by Ilana Waters
They stared at each other for several seconds. I’ll bet he can hear my heart pounding, Abigail thought in a daze. People around them were talking excitedly and pointing. Hell, I’ll bet they can hear it pounding. She swallowed hard.
“We really must stop meeting like this, Mr. Aurelius.” Abigail smiled weakly.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” he hissed. He put her down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her through the jabbering crowd. “Are you trying to get us both killed? Yourself when you walk headlong into a bus, and me when displaying my powers sends mortals on a witch hunt?” He walked quickly, hand still firmly clasped around Abigail’s. This might not be so bad, Abigail thought, if the circumstances were different. Out for a night on the town with my guy, his lightning-fast reflexes saving me from . . .
Ugh. From my own carelessness. Abigail winced. It wasn’t like her to be such an airhead. She’d walked New York’s streets a million times, and never been hit with so much as a bicycle. What is it about this guy that distracts me so much?
“Sorry,” she said. “But someone was making me too aggravated to focus on the traffic.” His grip was causing her fingers to lose feeling. She shook him off.
“Blame me for your foolishness again, and we part ways now.” Titus glanced around, but they were far from the crowd that had witnessed him saving Abigail. “Fortunately, I don’t think many people saw us. Things move so fast in this cursed city; hopefully, they’ll chalk my speed up to a trick of the flashing lights.” A high-pitched, human-sounding wail pierced the air. Titus cringed. “What was that?”
Abigail pointed to a stroller a few feet away. “Um . . . a child?”
“Make it stop,” he growled.
“It’s not mine to—awww! It’s so cute!” She gave a delighted squeal, similar in pitch to the baby’s.
“Ye gods, woman.” Titus put one hand over his ear. “That sound could shatter crystal.” But Abigail was already smiling and talking to the baby’s parents.
“How old is she?” Abigail bent down and made funny faces at the baby, who sobbed, whimpered, sniffed, and then smiled.
“Ten months,” her mother said proudly. She and her husband both wore polo shirts with small green alligators appliqued on the upper left side. A cable-knit sweater was tied around the husband’s shoulders.
“Look at her little hat!” Abigail cooed. “Isn’t she the most delicious thing you’ve ever seen?”
Titus licked his lips. “Indeed.” The baby began whimpering again. He looked at her parents. “Do you plan on having any more, or are you finished littering the crust of the world with your offspring?” Their jaws dropped.
Abigail glared at Titus. “I apologize,” she said to the couple. “He’s part ogre.”
“Yes, well,” the wife glanced at her husband, “it’s way past her bedtime. We really do need to get home.”
“Right.” Abigail nodded. “Sorry to keep you. Have a good one!” She waved at the couple, who gave tight smiles and hurried away. Abigail whacked Titus in the stomach. “What crawled up your ass and died?”
“What?” He kept walking. “I’ve never understood why people think procreating is such an accomplishment. And the way the women go on and on about being in labor! I’ve seen mortally wounded soldiers complain less.”
“He jests who never felt a birth.”
“Still, we are never going to reach our destination if you keep petting every stray baby you see.”
“I can’t help it if I take a professional interest. I help bring life into the world.” Abigail held her head high.
“The planet is overpopulated as it is,” Titus grumbled.
“Look, people are going to have babies. They might as well get here safely.”
“If you insist.”
“Gott in himmel,” she muttered in Yiddish. “What has humanity ever done to you to deserve such disdain?”
“Its existence is reason enough.”
“Boy, remind me not to knock on your door when I need cheering up.” Abigail froze. “Wait a minute—this friend we’re going to . . . you seem to think pretty highly of him. Is he human?”
Titus looked straight ahead, continued walking, and smiled.
“Maybe.”
Chapter 9
Maybe his friend is human? Abigail thought. How many supernaturals are there in London, anyway? But she didn’t have time to find out, or even ask Titus. After a few more blocks, they came to a building with a rounded wooden door. Iron bars crisscrossed against its only window. Above it swung a wooden sign that said in shimmering script, “Nicander’s.” To Abigail’s surprise, Titus pulled the door open and motioned for her to go inside.
