up…though someone had broken into the chocolates and taken a bite out of them. The fancy soaps, too.
In short, my office was a real office. And while I had once balked at the thought of joining my family business, now that I was actually rolling up my sleeves and getting down to work, I found it surprisingly empowering.
Though I had to admit, it was a lot more fun now that I was technically in charge.
I cleared my desk, drew my quill from its case, and lay the Spellcraft on the blotter. It wasn’t a curse—curses are in a horrific category all their own, and I’d be just as glad to never see one again—but it was definitely a hindrance. I would have expected the vibe it gave off to feel negative somehow. But when I turned it this way and that and tried to get a sense of the telltale tingle, it just felt…tingly. Nothing more.
If it weren’t for the actual words, I would’ve taken it for a perfectly benign Crafting. Maybe it was meant to teach someone a lesson. Or maybe it was just a poorly thought out practical joke. Whatever the reason, the only thing that mattered now was how to Uncraft the Spell.
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Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
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It's All Relative #14
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