Trouble in Taco Town Read online

  Yuri cut his eyes to me briefly. He was so not buying it.

  Best not dig myself in any deeper. “Here’s the thing, Yuri—I just need you to have some trust, at least a little bit—if not in my uncle, then in me. I need us to be on the same side.”

  Yuri stared through the windshield, eyes narrowed, and said nothing.

  I said, “Even I’ll admit—it looks bad. But before you jump to any conclusions, let’s see what was actually written.” I slid my hand across the seat and brushed my pinkie alongside his. It’s natural to me to touch people. I was raised by an affectionate family. But Yuri can be surprisingly disarmed by the tiniest displays of affection, and just this subtle nudge was enough to make him give my uncle one more chance. Grudgingly. But he relented, and that’s what mattered.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s hope we find a Crafting…this time.”

  “Totally,” I said, and hopped out of the truck before he noticed me obsessively patting down my pocket to make sure the snow globe factory’s Crafting was still there.

  The Big Taco perched at the top of a scenic hill as if a massive lunch lady had reached down from the sky and placed it there for all of Minnesota to behold. It was a proud taco, as tall as a Winnebago and nearly as long. Its base was constructed of rough-hewn Northern Pine, log cabin style. And the Taco itself was….

  I paused and squinted at its crumbling veneer. “What’s this made from again?”

  “Adobe,” Reginald reminded me through his tears as Yuri hauled him to his feet. “When Pedro Johansen moved to this area, it was nothing but forage land for the local dairy farms. But Pedro had a vision. A marriage of North and South, like his parents…but in terms of cuisine. You might be surprised to hear it, but back then, this part of Minnesota wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis.”

  Yuri refrained from noting that we could literally hear cows mooing in the distance.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Reginald said. Given that I was mainly wondering where the Spellcraft was hidden, I highly doubted it, but I didn’t correct him. “Does Minnesota really need another ode to the taco? I say we do. Sure, maybe people think it’s ridiculous. And maybe what we’re doing here won’t put men on the moon. It doesn’t cure cancer and it can’t plug the hole in the ozone. But in Taco Town, we make people happy.” He choked up, briefly, then pulled himself together and added quietly, “And I think that counts for something.”

  As he knuckled away a tear as if it was just a stray bit of dirt in his eye, it occurred to me the same could be said for Spellcraft.

  “Someone needs me by the store,” Reginald claimed. From our vantage point on the hill, we could see there was clearly nobody around but us, but we didn’t call him on it. It was a grown man’s prerogative to hide his tears from the world.

  Once he scampered back down Salsa Lane, Yuri surprised me by grabbing the front of my jacket and hauling me up against his massive chest. While I stood on tiptoe, he mashed his forehead against mine, filling my vision with his huge, solid presence. And when he spoke, his breath played tantalizingly across my lower lip like Spellcraft tingling through my nervous system when I composed an original saying. His voice was low. And intense. And sexy. “I am always on your side, Dixon Penn. Never doubt that.”

  I fully expected him to release me and leave me wobbling around, weak-kneed, in the shade of the Big Taco. But instead of letting go, he pulled me even closer and pressed his lips to mine in a fervent kiss. Stubble scoured my chin as he thrust his tongue into my mouth, and my whole self went pliant and willing. I’ve had boyfriends before who felt compatible, but never like this. In every way, it seemed like Yuri and I were complete opposites—and yet we were less like antagonists, and more like a couple of kids keeping a see-saw going so both of us could play.

  Maybe Spellcraft is less like roadside attractions and more like sex. Sometimes you take, and sometimes you give. And when you’re really lucky, you get to do both. Public displays of affection were definitely not Yuri’s thing, so when he assailed me with his big, hard body and stole my breath away with his fierce kiss, I knew he really freaking meant it.

  Yuri was both predictability and thrill. He was safety and danger. He was the guy my mother had warned me about, and the one she always hoped I’d end up with. He backed me into the Big Taco, cupping my head in his massive hands, and kissed me so thoroughly I was glad for the pitted adobe at my back keeping me upright. Yuri filled my senses, all bristle and muscle and cedar-scented wool. Need roared through my body—and even in broad daylight on the most prominent hill in Taco Town, I was ready to satisfy it.