“I thought you moved in dangerous circles, Titus.” Abigail smirked as she walked past him. “I’m shocked you don’t need a secret password to get in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Titus said. “This is the twentieth century. The secret password is always, ‘I have money to spend.’ ”
As Abigail stepped over the threshold, she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have let Titus go first. He could be leading me into a trap. But once she was inside, the place didn’t seem even remotely trap-worthy.
It was odd. The dim interior echoed with music: a strange mix of electronic piano, acoustic guitar, and panpipes. The crowd seemed like a blend of clean-cut people and punk rockers. There were Mohawks like the ones she’d seen on the streets, spiky hair dyed various hues. Fingerless lace gloves, dark eyeliner, and miniskirts were worn by men and women alike. Others sported sensible sweaters, the collars of their button-down shirts folded over the tops. Some had on tracksuits, or corduroy pants and loafers.
A few people at the pool table eyed Titus and Abigail as they came in. But one stern glance from Titus, and the players quickly turned back to the game. Some shady types were muttering among themselves. The remaining clientele laughed and chattered away. Almost everyone had a drink in hand.
Strobe lights in different colors flickered around them. Abigail saw flashes of bookshelves, armchairs by a roaring fire, and couples swaying in the center of the room. Chairs, tables, and booths dotted the rest of the space, and opposite the door was a bar, the shelves behind it lined with liquor bottles. Strings of bulbs and paper lanterns dangled from the ceiling.
Abigail squinted and looked around. “What is this place? A pub? A bookstore? A dance hall?”
Titus shrugged. “I don’t know. It keeps changing. But that’s not important. What’s important is that the person we need to see is inside it.” He strode up to the bar, and Abigail followed.
This pub was in considerably better shape than the one they’d blown up. Brass fixtures gleamed in the soft light, and the dark wood of the bar was polished to a glossy finish. But there was no one behind it.
“Why are we looking for the bartender?” Abigail asked. “I assume you’re not here to get a beer, though I could probably use one. Are you going to ask them where your friend is?” Abigail glanced to the left and right, but still couldn’t see anyone who looked like staff. “Maybe they’re getting ready for last call. What time is it? Don’t most British pubs close before midnight?”
Titus shook his head. “Trust me, this place never closes.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, peering behind the bar, then leaned forward to get a better look. It took Abigail a few seconds to see what he was staring at: a hose with a spray nozzle attached, making a thin stream of liquid rise and twist in different shapes.
“Titus.” Abigail gave his upper arm a light whack. “Quit playing around.”
“I’m not doing that.” He leaned closer to get a better look. The stream leaned away from him, then changed direction and shot liquid in his face.
“What in hell—” Titus sputtered angrily. Abigail covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.
“Mr. Aurelius!” A voice came from behind them. Abigail’s head snapped around. Standing between her and Titus, arms draped over them both, was a
young man with dark skin and glittering brown eyes.
He was almost as tall as Titus, but with a much lither and more slender frame. He wore skinny black jeans, a tight T-shirt shredded in an indiscernible pattern, and black, lace-up army boots. His clothes, like his eyes, were a little shiny, too. It was almost as if metallic thread had been woven into the cloth. Half his head was shaved close, with just a short coat of hair on one side. On the other side, a dark, downy fringe fell over one eye. One long tassel of silver hung from his earlobe, grazing his elegant neck. Abigail noticed that both ears rose to sharp points.
How could someone come up to us so fast without me noticing? she thought. Without Titus noticing? Before she could even ask about the pointy ears, the young man spoke.
“Long time, no see.” He smiled as Titus angrily wiped at his damp face and shirt. “So good of you to grace us with your presence once every few decades.” Effortlessly, he jumped behind the bar. Abigail tried to place his accent. It sounded a little like the curry seller’s, and a little British, but there was something else. Something underneath it that she couldn’t discern.
