by A. R. Kahler
“Twice.” She chuckles. “I’m sorry, I’m not really used to playing hostess. Can I get you something? Coffee?”
“I’d kill for some.”
She stands and heads to the kitchen. I sit there for a while, watching her go, her hips swaying and head held high. She doesn’t look like a captive within her own apartment. She still looks like the queen onstage.
As I watch, though, a thousand different questions stampede through my head. Why am I not trying to sleep with her? Why do I feel protective? Why can’t I just outright ask her about Henry—why do I feel I have to soften the words? Now that I’m here, I realize it’s not for utilitarian reasons: I’m here because I want to be. I want to spend time with someone doing something other than working or killing or fucking. I want to feel what it’s like to actually be human. And Roxie, for some strange reason, seems like someone I could experience that with.
I shake my head and stand, following her into the kitchen.
“So what have you found out?” she asks. She’s using one of those fancy glass pour-over things I’ve seen in cafés but have been too appalled by to try. Somehow, she makes it look unpretentious.
“Not much.” It’s easier to talk business than emotions. Even though I came here to ignore the former, it’s the only thing keeping me from getting swept up by the latter. Time to see what she knows. “The last guy we got was a witch. Some modern dancer in Chicago.”
She sets the water kettle on the counter, hard. She doesn’t move again.
“Roxie?”
In the movies, this would be the point when I put a hand on her shoulder. But I’ve seen the way she wields a knife.
“What was his name?” she asks slowly.
“Henry. Real dangerous-sounding name, I know. Maybe it was a cover.”
“No.” She turns to me. Her expression is a strange mix of blank and confused, like there are questions bubbling way below the surface. “That was his name. He never took a stage name. Henry Lewis.”
I raise an eyebrow. Well then, so much for the tiny chance it was coincidence.
“You know him?”
“I lived with him.”
She shakes her head and pours the coffee into two mugs—each in the shape of an animal, about the only cutesy thing in this place—and hands one to me.
“You lived together?” I ask. That’s a little too . . . convenient. Despite everything, my guard immediately rises. So much for her being “just caught up in this.”
She doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she takes her mug back into the living room and sits. She doesn’t make eye contact, and it’s not until I sit across from her and wait thirty seconds that she speaks up.
“Remember that apartment I told you about? When I was living with all those artists?”
I nod, the coffee forgotten in my hands. It’s suddenly the least of my interests, which is saying something. It smells heavenly. “I remember.”
“He was one of them.”
“So, wait, how did you connect those dots? I mean, did you know he was a witch?”
“We knew he was different. He . . . knew things, sometimes. Like when the weather would change or one of us would get a gig. Things like that. And there was something about him that was more . . . I don’t know, polished, I guess. He never seemed to be struggling like the rest of us, and it definitely made us wonder why he was choosing to live that way.”
“This can’t be a coincidence. Did you ever know someone named Frank? Barista in New York?”
She shakes her head. “Not that I can think of.”
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Henry and the rest of your roommates. Where they went, what they do now. Do you still keep in touch? Did anything strange happen before you left?”
“What do you mean strange?” She, too, has forgotten about the coffee in her kitten mug.
I don’t want to tell her about the similar contracts yet. I want to know what she knows, without me planting ideas.
“I mean, at least two of the four of you are working for the Fey, who are connected to a buyer we still haven’t been able to trace. It’s too much for random coincidence. Especially since you, at least, weren’t snared until months later.”
She stares into her mug for a long while. I take the first sip. So much better than coffee in Faerie.
“There was something,” she says, like she’s recalling it from a haze.
“Yeah?”
“The night before we moved out . . . we had a final dinner. Just the four of us. It was pretty normal—we were all sitting on the floor having pizza and wine. Everything else was packed and the place was empty. Henry had some candles going. It was really cute, you know? We were all a bit drunk at the very end, and the next day I honestly thought I’d just dreamed it.”
“Dreamed what?”
“Well, Henry got all somber all of a sudden and took out a little X-Acto knife from his pocket. Then he picks up his glass—it was so silly, just one of those red plastic cups—and says we need to toast to each other, to lives of service to a greater god. The muse herself. And we all laughed and raised our glasses, but he didn’t drink. Instead, he cut a line on his palm and dripped the blood into the glass. Then he handed them both over to me. I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe the wine or maybe something else. I couldn’t stop giggling. I cut my hand and poured in some blood and handed it over, and then when we’d all bled into the cup, he raised it high and said we were drinking to a brighter tomorrow, or something like that. We each took a sip.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange? Or, you know, worth bringing up earlier?”
“I didn’t think it really happened. The next morning I woke up hungover, but there wasn’t a cut on my hand and no one else mentioned anything about it. We went our separate ways. I haven’t heard from any of them since. Honestly I figured they’d all just gotten office jobs somewhere and fallen off my radar. Henry was the only one I kept up with, but only because he was always a bit of a pompous dick and kept sending me fliers for his shows.”
