by A W Hartoin
He held out his hand to me. “Yes, I will. I am Ibn Vermillion, head of the clan vermillion.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking at the creature on his shoulder. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s on your shoulder?”
Ibn patted the creature’s leg and smiled. “This is my gargoyle, Fidéle.”
“He looks like he belongs on Notre Dame.”
“The sculptor was a seer. He based his work on the real thing.”
“Well, that explains it.”
Ibn turned to walk down the tunnel and I ran in front of him. “Miss Penrose is so close to death. Can you come now?”
“I have to stay in hiding. If I come to you, I risk all of us,” said Ibn.
“But Miss Penrose only has days to live. You have to come.”
“You will be the one to save her. Surely you knew that all along.”
I looked into his dark eyes and found I felt no surprise at Ibn’s words, only worry. “But the spell takes forever. We’ll never make it.”
“All is possible when the right person is doing the right job. Come this way,” said Ibn.
He led us through the twisting tunnel to a stone wall with an arched wooden door. It swung open at his approach and he waved us inside. I stepped into a circular room. The walls were whitewashed with plenty of glowing fungus lighting the walls to a pleasant green. A dozen doors lined the walls. Each one had a different plant carved into the wood. But unlike the plants on the tunnel doors, these were all medicinal, like poppies, Korean mint, and feverfew.
“Have we entered the tombstone?” asked Bentha.
“Yes. My ancestors carved out this hiding place just before the human revolution began. They knew it was a disaster, although their seer believed it wasn’t necessary. He admitted he was wrong later.”
“Who was the seer?” I asked. Gerald would want to know. He’d never forgive me if I let that fact slip away.
“The Count of Artois. If his brother, the king, had been a seer the revolution may have turned out differently.”
“So the king didn’t see. I thought all the kings would, since you’re part of that marriage contract.”
“Louis the Sixteenth was the first one not to see fairies. There is still a raging debate among the fae about whether he was weak because he couldn’t see or it was his weakness that kept him from seeing.”
Bentha stalked around the room. “Your defenses are low. How can you fight off an attack?”
“We can’t. We’re healers not fighters, but we’ve managed to keep this secret for over two hundred years.”
“No one ever found you before us?” I asked.
“There have been others, much like you, looking for help. Love has found a way to us. Hate never has.”
A door swung open; it had red clover carved on the door. Ibn ushered us inside to a small apartment with simple furniture. A woman bent over a rough table. She glanced over her shoulder and gasped, dropping a wooden bowl.
“Ibn!” The rest of her words were in French.
“It’s alright, Galiana. This is Viola Whipplethorn’s granddaughter and her friend, Bentha—”
“Master of the sword,” interrupted Bentha.
“Yes. Master of the sword,” said Ibn with a smile. “Matilda needs a spell for a very dear friend.” Ibn emphasized very and dear.
Galiana looked me over and I did the same with her. She was younger than Ibn with darker skin, so smooth it looked like glass. She had long curling hair held back with an orange headband. Her dress was the same orange and the same style as Ibn’s, but hers was quite feminine with a deep V in the front and lace edging.
Galiana nodded after a moment and said in English, “I am Galiana, Ibn’s wife. What spell do you need?”
Before I could answer, Ibn said, “The spell with no name.”
Galiana laughed. “And who made this diagnosis?”
“I did,” I said, a little louder than I intended. Why did everyone instantly doubt me? Did I really look that incompetent?
She sobered. “I don’t mean to offend you. That spell is used on the rarest of diseases. Didn’t you tell her, Ibn?”
“I did tell her, my love. Lucien Galen confirmed the diagnosis and I think it is right for the patient Matilda describes.”
Galiana’s curvy lips pressed into a frown, not a common expression for her I could tell, but she held her tongue.
“Matilda will do the spell,” said Ibn.
Galiana crossed the room and took my hands. She was only slightly taller than me and, like Ibn, she smelled like honey. “Matilda is ill.”
Bentha broke our connection. “My lady is not ill. Her strength is legendary.”
Galiana continued to look at me with her liquidy dark eyes and waited.
“I’m not a legend and I’m not ill,” I said, a little too loud.
“Injured then,” said Galiana.
I walked away and stood with my back to them, looking at the feverfew door. What was the right answer to get the spell? I would’ve lied automatically, but Galiana already knew something. I turned. “I’m healing. It’s nothing.”
Stupid leg. Always causing me trouble.
“Let me take a look.” Ibn set me in a wicker chair.
“Under the boot,” said Galiana.
Good thing I didn’t lie. She probably already knew it was a horen wound.
Ibn slipped off my boot and unwrapped the bandage. There were dots of yellow on the linen. Ibn frowned when he saw them. Then he rolled off the bandage and I almost screamed in frustration when I saw claw holes. They’d been closed that morning, but now they were open again and weeping.
Ibn tilted my leg left and right while he looked at the claw wounds. “How did you survive? I’ve never seen this in a living patient.”
“Superior strength and cunning,” declared Bentha.
It sounded good to me, but Galiana didn’t buy it. “Horen venom doesn’t care about cunning and strength. In my experience, it factors almost not at all.”
