by G. Bailey
"I got it. You keep your arse safe and away from whoever is after you. We both know you wouldn’t kill anyone on purpose. Also, you should take this," Mads says before she rapidly lets me go and runs to her kitchen, opening the drawers until she finds a card and gives it to me. It's a bus pass, something very useful.
"Thank you. I love you like a sister, you know that?" I say, pulling the door open, because if I don’t now, I won’t be able to make myself leave.
"Yeah, I know it, even if you are a damn goddess. I should have known with your looks and good luck," Mads says with a laugh, following me out the door and holding it open. "Wait, does your goat really talk? I swear every time I used to walk past him, he would call me fit."
"Yeah, he talks," I laugh with her, knowing Michael couldn't have kept his mouth shut. "His name is Michael."
"It’s relieving to know I wasn't making up being hit on by a goat in my head, to be honest with you," she says, and I can't help but chuckle as I pull the other strap to the bag over my shoulder.
"I will see you again, won't I?" she asks.
"I can't promise that. This is serious, Mads. They don't give second chances, and they will lock me up," I explain to her. "But I'm going to try and make it out of this."
"You're Karma Maria Kismet. If anyone can escape the god law or whatever you call it, it is you," she says and rushes to hug me once more before stepping back. I lift my head high, trying to keep her words in my mind as I run down her corridor and towards the stairs. Let's hope I can run away long enough for my family to help me, because I know if they throw me into the correctional facility, I won't ever see the light of day again.
10
It’s strange how different the city looks as it races past the bus window. The night feels like it’s been stretching on into eternity, and in spite of how much I usually love the crowded streets and old buildings of downtown Dublin, I’m left with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sighing, I let my head drop back against the bus seat, watching as the ever busy city passes me by. This is the third bus I’ve been on tonight, and I’m already tired of having to rely on human transportation. I’d give anything to be able to transport myself to the south of France, but Peyton had a point, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the twin gods of justice off my tail, even if just for a little while longer.
I feel a bit like a lost little kid, or a bird who’s been pushed out of its nest for the first time. I’ve never caught buses before, and it’s taken me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out that you have to read the signs near the stops to know where you are going instead of just expecting it to go there eventually. I glance out the window, on the lookout for any signs that I’m being followed, but nothing looks out of the ordinary. Not that I would know what it would look like if I were being followed, anyway; I’ll just have to hope Mum, Dad and the others were able to stall them long enough to give me enough of a head start.
At any rate, I’m getting close to where I need to go. Somewhere on the edge of the city is an old pub, the kind of dive bar that’s only ever frequented by vagabonds and late-night partiers. There’s a portal in the pub, an illegal one set up and quickly forgotten about by some old god or another. I’m pretty sure the portal was there before they built the pub around it. It’s one of several in a network that spans the British Isles, and if I had to guess, there are more such transporters elsewhere around the world. The higher gods are aware of these, obviously - something that widespread couldn’t have drifted under their radar forever - but the portals that still stand were built ages ago. They aren’t traceable, and without knowledge of their exact locations, there’s no way for the higher gods to have them shut down. Granted, they’ve tried, but for now, they remain.
This particular portal leads to London, which I figure would be a good place to start as I escape from Ireland. I can start there and figure out the best way to get to France without drawing undue attention. I thought about using Peyton’s plan and getting a ferry over to England before taking another flight over to France, but upon further consideration, I decided it wasn’t the best idea. I know I have to think outside the box to survive - that’s my motto for the moment. If, by some chance, the gods of justice have followed me this far - or worse, if they got to my family and found out where I’m headed… I cringe, hardly even daring to consider the possibility. Either way, they can’t be too far behind me by now, anyway, and somehow they always catch whoever they’re after. The idea that they could be onto me is terrifying enough, and if I want to minimize my chances of making it to France, I’m going to have to do something they won’t be expecting. The only problem I can see with my current plan is the pub owner; I’ve heard he always wants a steep price, and I don't exactly have time to go and get gold right now. I’ll just have to hope he lets me travel through the portal at a price that isn’t exorbitant.
The bus stops, jolting me out of my thoughts, and I quickly look back outside. I don’t recognize the area we’re in, and can only imagine that we’re somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in the rougher, industrial part of town. There’s not much else that I notice... until the sound of laughing teenagers fills my ears. I turn to see three of them climbing onto the bus, bottles of beer in their hands as they start checking their pockets for money.
I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy as I see them, leaning on each other, nudging one another playfully as they fumble in their pockets with the kind of carefree attitude that defines youth for most people. I never had that innocence growing up, where my only troubles would have been finding bus money and deciding where to party next. I was always busy training with my parents, the same way Damien is now. Instead of hanging out with friends after school and obsessing over who was going to ask me to the winter formal, I spent my time trying desperately to master my magical abilities (and never quite getting the hang of them) and wondering if I would ever live up to my family’s expectations. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. Mads was just the same, in a way, but she was struggling to find work and keep a roof over her head. I think that’s maybe why we’ve stayed close over all these years, in spite of our differences; we’ve grown up in similar situations.
