Old Dog, New Tricks

by Hailey Edwards

  “You didn’t answer my questions.”

  I paused beside him and patted his cheek. “I know.”

  His low growl amused the heck out of me. Growling in the den of the Black Dog? Precious.

  I found Mac standing at a rustic basin functioning as his sink. Indoor plumbing for the win! Suds covered his hands from the dishes he was washing, and a smile spread across his face when he spotted me.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  I held my thumb and finger as far apart as I could. “A little.”

  “Come here.” He scooted over to make room. “I want to show you something.”

  “You want help with the dishes?” I puzzled. “All you had to do was ask.”

  He squirted a dime-sized amount of an opaque liquid into his palms and worked up a lather.

  “No.” He added a few drops of water. “It’s time for your next lesson.”

  I darted a glance over my shoulder, but Rook sat right where I’d left him. “Should we do this now?”

  “What I have to say, he already knows.” Mac kept his fingertips and thumbs together, but spread the backside of his hand so a thin sheen of soap made a bubble covering the gap by his pinkies. “It’s time you learned how to create your own aer póca. If you had access to your skins earlier, you could have shifted into a bird and flown away to avoid confronting tigers. This is a skill you must master.”

  “For one thing, I don’t have a bird skin. For another, I don’t want to die in some feathersplosion when I fail to master properly shaking my tail feathers and end up splattering my birdy brains on the pavement. I have the amulet now.” It suited me just fine. “I could just poof myself back here if I get in trouble.”

  “You could,” he agreed too readily, “but you’re not a coward.”

  “Hey,” I spluttered. “Knowing when to stand and fight and when to retreat isn’t cowardice.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He blew air through the gap his thumbs made, and a bubble formed on the back of his hands. “But willful ignorance is.” It burst, and he added more soap and water. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I groused. “The shape-shifting thing... I’m not sure I need it.”

  “Is your hesitation a morality issue? Or something else?” He tried again to hold a bubble in his hand and failed. “You have only to reflect on your recent history to see the value in mastering such a skill. It has already saved your life more times than it has cost someone theirs. I fail to see the issue.”

  “The skins remind me of where they came from,” I admitted. “I can accept my actions cost lives to save others.” I added softer, “And to keep me alive.” I sighed, having trouble voicing the problem. “I worry it’s getting too easy to hurt people. Wearing the skins, I feel the remnants of the fae born to them, and some of them aren’t all bad. Or they didn’t used to be. They made bad decisions, and their lives ended—by my hand—because of them.” Shame washed over me. “It’s like taking trophies, like I’m proud of what I’ve done and want a reminder, when it’s not like that at all. Even the princes...” I took a shuddering breath. “I’m glad I’m alive, but I’m not glad they had to die to keep me that way.”

  Mac’s damp hand landed on my shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  I scoffed. “If I start slipping, who is going to rein me in? Tell me no?”

  “Shaw? Your mother?” He waited a beat and added, “Me?”

  The grim reality that I would go right back to being fatherless when this mission ended slapped me in the face. A handful of days was all I got? Really? How was that fair? Just when I got to see the real Mac, he was taken away from me? No wonder Mom had left in a huff. I was starting to understand, I was starting to...I don’t know...more than like Mac? Crap. We were bonding. How had that happened?

  The bottom line was Faerie was his home. This was his life. He had chosen it over us once before, and with the realm in turmoil, I believed he would again. Even if he wanted to be with us—with Mom—this was bigger than one man’s wants. It always had been.

  “I guess,” I managed through a tight throat. “So...you were blowing bubbles?”

  His eyebrows slanted in a way that said this conversation isn’t over. But he let me have my way.

  Dampening his hands, he bolstered his lather and made another bubble cradled in his palms.

  “Aer pócas,” he began, “are fragile. They are magical constructs whose size is only limited by the power and imagination of their creator. Think of it as a closet that follows you wherever you go.”

