Free Magic Lessons by Justine Larbalestier

want? Why was he using so much magic?
The bats broke into another squabble, squeaking and rustling in the fig tree outside. Several of them took off, their leather wings displacing the air noisily. It was strange hearing bush noises in the middle of a city.
“Jay-Tee?” I asked softly. There was no response. “Tom?”
“Whaa,” Tom answered, half asleep.
“Nothing. I’ll stay awake. Keep an eye on the door.”
“Wake me,” Tom said through a yawn, “when you’re too sleepy.”
“No worries.”
Soon they were both breathing heavily and evenly. I waited until I was absolutely positive they were asleep; then I sat up. Neither Tom nor Jay-Tee shifted. I stood slowly, not letting the li-lo squeak. Esmeralda’s keys had been in her briefcase, which was probably in her bedroom. This was not going to be easy.
The door moaned. I froze. The wood had turned liquid again. It was vibrating, rocking, almost as if it was trying to shake the feather protections away from it. Tom grunted, then turned over. They were both still asleep. I took another step.
The door shrieked, let out a loud, piercing cry that was almost human. I started.
“What’s happening?” Jay-Tee asked, sitting up.
Bugger , I thought, now I’ll never get to the library . “The door—” I began.
A loud explosion, almost a roar, shook it. Painfully loud. We both brought our hands up to cover our ears.
Tom sat up, blinking, more than half asleep.
The door shook violently, ripples passing back and forth across its surface. My grandfather wasn’t happy.
The door bowed fast and sudden, stretching out so far it whacked into me. It was sticky, spreading itself all over me, sucking me back across the room. There was pain. And whiteness and heat and then cold.
And I was lying on the ground in front of the door. In New York City.

8
Dirty Old Snow
I had a mouthful of wet, cold dirt. I pushed myself up on
    my elbows. They hurt. My whole body hurt. I spat several times, rolled over, stood up.
New York City again. Winter. Cold. Daytime.
I brushed some of the wet dirt from me. The snow . Something smelled horrible. My skin prickled, not from the cold—someone was looking at me.
It wasn’t Jason Blake.
At the top of the steps, leaning against the door to Sydney, was a . . . I wasn’t sure what it was—old, that was certain. A man? A monster? It had eyes and a nose and a mouth, arms and legs. It was human-shaped but it could have been anything: man, woman, black, white. It was so filthy that its clothing and skin seemed to have fused together.
It was staring right at me.
Staring at me and reeking of stomach acids, of black rubber tire remains made burning hot by the sun on the side of a highway. Burnt rubber and chunder. It smelled like the thing that had come from under the door into Esmeralda’s house. The thing that was related to me—but this thing, this person, smelt even worse. It made me want to run far, far away.
Sarafina always said, Never show that you’re scared. I stood and planted my feet firmly in the snow and stared back, trying not to think about my churning stomach, my freezing skin. I put my hand over Esmeralda’s brooch pinned to my PJ top, feeling its warmth, and blurred my eyes to look all the way inside. I saw that he was a man, or at least, he’d been a man. I saw that he was not Jason Blake in disguise. I saw his Cansinoness. He was related to me, but he was nothing like me.
Our magic was related, too, but his was much more than mine. It was as though his magic had eaten almost everything else; all that remained were traces of what had been before— his Cansinoness, his humanity, his maleness. His magic shone throughout his body, making up the very marrow of his bones. More thoroughly magic than Esmeralda or Jason Blake, than Tom, Jay-Tee, or me.
He was old, too, older than all our ages put together. Centuries old.
The intense smell of him filled me, far stronger than that of the little golem. I pressed my lips firmly together. I would