Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell)

by Jenn Bennett

  “By the way, I need two favors,” I said.

  Bob looked up. “Yes?”

  “Can you start searching for Noel Saint-Hill’s address online?” I’d already done some poking around on my phone during a short break in the Giovanni-Butler reunion and found what could very well be a couple of his social network profiles—it was hard to tell from the photos, but it didn’t matter, because they were protected.

  “On it,” Bob said, whipping out his laptop.

  I thanked him, then spoke to Kar Yee. “I also need the key to the rooftop access stairs.”

  “Why?”

  “Magick. I have to do a spell.”

  “On the roof?” she complained. “It’s past midnight.”

  “It’s important. Will take me thirty minutes, tops. No one will see.”

  She raised a slim, dark brow and puckered her lips, as if she might say no, then blew out a spacey, drug-blissed breath. “Ehhh, all right. As long as you’re not painting pig’s blood on anything, the key is hanging over the phone in the kitchen. But if any of the other tenants catch you, I have no idea who you are.”

  • • •

  Kar Yee’s apartment building stood ten stories high on the edge of midtown, surrounded by Morella’s twinkling high-rises. Behind me, twenty miles in the black distance, lay La Sirena and the Pacific coast . . . and the bed I normally shared with Lon. I wondered if he’d have trouble sleeping without me. He said he did when he was on business trips.

  I made my way to a sheltered area behind a line of air conditioning units. Tenants often used the cement-topped roof for parties. A low brick wall kept drunken guests from falling to their death onto the busy city street below. And even now, when most people back in sleepy La Sirena were in bed, I could hear a steady, speeding rumble of traffic all around me. Somehow this was comforting.

  When I first met Lon, I had a link to the Æythr. A witch’s familiar, of sorts—or perhaps a better description would be a magical lookout, a being that could be called upon for information or help. Priya.

  After being my eyes and ears on the Æthyric plane for most of my adult life, Priya died a horrible death trying to defend me against demonic attack.

  Priya was what magicians call a Hermeneus spirit, an asexual messenger entity that looks sort of like a humanoid bird-person. They are highly coveted, hard to wrangle, and not every magician successfully manages to snare one. To petition their help, you have to lure them in a special ritual. If one of them likes the cut of your jib, it might offer up a lifetime of service. They form a link to your Heka signature—something as unique to each magician as a fingerprint.

  Like other Hermeneus spirits, Priya didn’t physically cross over from the Æthyr to my plane when I called. Instead, it used my Heka to transmit a kind of hologram of itself. All they could really do here was relay information, so they weren’t much use for earthly tasks, but they were invaluable Æthyric spies.

  And they also had the unique ability to reincarnate.

  The last thing Priya relayed to me before dying was a plea to wait for its return. That it would find me. I had no idea how long that would take. Years, maybe? But it had been months, and maybe that was long enough. I didn’t really want to try to bond with another Hermeneus. Sure, Priya and I never had a friendship kind of relationship—these creatures were notoriously aloof. But it was hard to imagine linking up with someone new.

  Still, I wasn’t sure if I could afford to wait much longer. I needed an ally who could confirm or deny my parents’ deaths in the Æthyr. I needed someone to tell me exactly what this Moonchild power was, and find out what the hell my parents had called down into me when I was conceived.

  A cool night breeze fluttered my hair as I set down the things I’d scrounged from Lon’s for the calling ritual: a zip-top bag of salt, a paring knife, the folded sheets of sketch paper from his photography studio, my pocket-sized caduceus staff, and a nub of my trusty red ochre chalk.

  I set to work with the chalk, sketching out a generic beacon sigil for Hermeneus spirits on the paper Lon gave me. A companion symbol was tattooed on my inner arm in white ink, along with several others inside an ancient Egyptian style cartouche that could be activated with a smear of Heka-rich body fluids like spit or blood. When Priya and I were linked, I used the tattoo to call it. But Priya’s death severed this link, and to reestablish it, I was going to have to do some creative spellwork.

  In my magical order, calling a Hermeneus spirit would be a big to-do, a temple ritual that would be witnessed by the congregation. Sort of like a Bar Mitzvah. The magician calling the spirit would be in ritual robes. There’d be an energy-raising ceremony beforehand, a lot of chanting. The whole shebang would be presided over by the leader of the order, the Caliph—my godfather. And afterward, depending on the success of the ritual, which had a fifty-fifty chance of working, depending on the magician, there would be a celebratory round of wine or consolatory round of “it just wasn’t in the stars” and “maybe next time” speeches.

  I would no sooner don a ritual robe than stick a knitting needle in my ear, and I didn’t need a crowd of chanting occultists to cheer me on. It felt good just to be doing magick the old-fashioned way, chalk in hand, caduceus by my side, whistling “Breaking the Law” while I worked.

  Once finished with the beacon, I used the second piece of paper to write Priya’s name inside a cartouche with my personal sigil as a magician—a moon cradling a flat three-tiered rose—and connected the two sketches with a series of linking symbols. I didn’t really know for sure that this would work. I hadn’t actually known any magicians who’d tried to re-link themselves to reincarnated guardians. On the rare occasion that a guardian died, most magicians would just try to call a new one.

