Flora's Dare: How a Girl of Spirit Gambles All to Expand Her Vocabulary, Confront a Bouncing Boy Terror, and Try to Save Califa from a Shaky Doom (Despite Being Confined to Her Room)

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

“PAIMON! LET ME IN!” The wind and the pound of the surf tore my screams into shreds, tossed the pieces aloft into the night sky, where they were lost. The bulk of Bilskinir, rearing above me like a colossus, remained blank. Not a single light shone through its blackness. If I had not known that the hulking shadow was a House, it could easily be mistaken for a lofty rock formation. Where was Paimon?

  The ocean began to slosh—waves wiggling not in a forward surge, but in a muddle, as though someone was stirring it with a giant laundry stick. A roaring rattle drowned out the ocean’s pound, and Sieur Caballo shied suddenly, scrambling out of the surf and away from the cliff face. I almost slid off his back; my thigh muscles were whining with pain. Rocks scattered down the cliff, splashing into the water; first a few, and then a whole bunch. I hung on to the saddle horn as the horse bounced back onto the beach and shied down shifting sand. Then, suddenly, the aftershock was over. The ocean went back to its natural pounding; the sand blew only with the wind, and Sieur Caballo stood with his head hanging, somewhat abashed he had almost lost his cool. I patted his neck to show him that I didn’t blame him one bit.

  Now we stood at the bottom of Bilskinir’s foundations, and the cliff reared sheer above us. When I looked straight up, the perspective listed, so that for one horrible moment it appeared the entire House was about to fall upon us. It remained completely dark and impenetrable.

  "Paimon, please let me in,” I mumbled. Still no answer.

  There’s always a back door, Nini Mo said. Bilskinir sat high above—if there was a back door, it had to be here, below, set in the House’s foundations. And then I remembered the map I’d found in The Eschata—hadn’t it said something about back doors? I dismounted and used Sieur Caballo’s bulk as a shelter from the spray; I dug the map out of my dispatch case and opened it up, sparking an ignis light, so I could see it in the dark. The scale of the map was much larger than I had remembered it, large enough that Bilskinir House and its surroundings were rendered in pretty close detail—so close that even the individual tidal pools were marked.

  “Back door, back door,” I muttered, scanning the map—finding Avenue Bilskinir, Grand Gardens, Seal Rock, Point Lobos Road, and then: “The Haðraaða Gate (Bilskinir’s Back Door).” According to the map, the entrance was on the south side of the cliff, not too far from where Avenue Bilskinir, the main drive, began.

  A Direction Sigil is one of the simplest sigils there is (and one of the most important, too, for rangers always should know which way to go). It took me only a minute to charge a piece of driftwood with my desired terminus. I didn’t remount, just tucked the reins under my arms. I’d done a pretty good job with the Direction Sigil—my Will to get inside Bilskinir was pretty darn strong—so I could hardly keep hold of the charged driftwood, it was pulling so hard. We clambered over slippery rocks, across sandy shoals, hugging the bottom of the cliff. Then, up ahead, a welcoming light glittered in the darkness. The charged driftwood jerked galvanically, flew out of my hands, and splashed into a tidal pool. No matter, I didn’t need it now.

  The source of the light turned out to be a small notch in the rocks. Warm air was curling out of the cleft, fragrant with the most delicious smell of fresh-baked cookies. Ginger cookies, if my nose knew ginger cookies, which it does, as they are my favorite. Who else would be baking cookies on such a blustery night but Paimon? On my last visit to Bilskinir, I had discovered that his savage and horrific appearance was merely the outward shell for a deeply domestic interior.

  “I’m sorry I have to leave you, but you’ll be all right,” I said, patting the horse’s nose. He nudged me doubtfully; but he would have to take care of himself. I pulled his bridle and saddle off, but he didn’t immediately wander away, just stood there staring forlornly as I clutched my dispatch case to my chest and squeezed into the cleft.

  Immediately the roar of the wind and ocean ceased. The rocky walls were slick with water and claustrophobically narrow, but at least the air was warm. I couldn’t see where the diffused light was coming from. Behind me I heard a sad whine from Sieur Caballo, who hadn’t given up on me yet.

  The passageway was twisty and in some places so tight that I had to squeeze sideways to get through. But the smell of baking cookies carried me onward and provided a distraction from the unfortunate realization that if there was another earthquake, and Paimon could not hold his foundations firm, I would be squashed for sure. Normally I am not claustrophobic, but despite the increasing warmth of the air, I was soon in a cold sweat.