  Yuri was, too. With a desperate grunt, he bumped his groin against mine...well, more like it hit my waistband while I rode his thigh for dear life. We might even peak that way—up on Taco Town’s peak—and I didn’t care, even if it meant I’d have to do some creative repositioning of my winter coat, then clean up in the bathroom at the nearest gas station. The most exciting part? When Yuri’s breath quickened and his teeth clashed with mine, I knew he wanted me just as savagely as I did him. Like a promise of what he’d do the next time we had fewer clothes between us, he thrust his hips at me again….

  And the adobe made a sound like a hundred knuckles cracking.

  Yuri reeled back, bulging and dazed. I snapped my arms out sideways to keep the Big Taco together. Never mind that if it actually toppled, it would crush me. I wasn’t making good decisions—all the blood my brain needed for thinking was currently trapped down the inseam of my left pant leg.

  It wasn’t the whole Taco in motion, though, just a section behind my back. Yuri grabbed hold of me and pulled me out of harm’s way. And when he dragged me away from the crusty adobe, a squared seam line appeared in the finish…and out swung a secret door.

  9

  YURI

  I was off my game—stupid with lust, and my protective instinct in overdrive—when the adobe-covered panel popped open. Dixon’s first impulse, naturally, was to lunge toward it. And mine, just as naturally, was to grab a handful of his jacket and rein him in.

  “A secret door!” he chortled. “I’ll bet there’s treasure inside. Gold nuggets. Or gold doubloons. Or a golden antique tortilla press!”

  I held back a sigh and considered letting him go before his running in place kicked up a dust cloud. Where else would the key piece of Spellcraft be hidden, if not within the main attraction itself? Besides, this was no dangerous metropolis—it was Taco Town. Then again, considering the tomato bloodbath, we couldn’t be too careful. I moved Dixon out of the way… “Hey!” …and had a look.

  It was dim inside the Taco, with the only light filtering in through the doorway and the small holes made by the crested carrion titmice. It took my eyes a moment to adjust—but when they did, the sight of a clown looming in the shadows purged all traces of the excitement we’d stirred up with our kisses…until I realized it was just a mannequin. An ugly clown-painted mannequin holding a sign that read, Welcome to Taco Fest.

  In all, the narrow space was about the size of my truck, and it was crammed full of painted plywood. Dixon crowded in behind me with a gasp. “Oh wow, I always wondered where neighborhood carnivals went when they weren’t being carnied.”

  Of course he did.

  We searched through the plywood for Spellcraft, picking up splinters in our hair and clothing, and a particularly annoying shard in my thumb. Dixon was even willing to search the clown. But we turned up nothing.

  “Maybe there’s no Spellcraft to find,” he said. “Maybe there’s just something in Taco Town’s water that makes it look all sparkly.”

  He was reaching, and we both knew it. The town was crackling with volshebstvo. And if there was malicious work to be Uncrafted, Dixon was the man to do it. “Dixon—it is obvious the titmouses didn’t pick Taco Town at random. Just like the tomatoes didn’t randomly explode.” I had hoped to spare him, but maybe it was for the best he got a good look in the cold light of day at what his uncle had left behind…or the dim light l
eaking through the holes in the Big Taco. I drew out my paints and said, “I would never Craft something new to change another man’s magic. But I am willing to try to expose it.”

  Dixon’s breath caught in the way it did whenever I opened my paintbox. Sometimes I thought he was more excited to see me open that box than he was when I opened my fly. This was not necessarily a bad thing. People are attracted to each other for many reasons. It might as well be a reason that can’t fade as surely as looks eventually will.

  I drew a bottle of water from his knapsack and a small, blank card from my opposite pocket, cleared my mind, and sent my focus outward to encompass all of Taco Town. The people so desperate to preserve their livelihood. The disasters falling like dominoes in Fonzo’s wake. Dixon’s pathetic hope that everything would somehow manage to turn out just fine. I held these ideas in my mind for a moment, then dabbed my brush, and painted.