“I’m going to need names,” I say.
“You think the others are involved?”
“I think it’s as good a lead as any. Have you ever talked to Henry about the pact? About what he meant?”
“No. I would have felt stupid bringing it up.” She looks at her palm, which is smooth and dark and trembling. “I mean, there wasn’t any physical evidence. As for the rest . . . I don’t even know where they live anymore.”
“Don’t worry about that.” I pull a pen and paper from my pocket and hand them over. “Their names, please. Full names, spelled as correctly as possible, along with any details about personality or physical appearance.”
She looks from me to the paper and back again. Then she takes the pen and starts writing.
My heart’s pumping fast in my chest. I don’t know if it’s from the thrill of the chase, or because it feels like she and I are in this one together.
Eleven
I leave the apartment the way I came, pausing beside Pan in the front hall.
“Don’t let her leave,” I say.
“Did you learn anything?” he asks.
“I think so. I’m about to find out.” I look at the wall covered in soot and attack marks. “I feel bad leaving you here. Do you need anything?”
“I will be fine.”
“And you can hold them off for a little longer?”
He shrugs. “I shall do what I can, for as long as I can. That is all I can promise.”
“I suppose that will have to work.” I drop my voice then, and lean in closer to whisper in his ear. “Has anyone shown up besides the attackers?” I know it’s paranoid, but I wasn’t trained to suspect everyone for nothing.
Pan shakes his head. “Not a soul.”
“And you’ve heard nothing inside?”
Another head shake.
“Okay. Well, stay on your guard. I think we’re closing in on our guy.”
“Be careful,” he says.
I stand and walk down the hall and into the fire escape stairwell near the back.
Once safely inside, I grab a marker from my pocket—I feel like a kindergartner some days, what with all these art implements hidden in various places—and start scribbling a few marks on my palm. It’s a much simpler version of the summoning circle I’d used to conjure Eli earlier. When I’m done, I put the marker back and exchange it for a pen. Not for drawing, though.
I jam the sharp pen tip into my palm and wince at the surge of power and pain as the black markings burn orange against my flesh. A few seconds later, the light fades into nothing, taking the ink markings and the power surge with it.
“You rang?”
Eli lounges against the wall behind me, posed like he’s waiting for a photo shoot, with one foot on the wall and his hands in his pockets. At least he still has his shirt on. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s pulled that right before we went to battle. Though those were, admittedly, fun fights to celebrate afterward.
“We’ve got a lead,” I say. I show him the paper. “Time to roll.”
He plucks the paper from my hands and reads the names.
“The girl gave you this?” he asks.
I nod. “Apparently she knew the dancer witch. They lived together.”
“And these two are . . . ?”
“Her other roommates. They all did some sort of drunken pact before they parted ways, pledging themselves to service.”
“Mortals,” Eli mutters, handing the paper back. “Always losing their wits once alcohol is involved.”
“You’re just jealous that it doesn’t work on you.” I grab some chalk and begin sketching out the portal, suddenly wishing I had a little more magic running through my veins. It would be nice to be able to just teleport with a thought. Or maybe I just need to invest in the chalk industry.
“How’s she doing, anyway?” he asks.
This makes me pause.
“Cabin fever. But otherwise okay. Why?”
He doesn’t respond, which just makes me turn my head and stare at him.
“Why, Eli? You don’t take interest in mortals. Even ones embroiled in magic.”
His grin is answer enough.
“She looks tasty.”
“No.”
I turn back and continue the portal.
“What do you mean, no?” he asks.
“I mean precisely that. You can’t have her.”
“Why? You know she can’t remember you when this is said and done.”
My hand pauses halfway through an Aztec pictograph of a serpent.
“She’ll have to forget,” he continues, stepping closer. “You know the rules about bringing mortals into Faerie. It has to be a big dream. You two won’t ever be friends. Or lovers. Or whatever it is you think you could be.”
It takes a lot of self-control not to turn and throttle him right there. Trouble is, he has a point. Rather than react, I take a deep breath and keep going.
“I don’t care,” I say coldly. Clearly I do care, and there’s no use even trying to hide it from him, but I put on the airs anyway. “I still don’t want you killing her. Not after all she’s been through.”
“It might be the greatest mercy,” he says. I feel him crouch down beside me, our skin almost touching. “After all, memory magic is a tricky business. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it leaves the person addled and talking to furniture. Is it really a chance you want to take? I promise I’d make it short and sweet. She could even enjoy it, you know. I’ve gotten very good at what I do.”
I turn around and shove him on his ass.
“I will send you back to whence you came if you so much as lay a finger on her,” I say through clenched teeth.
“That would break our contract,” he says, far too calmly. He’s enjoying this a great deal. “And you know what happens when contracts break.”
I do know. Eli goes free to wreak havoc on mankind, and he’d probably take Roxie’s soul just to spite me. He may be playing all nice and fun now, but that’s the bindings of his contract talking. There are reasons he’s kept in the lower astral planes. The good guys won’t touch him with a ten-foot astral pole.