I frown as I take in the teenage partiers. From the look of sick on the one guy’s leg, I’m starting to think I didn’t miss out on much. They pay for their tickets and choose to sit at the back, laughing about pointless teenage stuff as I look around. The next stop should be mine, and the last thing I want to do is miss it and end up lost in some unfamiliar city. I climb out of my seat, pressing the stop button and then slowly walking to the front of the bus, where I wait next to the door.
The bus driver turns to look at me, pursing his lips. "A young lady like you shouldn't be out at night all alone, miss," he says as he slows the bus down in front of the bus stop. I turn and look at him: he’s a rather plain-looking middle-aged man in his work uniform. He smiles at me, the kind of smile that reminds me of my dad, with big eyes that are concerned for me. I feel a lump forming in my throat at the thought of him, and desperately try to put the unavoidable worry out of my mind. I can’t think about my dad, not without being concerned about how panicked he must be… if he’s okay, that is. Dad doesn’t like mum stressed or any of his kids in trouble. Today is definitely going to cause big problems, and that’s assuming the gods of justice haven’t already seen fit to imprison my family for not revealing where I’m going.
Realizing the bus driver is still staring at me, I jump, blinking. "Don't worry about me; I can handle myself," I reply to him as the bus slows to a halt, but he still looks apprehensive as he presses the button for the doors to slide open. I wave at him before jumping off the bus, ignoring his sigh as he closes the doors behind me. The partiers continue to jostle and joke with each other in the back of the bus as I wait at the bench. I watch the driver hustle off, the bus receding up the hill and into the distance.
The street is surprisingly busy, for such a non-central part of the city, and the streets are crowded with
drunk teenagers and working people. It’s nearly three in the morning, but considering that it’s a weekend, it’s not surprising that the streets are still busy. A cold breeze hits me, reminding me of the walk to the nightclub with Mads; that feels like it was centuries ago, even though everything only happened a few hours back. Is it possible that just this morning I was opening Mum’s gift and wondering what kinds of shenanigans we would get up to tonight?
Slowly I move away from the bus stop, tugging my leather jacket more tightly around me, grateful for its warmth even if it’s thin. Dark clouds fill the sky overhead, obscuring the stars like a blanket of black smoke. Occasionally, the moon peers out from behind them, illuminating the street and reflecting on the windows of the nearby businesses. There is a row of pubs here, all of them filled to the brim with drunk people who are either laughing, shouting, or trying to get even more wasted. I glance down the street at the only semi-quiet pub on the row, the one that looks miles creepier than the others. This is the one I need, funny enough. Pretty stereotypical, if you ask me, I think, although I guess there’s something to be said for hiding in plain sight. I furrow my brow as I peer at the sign, which confirms that this is the place: The Swanky Swan Pub.
I remember Peyton telling me about this place, but I've never actually been here - it’s not exactly close to home, and Mum has never been too keen to have us venturing to these areas of the city, even with our powers. The name is sure memorable, though. Peyton told me he would come here as a teenager with some of his mates. According to him, that was how he found out about the portal; one night, he tripped over himself, drunk as a bat, and stumbled directly through the portal, finding himself in London. This was before he had learned how to transport himself magically, and he ended up having to call mum and dad for help from a phone booth in Central London. The guy who owned the portal hadn’t forgiven him for the accident, and ended up taking his money and clothes as payment. I can’t help but smile, just remembering him hobbling up the stairs, covered in dust and dirt as we all laughed. That was Peyton’s past though, and no matter how much I wish it, mum and dad can’t just come and save me from this. I’m on my own here, whether I like it or not.
I walk across the street, ducking and moving between drunk people until I come to a stop outside the pub. The old couple sat on a bench outside gives me a hostile look, no doubt taking in my leather clothing and mussed up appearance and wondering what the hell someone so young is doing at a place like this. For a moment I wonder if they know somehow, if they’re onto me, agents sent by the gods of justice… and I have to force myself to calm down. If I start seeing enemies everywhere I go, I’ll never make it to France with my sanity intact. I steel myself for a moment before pushing the door open, and the sound of heavy jukebox music immediately greets me, along with the voices of drunken patrons.
Ignoring the heavy smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, I walk across the plush, red, patterned carpet to the dark wood bar, where there are three men sitting enjoying a smoke and beer. They don’t even look my way, completely happy to enjoy their drink, and I don’t blame them. I’d like to end up like them when I’m older, just happy to sit with my drink in a random pub, letting go of all the worries of the day. Instead, I’ve now got to worry about staying alive somehow, and the possibility that I may never live to have another night out on the town is feeling more real by the second. I slide into one of the seats, waiting for the old man with long grey hair and a mischievous grin to come over to me as he dries a glass with an old tea towel.
"You don't look like my usual clientele, lassie," the man says, his thick Scottish accent hard to miss. He sweeps me up and down with his eyes, not looking at me luridly, but seeming curious nonetheless.
