Young Writers Society

The Treaty

“The wars of the Witches, the Knights, the Holy Men, and the Demons will cease immediately, lest Ackerly Shade be destroyed.”

Magic tasted like warm blood, and Ackerly Shade was bleeding.

I waited a few moments at the train tracks that divided Ackerly Shade between North Side and South Side, studying the defensive Ward forming a rough dome around the Witches’ patchwork of restaurants, abandoned gas stations, and empty parking lots. The spell that Patricia and her Witches had woven blurred the air, distorting the vision of any magical creatures who happened to look towards it; I could have been peering through a foggy window. The Ward hovered over Patricia’s territory as a sign to all magical beings of her renowned paranoia and spell-weaving ability – even the Demons stayed clear of a fight with the leader of the Witches. Patricia Fang was a monolith in Ackerly Shade, in Alabama, and in the South, and no one had the wit to take her down, but I had a job to do.

I would not disappoint my father on my first night alone with the Witches.

I formulated my plan quickly. My eyes darted around, absorbing all that they could. Headlights grazed the edge of my face as a red, muddied truck drove past, the driver scratching at his disheveled, scuffled beard. He was an attendant at a gas station laundering money for the Knights – no magical abilities. His emotions nudged at the edge my mind as he passed; he felt rather anxious, the flavor of anxiety tied to romantic interests. I wondered for a moment if he was cheating on his significant other. When I saw the back of his head, the final human witness was gone. I reached forward slowly, noting the Ward’s increase in temperature in relation to my proximity. I knew that if my skin grazed the Ward, Patricia would know my exact location. The old Witch had changed the design of her spell from my last visit with my father. She was clearly expecting a visit from a Masterson, and she did not want to be surprised.

Although Patricia was powerful, she wasn’t perfect; the Ward was botched. I saw the varying strength of patterns on Patricia’s defense, appearing to me like the final product of a sewed pattern on a quilt. Judging by the nature of the spell, she had reconfigured the design of the Ward a few days ago. In her rush to hide from the Masterson family, she had given me an easy entrance. I walked around the perimeter for a few feet, running my hands gently over the air in front of the Ward, studying the different heat outputs along the tracks. I stopped at a cool sliver, the weakest point by far. I whispered a few Dark Words, cracking the Ward ever so slightly, giving me the opening that I needed. I walked over the train tracks, feeling none of the heat that would have signaled Patricia. I said the Dark Words backwards, undoing my spell, stitching the Ward back up, and ensuring no Demons or Knights – or worse – would wander into my opening.

The next Dark Words I spoke were words of concealment, which created my own protective Ward, floating around my body three feet in all directions. Taking it further, I willed the Ward inward with a deep breath, plastering it tight to my clothes and skin. No one would see me as I roamed Patricia’s territory. I took another deep breath before stepping further towards Patricia’s sphere of influence, something my father would scoff at.

A Masterson is always prepared, he would say on our trips enforcing the Treaty, so stop breathing, Zane, and start acting like one.

I shrugged off my father’s voice in my head and started towards Patricia. Though my mother had confirmed Patricia’s location this afternoon, it wasn’t difficult to find a Witch in South Side. They controlled their side of town with more prominence than the Knights or Demons, filling it to the brim with their string of questionable establishments. My mother told me about Witches in other towns, Witches that stayed at bookstores, staffed the local Starbucks, and stayed out of politics. Patricia led her Witches in a different direction – if anyone could blackmail a Police Chief and put the South Side under her iron rule, it was Patricia.

The restaurants were starting to close, but to me, the area was ablaze with Patricia’s magic. Her mud-caked Creations flew through the night sky in the form of birds, serving as Patricia’s eyes around her, and on the ground, snakes and mice scuttled around – I was careful to sidestep them as I walked. I came up on a few cafes still open, and as soon as I was within thirty feet of a Witch, I knew they were hiding something. The emotions seeped from every direction, crawling on the ground, slogging through the sky, and drying out my mouth. The anxiety, the dripping fear of being found out, was palpable. When I neared China Express, Patricia’s favorite location, I released my Ward, though I had no intention of dropping my guard around Fang. I reached to my back pocket, feeling the outline of my family knife. I had no intention of harming anyone, of course, but a knife is a knife in the eyes of an adversary.

I pushed open the doors to the restaurant, surveying the location quickly, even though I had spent my childhood stuffed into the booths watching my parents conduct business with the Witches. Little had changed over the years; besides the tables, the buffet area, the kitchen in the back, and the food, the only other thing that filled the restaurant were Patricia’s pots and pots of dirt. A few flowers were planted here and there, but I knew her powers – just like God made Adam from the dirt, so did Patricia make her creatures from the dirt.

My darting eyes were garnering the stares of the only two patrons in the restaurant. They sat in a back booth, both using chopsticks without success. Their emotions clung to each other, signaling some form of romantic attraction – I guessed they were on a date. From the nervous energy, they were on their first or second time out together. It wouldn’t last if he kept taking her to the China Express at all hours of the night. Their emotions were distracting, standing out to me clearly, and I knew why: I couldn’t feel anyone else in the restaurant.

“Ms. Fang,” I whispered, knowing she could hear me from anywhere in her territory without the protection of my Ward. “You know the rules. You aren’t allowed to Ward against a Masterson power. It makes you look suspicious.”

She slithered out from the back kitchen, all age, bones, and deceit. Her thin, veiny hands clutched a cigarette poised to touch her lips and suck in as though her life depended on it. She breathed in the fumes, heavy and strained, staring me down without blinking. I watched her hands and her mouth carefully for Wards and hexes, only blinking when I had to.

