Free Magic Lessons by Justine Larbalestier Page A

not chunder. There was no hint of unripe lemon. His reek was nothing like the madness in my mother. He was old, but he wasn’t insane.
He was even worse than Jason Blake. How many people did you have to drink dry of magic to live as long as he had? The thought of it made rage swell up in me like a tumour. Never lose your temper . My vision shot back to the surface, where the world pulsed red. My magic swirled out of Esmeralda’s brooch in a Fibonacci spiral aimed at old man Cansino. I would stop him even if it killed me.
He flicked his wrist, making a shooing motion.
My magic rebounded, exploded into me, rendered me blind and deaf, stripped of all my senses.
In this absolutely silent, scentless darkness, echoes of what I’d seen and heard on the street assailed me. All at once I realised I’d been cold, standing in snow with bare feet wearing cotton pyjamas. The wind had been cutting through me; I’d felt the uneven footpath underneath my feet, old chewing gum, salt, melting snow; I’d been smelling car fumes and steak being burnt, hearing car horns and music blaring, someone yelling out to her friends to “wait up”; I’d seen the greys and browns of a New York winter. Now I felt nothing.
Then my senses smashed back into me, like a car into a wall. I heard the bile building in the back of my throat. I blinked at a helicopter far overhead, inhaled pounding bass, felt grey and brown, stumbled over the music. What had Esmeralda called this? Synaesthesia.
I vomited onto a pile of snow in the gutter.
The old man still leaned against Esmeralda’s door, comfortable, relaxed. He shook his head slowly, not in anger, more as if he was sorry for me.
With a wave of his hand he’d stopped my attack against him, stripped my senses away. What else could he do? Kill me? Easily—he wouldn’t need to get angry, just flex his wrist. I took a step away, almost falling over in the snow. I didn’t know what to do. He was the one attacking the door; his golem thing had crawled inside me, had bitten Tom and Jay-Tee. Don’t show your fear . “Who are you?”
The old man laughed. Or at least I figured that’s what the sound was. It sounded like a cross between a cackle and a hacking cough. I could hear the phlegm.
I stood up, stepped away from the gutter, wiped my mouth. “Why—”
Old man Cansino shook his head again, smiled, and made a shooing gesture. For a fraction of a section I thought he was going to blind me again. He shooed me instead.
I was more than willing to shoo. I wanted to be far away from him. I wanted to never see him again.
I walked hastily, awkwardly, limbs not quite under my control, wiping my mouth again, tasting vomit and charcoal. I brushed more snow and grime off my face and clothes. My eyes still stung; my heart beat so hard, I was halfway up the block before the cold started to penetrate.
I could feel the old man’s eyes on my back, but when I turned he wasn’t there. The steps were empty. I half turned and took a step towards Esmeralda’s door, and there he was again. Shaking his head.
Adrenaline shot through me, warming me up, propelling me away. I stumbled.
“Are you all right, girlie?”
I turned to find a woman with a concerned expression looking down at me. A shade or two darker than me, pushing a pink-cheeked baby in a pram. “You’ll catch your death dressed like that.”
“I’m okay,” I said, though I wasn’t. I smiled to demonstrate. “I slipped.”
“You sure you’re all right, love?” The woman peered at me. Her expression said that I must look awful, but I nodded, anyway.
“Are you sure?” a second woman asked. She was older, her skin not as dark, dressed in a red fluffy coat. The two women exchanged glances. “You look terrible.”
“Do you need any help?” the first woman asked.
“Yes,” said the second one. “I live near here. You can’t stay out on the street dressed like that.”
“She sure can’t,” added a man passing by, pushing a shopping cart. “Catch her