"You don't sound like the common Irish riff raff you'd expect to find in here," I respond, hoping I come off sounding more bold than I feel. This guy seems like the type to pitch me out on the street for looking at him the wrong way, and out of the corner of my eye, I can feel the gazes of some of the other patrons on me.
The man laughs, setting the glass down on the counter behind him and tossing the tea towel aside. He grins at me, and I can see my snappy comeback has been enough to earn his respect in a matter of moments.
"You have some balls, little girl,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “I guess the rumour about redheads and their fiery attitudes must be true.”
“I guess so,” I agree, crossing my arms. “Sometimes, at least.”
“What drink can I get for you?" the bartender asks, leaning forward against the bar and looking at me with an intrigued expression on his face.
"Surprise me," I say with a big grin that makes him laugh as he goes off to make me a drink. If I want any chance of getting through the portal without losing all my money, I’m going to have to make this guy like me, and besides… a stiff drink sounds great right about now. Letting myself relax a little, I pull my bag off my shoulder and place it on the empty stool next to me before opening it up and pulling out some cash. I grab a handful of nuts from a little bowl on the bar and chuck them in my bag for Kit, hoping that will keep him happy for a little bit. There’s a low grumbling sound and movement among my other clothes, followed by a telltale crunching noise. Not wanting anyone to get a glimpse of the goblin, I do the bag back up before putting it back on just as the Scottish dude brings me a purple cocktail with a little umbrella cocktail stick in it.
“Cute,” I say, raising my eyebrows and sliding the drink towards me. “Although I’ve got to say, I wasn’t expecting a girly drink in a bar like this.”
“Let’s just say it’s a special drink for a special client,” he replies.
"Thanks,” I say, and set a handful of cash down on the counter. “You can keep the change," I add, hoping he appreciates the gesture, and he smirks as he takes it off me before sliding it into his blue apron.
"Thanks a bunch, lassie.” He sizes me up for a moment longer, his bushy eyebrows raising slightly as I take a sip of the drink. I have to admit, it’s delicious - the perfect combination of sweet and sour. I give him a nod of approval, and he grins. “Now, why are you here?" he bluntly asks, getting straight to the point before I can take another sip of my drink. I like this dude, I think. Shame he’s probably a million times older than me. I bet he was cute when he was younger.
"I want to use the portal for one trip,” I say, figuring I should just cut straight to the chase.
He shifts slightly, crossing his arms, but to his credit, he doesn’t look surprised. “You’re a goddess, then,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement.
“Yes,” I reply, casting a suspicious glance around me to make sure nobody else is listening in. They’re all caught up in their own conversations. “Although I’m guessing you had already figured that out.”
“I made a guess,” the bartender answers. “A girl like you wouldn’t come into a place like the Swanky Swan unless you had good reason.”
“Well, you’re right,” I tell him. “I need to get to London. Tonight. As in, like, right now.”
"There’s a price to get permission to use it from the boss,” he replies, crossing his arms. Although he feels human to me, it’s clear that he knows the ins and outs of the supernatural world as well as any god.
“What do you want for it?” I ask. “I’m low on gold, but I have cash. A few possessions, too, and I could always owe him a favor.”
The bartender appraises me for a second. “If you don’t have gold, lassie, you’re gonna have to give us something else.” He moves his eyes to my necklace, taking in all the charms. My heart sinks. Damn it, I think, that's not what I want to give up. But what choice do I have? I couldn’t have really expected them to let me use their portal as a charity case, did I? And if the options are giving them a useful charm or being indebted to them while I’ve got the justice gods on my tail, then… I don’t have much of a choice. Sighing, I hold up one finger and lift my foot up, unclipping the anklet of spare charms and holding it in the air.
As much as it hurts to give up any of Mum’s gifts, I need to stay alive more than I need these right now. I can always come back when I’m proven innocent and buy it back. At least I will have my necklace either way, and that’s where I keep the most important medallions. If they want one of those, then I’m going to have to think of another way to get to London.
"Will this do? They are all magical charms. Rare ones," I say, holding the anklet in the palm of my hand. The bartender picks it up, scrolling through the charms and clicking his tongue. I can tell immediately that he has expertise in magical artifacts, and I won’t be able to just pawn off my most useless trinket and hope it’s enough. He might be human, but he’s clearly not a pushover. “One of them turns anything into pure silver,” I tell him as he continues to leaf through the charms. “It’s a useful charm.”
"It sure sounds useful” he acknowledges, “but charms only work depending on how strong the god is. A weak god would be able to do nothing more than turn a grain of rice into silver.” This isn’t something I was aware of, and I can’t help but feel a little surprised that this human somehow knows more about magical charms than I do. That’s interesting when I think of the lightning bolt charm and what I managed to do. I suppose it makes sense, but I’ve never thought of myself as a strong god. What could that charm be capable of, if it were in the hands of a higher god? The thought alone is enough to make me shiver.
“Well,” I say, gripping the edge of the bar, “is your boss weak?”