Come, Seeling Night

by Daniel Humphreys

  “Ah, a Brit! Headed over for a conference, myself. What were you up to in the States?”

  “Business trip,” he said, a curt dismissal. The other man did not take his hint.

  “Things go well?”

  Despite himself, Knight smiled broadly. “Oh, you could say that.”

  “Stellar,” the American slurred. “What are you in? Wait, don’t tell me.” He made a show of looking Aleister up and down. Knight had worried about bringing his walking stick through security, but he needn’t have bothered—every one of the personnel checking passengers at the metal detectors had treated him with kid gloves, assuming he was handicapped. The drunk stared at the stone sphere topping the cane, blinked, and snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Antiques.”

  “You have me,” Aleister said with a smirk. “I am known to acquire the odd thing, here and there.”

  “I’m in consulting,” the other man said. “But in the end, it’s all about reading people—taking their measure, knowing what they’re looking for. Take antiques, for example. You need to know the best way to negotiate with whomever you’re dealing with. Some people want to haggle, others don’t want their time wasted.”

  “I’m definitely in the latter category,” Aleister said, but the drunk didn’t pick up on the subtext.

  “Let me give you my card.” The other man fumbled through the inside pockets of his suit jacket. “Location, business field—it’s all about the people. Give me a chance, I can save fifteen percent in the first year. That’s over and above my commission.”

  “It’s a rather specialized realm,” he demurred. “I’m established, and not interested.”

  “Hey, man, don’t kid a kidder. Everyone’s interested in saving money.” The drunk shoved his card into Aleister’s hand. “You can’t afford not to work with me, friend.”

  Static crackled and the gate attendant spoke. “At this time, we’d like to begin boarding our first-class passengers aboard British Airways flight 216 with service to London Heathrow.”

  “That’s my call,” Knight said. “Some other time, perhaps.”

  “Ah, we have time. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Knight pushed his annoyance and impatience into a ball, then reached out and shook the other man’s hand. “Thank you, no.” Power surged through the skin contact, and the drunk yelped, pulling his hand away.

  “What the hell?”

  “Static electricity, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I—” The other man winced, then clutched his stomach. He was, Aleister knew, currently in the throes of some severe stomach cramping. It wasn’t the most powerful spell in his arsenal, but it was an effective one. “Oh, man.” The consultant shifted in his seat, and a wet sound followed as the cramps led to something—embarrassing.

  He’d been using magic for over six hundred years. Juvenile or not, the aftereffects of the enchantment never failed to amuse Aleister. “Seems as though you should hit the head before takeoff. On your bike, now.”

  The other man didn’t answer, but he rose and rushed away toward the head. Based on the typical length of the spell’s effect, the drunk was about to miss his flight.

  “Which should make things right peaceful.” He crumpled the business card and tossed it in a nearby bin. Rising from his own seat, Aleister threw the strap of his carry-on over one shoulder, turned to head to the gate—and froze.

  For those of a mystical bent, hunches and insight often expressed themselves in less abstract ways than those lacking power. Depending on the power level, Aleister often knew at a glance if a fellow practitioner was worthy of respect or disdain.

  Walking into Walter’s shop in San Francisco a few nights back, every hair on his body had stood on end from the presence of Helen and her coven. Just being in the same room as Liliana gave him a twitchy feeling.

  Here and now? He felt as though someone had walked over his grave. His palms were suddenly damp and his stomach clenched. Frowning, he looked up and down the concourse, but saw nothing of interest. Sodding fool, he told himself. You’re going soft in the head.

  Even so, he kept glancing over his shoulder until he was safe and secure in the belly of the plane.

  Paxton—Monday evening

  Washington Dulles International Airport

  The sound of the front door opening woke me up. As I blinked my eyes at the shadows on the wall, my heart went into panic mode. How long have I been asleep? Am I too late?

  An analog clock on the wall informed me that it was after two in the afternoon. I hadn’t missed the flight, but the house sitter I’d worried about had just shown up. Wrapped in my invisibility spell, I eased out to the landing. I hadn’t noticed the floors creeping underfoot in my time upstairs, but better safe than sorry.

  The woman unloading an armful of mail onto the side table by the door had a bit of a familial resemblance to Nora—an older sister, maybe. I stared at the open door, waiting for a voice from outside or something else to throw a wrench into the outrageous plan that popped into my head.

  The chance of success wasn’t the part that made me hesitate. Magic in the equation meant that my crazy idea would work. That didn’t mean that it was the right thing to do.

  The push was the power I’d had the longest. It was also the one I feared above all others and used least of all. Maybe I was naive at sixteen, but once I realized the sheer destructive potential of being able to control others, I swore to myself that I’d never abuse my gifts. When in doubt, follow the tao of Spider-Man—with great power there must also come great responsibility. All temptations aside, I’d stuck to my guns for a decade. And now I was about to throw it away for a ride to the airport.

  I didn’t have much time. The house sitter’s hands were empty, and she turned back to the open door. Decision made, I dropped the invisibility and stepped forward before she could walk out of the house.