  Yellow-brown, some orange, some blue-gray. A dark speckle that was a smattering of birds against a blue sky. And a scattering of white spots that only appeared once I was done painting, thanks to contaminants trapped between the paper and paint that caused a pattern of resist. I squinted at a beam of light knifing through a hole, and saw the sunbeam was dancing with motes of dust. I flapped the small paper and considered the flaw. The Seen felt no less potent to me…as if there really were no accidents.

  Once the surface was dry enough for ink, I handed it to Dixon. He turned it this way and that, not critically, but with fascination. Dixon has seen many paintings in his life. Not only in his family shop, but in his travels through far-flung cities. And even with so many works to compare to, he continues to find subtle nuances in mine.

  “It’s Taco Town in all its magic,” he said wistfully. “Do you think there’s magic to this place, aside from just the Spellcraft turning the town upside down? Sometimes I wonder if memories count as magic. Or whimsy. Or fun. They’re intangible things, and yet they’re so…present.”

  His voice had gone soft as he spoke in this rare moment of introspection. It suited him, this glimpse of his serious side, a side which still managed to be so enviably full of wonder. But it was tainted by the fact that he’d soon need to face up to exactly what his uncle had done.

  Dixon carried his quill and ink at all times—he’d even half-joked about bringing it to bed. All Scriveners value their quills, but after his horribly failed Quilling Ceremony, Dixon was even more fanatical about the instrument of his Craft. I could relate. I was able to paint a Seen with anything that would leave a mark, and still I felt attached to the miniature travel set I kept in my pocket.

  I no longer painted for my own amusement, but Dixon practiced his calligraphy every day, even if it was just a series of loops and flourishes in ballpoint pen on the side of a paper bag. He had the most breathtaking writing I’d ever seen, even compared to the decrepit Scriveners I’d known in Russia who’d been honing the skill all their lives—maybe because it felt somehow more youthful. Maybe because it wasn’t yet jaded.

  Dixon brushed dust from the edge of a collapsed carnival game, then placed the fresh Seen on the precarious surface. His focus went soft and he stilled, searching inside with a deep sense of respect, even gratitude. With purpose. When he opened his ink, dipped his quill, and set pen to paper, his lettering flowed unusually small. And yet, it didn’t feel at all cramped. Instead, it was delicate, like the finest lace.

  Crafting calls crafting

  What’s hidden is seen

  Magic stands revealed

  Above, below, between

  The first line would have been sufficient, but Dixon Scribed with not only the enthusiasm of a brand new Scrivener, but the confidence of someone who’d come to the skill later in life, armed with more experience and depth. Instead of creating loopholes in which the Crafting could go awry, this elaborate Scrivening amplified the Spellcraft power I’d begun to harness in my painting, then cinched it elegantly in its intricate web of words.

  And as Dixon inked the final flourish, he smiled—but not his usual broad, open smile. This was a secret smile: quite aware of exactly how much power he’d so masterfully wielded, and pragmatically satisfied.

  I was unexpectedly moved that my own contribution had helped to elicit that expression. But before I could revel in my own self-satisfaction, I felt the power of the volshebstvo blow through me like a gust of arctic air across the Baltic.

  The Big Taco rocked as if it had been hit by a physical wind. Inside, all the pressboard and plywood creaked louder than the hull of a great ship, and adobe dust fell like hail. Dixon’s eyes went wide, showing white all around, and he snapped his quill back into its rigid case before it came to any harm.

  He was not the only one to react.

  I flung out my arms to shield him with my body, spanning the width of the Taco. Crumbs of adobe bounced from my shaved head as I braced myself against a collapse, but once the Spellcraft was done rushing through the structure, everything settled as if nothing had happened.

  “Wow,” Dixon said. “That was close.”

  But as I straightened, I felt the subtle precursor of movement—and barely had time to brace myself again as something big toppled against my back. I tucked Dixon into a protective embrace as the two of us went down hard, him under me, and stiffened to take the brunt of the impact. A Seer should be more protective of his hands—and I didn’t care in the least. We fell to the floor with the breath knocked out of us, clasped together as desperately as we’d ever been in bed, and just as winded.

