People buy luck for five runds. That means I need to sell eight bottles to eat tonight; ten for anything with taste.

I examine the rows of shiny blue bottles. If tonight goes anything like the rest of the week, I’ll be going hungry.

A young man whizzes past on his scooter, missing my bottle collection by millimetres. I curse and throw an empty in his direction, but a cleaner bot snatches it from mid-air, tiny glass shards spilling out of its wide metal mouth.

Ten years ago, I’d have sat down on this pavement and wept at the injustice of it all. But time is a healer, and I’ve accepted my fate.

Magic just isn’t needed anymore.

The bot rolls away on its catterpillar tracks, still crunching away my bottle, which its clanking innards will grind into a fine sand. The sight of it reminds me of my finite existence.

I’d better hurry up. In ten minutes, my last remaining punters will be on their way, pouring out the pubs and into the casino for the jackpot after-hours special. Most of them will be there for the discounted booze, but there’ll the odd few with that glint in their eyes. It’s those I’ll work on.

When I draw them to one side, whispering the charms of a magic luck shot, they’ll let the bottle slip into their open palms. Then, with a backwards look, they’ll drop five rund coins on the floor and leave me scrambling to pick them up. I’m filthy vermin to them, not even worth a smart transaction.

It wasn’t always like this; they used to queue down the block. But they’ve got chance chips now, and if you stick one of those babies behind your ear, you’ll increase your chances of a big win by up to 30%. They may be more expensive and highly illegal, but there are ways round the bots if you’re smart enough, and it’s worth the marginally increased risk of brain tumours for that sweet, sweet payoff.

Besides, it’s not like magical luck is much safer. Take too much of the sweet blue stuff and you’ll start thinking you’re fortunate enough to jump off a building and sprout wings.

Thankfully for my clients, that’s not something they’ll ever have to worry about. My magical luck is now so watered down it’s little better than human urine.

It’s dog urine if you’re interested – dog urine and blue food dye.

There’s movement behind the glass casino doors; almost time. I wipe my face with a cloth, put on my leather gloves and pull my hat down. My bottles clink as I place several in my pockets, then stash the case somewhere so hidden even the trash bots won’t find it.

The robot staff don’t acknowledge me. To them I’m just another homeless person, and as long as I don’t try to actually enter the building, they’ll leave me alone.

The doors of the pubs opposite open. People pour out into the night, tripping over themselves to reach the cheap booze. On the glass walls, an ad projects in flashing red letters: ‘Erotic Dance Show – Club Members Half Price – Adults Only’.

My eyebrows raise; unusual, certainly, but it might mean more sales.

A speaker from the robot bouncer booms, ‘Form an orderly queue, esteemed guests’ and is roundly ignored. I step around the crowd, watching for anyone who’s hesitating. There’s a guy a couple of paces away, hands in his pockets, faking nonchalance. But he’s sweating in the cold.

I sidle up to him. ‘Hey there, looks like you could use a helping hand.’

He looks at me, starts, then bolts into the casino. I curse.

‘Don’t frighten the horses, darling.’

I turn. A beautiful dark-haired woman wearing what looks like a real fox fur coat sashays towards me. Her thin hands are coated in black velvet gloves, and her face is partially obscured by a huge red hat with a lace veil. It must be some kind of costume, or a new luxury fashion I’ve never heard of. Whatever it is, it’s completely out of place in this crowd of sweaty bodies shoving themselves towards alcoholic oblivion.

‘Casandra,’ she purrs at me.

For a moment I believe she’s mistaken me for someone else, then realise that’s her name.

I take the proffered hand, grateful I’m wearing gloves, though the leather is ancient and battered beyond belief.

‘J-J-Jezebel,’ I stammer, shocked out of keeping my cool.

A finely plucked brow raises behind the lace veil. I should really pick a pseudonym but it’s hard to give up my last tie to the glory days.

‘Unusual,’ says Cassandra, smacking her dark red lips together. ‘Well then, Jezebel. We’re going to have such fun this evening.’

Then, without any warning, she grabs me by the arm. I prepare to get chucked into the gutter, but instead I am pulled further into the fray, towards the open doors. I bluster protests, attempting to wriggle free, but find myself squeezed into a large crowded lobby. It’s crawling with security bots, and sophisticated ones at that, vageuly humanoid with black glass faces and scarlet velvet uniforms. One catches sight of me and glides in our direction.

‘Oh, darling, there you are.’ Cassandra air kisses the bot like an old friend. It stands motionless, its screen face without expression, though I can tell the bot’s logic circuits are in freefall. ‘Take me and my plus one up to the guest suite, would you?’ says Cassandra, waving an airy hand. ‘I need to get ready for my performance.’