  The light began to fade, and the passage became merely a crack. I took my dispatch case off, and swung it by its strap. I turned sideways so I could crab along in the dimness. Rock scraped my back, rock scraped my nose. The crack got thinner and thinner; for one bloodfreezing moment, I thought I was stuck, wedged between the walls like a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread. Desperately, I sucked everything in and then—panic surging, clothing tearing—was through.

  The passageway was still narrow, but at least I no longer had to walk sideways. The light was now so dim I could hardly see my hand in front of me. I had a collapsible lantern in my dispatch case but no room to dig the lantern out. I tried to ignite another ignis light, but my Will was starting to falter, and the resulting spark wasn’t very bright. Still, it was better than nothing.

  Maybe this wasn’t really Bilskinir’s Back Door. Maybe the map was wrong. Maybe this was just one of Bilskinir’s air vents—I’d reach the end and find myself in Bilskinir’s furnace. Or maybe Bilskinir’s garbage chute. Or even—as an acrid smell began to cancel out the delicious cookie odor—one of Bilskinir’s drains.

  Save your fright for the campfire, Nini Mo said. Instead of thinking fearful thoughts, I should put all my energies into believing that the map had not led me astray. Just a little farther, and then, if I had to, I would turn back.

  The passage began to narrow again, this time horizontally. First, I was stooping, then crouching, then bending, and then finally crawling along on all fours. Although the ground was sandy, it was still cold and damp, and scratchy on my hands and knees. Now I pushed my dispatch case before me, and soon I was on my tum, slithering like a worm, rock again scraping my back. My ignis light fluttered and gave out, and darkness descended, as heavy and oppressive as the rock pressing down upon me. I stopped crawling and rested my forehead on my dispatch case, sand grating on my cheek, then took a deep breath so as not to be overwhelmed with panic.

  There is no way out but through. My knees and hands were sore, my shoulder sore, and I was out of breath. And terribly thirsty, too. I managed to get my dispatch case open, and fumbled for my flask. After a drink of water and a piece of chocolate, I felt better. Hadn’t Nini Mo been in tighter squeezes? Had she given up? I could lie here in the darkness and die a worm, or keep going and do my duty If I gave up now, died, or went back—Lord Axacaya would know me for a failure.

  “For this we are rangers,” I said, and my voice sounded weak and fearful.

  “For this we are rangers!” I said again, and this time my voice sounded stronger, though still slightly wobbly.

  “For this we are rangers!” Now my voice sounded powerful and bright, and I felt better. Worm, worm, worm, I went, and slowly the darkness began to lighten and the passageway widen a bit—not enough so that I could stand upright, but enough that I could get off my tum. A sonorous hum filled the passageway, and ahead of me, a silver light appeared. The hum grew louder, turned into a buzz, like a million cicadas rubbing their legs together. The air ahead began to sparkle and glow, as if each atom were on fire. When I swallowed, I tasted the Current. Then, a Vortex—a magickal portal—popped into existence, some five feet ahead.

  The Vortex filled the passageway, whirling like a pinwheel with diamond-bright edges sharp enough to cut through the Waking World, to slice a door from here to somewhere else—who knows where? The Vortex whirled toward me: my bones began to vibrate, my teeth began to buzz. I was trapped like a bug in a rug. I ducked my head down, clutched my b
ag, and tried to brace myself. My hair grew stiff with static. A hot howling galvanic charge surrounded me—the dizzying sensation of falling—I opened my mouth to shriek, and sucked in water. Choked, and then...

  Twenty-Eight

  Soggy. Swamped. The Mirror.

  I CHOKED AND WHEEZED and choked again. Someone rolled me over on my face and thumped my back. Still choking. Another thump—this time really, really hard. I gagged, gurgled, upchucked a hot rush of water. I convulsed and spit, and coughed and spit, and convulsed and coughed again. But I was breathing.

  A voice said, “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Still gasping, I opened my eyes, saw a swampy marble floor and two bare feet. The feet were small and white and the toenails were chipped with red.

  “You ruined my Working!” the voice said accusingly.