I pulled my foot away and started to rebandage it. “I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter. I’m alive, aren’t I?”
“You are, but this puts an end to it,” said Ibn.
“An end to what?”
“You can’t learn the spell. You aren’t strong enough to withstand it.”
“Am too. I’m nearly healed.”
“Nearly healed isn’t enough. This spell depends entirely on you. The healer takes the illness into themselves. Unless they are totally healthy, the healer will die from the disease.”
“I will bring Penrose to you,” said Bentha.
Ibn shook his head. The gray hair glinted in the light of the fungus. “If she’s as ill as you say, she’ll never survive the trip. And even if she did, our situation is tenuous. Although we’ve never been discovered here, the king can recall us at any time. She would never survive moving a second time. We must think of something else.”
“Then I’ll do it,” I said. “You don’t know how strong I am.”
“I won’t kill Viola’s granddaughter,” said Ibn. “She was a good friend to me.”
“I’m hard to kill. I have to try.”
Galiana pulled up a chair. “And why is that?”
“I love her. Miss Penrose is wonderful and kind. If you knew her, you’d never be able to let her die without trying.”
“I don’t doubt your love. Why are you hard to kill?”
I bit my lip and looked up at Bentha. He stood behind Ibn, his face smooth and serious. For once he remained silent. I guess it wasn’t his choice to make, but I knew what the master of the sword would do. What did he say before? No fear.
“I’m a kindler. Lucien thinks my fire saved me.”
Ibn and Galiana leaned back, their faces taut.
“If that’s true, it will save me again. I want to try. I’m not afraid.”
That wasn’t strictly true, but it sounded good.
“Does Matilda’s revelation not surprise you?” asked Bentha.
“She shouldn’t have told us,” said Galiana. “There’s a horen in Paris. You are their natural enemy.”
I settled back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I saw him. He didn’t see me. You aren’t going to run out and tell him, are you?”
“No. Of course not, but secrecy is vital. The horen are killing machines. He would do anything, kill anyone, to get to you. If he knew you were here…”
“The horen doesn’t know and he will not,” said Bentha.
“Are you strong enough to make fire?” asked Ibn.
I lit a flame on the tip of my finger. “No problem. I only lost it right after the other horen got me. Now I’m good.”
“Are you sure the horen doesn’t know where you are?”
“I didn’t send them a postcard.”
“Them?”
“There were three horen in the antique mall where I’m from. Last we heard, they were still there,” said Bentha.
Ibn pulled an ornate chest out from under the table. It had inlaid mother-of-pearl in ornate arches and flowers covering every inch. Ibn touched a thistle in the center and the whole thing opened like a giant 3D puzzle. It separated in the middle, opened wings on the left and right and ended up looking like a desk with hundreds of drawers. One opened and I saw a little green vial inside on a red velvet cushion. Ibn took the bottle. Another drawer opened and he got a square linen patch out of the depths.
“This is agrimony and andiroba to clean your wounds.” He poured the concoction on the patch and dabbed it on my leg. The holes went icy cold for a second and I gasped.
“It will pass,” said Galiana.
“That’s what they all say. So are you going to teach me the spell or what?”
Ibn continued to freeze up my leg. He said something but he was looking down.
“I didn’t catch that,” I said.
He repeated. I saw his jaw moving. Galiana was watching me closely.
Darn it. Just look up.
He did, but it was too late.
“You can’t hear, can you?” asked Galiana.
“Fine. Yes. I’m mostly deaf. You’re not going to use that as an excuse, are you?”
“Snail pox?” asked Ibn.
“Yes, but I don’t have it now. I can read lips. I’ll know what you’re teaching me.”
“It may be an advantage,” said Galiana.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“The spell is all about concentration and meditation. Hearing distracts from the process.”
Yes! Finally. Something good about being deaf.
“So you’ll teach me. How long will it take?”
“Three weeks if we work six hours a day.”
Bentha’s face fell. “Penrose will be dead long before the training is complete.”
Ibn put his bottle back in the drawer. He touched the thistle again and the desk closed up into a chest. “No, she won’t. Matilda will do the spell on Penose as she learns. It isn’t ideal, but slowly doing it day after day should extend Penrose’s life long enough to complete the training.”
“Let’s do it,” I said, sitting up eager.
“We’ll start with tea.” Galiana got a plain teacup from a cupboard and poured water through a strainer. “Maté and catnip. It will relax you and keep you alert at the same time.”
“Now,” said Ibn. “Do exactly what I say.”
He told me to picture Miss Penrose’s sick heart. See the ventricles and the blood. I closed my eyes and did as I was told, not a common occurrence for me at all, but I did it with no trouble. Ibn touched my hand and I opened my eyes.
“Picture the cells.”
I did, but the cells looked wrong. “They’re weird.”
He touched my hand and I opened my eyes. “That is excellent. Your mind knows the trouble and it’s showing it to you. Let’s continue.”