The bot hesitates, then obeys. We follow it upstairs, and in the confined corridor I’m conscious of two things: the probable number of weapons diguised about this security bot’s distinguished person, and my lingering stink. Honestly, the hidden arsenal should be what’s at the forefront of my mind, but what I’m really conscious of is my own grime, which has latched into my skin so deeply that a thousand scrubs in a cleansing pod wouldn’t wipe them away.

At least security bots have no noses, I think to myself. And if Cassandra’s olfactory senses are working, she clearly has too much breeding to show it.

We reach the top of the stairs. Cassandra waves the bot away, and it glides off with a certain reluctance, though perhaps I’m projecting my own fears. I follow Cassandra into what appears to be a mirror-lined dressing room.

‘You’ve made a mistake,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m not a performer.’

‘Of course you’re not, darling. You’re my honoured guest.’

Cassandra plonks herself down in a huge swivel chair, and gestures for me to follow suit. As I do so, a service bot in a plush green uniform with shiny brass buttons appears at the door, carrying a tray with two glasses of synthetic champagne.

My strange host misinterprets my uncertainty. ‘It’s not the cheap stuff,’ she says, handing me my glass. ‘It’s the real deal.’

Sure enough, the champagne lacks the odd synthetic beverage aftertaste. It still tastes bad to my unrefined palate but the sheer expense is incredible. ‘That’s 10,000 rund, surely,’ I stammer, more to myself than anyone.

‘20,000 for the bottle. I tell them to keep several, chilled at all times.’

My eyes practically boggle. The waste is ludicrous.

‘It’s just a little treat to myself. Between you and me, darling, I bought this place to keep it alive. Of course, I could have done something with it, but the grime is part of the charm, wouldn’t you agree?’ She runs a gloved finger over the dressing table, then blows off the dust.

I put down my glass. Sitting in this plush room, my confusion lurches into anger. Down and out I might be, but I’m entitled to some proper answers.

‘Why have you dragged me here?’ I demand. ‘What do you want?’

‘Come, come, darling, questions later. First things first… dinner.’

My mouth waters as the service bot opens its ample belly, and the scent of roast chicken with actual potatoes, beef gravy and honey glazed carrots wafts out. If my nose is not much mistaken, this food isn’t synthetic. Just like the bubbly fizz in my glass, my upcoming grub is the real deal.

Luckily Cassandra doesn’t stay to watch me eat. She would probably be appalled by the way I hoover up the contents of the china plate in less than five minutes, gravy dripping down my chin. It’s undignified, but there’s no knowing when I’ll eat like this again.

‘Pudding, madam?’ trills the service bot.

I feel sick from eating such rich food after a diet of bin scraps, but I nod anyway. As if telepathically reading my desires, the bot’s seemingly limitless interior produces a teetering pile of profiteroles surrounded by generous scoops of vanilla ice cream. Each bite is heaven.

‘Second helping, madam? Coffee? Tea?’

The thought of that dark bitter coffee taste makes my head spin. It’s like every childhood Christmas and birthday rolled into one.

‘Yes please. Black coffee, no sugar.’

As the bot produces my order, Cassandra glides back into the room. She grins behind her veil at the sight of me covered in profiterole crumbs.

‘I can see you enjoyed dinner!’ Her laughter tinkles like tiny bells. ‘I’m so awfully glad. The food’s exquisite, isn’t it? But I’m afraid you’ll have to go and take your seat now. You’ll have the best view in the house…’

Sated and thoroughly confused, I ought to feel some kind of trepidation. But the warm afterglow of my unexpected fine dining is still lingering, and I think to myself, what’s the harm?

The service bot escorts me to a private box. I’ve never been in a private box before, even back in the good old days when magic was still wanted. Here I am, nestled in comfort, with an excellent view of the stage and the raucous crowd below. The service bot nudges my arm as it brings the hot black coffee to my seat, then trundles backwards, head bowed in deference. I remove my battered black hat and lean forwards, curious despite myself.

At last the red velvet curtains open and the crowd whoops with approval. Someone shouts something lewd and others laugh. But a hush descends when the spotlight falls upon Cassandra.

She’s wearing the same fox fur and hat, but there’s a shift in the energy. What looked like a foolish costume is now spellbinding. Promising. Provocative.

Her velvet gloved hand reaches for the coat and she sweeps it off with one swift movement, keeping time to the low piano music that spirals through the air from an invisible player.

The coat falls to the ground. Cassandra is wearing a silver sparkling ballgown cut close to the nipple, the rip in the side finishing mid hip. It ought to look ridiculous but on Cassandra, it’s pure class. I am mesmerised, as are the people below. A low gasp emerges from the crowd as she takes a single step forward on her four-inch black stilettos. She winks and sways her hips, and the crowd’s eyes follow them. She is hardly dancing at all but she doesn’t need to; even the tiniest movement is enough. Her body seems to sense the music’s rhythm before it happens. I’ve never seen anything like it. She shimmies her way to the front of the stage and in a low, smoky voice says.