  A memory of the red balloon Mom bought me at the zoo when I was five popped into my head. Probably the only reason I remembered it as well as I did was its tragic end. After spending all day at the annual carnival, eating funnel cake and playing games, I bumped into a clown and started screaming my head off. I’m not scared of much, but clowns? Shudder. To shut me up, he cranked up his helium tank and inflated a balloon for me, red to match my dress. All was right with my world until we left. At the car, a gust of wind teased the balloon out of the backseat, and Mom slammed the door shut on it. It burst, and wailing commenced. From then until I hit my teens, she would say don’t make this into a red balloon every time I pitched a hissy.

  I had almost forgotten about that fateful zoo trip. Mom’s favorite scold had slipped away into memory like so much else after my magic kindled.

  Sensing Mac’s eyes on me, I cleared my throat. “It’s not a portal?”

  “No,” he answered thoughtfully. “It doesn’t lead to another place so much as it is another place.”

  “If it’s basically a traveling air pocket, how are its contents invisible?” Or better yet, “How is it accessed?”

  “Think of it like a soap bubble.” He lifted his damp hands to get my attention. “Pócas are hollow spheres shaped by magic.” He flexed his thumbs to show the seam. Cupped between his palms was empty space. Behind them was the wall of soapy liquid. A quick twist of his hands set the bubble floating into the air. Light hit the iridescent sides, reflecting a shiny green. “Easy does it.”

  The tip of his finger pressed into the flimsy side of the drifting bubble, and I braced for a pop.

  “Huh.” While I looked on, his finger pierced the film without bursting it, and I admitted, “I didn’t expect that.”

  “This is how fae children are taught to make their first construct. Soap isn’t required. It’s purely a visual aid.” He curled his finger and rocked the sphere onto his thumb, which he spread to show he could make a hole without rupturing the bubble. He gestured behind me at the sink. “Choose a cup.”

  I picked one he had set upside down to drain on a cloth. “How about this one?”

  “It’s fine,” he answered distractedly. “Now—” he spread his fingers, “—set it inside.”

  Hesitant, I waited until the mouth of the bubble grew large enough for me to wedge the cup past his hand. It landed on its side, rolling back and forth, but the walls held, and I breathed out a, “Cool.”

  “Grab a knife,” he instructed.

  I removed the one strapped to my thigh. “Now what?”

  He closed his fingers and got them out of my way. “Test it.”

  Jabbing the circle got me nowhere. The knife slid off like the tip was greased. “Very cool.” I pursed my lips. “What if I want my cup back? Do I reach in and grab it like you did?”

  “You can only access another person’s aer póca when they themselves open it for you. No verbal permission will grant you entry. They are impenetrable except by their creator. That’s what makes them the preferred storage method for fae.”

  With the construct between his hands, Mac returned to the sink and held it under running water. He turned back to me, seeming to hold nothing more than his cup. His arms extended in an invitation to touch, and I reached for the handle. My fingers bumped against nothing, and I smoothed a hand over the hardened sphere with a silly grin in place. It was a neat trick. One I wasn’t sure I could replicate.
>
  “What about making it invisible?” I rocked back. “And once it is invisible, how do you see it?”

  “You overlay a modified enchantment similar to the ones your guards used.” His voice went flat and cold near the end, probably remembering how Daire and Odhran had betrayed me to Balamohan. “See the faint glow? The spell was kindled with my magic. I can sense that, so locating it is simple.”

  Made sense. All magic bore the mark of the one who kindled it, like a fingerprint.

  “How do you place it—or whatever?” I tilted my head. “You don’t carry them around, right?”

  “They’re thrice charmed.” He murmured a word and blew across his hand. The bubble lifted off and drifted in the air between us at his shoulder height. “Part of the spell buffers the sphere. Prevents it from bumping into me or other people and objects nearby.” He raised his arm high, and the bubble drifted toward me. Again, he reached, this time with his hand, and it remained still. “Otherwise, we would knock our heads into them all the time. Most fae keep clusters for serving different purposes.”

  “I can believe it.” Fae were always pulling things out of thin air.

  Gesturing toward the sink, Mac stepped aside. “Are you ready to try?”