We did. I don’t know how long. At some point Bentha and Galiana left. Ibn would tell me something and I would picture what he told me to. It was a dream world I entered with nothing beyond it, only organs and illness, blood and tissue. I began to get light-headed and slumped in my chair after a particularly long trip through the colon. Ibn touched my hand and I looked at him from under sagging eyelids.
“We’ve done enough for today. Let’s look at your leg.” Ibn examined the holes. No pus had appeared and he seemed pleased. “We can continue tomorrow as long as your leg holds up.”
I yawned. “I’m so tired.”
“This spell is a trial, but you’ve done well. Go home and apply what you learned to Penrose.”
That woke me up. “But I haven’t learned anything at all.”
Ibn took my hands and the scent of honey washed over me, making me light-headed all over again. “This spell is different from any other. There are no herbs or incantations. It becomes a part of who you are, like learning a language as an infant. The child learns the language of their parents so naturally they don’t remember how it happened. They just speak. You will go home, take your friend’s hand, and picture everything that you pictured today. It will happen quickly. The thoughts will come. Let them.”
“How will I know if I’m doing it right?” I asked.
“Penrose is the evidence. She will continue not to die and you will feel her illness inside yourself. That’s how you know.”
“I’d rather take her temperature or something.”
“I know.” He laughed, a deep, resounding chuckle.
“So how do I get rid of the illness?”
“It happens naturally. Your body will reject it because it’s not part of your DNA.”
“So this is an inherited condition?” I asked, perking up.
Ibn hesitated. “Yes. It’s only passed through families. You have to be born with it.”
“Have you ever used the spell yourself?”
“Twice and the illness left me quickly. I was only tired for a couple of days.”
“That’s good to know.”
Bentha and Galiana came back smiling.
“Are you done?” she asked.
“We are for today.” Ibn rewrapped my leg and put my boot on.
“How are you, my lady?” asked Bentha.
“Tired.”
He lifted me out of my chair and I closed my eyes against his bony chest.
I woke when Bentha climbed into the skull’s eye socket. Rufus glowed on my shoulder, casting warm light on the cold bone.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to carry me.” I slipped out of his arms and wobbled on the edge.
Bentha steadied me. His face with the ponderosa paint and the light from Rufus looked positively demonic, but his words were gentle. “I fear for you.”
“I’m okay, really.”
“The spell could take your life. Penrose wouldn’t want you to risk yourself.”
“I’m not asking her opinion. You can’t tell my mom and dad.”
Bentha looked out at a group of humans meandering past us. “I heard you.”
“Um…sorry, I guess,” I said.
He grimaced and gestured to the room. “Not you. Them.”
I shivered. “The ghosts are back?”
“They never leave, but they do approve of you.”
A dubious honor if there ever was one, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to say so. “At least someone does.”
“Everyone who counts does.”
“You didn’t answer me about Mom and Dad,” I said.
“I must think on it.” His eyes left my face and he yelled toward the humans. “I realize the gravity.”
“How many are there?”
“They are packed to the ceiling. The dead have no need for personal space.”
“So what’s the gravity thing?”
“They fear that I will make your parents choose between their child and their friend.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Thanks, you guys!”
“Now you’ve done it. They’re dying to tell you their stories, so to speak. You ha
ve never known true boredom until you’ve listened to ghost stories.”
“I think it would be interesting. All that history and stuff. Gerald would go crazy for them,” I said.
Bentha drew his sword and stabbed into the air above his head. “I prefer action. Can you fly?”
“Of course.” I flexed my wings. They felt all loose and spaghetti-like. I hoped I wouldn’t fall on my face in front of a packed house.
Bentha leapt onto the shoulder of a passing woman and I flapped over much more slowly, but I made it.
“That was worryingly slow,” said Bentha.
“No reason to hurry.”
He wasn’t satisfied with my answer but sat silent next to me. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as the woman made her way through the rest of the catacombs. Bentha had his sword over his knees, his face creased and sorrowful.
The woman reached a different spiral staircase. She climbed up, complaining with every step. Why couldn’t they have an elevator? Why weren’t there bathrooms in the catacombs? That was just ridiculous. She could’ve used a coffee down there. How hard would it be to have a coffee cart?
I wanted to take Bentha’s sword and poke her in the neck. Give her something to really complain about. But before I went completely nuts we were on the street next to a stone wall that didn’t hint at the gloom below. The woman turned left, so Bentha leapt onto the shoulder of another woman. We passed a horde of screaming fairies in front of a jewelry shop. Bentha and I crossed to the other woman’s shoulder, so they wouldn’t see us. And that’s how we got home, riding on convenient human’s shoulders and hiding from multiple riots, protests, and a couple of seer attacks. Two men were attacked while sipping coffee at a cafe. A mass of red caps descended on them. I think one of the men lost an eye. I wrapped my wings around me and shivered even under their warmth. I couldn’t keep Tess and Judd out of my head. Tess’s beautiful eyes. Swords going at them.
Bentha put a long arm around my shoulders when our apartment building came into view. “We have arrived. Do not think about what has not happened.”
I nodded, but I didn’t know how to stop thinking. Three weeks to the cure. That was a long time to keep the rage from finding them.