“Ah, the little Masterson shit,”. Her voice was scratchy, but pronounced; every syllable sounded like an order I couldn’t ignore. She rolled her eyes after looking me over once, and then took a long, irritating drag of her smoke. “Don’t tell me Dale is letting you come here alone now? Little Zay?”

“It’s Zane, Patricia. I’m here on an official investigation requested by the Knights,” I said, careful to keep my voice down. “I have authority over this matter as a Masterson, stipulated by Amendment 13 of the Treaty.”

“Your point?” She chuckled, coughing a bit. “Get the fuck out, kid.”

I straightened up, mimicking my mother’s battle stance. “You don’t have the authority to throw me out.” I started examining the spell-work of the Ward Patricia had sewn against my ability with my peripheral vision. It covered her restaurant haphazardly, as if it had been thrown around in a haste, without attention to consistency or strength. A weaker Ward stitched with the same Dark Words floated around Patricia, keeping me from prying into her emotional spectrum. I kept studying the Wards, trying to think of the exact Words she had used to create them. I was sure to keep my eyes fixed on Patricia, though; her spells were famous, and fast.

The couple stirred in their seats, whispering to one another. Patricia’s eyes slid to them slowly. Her exterior softened, lowering her hands to her sides in a matronly manner. She stretched a dim smile over her face, but kept her attention on me.

“Keep eating.” Patricia flashed a quick smile in their direction. “I’ll be back to refill your drinks soon.”

The couple was uneasy, but they kept stabbing their sweet and sour chicken with their chopsticks, intent on eating something with or without grace. Patricia’s smile melted away when she was sure they were content. She moved in closer to me, crossing her restaurant with unnatural speed.

“I have the authority to do whatever I want in my territory,” she whispered. “The South Side is mine.”

“South Side is under Masterson supervision. You have limits, Patricia, and you know it.” She took a long drag of her cigarette, letting the poisonous haze flow from her nostrils and into my face. I wafted the smoke away from me. “Demons have started disappearing around the city, and not just on the East Side. Neutral territory Demons are going missing, too. I know you’ve heard about it. Your Creations sneak out into Demon territory – and don’t think we don’t know about it.”

“I don’t care what you know,” Patricia hissed. “And I don’t know anything about those fucking Demons. If they start going away, all the better for me.”

“The Knights say they saw a young Demon, only 22 years old or so, who wandered into your territory three days ago in a drunken state. You didn’t report the breach, and the Demon was never returned to Astaroth.” I knew the Dark Words Patricia had used to craft her Ward. I said them a few times in my head, perfecting the inflection of the ancient words before I began practicing them backwards. “What do you know, Ms. Fang?”

“Damn fools, poking their heads where they don’t belong. Which one them was it?” Patricia took another drag. “I don’t have time to deal with those jocks,” Patricia said, blowing out another puff into my face. “I have a business to run. You’re wasting my time.”

“Ms. Fang…”

Patricia held up a hand, a hex glowing from her fingers. The couple glanced over at Patricia, but they wouldn’t have noticed the thin layer of blue energy emanating from the Witch’s hand. I had no reason to react; the texture of the hex was infantile – she was trying to scare me.

“You are not your father, boy.” Patricia’s hex faded from her hand. “If I say I have business, then I have business. I don’t have time for children, playing around, pretending to be peacemakers.”

The night was progressing as I had expected. I noticed the couple; the woman placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table while the man picked up their coats. They shuffled past Patricia and I at the door, thanking Patricia for the meal. When they closed the door behind them, Patricia turned from me.

“And now you’re running my costumers away,” Patricia said.

With the humans gone, I knew the magic could start to fly. I felt Patricia’s magic start to pour from her body, reaching out to her pots of dirt and starting to bring life to the inanimate. Before her Creations could form, I spoke the reversal of Patricia’s Dark Words, melting the Wards blocking out my powers. I spoke them again, changing one of the Words to specify Patricia, and ripping away her protection against me. Her magic stopped flowing and her eyes went aghast.

“When did you…” She couldn’t finish.

The emotions from her restaurant swarmed over me – I nearly keeled over. They spread through the restaurant, trapped by the walls, forming a crucible of emotional turmoil. They swirled and matted together, a strange mixture of fear and pleasure. The brief respite from the emotions had been enjoyable, though.

I started my walk towards the kitchen, the epicenter of the emotional turmoil. “According to the sixty-fourth Amendment to the Treaty, ratified by St. Paul, Abaddon, Father O’Conner, and Wilson Fang, a Masterson has the right to nullify any magic, which includes Wards, during an investigation.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed at me for a few moments, her anger and pride shimmering over her body as I passed. “Did you practice that one in front of the mirror this morning? Wanted to make sure you say it just like Daddy?”

I ignored her as I opened the double doors to the kitchen, coughing a bit as the smell of spices and alcohol rammed into me. I had visited the kitchen only a few times with my father, waiting with the boiling pots as the two spoke in hushed voices in Patricia’s office, tucked away in the corner. I noted one exit; a door opposite the dining area, designated as the fire escape for the Witches. If the Witches grew unruly, I would escape through there.

The Witch cooks stopped what they were doing when they saw me. A few of the Witches I recognized as distant relatives of the Fangs, brought into the business by blood. Others were Witches from around Alabama and other parts of the South, flocking in for the draw of Patricia’s protection. They looked more like the Witches my mother described: bright, colored hair, tattoos, lipstick, painted nails, and t-shirts with bands I had never heard of.

I watched as a few of their eyes jump to the supply closet, tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. I knew the Demon was inside without them; diluted, weak emotions thumped against it. I tried to ignore the heightening emotion in the room as I crossed the kitchen. The emotions swelled as I opened the closet. The emotions reached their zenith, and my stomach almost hurled, as a body slumped to the floor.