“We aren’t discussing this. And you are not allowed to question. Roxie will not be taken by you.”
“What? Are you planning on making conjugal visits? Maybe glamouring yourself every time so she never knows it’s you? I can’t tell if that’s creepy or romantic.”
I want to kill him. I want to focus all of my rage and punch a hole through his smarmy chest. But it wouldn’t do any good, and besides, he’s right. Once this is over and she’s no longer useful—I can’t even pretend it will be once she’s safe—I’ll have to let her go. Let some witch come in and mess with her brain so she doesn’t remember anything about Faerie or me or any of this. She’ll probably even forget she wanted to be a singer. She’ll stop dreaming. Another lost cause.
I hate to admit that Eli’s offer might actually be a better way out. At least then she’d die knowing the truth about the world and herself.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. If we get to it. If we fuck this up, we’ll all be dead anyway.”
“Speak for yourself.”
But he doesn’t push the subject. He can’t, now that I’ve forbidden it. I complete the portal and stand back.
“Where are we going?” he asks as he stands. There’s absolutely zero hint of malice or perverted joy; he’s all business.
“To wherever this name leads.” I wish I could emulate his calm, but my chest is heaving with anger. I hadn’t even thought about having to erase Roxie’s memory. I’d been so caught up in everything else, I’d just let myself believe . . . This is what happens when emotions get involved, Claire. You ignore the glaring details. You fuck shit up and someone else pays the price.
Eli steps toward the portal and examines the name, looking at my work with barely concealed admiration.
Sure, some names are so common they’re practically useless. But the more you know about the person—like, their favorite color or food, their profession, even what they got their grandma as a birthday present—the easier it is to track them down with magic. And Roxie gave me a veritable treasure trove of information regarding our two suspects. Girl number one, Heather, liked knitting and making meatloaf. When she wasn’t out getting wrecked at shitty nightclubs. Apparently she had a hard time holding a job, but when she did, it was in theatre—sometimes working behind the scenes, but always dreaming of taking the spotlight. That’s more than enough to track her down wherever she’s hiding, even if I don’t know her true name. That’s usually something I can only sense out in person.
“Well then, let’s be off,” he says. Now he’s holding a cane. “Before I get too hungry to function.”
The portal leads us to a small farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. And I do mean the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing around us save for overrun fields and tangled trees. The sky is a dreary, overcast grey, and it feels like it’s about to start pissing at any moment. As for the house, it has definitely seen better days—the pale blue paint is curling off like scabs, and at least three of the windows on one side are punched out.
I look up at the aged monstrosity and finger my detection ring. It doesn’t change temp, so there aren’t any enchantments waiting dormant inside. I don’t feel anything else in there, either—no active magic, no Dream, no life. This place has been abandoned for a while.
“I don’t trust your magic,” Eli says flatly.
“Right now, neither do I.” What gives
?
“Are you sure this is the right place?” he asks.
“Not anymore. But these are the coordinates.” I pull out the pocket watch from William and open it up. The gold and silver arms point out to opposite sides. The small arm is spinning wildly. Wherever we are, we’re far from any unclaimed Dream. And yet . . . “Nothing,” I say. “But there’s no way the name would have led to a dead end. All names lead to someone. Period.”
He sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead he walks across the groaning front porch and kicks down the door.
“Way to make an entrance,” I mutter as I follow behind him.
“What? There’s no one home.”
There’s no use arguing with him when we both know he’s right. This house is five creaks away from becoming a pile of splinters. I’m honestly amazed it doesn’t collapse on us as we wander in.
The house holds no signs of life. I mean, no signs of human life. There are cobwebs and the whole place smells of must and animal shit. I try not to look too closely where I step. I don’t want to know.
Eli taps his cane on the ground, and the handle immediately illuminates, bright and white.
“Handy,” I say.
He just shrugs. “I don’t need it, but I thought you might.”
“I don’t know if I’m charmed or insulted.” The glyphs on my skin make the light unnecessary, and he knows it. He just wants to be a dick.
“Both. Always be both.” He casts me a grin over his shoulder—I don’t think a normal human’s neck should be able to twist that far—and continues in.
Only a few pieces of history remain, and they’re haphazard at best. A dining room table with no chairs. A few pots hanging from hooks in the kitchen, their interiors home to abandoned bird nests. A pile of old books in the living room. Nothing to denote that anyone’s set foot in here—let alone lived here—for a decade or so.
“How positive are you that the girl isn’t just toying with you?” Eli asks.
“Damn sure,” I snap. Roxie wouldn’t do that. But then I take a deep breath because honestly, I don’t know if Roxie would do that. She’s still a stranger, even if I don’t want her to be. “Though I’m growing less sure by the second. But what would she have to gain? Even if she did lie, there’s no reason the portal would have led us here. It would have just been a dud. So she was telling some sort of truth.”