by Battis, Jes
I thought I was going crazy. I wanted to die. My parents—ensconced in their warm, fuzzy, small-town world—just thought I was going through a difficult phase. My mother talked to me a lot about the wonders of menstruation. I didn’t know how to say: Mom, I got my period a year ago, and I hide Kotex under my bed. And yesterday I blew up the microwave at school.
Then one day I got pulled out of class to see the guidance counselor. Nothing new. Only, she wasn’t the normal guidance counselor. She was an older woman, tall and thin, with gorgeous white hair and a kind smile. Meredith Silver. Eventually, she’d become my mentor. At the time, like many CORE officials, she was “scouting” at my middle school, looking for mage potentials by posing as a counselor. She found one.
Meredith explained everything to me. Even at twelve years old, I understood the enormity of what I was getting myself into. I was scared. But she made me feel safe. She taught me that the power wasn’t evil or destructive—it was a natural kind of resonance, a feedback loop from the physical universe that allowed me to shape and sculpt the forces that made Earth what it was.
Heat, electromagnetism, gravity, architectonics, condensation—all of it responded to my body. I could change anything as long as I preserved the equilibrium that made life on this planet possible. Change too much too fast, and you screw up the balance. A butterfly beats its wings in the Amazon Rain Forest, and thousands of kilometers away, there’s a hurricane. The same principle holds true for human beings. Meredith taught me the old rule of three: Everything you send out comes back to you three times over and resonates across the fabric of the world, like a string drawn sharply across a cello. Nobody was cut off. Everything I did affected every other living thing. So I was never really alone. And I was responsible, at twelve, for the entire world.
Heavy stuff.
After that, I went deep into the mage’s closet. Derrick always jokes about being out as a gay man but deeply closeted as a telepath, and I understand what he means. I came home and told my parents exactly what Meredith advised me to: that I’d been selected for a gifted after-school program, and would need to attend special classes in downtown Vancouver. My parents were over the moon. I was puking a lot.
The CORE grabs you early, when your powers are still malleable—not in some cultish way, but because they want to prevent you from falling in with the wrong crowd. How do you think vampires, necromancers, and warlocks are created? They were all kids, too, once, with the same limitless potential. But they veered left where I veered right. Or maybe I veered left—nobody’s ever sure what the “right” choice is. Look at Lucian. He wasn’t a monster. At least he didn’t seem like one.
Training lasts for six years. After eighteen—if you manage to survive—you go active as a mage and enter the registry. Then you can choose to specialize as a detective, a field agent, an instructor, a technician, a policy writer, a litigator . . . the CORE has never been lacking in positions. You tend to learn pretty quickly where your strengths and weaknesses lie. A lot of potentials never really develop a taste for working in the field, but they might go on to become excellent lab jockeys or occult prosecutors. Some have borderline or weak proficiencies that wouldn’t allow them ever to see a combat situation, but their determination makes them suited for other, equally important jobs. Some get lost in the system and never find their way out. The CORE has always had its own asylums and “long-term care” facilities for those poor souls whose power only ended up consuming them.
I had an early proficiency for manipulating earth materia, which made me a natural candidate for field agent. But I also loved the thrill of investigating occult crimes, especially murders. So I was groomed for the OSI program. But this isn’t something that you can discuss with your parents over Sunday dinner. Which brings us back, to borrow a rhetorical move from my mother, to the very crowded occult closet.
As far as my parents knew, I’d developed an interest in specialized law enforcement when I was still in high school. Now I worked for an auxiliary branch of the RCMP dedicated to solving hate crimes. In a way, it wasn’t entirely a lie. I did solve hate crimes within the occult community all the time. I just didn’t mention that I was investigating the murders of vampires and goblins.
And then there was Mia. Explaining her to my mother was a lot more complicated than hiding my identity as a mage.
“I’m making you some tea. You look like you can use it.”
There was no use going into the kitchen now. She’d colonized it.
