Midnight Starling: An Urban Fantasy Romance Series

by Rhiannon Lee

  I reached into my back pocket and retrieved my soft leather-bound journal. Creased from wear and tear, I straightened out the cover and pages, then pulled it open. The melody I needed now was not one I was acquainted with, so I searched my notes for the musical scales that would guide my voice. Currently, it was a patchwork of spells I’d stitched together over the last few weeks but had yet to memorize.

  From the core of the greenhouse, the magic that lived in the earth and ran underneath the city was weakening. All flora contained an essence of magic, microscopic fragments of varying forces in each leaf tip depending on the plant. Some kept in the grove originated from the magic realm and were kept by those who knew what to do with them. In the greenhouse I maintained were magical plants valued for healing. Each was very similar to their human-world counterpart, but nevertheless unique. I brushed my fingertips against the leaves of the closest plant as I read the name written on the pot, “Calaria.” I visualized all the good, the healing it could do once its flowers bloomed, and they were plucked and dried. Moving on to the next one, I gently touched it too. All these extraordinary plants that I had the honor of tending to were dying out. Their growth, although not altogether at a standstill yet, was frighteningly hindered to the point where I feared it might not end in anything but extinction. The thought settled like a massive stone in my belly.

  Returning to my purpose, I scanned the pages I flipped through to find the correct spell.

  “There you are,” I said as I briefly closed my eyes to draw in the aroma of warm wet soil in through my nose. Now intent and focused on my purpose, I began my spell. The whistle started out low, a scale from C to F, then rose, skipping middle C altogether to ascend the octaves into a spirited, frolicking jig.

  The row of little pots with sproutlings trembled, their occupants leaning into the harmony of my spell as I dragged in another sharp inhale through my nose and continued. As the miniature leaves unfolded, tears glossed my eyes. It was working!

  My tune came to a close, and I turned to locate a chair. Instead of a bench, my eyes spotted a figure I wasn’t expecting.

  “That was splendid,” the man crooned, disregarding the fact that I had stumbled backwards because of his wordless intrusion.

  “Oh, Matt,” I recovered. “I didn’t realize you were working tonight.”

  His actual name was Mathias, and care had to be taken with him. It was rumored that he was centuries old. His temperament was not always steady. Staring at him while he was fidgeting and fretting with his fingers restlessly, was not a sensible idea. Matt was prone to irrational outbursts of the magical variety. It was not something you wanted to be near him for because he had no control over what he struck once it started.

  Deciding to ease into the incoming discussion, I took a seat on the bench off to my side.

  He shrugged, peered down, and kicked the earth with his right boot. “The blooms aren’t doing so well,” he replied. “I was concerned that I was the only one who cared.” As he pulled his head up from his chest, he walked over to the sprouts I had been whistling to.

  “Will you teach me?” he asked quietly as he swept his finger over one tiny leaf. “I’m worried this isn’t all of it. The damage. I’ve heard rumors something dreadful is coming, but I didn’t believe it. Not truly. Even I, in all my years, have never known so many to fade at once. It’s as if something is bleeding the magic out of everything.”

  “I don’t know how much help it will be, but yes, of course. What do you mean something bad is coming?”

  “Maybe you can whistle to my younglings until I get the hang of the spell? My magic isn’t what it used to be. My bones are getting too old to be of much use.” He didn’t let anyone near the sprouts in his care. That particular greenhouse was strictly under his guarded territory.

  I nodded even though he ignored my question. Sometimes I had to let the conversation unfold with him as I went. “Lead the way,” I said, and grabbed my journal.

  He turned and strode out into the night, down a path to a separate greenhouse. This one was always brighter, illuminated from within by something other than garden light bulbs.

  He ran his hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and walked inside. “They’re over here.”

  Three golden spheres of light hovering above the small terracotta pots made me smile as soon as I looked at them. It had been a while since I had the privilege to be so close to the marvels. I could sense delight and wonder emanating from their tiny forms. Their emotions were contagious and incredible to be around.

  I stepped forward and poised my palms above the two closest to the edge. It was tough to believe that these little balls of magic would one day be youngsters. Each unique and full of life. A stream of contentment filled me, but as I became accustomed to its presence once again, my smile wavered. There were so few of them compared to when I had seen them last. Less than half in number.

  When I glanced over at Matt, there was nothing but love displayed on his features. His hope may have faltered, but his devotion hadn’t.

  I took a step back and opened my book. This had to be precise. He approached my side and grabbed my hand for moral support. As the first note flowed from between my formed lips, I tilted the pages so he could study the notes. After the second repeat, he joined in. Our whistled melodies grew stronger as our spirits joined the magic gathering around us.

  Each ball of light pulsed to the rhythmic rises and dips in tune of the surrounding spell. My mind was full of images of Bea, and how she was once just like they were. Before she became corporeal, the orb she occupied floated down from the night sky and landed at my feet—the night I believe she chose me as her charge. I had quickly lifted her up in my palms and rushed her into Matt’s greenhouse where he arranged her beside her brothers and sisters in their spelled pots full of the magically charged earth that allowed her to flourish into the robust child that was ultimately given back to me to raise.