Abigail’s face scrunched in confusion. “How did you . . .” She pointed to the hose and nozzle, now lifeless on top of the bar. “And what’s with the . . .” Her fingertips brushed the top of her ear.
“You unspeakable ass,” Titus hissed. “When are you going to stop acting like a child?”
“When you started dressing like a grown-up.” He eyed Titus’s shirt and slacks. “I mean, isn’t this, like, a step down for you? Have you decided to open a secondhand shop, and now you’re wandering around, modeling the goods?”
Titus’s reply came from between gritted teeth. “Shut. It. Nic.”
“Your friend here, however . . .” He gently took Abigail’s hand and kissed the back of it. “She could make a dress from three-day-dead roses look good. Hel-lo, lovey.” Abigail tried not to giggle, and failed. As he looked at her with liquid eyes, his gaze seemed to hold her in place. And there’s something else strange about this guy, thought Abigail. Something magical. A shining that came not from his eyes or clothing, but from the air around him, or from inside him.
“He hasn’t seen you in years, and the first thing he does is squirt you in the face?” she asked Titus. “I thought you said this guy was your friend.”
“When you’re in my line of work,” Titus grumbled, “that term gets used very loosely.”
“Still,” she said, smiling at the man behind the counter, “you didn’t mention your friend was the bartender.”
“He’s more than just the bartender,” Titus sighed. “He’s the owner. Meet Nicander.”
“Hello, Mr. Nicander,” Abigail said.
“No ‘Mister.’ Accent on the can.” He turned sideways and patted his rear.
“I thought you said we had to be respectful to him.” Abigail waggled her finger at Titus. “Which you haven’t been, thus far.”
“True.” Nicander nodded at Titus.
“I said you’d better be respectful of him,” Titus said. “I don’t have to.”
Nicander frowned. “Untrue. But I’m willing to overlook it tonight, since you’ve brought someone entertaining. So who is the lovely lady slumming it with Sir Titus?” He put his chin on his hand and leaned on the bar toward Titus. “For once, T, you have a magical creature by your side who isn’t a vampire.”
Abigail’s jaw dropped. “How did you know he was—”
“Nicander knows everything, Abigail,” Titus cut her off. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Abigail.” Nicander closed his eyes. His lashes were long and black. “Hebrew. ‘My father’s joy.’ ”
Abigail smiled again. “How did you kn—”
“We’re not here for fun facts about names,” Titus interrupted again. He turned to Abigail. “If I wanted useless information, I’d just send you running back to the PIA.”
Abigail was just about to issue a sharp retort when Nicander spoke first. “Magical powers and working for the PIA?” he said to Abigail. “My, we do love flirting with danger, don’t we?” His eyes flickered to Titus. “It seems you both do. Or am I to assume the PIA knows of your confederation and has given you both their blessing?” Titus and Abigail exchanged a glance. “No?” Nicander said. “Didn’t think so. Playing with fire tonight . . . I love it!”
“So.” Nicander made tapping motions in the air with his finger; sparks of light flashed where they paused in the air, like pieces of glowing yellow dust. “What brings a vampire and a baby witch together on such an evening, mmm?”
Abigail and Titus exchanged another glance. “Actually, we’re hoping you could help us find out,” she said.
Nicander raised one smooth eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Why different supernatural creatures might be working together. Here. In London.” Abigail explained what had happened to her and Titus over the past several days.
“Sweet Lady Fate.” Nicander let out a low whistle. “Talk about a rainmaker!” He jutted his chin at Abigail. “This one’s already so powerful.” He stretched his long arms over his head. His languid movements reminded Abigail of a cat’s. He looked at Titus. “You’d better watch out, son.”
“Indeed.” Titus cleared his throat. “She tends to cause as much trouble as she thwarts.”