“I drink coffee, Mom,” I said, collapsing onto the couch.
“Coffee stunts your growth. And it gives you kidney stones.”
I stared at the spot on the table where the pipe had been sitting. Guilt settled in the pit of my stomach.
She emerged with two steaming mugs and set one next to me. For twenty-five years of my life, the smell of my mother’s favorite Earl Gray tea had been like a homing beacon, drawing me back to a world of comfort and familiarity. I knew exactly how she took her tea—a bit of 1 percent milk, no sugar, piping hot, with the mug only half-full. (“Otherwise, it’s just like drinking hot dish water.”) If I lost all five of my senses, I’d still be able to functionally prepare a cup of tea for her, I’d done it so many times. The memory sequence was altogether Proustian.
“Do you remember what I told you,” she began, “when you first said you were going to take that child in? Do you remember?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Was that the yelling part, or the crying part, or the part where you said I was a lunatic? There were several different reactions.”
“Oh, I did no such thing.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. You told me that I was too young, that Derrick was too young, that we were both too busy to raise a teenager.”
“Don’t make me sound so negative. All I said was that you’d need help. Remember? I said that you couldn’t do it alone.” She shook her head. “Poor little bobbin. First her parents, then her aunt. Imagine if you hadn’t found her.”
“She would have ended up in foster care.”
My mother put a hand over her heart. “You know how bad that system is. She would have been in hell.”
I’d been careful—with Derrick’s help—to give my mother a mixture of lies and truth in order to explain Mia. She knew that we’d met during an investigation. She knew that we’d developed a bond, and that I’d filed to become her legal guardian to keep her from ending up in the system.
She didn’t know that Mia had vampiric viral plasmids in her blood, that she was a mage potential, or that Derrick and I had saved her (or maybe she saved us) from getting murdered by Marcus Tremblay, my former supervisor. She didn’t know that Cassandra had willed her house in Elder to me—how could I explain that? As far as she was concerned, the Crown had endowed Mia with a living stipend, and Derrick and I had combined our savings to mortgage our new home on Commercial Drive. If she ever caught a whiff of the fact that I might have lived in Elder—a few blocks away from her—I’d never hear the end of it for the rest of my life.
“I always told you that you were born grown-up,” she continued, “that you took responsibility from such an early age. But you know, Tessa, when you said that you were buying this place and taking care of Mia—it was your first real adult decision. I felt it. My baby grew up in that moment.” She smiled. “And I’ve never been more proud.”
“Oh, Mom.” I rolled my eyes.
Secretly, I was pleased. I’d always be a momma’s girl.
“But obviously, you need help. I mean, look at this living room. And what are you feeding her? All I could find in your fridge was instant pudding. Do you want the poor girl to end up a midget, or get some kind of hormonal imbalance like poor Jamie Lee Curtis? She needs to eat vegetables!”
Ah. There it was. The double-edged Mom compliment.
“She eats fine, Mom. She cooks for herself when we’re not home.”
“What? Are you running some kind of Gypsy commune? A fourteen-year-old girl shouldn’t be making
dinner for herself, Tessa.”
“I was making my own dinner when I was twelve. Remember when you worked double shifts at the record store and the nightclub?”
She sighed. “Of course.”
“Well, Mia doesn’t seem to mind. And Derrick’s a great cook.”
“Of course. He’s gay. He provides a wonderful mothering influence. But it’s up to you to provide the discipline.”
“I don’t really have the time to explain to you everything that’s wrong with that observation, Mom.” I leaned back in the couch. “But trust me—Derrick and I do just fine. And I do give her discipline.”
“So, you’re saying that her room is nice and clean? If I check it right now, it won’t look like Chernobyl?”
“Come on—my room was never clean!”
“But Mia’s different, honey. You know that. She’s special.”
“Oh, so I wasn’t special,” I mumbled. I was suddenly six years old again.