  Matt squeezed my hand, and my focus returned to the present. He had ceased whistling and was watching me. I followed his nod with my eyes and glanced down at the orbs. They had doubled in size. I whistled until I came to the end of the song.

  “Thank you,” he said, beaming. It was infectious, and a welcomed emotion. “You got lost for a time.”

  “Yeah, just thinking about Bea. When she was young.”

  He smiled. “She was magnificent.”

  “She was,” I agreed. “Still is. I guess I’m going to head home. Would you like to copy the song down?” I held out the book.

  Gingerly, he lifted it from my hand. “Mm. It’s the Ouphes, I think. They’re stealing magic.”

  I stared at him with confusion written on my features. “The Ouphes? How is that possible, and why?”

  He shrugged. “It’s what I’ve been hearing. Got to wait and see, I guess. Poor little things.”

  “The great war has been over for thousands of years. The world is not as full of hate as it was back then,” I tried to say with conviction. I had heard tales that Matt was alive for the battle between the Ouphes, Mimics, and Godkins, but I never believed it. Now I wasn’t so sure. Despite some harboring leftover loathing, and their rumors of it someday starting another terrible war, I thought it was nonsense—something I tried to ignore whenever I heard it.

  “Your goodness clouds your mind. There will always be hate,” he replied.

  “Sure, evil will always exist, but things are different now. There isn’t going to be another great war. There is no truth to it,” I said more assuredly.

  He looked at me and tipped his head. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he thought I was being naïve.

  Perhaps his mind was more eroded than I suspected. Obviously, depleted magic was a problem. A big one. But blaming it on the Ouphes wasn’t feasible. They didn’t have the power to pull the life force from a snail, much less anything of this scale. Today, they were a shadow of the people they once were. Their magic had dwindled over the years, much like the Mimics. Besides, they
were a peaceful people who wanted to be left to do things their own way among the communities they had built for themselves.

  I rolled my shoulders to rid myself of the stiffness the spell caused. And his words. Hopefully, even with the ongoing dampening of magic, there would be a new generation of Godkin soon. With no one left to nurture the magic of this world, life would become grim indeed. That would be a very bleak future for everyone. It might take a little more help than usual, but what was a little hard work if it meant their survival? Still, something nagged at me as I walked out into the darkness, and I couldn’t settle the sensation that Matt was at least half right. Something awful was going on, even if it wasn’t the Ouphes, and it was possible we had not seen the worst of it yet.

  Chapter 2

  Bea

  There were only two things on my mind as I stared toward the old community church before me. One, my client was a jerk, and two, my body ached. I was tired, and my behind was uncomfortable from sitting on the darn willow tree for three solid hours.

  I resisted the impulse to preen my belly feathers as another absentminded trill rumbled up my chest. Luckily, no one expected a bird to be spying on them.

  My mark was clad in jeans and a faded gray t-shirt. He stood, chatting to a man in a fancy suit, which had been carefully tailored. My gut told me the guy in the suit might be a preacher, even though he held his chin higher than you’d normally see on a humble man of God. As a private eye, I learned to pick up things ordinary people didn’t, like how to interpret slight gestures. And sometimes, I could tell what people did for a living just from their style of dress. It wasn’t magic. It came down to patterns of human behavior. Everyone had clues to reveal who they were.

  My target spoke with animated hands. His shaggy hair spilled over his left eye as he responded enthusiastically at what the other fellow was saying. But he looked tired. It was clear life had not been kind to him. At certain points, the seriousness on both men’s faces seemed unusually awkward. Considering the sobering context, if my information was correct, it shouldn’t have.

  I observed them with my sharper than human vision and a heavy heart as they shook hands and headed toward a sectioned archway. I genuinely felt sorry for the guy. On the breeze, I caught the scent of the tennis shoes and realized it was the weird rubber stoppers that kept the church’s doors open. The well-dressed man waved to my mark, motioning to go on without him while he punted the thing out of the way. There was a piece of printer paper affixed to the other half that came into view as they finished closing. Instead of announcing worship times and days, it listed a schedule of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings—just as I expected. They also added smiling emojis under the text. Being an alcoholic wasn’t funny, but I surmised it was their attempt to lighten the atmosphere. I found it in poor taste, but who was I to criticize what they put on their doors?

  My current job was to catch the man cheating on his wife, but so far all he had been attempting to do was get his life in order. I had trailed him to a therapist earlier this week, only to watch him leave with drying rivers of tears on his cheeks, and mine. They say this job makes you harder, dull to things. For me, that’s a lie. It made me softer, especially when I saw people genuinely striving to make their lives better. It was no wonder that he hadn’t shared this part of his journey with my client, his wife. Only a certain type of person hires a private detective to stalk someone close to them. I generally found what they expect me to and confirm what they already know. It’s a waste of money if anyone were to ask me. And because of that, in all first client meetings, I advise them to trust their guts; but they never do. In the three years I have been a licensed private eye, not a single individual has replied, ‘You’re right. Never mind. Thanks for the pep talk.’ If they did, I’d be penniless, but at least I tried.