  “Close the door,” I pushed, “and don’t scream.”

  She followed the mystical instructions, though she turned to stare up at me after doing so, face pale. The command not to scream didn’t prevent her from asking, in a quavering voice, “Who are you?”

  Shame coursed through me, and I hesitated. I’d crossed a dark line, but that didn’t mean that I had to keep going. As awful as what I’d done was, I had an opportunity to ease the damage rather than make it worse. That didn’t make the action any better from a moral standpoint, but it was something I could focus on the next time I tried to sleep.

  “I’m Paxton,” I said, then pushed again. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a good person in a bad spot, and I desperately need your help.” That, at least, wasn’t all that different from times I’d used the push before to calm frightened homeowners and assure them that yeah, I really was there to help them with their haunting problem.

  It was funny to think that I’d much rather be out making house calls, again. I’d thought dealing with ghosts was bad. It wasn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as this hero stuff.

  She blinked a couple of times, then smiled. The magic convinced her, utterly and totally, that I was telling the truth. And that was the sneaky, seductive part about the push, in the end. You could make anyone into whatever you wanted them to be with a few words—a friend, a lover, a slave. You could command them to stand still while you plunged a knife into them, over and over, and they’d do it. Screaming inside all the while, and venting unheard impotent terror. On the outside, at least, she looked curious and intrigued. “Oh, my. And here I was thinking this day was going to be boring.”

  I hoped that the person inside her agreed, and it wasn’t prose borne of magic.

  Somehow, her smile helped. And, over the next few hours, as I gave her the bare bones of what was going on and what I needed from her, I couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been more than a little genuine.

  Nina was, yes, Nora’s older sister. A freelance software developer, she worked from home, or whatever place drew her fancy at the moment that had a usable Internet
connection. It was the sort of vagabond lifestyle I could appreciate.

  Now, less than an hour before the flight to Phoenix was scheduled to leave, we sat in her car at an off-site parking lot intended for those coming to pick up arrivals who didn’t want to pay a parking fee. I’d been a nervous wreck for the entire drive. On the bright side, that wasn’t because I was afraid of anyone recognizing me. I was antsy because of the strange feeling on my scalp. The hair dye Nina had fetched at a nearby pharmacy was dry, but I still had to keep telling myself not to test it lest I invite scrutiny.

  “Are you sure I can’t drop you off at the terminal?”

  I glanced at Nina. “This is fine,” I said. “I can find somewhere to go invisible between here and there where no one will see. If I do it right at curbside check-in, someone’s bound to notice.”

  She grinned. “It’s been interesting, Paxton Locke.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I don’t like laying the whammy on people like that, but I was desperate.” I paused for a second, then said, “If you want, I can make you forget that I was there.” It was doubling down on a wrong that had thankfully turned out right, but the least I could do was offer.

  “No, I want to remember. I was afraid, at first, but you’re right. You’re one of the good guys. If you hadn’t put a spell on me from the beginning, I’d have thought you were crazy, but I’ve got all the proof I need, don’t I?”

  I considered that for a moment, then shook my head. “The worst part is, this isn’t the strangest conversation I’ve had today. Thanks again, Nina.”

  “Wait!” She reached into her purse and pulled out some bills folded over a business card. “It seems strange, but—let me know how things go.”

  “I can’t take your money,” I protested.

  “Pay me back after you rescue your girlfriend and clear your name.”

  I tried not to laugh. “You realize that if I don’t stop my mother, it’s likely going to be catastrophic, right?”

  “Then it’s a win-win. You save the day, I get my money back. If you don’t, it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  Marveling at her optimism, all I could say as I pocketed her money and her card was, “Sounds like a deal. I’ll do my best.”

  I cut across a couple of long-term lots and headed for the main terminal. The air was crisp with cold and alive with the rumbling vibration of jetliners taking off and touching down. It all lent strange energy to the air—nothing magic, but rather a sense of a great machine with a singular, momentous purpose. You didn’t get that sort of feeling on the open road, but then, you couldn’t haul the sort of arsenal I’d kept in my RV in a suitcase, either.

  In a dark corner of a parking garage, I went invisible, then joined a line of pedestrians walking across the shuttle and drop-off lanes. After all my trepidation and concern, my goal was in grasp, and I was mere moments away from taking step one in my rough plan to fix everything.

  I didn’t fly much, but Dulles looked more worn-down than I’d expected. Forgetting my spell, I stood and stared in front of the automatic doors and nearly blew the entire thing. A rushing man in a business suit nearly bowled me over. As I scrambled out of the way of traffic, I couldn’t help but notice the confused look on his face as he tried to figure out what he’d run into. Thankfully, that didn’t last long, and he planted his cell phone against his ear and resumed his march toward ticketing.

  I need a new phone, at some point. For now, there was no purpose in doing anything about it, so I filed the thought away and got my bearings. Not having to worry about checking in saved me time. I found the gate number for the flight to Phoenix and headed that way.