“And yet you’ve managed to keep her safe for so long.” Nicander lay on his side, lengthwise behind the bar, though there was nothing propping him up. He rested his head in one hand. “She must have quite a hold on you.”
Titus’s expression didn’t change. “No, she mustn’t. I’m just looking after my own interests, that’s all. She might yet prove useful.”
Yet? Someone needs to clock this guy, and hard, thought Abigail. “Um, I think you’re forgetting all those times I rescued your ass,” she said.
“Careful, Titus.” Nicander got down from his invisible perch. “She’s got a memory. Could be dangerous for someone like you.”
Titus ignored Nicander and turned to Abigail. “Rescued, yes. I’ll remember that the next time I save you from a blind date with a bus.”
“Speaking of dates,” Nicander polished a glass, “did this Gregson fellow mention any further meetups of him and his compadres?”
Abigail shook her head. “Only that there were three days left—two days, now—until the real shipment gets here. Any idea what that might mean?”
“Sorry, love.” Nicander started polishing a second glass. “Wish I could help. Truth is, magical artifacts come and go in and out of major cities all the time. Not usually mortals dealing in them, though. They don’t have the sixth sense about magic that we do, so it’s hard for them to tell what an item’s truly worth. Not much profit in a business where you have no idea if you’re being cheated.”
“But Cunningham’s an expert on all that arcane magical stuff.” Abigail ran her fingers through her hair. “Her office practically looks like a mystical museum. And some PIA members can tell if people are supernatural.” Abigail swallowed hard. “They can’t have that much more trouble with objects.”
“That may be so.” Nicander flung the towel he’d been polishing with over his shoulder. “But there’s a big difference between knowing the dry facts about a thing, and knowing what it can actually do. Current status versus potential. It’s the same with people.”
“But what else would have mortals, witches, and vampires working together?” Abigail asked.
“Hmmm . . .” Nicander scratched the shaved side of his head. “Exploitation is always a popular pastime.”
Titus glanced at a chalkboard sign listing ale prices. “Explains why you’re overcharging for spirits.”
Nicander did not deny it. “You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing. Your friend here, on the other hand, could well be a spy sent by the PIA to check up on us.”
“I am not!” Abigail said.
“It would be better for you if you weren’t.” Nicander pulled the towel in a
long, thin line above his head. It folded itself over and over, making origami-like shapes in the air. “The last mortal from the PIA who invoked my ire was forced to dance to death. A common form of execution among my people.”
“Well, is she or isn’t she?” Titus demanded. “Can’t you tell? Come now, Nicander. You must be good for something besides pouring frothy mead into mugs.” Nicander’s towel fell to the floor. His eyes formed slits at Titus, and he raised one hand, opening his mouth to reply.
“Wait a minute.” Abigail stepped into the empty space in front of the bar between Titus and Nicander. “After all I’ve done for you, you think I’m a double-crosser?”
Titus set his jaw. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s betrayed me.”
Abigail’s eyes flashed fire. “Gee, I wonder why.”
Titus pursed his lips; then he gazed up and down her frame, a confused look on his face. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Nicander lowered his hand and grinned. “Well, I was going to give you what for, old boy, but I see Wonder Woman here has it under control. And since it’s been such a fun evening with you two, I will give you one piece of advice.”
Titus sighed. He pulled the roll of bills from his pocket. “How much?”
“Not money,” Nicander said slyly.
“What, then?” Titus asked. His head swiveled toward Abigail. “You can’t have her. I told you: I might need her later. Though I suppose I could rent her to you . . .”
Abigail raised a finger in the air. “Ah, sorry, but this model doesn’t come with a lease option, you baboon.”
“Not her either,” Nicander said. “No offense, love.”
“None taken,” said Abigail.
“What, then?” Titus tapped his foot.
“Let’s just say you’ll owe me a favor.”
“A favor?” Abigail echoed.
Titus was stone-faced. “No.”
Nicander folded his arms across his chest. “Yes.”
“Is that the only thing you’ll accept?” Titus asked.