She rolled her eyes. “I have drawers and closets at home filled with every drawing and macaroni ornament and poem you’ve ever written, baby—a living testament to your special-ness. You know what I mean.”
Ah, the Corday pragmatism. Love dished up with a dose of shitty vérité.
“I know what you mean,” I said grudgingly. “Mia’s a genius. With the right kind of attention, there’s no limit to what she could accomplish. But that also leaves her open to a lot of scary stuff. Her emotions are volatile. The last thing she wants to feel like is a normal teenager, but it’s happening to her, and she hates it.”
“Just like you hated it.” She smiled. “I know you and Derrick are trying your hardest. That kid is never going to suffer for a lack of love. But she needs more than you can give her.”
“What are you suggesting?”
She folded her arms. “Your father and I are thinking of selling the house.”
My head started pounding.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because—I . . .” I felt flushed. “Because—the market—it’s bullish right now, or bearish, or a buyer’s—something! It’s not a good time to sell. You and Daddy would lose so much money. And prices here are skyrocketing.”
“Breathe, honey.” She stroked my arm. “We don’t want to move in next door. We’re thinking of Coquitlam, or Surrey. Somewhere close by. You’d still have your space, but we’d be able to visit much more often. And Mia would have somewhere to stay while you’re both working. Your father’s retired now, and honestly, I think she’d be a nice distraction for him. It would certainly keep him from driving me up the wall.”
I shook my head. “Mia has a home. She lives here, with us—”
“Tessa. Honey . . .” Her smile was beatific. “Nobody’s trying to steal her from you. We just want to help. It would be her choice to visit. We could drop off groceries every once in a while. Take her off your hands. That’s what grandparents do.”
The desire to hyperventilate slowly subsided. I realized that it wasn’t just my connection to Mia that was making me freak out. I was still reeling from the fight yesterday. Everything in my life seemed fragile. I couldn’t hold on to it all. I couldn’t lock Mia in her room for the next four years.
Also, I had to stop smoking in the afternoon.
“I get it, Mom.” I sighed. “And I appreciate it. I’m just still a bit shaken up from yesterday. My emotions are fucked . . .”
She frowned at me.
“Messed up. Everything’s just a little intense right now.”
“Of course it is. Did you catch them at least?”
I blinked. “Who?”
“The criminal. The one who did that to your poor face!”
“Oh, yeah.” Lies mixed with truth. “Yeah, they’ve been dealt with.”
“That’s good, at least. One less crazy person on the streets.”
I wished.
“Speaking of Mia—shouldn’t she be getting out of school? It’s three o’clock.”
“Crap! Yes!” I bolted upright, then winced from the pain in my shoulder. “I have to pick her up.”
“Let me drive.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust that car of Derrick’s. It seems unreliable. You should really invest in a Prius. Your father adores his.”
Normally, I would have howled in frustration at the thought of driving with my mother, who insisted that second gear was a perfectly reasonable place to stay while going sixty kph down a residential street. But I still didn’t feel up for driving.
“Thanks. That would be great.”
A few minutes later, I was ensconced in my mother’s air-conditioned sedan, which would never be paid off as long as she lived. My graduation picture was still affixed to the dashboard with a suction cup, and the seats were eerily clean. The Festiva was more like a mobile Tim Hortons franchise. My mother hummed absently to herself as she turned down Charles Street, negotiating the narrow residential lane that was now crowded with kids wearing backpacks. Other sedans were circling hungrily for parking spots, but my mother was a pro. She wedged us between a jeep and an SUV, her wheel barely touching the curb. It was like watching a figure-skater in action. Everything she did was elegant; she even cut off other soccer moms with a smile and a wave.
As we pulled up to the school, I noticed Mia talking to an older boy. She was smiling—not in a flirty way, but genuinely smiling. Nothing like the sullen princess at home who hogged the bathroom and yelled at us because we didn’t buy fair trade coffee beans. This was a very different Mia.