  The white feet were attached to white ankles; the white ankles were attached to white calves, which disappeared into a giant shocking-pink skirt that was square and wide. Above the flat top of the skirt: a low-cut bodice, rounded cleavage, white shoulders, and a white neck surrounded by a stiff spiky lace ruff. And above—I would have shouted if I’d had the breath. My rescuer had the curvy body of a girl but the shaggy head of a black bear.

  The Bear Girl’s muzzle yawned, displaying very white sharp teeth. “Can you understand me?”

  “Ayah. Where am I?” I sat up, ignoring the swimmingly dizzy feeling in my head, and saw in the flaring candlelight the pool from which I had been dragged. No, not a pool, but a perfectly round bathtub. Water had overflowed its rim and swamped the floor. Also swamped was the remnant of what clearly had been some sort of magickal Working: the pillar candles that ringed the bathtub were still burning, but the cornmeal sigils drawn on the floor had dissolved into a soggy mess. A pink plushy pig almost identical to my pink plushy pig sat upon the potty, which was as toweringly tall as a throne, gilded and carved.

  “You ruined my fiking Working,” the Bear Girl said. “I spent two whole weeks getting ready, fasting and gorging and purging. Then I had to wait until the Current was high enough and Paimon was busy elsewhere—and him, too—and you fiking ruined it all.”

  I clambered to my feet. My legs and knees felt wobbly and a spike of pain was beginning to throb over my left eye, but I had to shake the weakness off and focus. My shoulders felt oddly light and I realized that I had lost my dispatch case. And my boots, too. And my redingote. And my stays had sprung open. I pulled them the rest of the way off—good riddance—and hastily tucked the ranger badge back into my chemise before the bear-headed girl noticed it.

  Was I in Bilskinir? Who was this bear-headed girl with the foul mouth? In my muddled state, I couldn’t remember seeing bear-human hybrids at Bilskinir before. A Vortex can go anywhere. I could be anywhere. All I knew for sure was that this bear-headed girl wasn’t friendly.

  “Well?” she demanded. “What the fike do you have to say?”

  Play it close until you know the situation, said Nini Mo.

  “That was one mighty big Vortex. What were you trying to do?” I coughed, trying to buy both time and information.

  “I was trying to scry my future,” the Bear Girl said loftily, “using a pool of the Current as my mirror. I had the Vortex open, and the Current was just starting to reflect when you popped out of the Vortex, and, fike, that was it. Where the fike did you come from? How the fike did you get into my bathtub?”

  I might not know where I was, but I knew the Working she was talking about. It’s in chapter 52 of The Eschata, in the section labeled “Excruciatingly Dangerous: for Reference Only.” In her notes, Nini warns that it’s not such a good idea to know your future: Such knowledge will either paralyze you with fear or make you go mad with despair, depending on the nature of your fate. The Bear Girl was clearly reckless—and skilled, too. To create a Vortex of that size requires a tremendous amount of Will and Concentration, and making the Current reflect is even harder.

  The Bear Girl bared her gleaming fangs. "Are you from the future? The Vortex was open to the Future when you came through.”

  I didn’t answer. The bathroom was walled with mirrors, and these mirrors reflected back, in a fun-house sort of way, a whole slew of angry Bear Girls, and soggy Floras, sloshy tubs, flickering candles, and wrecked Workings. And something that was not reflected in multitudes, but only singularly: a little point of coldfire that had winked into existence over the bathtub.

  I saw this coldfire spark in the mirror behind the Bear Girl, which meant that it was really behind me, but when I looked over my shoulder at the tub, there was no coldfire there. I looked back into the mirror. The light, which a moment ago had been a mere pinprick, was growing.

  "Are you?” the girl persisted.

  "Did you close your Vortex?” I asked.

  She followed my glance, then let loose with a string of curses that could have fermented grape juice."Fike! Scit! You made me forget to close the Vortex! FIKING SCIT!”

  The light was the size of an orange now. A sudden gust of wind billowed from the mirror—the pillar candles fluttered and extinguished.

  “Don’t just stand there! Close it!” I had to shout over the sound of rushing air. How could air rush out of a mirror? Never mind—it was. The Vortex only existed in the mirror. How could something exist only in a reflection? Never mind—it did.

  I could barely keep my eyes open against the wind. The Vortex had grown to the size of a wheel—not a babycart wheel, but the wheel from a giant caisson for a giant gun, fully four feet across.