  The security checkpoint was more daunting than I’d expected. Even this late in the evening, a line of passengers snaked back and forth, waiting to pass through the inspection stations. I pressed my back against the wall and studied the angles, trying to figure out where the best point to go through was. There were broad gaps on either side of the x-ray machines for luggage, but getting to them was the hard part. If there were fewer people in line, I could just duck under the straps, but I had to slide along the wall. A family with young children and a stroller forced me to pause and back up, as they came close enough to the wall to effectively block it off to me. The vast majority of the other passengers seemed to be people traveling alone, though, and I made it to the point of the line closest to the checkpoints and ducked under the flexible strap.

  This part was a lot easier. I waited for the TSA agents working this side to step out to wand a passenger, then stepped through their workspace and into the terminal beyond.

  I’d held the invisibility spell for a while, and my hands shook. Forcing myself to keep my pace at a brisk walk, I tried to ignore the fatigue. The flow of passengers in this part of the terminal was light enough that the squeak of my sneakers on the floor would seem out of place, and I wasn’t exactly equipped to answer any official questions.

  Ducking into a bathroom, I did a quick scan to make sure I was out of sight, then dropped the spell. The only thing I had to worry about now was some eagle-eyed security person manning the closed-circuit cameras. Would they question seeing me walk out of the bathroom without walking in, or just let it go?

  I was banking on the latter. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt, I walked out of the bathroom and headed down the concourse. After spending the last nerve-wracking fifteen minutes trying to be sneaky, strolling as though I didn’t have a care in the world was a hard task.

  That act became more difficult as I realized I didn’t have a bag. Would any of my fellow passengers or security notice my lack of a carry-on? I glanced around as I took the stairs down to the underground tram to my gate and relaxed. Everyone around me was more focused on their phones or travel companions than they were on me. Act casual—if you don’t give anyone a reason to pay attention to you, they won’t.

  I was tempted to whistle, but I refrained. Best to remain unremarkable, a gray everyman in a sea of those with far more important things on their minds. In a way, that was almost as good as an invisibility spell.

  Forgoing a seat, I clutched a vertical rail and held on as the tram whizzed through an underground tunnel. My stop was second to last, which gave me plenty of time to watch the passengers who departed and those who replaced them after the first stop. A hum of conversation filled the tram, in more than one language, and I continued to relax, secure in my cloak of anonymity.

  As the train stopped at the terminal before my stop, every hair on my body stood on end. I fought the urge to shiver, and my knuckles turned white on the rail as I tried to look around to see the source of the sensation. I’d felt something similar before, in the presence of ghosts, but this far surpassed any mystical alarm I’d ever experienced. It took everything I had to remain still, and when the train accelerated away from the second terminal, the tingle on my skin vanished.

  Maybe, I smiled to myself, the airport is haunted. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve ever run into.

  Joining the stream of travelers, I rode an escalator back up to ground level and strolled toward my gate to do a walk-by. I was happy to note that the waiting area at the gate was less than half-full—if that luck held, I had a fair shot at finding an open seat, or even an entire row of them.

  With time to kill, I kept walking. There were several restaurants and shops along the concourse, and I decided to grab a burger and fries. Framed magazine covers of all the regional awards they’d won decorated the place alongside sacks of potatoes for their fresh-cut fries. The price stung, and took a chunk out of the cash I’d taken from Nina—borrowed, I told myself firmly—but it was a pretty damn good sandwich. I ended up feeling, if anything, a little stuffed.

  The wait for my meal hadn’t been too bad, and I headed back toward the gate, looking for blind spots along the way. An empty gate held potential, though a couple of college-aged kids had plugged their laptops into the outlets in the wall. I nodded to them in greeting as I walked up
to the windows, pretending to be studying the runway. From the beeps and buzzes, they were too involved in some sort of computer game to pay me any mind. I couldn’t help but shake my head at their obliviousness.

  It worked for me, though. I put my back to the window, checked to make sure no one was looking at me, then went invisible.

  If I’d thought getting through security was nerve-wracking, waiting for an opportunity to get on the plane was even worse. If I went too soon, there was the chance I might take a ticketed seat. If I waited too long, I wouldn’t be able to get on at all. Watching and trying not to make any noise, I spent the next few minutes bouncing in place as the crew at the gate began boarding the plane. The waiting area had filled up in the meantime. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who’d taken the opportunity to grab a bite. I hoped that there’d still be room on board.

  I got lucky. With only a dozen passengers left to board, there was some sort of issue with the boarding pass scanner. The delay held up the line, and I slid around the gate. Heading down the jetway, I kept looking back until I was out of sight from the terminal, then dropped the spell. I’d held it nearly as long as I had when I’d crossed through security, though the food helped. I didn’t feel as drained as I had before.

  The flight attendant at the bottom smiled as I approached. Here was the moment of truth. If she asked me for a boarding pass, I was going to have to resort to the push. Bracing myself, I smiled, myself and said, “Good evening.”

  “Good evening to you, too, sir,” she said, then waved me on.

  I tried not to sigh in relief. The assumption on her part was obvious—if I’d gone through the gate, the other crew had scanned my boarding pass. It went to show that if you acted as though you belonged, most people were going to believe that you did.