  Anxious to hit the next tether but knowing it was smarter to wait until dawn, I accepted this was a wise use of my time. Pacing the halls wouldn’t make morning come any faster. This distracted me from worrying about Shaw, mostly, which was a good thing, and these were skills I needed to survive not just Faerie, but when I got home. If I got home... So I said, “Yes.”

  I set my knife on the counter, dipped my hands into the water to wet them and then waited while Mac placed a dollop of soap in my palm. After working up a lather, I presented my bubble for his inspection. He braced one hip against the counter and let me get a feel for cradling the construct.

  He gave me a nod. “The Word to solidify the air bubble yet keep it elastic is buille.”

  “Buille.” The exterior walls of the bubble expanded until it filled the inside of my cupped hands. Maybe I was projecting because of where my thoughts had gone earlier, but the pocket felt like latex, like I was holding a balloon. It gave when I pressed down. Solid, but flexible. “Should it be this smooshy?”

  Mac grinned. “I told you the charm keeps it elastic.”

  I squished it again. “Yours was solid.”

  “To you,” he agreed. “Only the caster can manipulate the bubble.”

  “It’s solid to everyone else?”

  “And everything else.” He tapped the domed top. “Objects placed inside can’t pierce its skin.”

  “Good to know.” I held it up to eye level, letting suds drip down my arm. “Pass me a spoon?”

  “Live dangerously.” Mac lifted my knife off the counter and extended it. “You won’t break it.”

  Doing as he had done, I spread my fingers until there was space to slide my knife inside the bubble. It seesawed across the bottom until coming to rest. “Hey.” I shook it. “I just realized I don’t hear it.”

  “No.” He chuckled. “You don’t.”

  “This is wild,” I marveled.

  “Are you ready for the next step?”

  “Sure.” I balanced the bubble in one palm. “Hit me.”

  “The second Word is eitilt.”

  I puffed up my cheeks, murmured the Word on my exhale, and watched the bubble drift upward.

  “Very good.” Mac cleared his throat. “You don’t have to blow on it for the charm to activate.”

  My cheeks burned. “Oh.”

  Stifling a laugh, he reached toward the sphere to send it rolling. “Can you sense it?”

  Again, the balloon analogy worked for me. A slender thread of energy had attached itself to my aura, and my skin prickled when I focused on the sensation. “It feels like someone is watching me.”

  Mac’s gaze slid past my shoulder, and his jaw clenched. “That’s because someone is.”

  I caught the sphere before it rolled out of reach and narrowed my eyes on Rook.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Rook studied my work. “I came to put my dishes away.”

  A grunt slipped past Mac’s lips. “I’ll take those.” He accepted Rook’s plate, cup and utensils. “I will handle cleanup tonight since you were gracious enough to cook for us. We appreciate the meal.”

  Hearing Mac’s dismissal, Rook exhaled and shuffled his boots as he walked back into the living room where I figured he had been eavesdropping. Not that I blamed him. Guy must be getting bored.

  “The third and final charm is one I must caution you to use with discretion.” He took his bubble in hand. “Invisibility charms have questionable legality in the eyes of the conclave, and I must agree there are more abuses for it than justifiable applications. The one commonly used for this works only on inanimate objects. Invisibility charms that work on living creatures require special permissions.”

  I mulled that over. It made sense. Hiding a precious object was a simple matter of security. Hiding a person? Well, that one was harder to justify. It was a recipe for mischief, as I had learned firsthand.

  Mac waited for my nod of understanding then breathed, “Imíonn.”

  The cup vanished.

  “Whoa,” I whispered, reaching for his not-empty hand and touching a hard dome.

  Dusting his palms, he rolled the sphere into the air and set it loose. I waved my hand between us and over our heads, but my fingers didn’t find it again. I smiled at Mac when I caught him watching.

  He gestured toward my sphere. “Your turn.”

  Pushing out a long breath, I spoke the Word. “Imíonn.”

  The knife disappeared while the drying, bubbly sheen of soap on my air pocket remained.

  A smile lit his eyes. “Perfect.”

  I flushed, caught off-guard by the urge to hug him twice in twenty-four hours.

