“But the potions and sex and the religion, they’re just symptoms,” he continued. “Truth is, the real problem is whatever created that crater in your chest. Most of us got ours ’cause our mamas had their own holes they was trying to fill and didn’t have enough time to prevent ours from forming. Or maybe it was our daddies. Maybe he left when we were too young. Or maybe he stayed around too long.”
A couple of ironic chuckles filtered through the room. Several studies had been contracted by the government to figure out a link between upbringing and magic addiction. I’m no scientist, but from what I’ve seen, the most common denominator for addiction was simply being human.
“Maybe you weren’t born into poverty and maybe your daddy didn’t sneak into your bedroom at night to touch your no-no place,” Rufus continued, “but somewhere along the way some other human fucked you over but good. Probably lots more than one. And getting fucked by your fellow man drills a hole in your center. So you either find a coping mechanism or you check out early.”
He let that settle over us like a gray cloud. Most of us gathered that night were veterans of the group. Addicts with lots of years between them and the rock-bottom moment that made them finally seek help. But magic sank way down deep inside and it was almost impossible to exorcise its roots completely.
“So what do you fill your hole with now that you’re off the junk?” he asked.
I chewed my lip and thought it over. Justice, I thought, feeling smug. Problem was, the longer I was a cop, the harder it was becoming to keep my faith in that particular religion. Not when I saw justice fail so many people so often.
“Maybe you joined a gym,” he said. “Maybe you spend most of your Sundays on your knees praying to the good Lord. Don’t matter what it is, long as it’s legal and healthy and doesn’t hurt anyone—specially your damned self. You just got to fill it with something or else that blackness gonna rise up and consume you whole, brother.”
My inner skeptic snorted. She reminded me that I was never addicted to potions. I never shot up, lit up, or snorted up. Unlike the rest of my companions, I wasn’t a Mundane looking to recover from addiction to dirty magic. Instead, I was an Adept trying to overcome an addiction to the power I felt from cooking. An addiction’s an addiction, but I never pretended my struggles compared to theirs. It was easy to find other sources of power. Not so easy to replace the chemical changes forced on one’s body from dirty magic.
Now that his introductory speech was over, Rufus raised his hands and invited us to join him in reciting the credo of Arcane Anonymous. “Everything I need to transform myself already exists within me. I am enough.”
When we sat back down, Pen nudged me with her elbow. She looked over and nodded to a new member across the way. The girl couldn’t be more than eighteen. Her hair hung in long greasy ropes around her pale face. Her irises were still the cornflower blue of a heavy potion-user and her hands shook as though she’d been stricken with palsy. Scabbed-over track marks peeked over the top of the black turtleneck she kept tugging up.
Poor kid, I thought, she couldn’t be more than a week or two sober. She had a tough road ahead.
Closer to us, a few people over, was a guy in his mid-forties. His skin had a definite yellowish tint, except for where the angry flush into his cheeks made them appear orange. His arms were crossed and the foot perched on his knee bobbed up and down. I’d come to enough of these meetings over the years to recognize a court-order case when I saw one. Probably he’d be defiant and sullen during the meeting until it was time to ask Rufus for a signature on his forms.
“Welcome, everyone. Congratulations on taking the first, most important step in recovery: showing up. We gather here every week to share our experiences and help each other through the maze of recovery from dirty magic.” He paused and looked around the circle. Naturally, the new people kept their eyes downcast. Typical. They thought not making eye contact would spare them from having to share, but Rufus always called on those types first.
“Mr. Callahan?” Ru said finally. “Do you have anything you’d like to share tonight?”
The jaundiced man shook his head, refusing to meet Rufus’s gaze.
“Just so you know,” he said, his tone friendly, “I don’t sign court documents for people who don’t do the work.”
Callahan’s head snapped up. His lids squinted over ice-blue irises. “What do I have to talk about?”
“Anything that’s on your mind.” Ru spread his arms wide. “We’re here to listen.”
“I shouldn’t even be here.” His lips puckered like a bitter lemon. “That fucking judge had it out for me.”
Ru’s expression remained calm. He’d heard all of this before. “So you don’t think you have a problem with potions?”
Callahan adjusted his ass in the chair, warming up to having a sympathetic ear. “Of course not. I mean, sure, I take a little nip of a virility potion every now and then. Just to give me a little edge with the ladies.”
That explained his color. Virility potions attacked the liver first. However, if he kept up with it, he’d turn bright red, like a horny baboon’s ass.
Rufus looked down at the clipboard in his lap. “According to the notes I was sent, you were arrested for masturbating in your car at a red light.”
Callahan’s cheeks pulsed orange. “I was in the privacy of my own vehicle. Wasn’t my fault that school bus pulled up next to me. I don’t have a problem.”
“When the medic wizards checked you out, your penis was covered in friction blisters.”
Callahan started rocking back and forth. “I can’t help it that I have a healthy libido.”
On my left side, Jacob, who used to be addicted to sex magic, too, snorted. “Is that the same excuse you’ll use when you rape someone?”
“Hey!” Callahan’s eyes flared. “I would never—”
“Before you started that virility potion, I bet you also swore you’d never masturbate in front of school kids, either.” Jacob was six feet tall, covered in tattoos, and bald. He’s served five years in the pen for stalking a woman after he’d taken a dirty love potion to attract her. After he’d been released, he joined the group and redirected his addiction into a successful career as a sculptor. “Face it, man. You’re an addict. Unless you stop taking that shit, you’re going to end up seriously hurting someone besides yourself.”