  The Bear Girl waved her arms and shouted something in Gramatica, but the wind from the Vortex blew her sparkly Words back into her face and she staggered backward, choking on them. I put my hands up against my eyes, pushing my hair out of my face, and peered through my slitted fingers. There was movement within the Vortex—was I imagining that I could see something within this movement? Something that looked like a hairy finger, curved with a long curving talon? Somehow I knew to the very marrow of my bones that whomever that finger belonged to, it was Super Fantastic Bad News.

  “CLOSE THE VORTEX!” I screamed at the Bear Girl.

  The Bear Girl screamed back at me, “I TRIED! IT WON’T FIKING CLOSE! FIKE FIKE FIKE!”

  The wind was pushing us backward; I staggered against the bathtub in a bright splash of pain; the Bear Girl fell against me. We clutched each other, for all the good that would do us. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the plushy pig still sitting, lordly, on his throne. His floppy ears were blowing back, but otherwise he looked unconcerned.

  The Bear Girl was yelling something; I could barely hear her above the roar of the wind, but it sounded like “PIG PIG PIG!” I looked over the Bear Girl’s shoulder—the one finger had become many fingers, an entire hand—no, two hands—grabbing at the edges of the Vortex, stretching it open so that the rest of the Superbad News could come through.

  The wind pinned us into place; we were huddled up against the bathtub, which kept us from being flung against the far wall. All sound had been reduced to a solid roar, and I swear I could feel my flesh blowing off my bones, rippling like water.

  Superbad News kicked at the mirror with one large splay-toed foot, and the glass shattered into a thousand flying pieces. I closed my eyes against the flying shards, and when I managed to open them again, a dæmon had stepped out of the mirror. He was the exact color of swamp slime, greenish brown and glistening with ooze, with a toad-faced head, and a squat toadlike body—and, Pigface, did he smell bad, like rat-burger cheese, and blueberry poo-filled nappies, and rotting wet wool, and a hundred other horrible odors. I recognized him from The Eschata Entity Spotter: a tenth-level kakodæmon, whose stench can kill.

  I tried very hard to breathe through my mouth. The Bear Girl wrenched out of my grip and hurled a bottle at him. It hit him in the head and doused him with blue bubble-bath—at least now he’d smell better—but it didn’t stop him. Trailing stink, the kakodæmon sprang down from the sink, swiping at the Bear Gir
l with one gnarly hand. His clout hit its mark. I watched in horror as her head flew up and off soaring through the air and landing with a splash in the bathtub. She collapsed like a rag doll.

  A pink shape whizzed by me and hit the kakodæmon square on its bulbous nose, clinging there. The kakodæmon howled, scratching at his own face, his talons slicing deep lines into his cheeks, but the plushy Pig clung like a lamprey and would not be dislodged.

  A Gramatica Word, thick and turgid as a black slug, squirmed out of the kakodæmon’s mouth. It leeched onto the Pig, which let go of the kakodæmon’s nose and dropped to the floor, where it and the Word began to writhe and roll. The kakodæmon, blood streaming from the gaping hole where his nose had been, staggered toward me.

  The Gramatica Command shot out of my mouth, almost dislocating my jaw. Buzzing like a swarm of wasps, the Command hit the kakodæmon in his barrel chest and flung him backward, into the center of the Vortex. The Vortex snapped closed with a pop that almost turned every solid in my body to mush. My bones dissolved and I plopped to the ground in a heap.

  After a while, the blankness began to resolve into a decidedly unpleasant soggy feeling. A while after that, the sog turned chilly; the marble floor was burning cold against my back, and something bright and painful was gouging my side: Broken mirror? Broken glass? Broken rib? I couldn’t quite summon up enough interest to investigate further. A warm trickle pooled in my lips; I licked, and tasted blood. Somewhere a buzzer was ringing, insistently, or maybe it was a fly right by my ear; no, the buzzing was in my ears. I hoped the noise wasn’t permanent, for if it was, it would drive me mad. I decided to get up. But it took a little while for my bones to harden up enough that I could rise, just as far as my knees.

  From that not-so-lofty height, a horrific scene of destruction spread forth. All that remained of the Vortex was the coldfire splattering the ceiling, the floor, the cracked mirror. Blackish water had sloshed from the tub, washing the marble floor with putrid-smelling liquid. One pillar candle still burned, defiantly; the others had melted into charred piles of glassy wax. Silver oozed down the wall where the mirror had been. The awful stench still hung on the air, but much less strongly.