  He cast me an indulgent look. “Would you like to transfer your skins?”

  I rolled onto the balls of my feet. “You’re sure they’ll all fit in my pocket?”

  Pocket, because the whole aer póca thing sounded way too pretentious for a magic bubble.

  “Trust me.” Amusement wrinkled his cheeks. “They will.”

  With wide eyes, I watched him pull the silky black pelt of my hound from his own pocket. Even knowing the trick, it was still impressive. He handed the fur to me, and I pierced the bubble with my fingertips, spreading the opening as wide as I could. It wasn’t enough, and I growled under my breath until Mac set a hand on my shoulder and motioned for me to start pushing the skin through it.

  “It won’t hurt the pelt,” he assured me.

  Trusting him, I did as he asked and began feeding the fur through the hand-sized hole. Once the tip made it inside, a slight suction began, supporting the weight of the skin as it slowly and carefully devoured it. Unlike last time, there was no comforting window to see through. The pelt had vanished before my eyes, which was both exciting and worrisome. “Shoot. I forgot to remove the knife.”

  Mac turned it into a teaching opportunity. “Reach inside and think of the object you want.”

  When nothing happened, I clenched my fist. “Hey—Rook always snaps his fingers. Should I do that?”

  “Theatrics.” Mac shook his head. “You don’t need to develop a crutch.”

  Crutch or not, it made for a cool effect the first time I saw him do it. Okay. Focus. I got this.

  Sticking my hand in the pocket, I expected soft pelt but got cold air. I bit my lip, thinking of the trouble the pelt cost me. The memory of how it was acquired popped in my head, and fur pricked my fingertips. I caught myself before letting it ease out to slink down my arm and focused on my weapon instead. A slow blink later it pricked my palm. Twisting my wrist, I snagged the handle and removed the blade with a hum of satisfaction.

  “Excellent.” Mac removed another of my skins from his bubble. “Now try it again.”

  Easing the knife back through the hole, I called it
to me and then returned it, practicing until Mac announced his satisfaction.

  Moving my skins boosted me with a sense of triumph, and the hard work of learning a new skill meant I was exhausted when Mac showed me to a tidy guestroom I wasn’t entirely sure had existed when we first arrived. Otherwise, wouldn’t Rook have taken that bed instead of Mac’s? Given how much living space he had already crammed into the trunk of his tree house, I wasn’t about to complain about him conjuring one more room, especially not when it came complete with its own private bath.

  Maybe Mai was onto something. There were perks to being a daddy’s girl.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morning smelled like sizzling bacon, and I lay in bed listening to the clatter of pans and utensils in the kitchen. Eyes screwed tight, I let myself pretend the bed I was in belonged to Shaw, that I was at his place, that it was him—not Rook—humming in the kitchen while he fried breakfast for three.

  But it wasn’t Shaw. This mattress lacked the dip in his that made it hard to climb out of bed. Not that I ever wanted to when he was around. I inhaled again, scenting bacon when I wished it was the scent of bergamot and patchouli making my mouth water. A tear leaked from the corner of my eye, wet on my cheek. I wiped my face dry with the corner of my sheet. Pity party, table for one.

  Shaw would kick my ass if he caught me curled up in bed, knees tight against my chest, fighting off sobs. Forcing my legs straight, I swung them over the edge of the mattress and let them dangle. I rubbed my shoulder where my bra strap had left jagged red lines. It couldn’t be helped. My undies were all I had for sleeping. With Rook two doors down, commando snoozing wasn’t happening.

  Bare feet hitting the cool floor, I stood and stretched before snagging my bag where I’d hung it on the doorknob. While I dug through the contents for a stick of deodorant and toothpaste, I fought off a shiver. Tingles down my arms told me my air pocket floated nearby. Smiling, I relaxed my shoulders.

  Brush. Spit. Rinse. Ready.

  After climbing back into my armor, I strolled into the living room, murmuring my thanks when Rook noticed my entrance and carried a plate heaped with pinkish eggs, rolls and yellow-orange bacon to me.