  An invisible army of ants marching along my skin told me I didn’t have much time. I needed to go. If I didn’t fall from the branches during my transformation, I’d most likely fall while struggling to clamber down the trunk like a cat with no claws.

  I shook my feathers out while bouncing from one leg to the other, then hurled myself off the branch. As the wind hit my face, I closed my eyes and let the warm air run over and through the down on my belly. It could have been a disastrous idea considering my history of flying into things, but I didn’t care. Falling was my favorite sensation in the world.

  I still had to do some actual leg work to acquire photos before my client agreed to accept that there was nothing to see. But as of now, the case was closed. How she rationalized the knowledge she’d come to possess about her spouse’s struggle was up to her.

  Job well done, thank you very much.

  I made it to my apartment’s parking lot just in time. When my talons touched the ground, I came face to face with the local roughed up gray stray. His slit pupils dilated in surprise, then contracted as his body slunk low to the ground. He clearly believed with all his might that he was a fierce hunter. If I could have sighed, I would have. I loved cats, I did, but I wasn’t in the mood. Instead of entertaining him like I had done many times before, I settled and let the change morph me from bird to human before he could pounce. I was too depleted for games. I needed a shower, and my blankets.

  No longer intent on pouncing, the scarred-up tom shuffled off in a rush. This wasn’t our first rodeo. Once I was stable on my feet, I reached out a palm and prepared to call to him back but thought better of it. If he caused me to sneeze, I’d have to sleep as a bird instead of in my soft fleece pajamas as a human. I had gotten better about controlling when I could shift back to a person, but I was not a master yet. At the very least, I would be stuck as a starling for a few hours when I didn’t want to be. And knowing that sleeping always turned me back, it was both a blessing and a burden. Try falling asleep on a ledge. It never ended well.

  I was the only known bird shifter I knew of, and it was a peculiar curse to live with, but it was mine. And even though I had a remarkable family in Poppy and Isaac, my secret often left me feeling lonely. Every time I tried to tell them, I ended up with a parched mouth and an anxiety attack. Changing into a bird was something I’d grown to accept, especially after some years of being able to better navigate the intricacies of the gig as painlessly as possible. Heck, I even relished it most of the time. Now was not one of those times, however. The strides to my apartment seemed like a mile. My feet missed the first step, and I floundered. I spat a slew of curse words under my breath as I righted myself and kept going. No sleep was making me grouchy.

  My mood was lifted as I approached my door. The words Midnight Starling Investigation Agency painted across it in gold lettering made me beam. The gold lettering with white highlights looked utterly out of place against the battered wooden door. I should have slapped a coat of paint on before applying my business logo. Maybe a nice sky blue to match my eyes? It was already a delicate topic with the landlord for me to have my office in a residential building, so I left it alone and didn’t press him about it. I traced my fingers over my full name, which had been arranged under the title in the same script: Beatrice Margaret Voronin. A sense of relief settled into my belly. I was home.

  I reached above the door and fished the key from the frame to let myself in. For some unknown reason, my clothes would change with me when I shifted, but I constantly lost everything in my pockets to some void, never to be found again. Except for pocket lint. The Gods of the Nether Realm never wanted to steal that.

  On tiptoes, I sneaked through my makeshift office, which was right off of our living room. Really, it was a heavy wooden desk and the most comfortable office chair I could find on my budget. Both stood in contrast to the comfy couch on the other side.

  I winced and froze in place when my leg caught the chair, causing a loud scraping sound to cut through the silence. Glancing down the hall toward Poppy’s room, I breathed shallowly and listened for her to stir.

  Hunkered over, I tried to make myself smaller. As if it would also make me less loud. I
counted to fourteen in the continued silence before I remembered she was at work. I snapped up straight and shoved the chair out of my way. The lights were next. Since it no longer mattered, I refused to risk a banged-up toe. I finally neared the bathroom on weary limbs. I could practically hear the water from the waiting shower whispering my name. My last name, roughly translated, means crow in Russian. The humor of my namesake being the wrong species of blackbird was not lost on me.

  My clothes had already hit the floor with a plop by the time steam rose in the narrow glass box and water pounded the shallow basin just tall enough to catch the water. The rent was super cheap, so I couldn’t complain too much, but not having a bathtub was a pain. It was still technically in the city limits, but somewhat off to itself. The closest businesses were about a half mile away in either direction. It meant we didn’t have to worry about as much foot traffic and prying eyes. Great for bird problems, I had to admit. But if I ever moved, a bathtub was number one on my list of requirements.

  I was so drained that I didn’t linger under the spray. I just lathered up my hair and skin and remained under the stream long enough to rinse. Once I was convinced that the day’s filth was whirling down the drain, I hopped out and wrapped a towel around myself. A quick swipe of my hand across the mirror removed a ribbon of steam. I stood, staring at my sleepy face. My blond hair looked brown from being wet, and there were dark circles under my eyes that contrasted with my pink cheeks. I sluggishly turned away from my reflection and urged the muscles in my legs to work. I headed to my bedroom and was nearly dressed when my nose twitched. I stiffened and glanced around for the lurking culprit.