  Dixon’s eyelashes fluttered against my cheek as he opened his eyes. “Yuri? How is it you’re grabbing my junk with both your hands behind my back?”

  Whatever had fallen on me was no mere plywood. In fact, the way it hugged my body curve for curve, it could only be one thing.

  I threw it off with a noise of dismay, shuddering all over.

  The clown toppled onto its side, leering, and its red rubber nose bounced away.

  “Now there’s a three-way I’ll never forget,” Dixon declared, then cocked his head to match the angle of the mannequin sprawled on the floor. “Hey, look! There’s something shoved up its nostril.”

  Luckily, he was eager to see. I couldn’t bear to touch the thing.

  It had to be Spellcraft. I knew without even bothering to check and see if the air distorted around it.

  Dixon retrieved the Crafting, pushed into a sitting position and unrolled the paper carefully. I crouched to one side, keeping as far from the toppled clown as the cramped space would allow. Queasy excitement churned through my belly. This would be the moment in which his uncle’s sabotage would come to light, and while I didn’t exactly revel in the pain it would cause Dixon once his idol fell from grace, in some sense, I was eager for this Fonzo character to get what he deserved.

  Dixon smoothed the paper over his knee…and stared at it, brow furrowed.

  The Crafting was upside down. Not only that, but it was in a language other than my native tongue, and the lines were rough and splotchy. It took me a moment to decipher. When I did, where I’d expected to find the Scrivening that caused the ruin of Taco Town was written, instead, a single word.

  Revivify.

  10

  DIXON

  Of course, I could deduce the meaning of the word revivify. I supposed we should be grateful it didn’t raise any zombies.

  Frankly, the Crafting left me with way more questions than answers, not just because of the obscure vocabulary, either.

  We scrambled out to the truck, covered in adobe crumbs. Yuri seemed more pensive than usual. I was just confused—and gritty. A fine layer of dust coated my teeth. When we climbed into the cab and I pulled out my water for a swig to wash away the adobe, a telltale slip of paper stuck to the bottle fluttered to the seat between us…the Spellcraft I’d found at You-Make-Um.

  The one I’d been carrying in my pocket, not my bag.

  It was a lot like the Crafting we’d found shoved up the clown’s sinuses. The same hot-press
ed cotton rag paper used in all the Spellcraft my family’s shop created. The same weird blob of watercolor from Practical Penn’s Seer, Rufus Clahd. And the same penmanship, too. I’d recognize it anywhere. It was not just the hand that had taught me to write, but the Hand of my family.

  Uncle Fonzo.

  And yet, like the other Crafting we’d just discovered, it was nothing like Uncle Fonzo’s typical spells. I’ve never known a Scrivener to pen a single word. Not that it couldn’t work, technically. But it was definitely weird. Word choice, meter and penmanship all contributed to a Scrivener’s signature style. Uncle Fonzo had a tendency to write the sort of upbeat phrases you’d find in a fortune cookie, like the lockpick Crafting my cousin Sabina carried, Persistence opens all doors. Yes, Uncle Fonzo was succinct.

  But never this abrupt.

  Yuri scowled at the Crafting I’d found in the factory. The Seen was a gray squiggle. The Scrivening was just one word.

  Parsimonious.

  “What does this mean?” he finally asked.

  “That you’re right,” I admitted. “My uncle has definitely been Crafting here.”

  He quelled a sigh. “Not the situation—the word. What is the meaning?”

  “Maybe we should look it up,” I said. “Just so I don’t steer you wrong.” I called up the definition on my phone and read…with a growing sense of relief. Because, come on, that word really did sound like it couldn’t possibly be anything good. The initial few definitions were incriminating, meanings like cheap and stingy, but it was the lengthier explanation that caught my eye—and not solely because it cast my uncle in a more flattering light. “Parsimony is the principal of getting the most results from the fewest resources. That’s exactly what the Crafting did—it made more snow globes with less plastic.”

  Yuri didn’t seem quite as relieved as I was, probably because he still had adobe-mouth. I tilted the water bottle his way and gave it a little wag. When he reached up to take it, the corner of a piece of hot-pressed cotton rag peeked from his cuff.