‘Are you ready?’

Everyone nods. I nod. I have never been so ready for anything. My hands grip the brass rail in front of me so hard my knuckles turn white.

Cassandra’s arm snakes back behind her. The music lulls suddenly. She reaches up and removes the veil.

Dead silence. Glassy eyes stare forwards.

And suddenly I know what’s happening.

I shut my eyes, repeating a nonsense word over and over in order to break the mesmer; a trick from the old days. Slowly, my knuckles begin to loosen. I blink and see Cassandra looking up at me, a cruel smile on her scarlet lips. Now I can see her eyes fully, there’s unnatural colour in them, a sparkle of rainbow cut by a prism.

‘Good evening, Jezebel. Why don’t you come to the front?’

The service bot’s white gloved appendage latches onto my arm and starts dragging me out of the box. I kick and scream but no one does a thing to help me. Everyone’s eyes are still fixed on Cassandra, their mouths open and drooling.

I wish I had a real bottle of luck on me now.

The bot hoicks me down the stairs, then drags me onto the stage like a badily behaved child. The harsh lighting hurts my eyes. Somewhere behind me, the same piano chords keep playing over and over.

‘Ah here she is,’ says Cassandra. ‘My glamorous assistant.’

She laughs cruelly. The crowd laughs with her.

Cassandra turns her head to one side and winks. She doesn’t even need to stare to keep the mesmer going; she could keep those fools enthralled with just the twitch of her little finger.

How the hell is she this powerful?

I kick the service bot again, knowing its hopeless, and its metal grip remains unrelenting. I’d die of thirst before this thing would let me go. The thought coats my mouth, and the coffee feels like a mistake.

‘Look at what you’ve become, wizard,’ Cassandra spits. ‘No home. No money. Reduced to selling dyed piss for living.’

A low hiss ripples through the crowd.

‘Now, now. Don’t be too harsh on dear Jezebel. She made me what I am today.’

Cassandra reaches into an impossible pocket in her skintight dress and pulls out an empty bottle, stained blue. My bottle.

‘Six months ago, this so-called wizard sold me luck. She thought she was selling me dog’s piss. And she was. But magic users can’t help it. Sometimes a little power leaks out. And Jezebel, well, she hadn’t used any real magic in so long...’

Cassandra faces me. In the harsh spotlight, I see the deepening lines around her eyes, the shrunkeness of her cheeks. There’s no denying the effects of untamed magic.

‘That night I won a million rund on roulette,’ she continues, rainbow eyes slicing into mine. ‘They thought I was a cheat and tried to throw me out. But I simply muttered a few words and they gave me all the money, and told me I could come back whenever I wanted. In a week I had enough to buy the place.’

Her throat seems to tighten and she wheezes. And I realise what’s happening.

Ever wonder how a wizard can be poor? Why I don’t conjure myself myself a three-course meal each night, and a fine palace to live in? It’s not because I lack the skill or resources.

It’s the cost.

No energy is free. Magic takes from you, and you have to be smart how you use it. It’s why tech overtook us; the price technology extracts is someone else’s problem, at least for a while. Magic, meanwhile, is very much yours. Restraint, self-awareness and pacing; those were the mantras of my old teachers, lost to time.

Cassandra has no such mantra. She’s wringing out the world for all its got, and burning herself out in the process. And either she doesn’t know it, or doesn’t want to know, but she can’t keep it up forever.

I shut my eyes. Cassandra, or what’s left of her, is still blabbering.

‘We could take down this whole town together, Jezebel. Hey. Are you listening?’ Heels clack on the stage floor and slaps my face.

‘You don’t have to live like a tramp, you know,’ she sneers. ‘You chose to.’

My stomach pit feels acidic, the food congealing and spoiled. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s been like, for doors to slam in your face each time you offer your help. To be kicked, spat on, to sleep on icy concrete, only to be lifted up by security bots and turfed onto the highway, because apparently even the pavement is private property now.

She still thinks magic is easy.

I keep my eyes shut. I don’t want to see her. Seeing her will make me hesitate and I can’t afford to do that now.

My mind wanders. The power is still in me, somewhere, but it’s important not to focus too much. I need to find a memory, something to lose myself in.

I cast my mind back to my school days. Magic use was waning even back then, technology snapping at our heels. I was one of the last to be educated in the old ways, though we all pretended it would turn out otherwise.

Dr McAllister stands at the lectern. She’s a short, severe woman in a lavender blouse that doesn’t match her personality. She insists we write the words of the tomes by hand, over and over. The room contains only four pupils, three of whom are now dead, but I try not to think about that. Instead, I focus on the page in front of me. The wooden chair creaks beneath me as I scrawl.