The boy turned around, and I got a good look at him. Tall, dark hair, brown eyes. A bit awkward looking, in the way that all male teenagers are, but still handsome. I’d seen those eyes before. In fact—
My heart froze. I must have gone white, because my mother gave me an odd look and put a hand on my forehead.
“Tessa? Everything all right? You look pale, sweetie.”
“I’m . . .” I swallowed, unable to take my eyes off the boy. “I’m fine, Mom. Just tired. And my shoulder hurts.”
“I’ve got some Motrin in my purse. Here, let me find it.”
Mia got in the backseat and flashed me a smile, although nowhere near as bright as the one she’d reserved for the older boy. Then she kissed my mother on the cheek.
“Hi, Nana.”
“Hi, kid. I stopped by to visit Tess, and she asked me to make supper for you.”
“I did no such thing.”
She swatted at me. “Oh, hush. You could use a nice meal.”
“Sweet! Something with real protein.” Mia sat back and fiddled with her knapsack. “Oh my God, math was, like, insane . The teacher didn’t even know what he was talking about. He’s so old, and he keeps using these, like, wooden props to demonstrate what a radius is. But they’re really made of wood. And he dropped one of them on the floor, and Brad-the-douchebag-Connelly started laughing—”
“Mia, I don’t approve of that term,” my mother said from the front seat, smoothly merging into traffic.
“Sorry, Nana. Brad Connelly is a total philistine.”
“That’s much better.”
“Who was that boy?” I demanded. I tried to make my voice sound less accusatory, but it must have been obvious, because Mia narrowed her eyes at me.
“Overreact much? Geez. His name’s Patrick. He’s just this guy I met in the library while I was studying for my presentation on the Organic Food Movement. I asked him if he’d read Vandana Shiva, and he hadn’t. Like, ever. So I had to school him.”
“How old is he?”
She shrugged. “Seventeen, maybe? I don’t know, whatever it says on his fake ID.” She laughed when I glared at her. “Don’t go all McCarthy on me, Tess. He’s just some boy. He seemed nice, so I talked to him.”
“Well”—I struggled for some rationale—“you know, boys like that only have one thing on their mind. And it’s not the Organic Food Movement.”
“Tess!” My mother managed to scold me without looking up from the road. �
��That’s a little puritanical, don’t you think?”
“No kidding!” Mia folded her arms and scowled at me. “Besides, is it so crazy that some nice guy might actually like me? Am I so fugly and repulsive that he should have run away screaming from me, like my body was covered in scales?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Whatever.” She looked out the window. “He’s nobody. Just some guy.”
I knew that was far from the truth. The last time I’d seen Patrick, he was hooked up to an EKG monitor, waiting to become the next vampire magnate. I remembered the mark on his left hip. The sign of power.
I needed to install a dead bolt on Mia’s bedroom door.
And I needed to find Caitlin Siobhan before someone else died.
11
I had to wait until Mia was asleep before calling in reinforcements.
The hours before consisted of watching my mom cook a fabulous meal of spareribs, garlic-braised roast potatoes, and acorn squash oozing with melted butter and brown sugar. Essentially, ten times better than anything I could ever whip up after pulling a double shift at the lab. Usually, I just got one of those rotisserie chickens from the grocery store. But Mom was on her A-game for sure tonight. Derrick ate so much I thought I was going to have to roll him into the living room, and Mia actually stayed at the table for more than five minutes. Afterward, we watched The Tudors, which I thought was a bit racy, but Mia insisted that she was purely interested in the show’s historical veracity. Derrick was interested in the veracity of Jonathan Rhys Meyers’s codpiece, which seemed to get larger with each episode.
After a full-on war between my mother and me over who would wash the dishes—guess who won?—Derrick and I were finally left alone in the house. I peeked my head into Mia’s room, and saw that she’d fallen asleep listening to her iPod again. Gently, I disengaged the headphones, closed her bedroom door, and returned to the living room.