The first principle is to keep a clear mind. Never force the power.

The second principle—

My overzealous scribbling knocks my rubber to the floor. I sigh and look down under my desk, and spy a blue glow; the power is right here, hidden in this old memory.

Now comes the tricky part. I focus on the pen in my past self’s hand, the pressure on the scrap paper, the droning of Dr McAllister lecturing us on proper transcription technique. Meanwhile, my other hand feels its way through the darkness, trying not to draw attention. There’s the shape of something here, an outline. I force myself to think about the lecture, to focus on the words on the page. Then, without warning, my hand tightens.

Bingo.

I open my eyes. They are pure blue.

Cassandra doesn’t notice. She’s instructing the crowd.

‘This place is ours. Take everything, then burn it. Then I’ll put it out and I’ll be a hero. You’ll love me. You’ll clamour for my place on the Central Committee. You, my people, you are witnesses to the beginning of a—’

But they’ll never get to know what’s beginning. Because at that very moment, I kick her in the backside.

Cassandra flops forwards onto the floor. Charm fractured, the crowd titters nervously, but only for a moment; the mesmerising spell is too strong. She staggers upright on her heels, swaying as if drunk. Then she rounds on me, palm outstretched.

‘How dare you.’

Pure white electricity bolts out at me, arcing towards my face. It never reaches. My blue glow defects the beam, splitting it upwards towards the spotlight and plunging us into darkness.

Cassandra shrieks in fury, spiking with hot white electricity. With that much power, she could blow this place sky high.

It takes all my strength to stay calm.

‘Wait,’ I say, raising hands in surrender. ‘Please.’

Fierce energy still crackles around Cassandra. But her hand lowers a little.

‘OK,’ she purrs, and it’s the old voice, the smooth, controlled one she used to get me in here in the first place. ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.’

‘Because you’re dying.’

The white light pulses, casting light and shade on her face. She’s still beautiful, still perfect. But it’s frail, a thin skin around a void. She blinks hard, but I sense rather than see the tears.

‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ she says in a clipped tone. ‘You’re jealous because you studied your life away and came to nothing, whereas I, your little accident, your fluke, turned out stronger than you.’

I shrug. ‘I suppose you’re right. You are stronger than me.’

She blinks, not ready for this response.

‘Your problem is that you don’t know your own limits. Whereas I do.’

I drop my hands. A blue wave shoots forwards into the crowd, breaking over them. I fall to the floor. The spell I have been building has taken everything from me. Magically speaking, I have been sucked dry. Physically speaking, it feels like I’ve been run over by a solar train.

There’s raised voices coming from the auditorium, unpleasant ones. Something whistles over my head and smashes against the back wall.

‘Ah hell!’ A man’s voice. ‘Someone turn on a light. I can’t see what I’m throwing at.’

A hand grasps mine, pulling me upright. It’s thin and coated in velvet, but before I can work out what it’s attached to, I’m being hurried through a side door.

‘You’ve landed us in it,’ Cassandra hisses, but she’s not angry, simply urgent. ‘The bots know I’m a fraud. We have to get out of here, now.’

I don’t need telling twice. We go through the back corridor, Cassandra leading me slowly down the steps. I can still hardly stand, let alone run.

‘Just leave me,’ I mumble, pulling away from her hand and flopping down at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Let me sleep.’

Cassandra slaps my face a second time. She’s taken off her glove and I can really feel it this time. My cheek zings.

‘You listen to me, Jezebel. You saved my sorry backside out there and I feel human for the first time in weeks. But we need to get out of here now, before they—’

The door behind us bursts open. A large security bot booms down.

‘Esteemed guests, you are now under arrest. Please do not struggle. I repeat, please do not struggle.’

Cassandra holds out her gloveless hand to mine. Her eyes are no longer rainbows, but they’re hopeful. What she says is true; now the illusions have gone, her face looks ordinary, but in good way. She’s more solid, more alive. More human.

I want to take her hand. I want to run away with her, into the world.

But, it seems, there’s only room in this world for one wizard.

The bot seizes me as Cassandra bolts through the door. I shut my eyes and the last of my magical energy reaches out ahead of her, dispersing the bots as she charges forwards. Then my head slumps.

So, I think, as my consciousness fades. This is how the last official wizard ends, in a time when magic is no longer wanted. I used to believe that we’d slip in obscurity, as if we’d never existed.

But now there’s another possibility.

Maybe if Cassandra can be patient and bide her time, she might survive. She might even learn to control her powers. And perhaps, one day, the world might need magic once again.

If that ever happens, I’m glad someone will be out there. I’m glad that someone is Cassandra. Perhaps, we might have been friends, given time, and a little patience. But, I’ve been on the streets for too long. Been alone for too long. And I’m so very tired.

Share

Leave a comment