  But I didn’t want a new guardian. I wanted Priya.

  In the center of the calling sigil, I poured a small pile of the salt I’d stolen from Lon’s kitchen—some sort of fancy gourmet sea salt I liked to tease him about, because Morton’s table salt was too crude for his superstar palate. For a brief moment, I idly wondered if better ingredients, as in cooking, made for better magick.

  His hundred-dollar paring knife was certainly sharper than the dime-store utility knife in my kitchen drawer. And it damn sure made a sizable nick on the pad of my pinkie finger. Kneeling on the cement, I pressed the edges of the cut together and watched as dark drops of my gourmet Heka-rich blood plopped onto the white salt pile.

  A soft gust of wind sifted through my hair and caused a few grains of salt to scatter. Better get this done before the whole pile blew away.

  One good thing about living in a big city was that there was such a wealth of electrical current. I barely had to reach out for it. A bright stream of electricity jumped into my body, latching onto my Heka, mixing with it, charging it. My nerve endings fizzled with raw energy. The roots of my hair swelled and lifted. Cells bounced around, dancing deliriously.

  I was alert. Strong. In charge. And damn if it didn’t feel good!

  But as I kindled Heka, somewhere in the horizon of my mind I spotted the now-dreaded flicker of blue light.

  No fucking way. I definitely did not want to screw around with wild magick while I was trying to do something so specific and technical. And I damn sure didn’t want to hear my mom’s treacherous voice again.

  It was all I could do to hold on to my kindled energy while I pushed back the Moonchild magic. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it at bay, but I had it under control for the moment. Maybe I could learn to pick and choose what I want to use for kindling: electricity or moon power. The best of both worlds. That thought gave me a little thrill.

  Breathless and shaking, I sputtered the words to the spell, a phrase of rough commands in classical Hebrew. Then I slammed the graphite tip of the winged caduceus onto the outer edge of the calling sigil.

  “Priya, come!” I shouted into the wind and released the kindled Heka. It poured into the caduceus, coursed through it, and spread across my red ochre marks—all
the way through the line that connected the calling sigil to Priya’s name. The marks lit up with a pulsing white light.

  Reflected energy ran back up my arm and hit me like the kick of shotgun. My shoulder jerked back as the caduceus overloaded and flew out of my hand. It streaked across the cement roof and struck the low brick wall, exploding into a shower of wood splinters and golden sparks.

  And before I had a tenth of a second to be surprised, the post-magick nausea lashed up and slapped me silly. My stomach clenched, my chest heaved. The sharp, acrid stench of the vomit that followed mixed with something sickly sweet. I really wish I hadn’t eaten all those stupid blackberry bars.

  Lesson number one when doing any big spellwork involving a lot of kindled Heka: bring tissue and water . . . which I did not. As I swayed on my knees, I spit twice in disgust, then wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket, making a mental note to shove it in Kar Yee’s washer later.

  A mass of crackling white light appeared in front of my face.

  “Shit!”

  I instinctually scrambled backward, struggling to pull my legs out from under me. The light flickered like a TV set with a bad connection, then a humansized boy lunged out of the sky.

  A boy with a head of black hair that stuck out straight in all directions like a sooty nest.

  Flying.

  With wings.

  His body was human, mostly. His nails were glossy, black, a little longer than they should be—almost talon-like. His skin had a silver gray cast to it. He was wearing loose pants that fell below his hips.

  A massive pair of black, feathered wings fanned over his bare shoulders.

  What the hell was going on? Because unlike Priya—who used to appear to me as diffused, soft translucent being, neither man nor woman, stoic and cold—this creature flying in front of me was solid flesh. Very male flesh.

  He gazed at me with enormous black eyes.

  Bird-boy had a dusky gray halo, which rose like smoke above his punked-out, anime hero, Robert-Smith-meets-Sandman mop of hair. He also had a handsome face with sunken cheeks and high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose that was prominent and curved and beaky, but definitely still a human nose.

  His wings flapped madly, stirring up the air and whipping my hair across my face. He floated closer and reached out a hand. I jerked away and fell back against the concrete roof. Undeterred, he shifted his wings—Jesus, they were huge!—and his body tilted. He flew over me, inches above, mimicking my prone position.

  My heart galloped. I sucked in a strangled breath and tried to unscramble my thoughts.

  What had I done? Was this an Æthyric demon? Had I just summoned a damn Æthyric demon with a binding triangle? Couldn’t have. No way. That wasn’t a summoning circle. And Hermeneus spirits didn’t actually cross the veil to our plane: they were just projections—magical holograms.

  But they had birdlike features. Priya had birdlike features. Just not quite like this . . .

  The flying boy studied my face with his big, black eyes. Tiny feathers framed his eyelids instead of lashes. And I stared back, his mouth widened into a disarming grin.

  His teeth weren’t human teeth, but tiny, silver points! Dozens of them.

  I flinched. The back of my head smacked the cement. He flew closer and touched my cheek with long, cool fingers.

  “My mistress. It is I, your loyal guardian.” His voice was low and crackly. Rougher than rough. He cupped my face in both hands, long fingers grazing my scalp. “It is Priya.”

  My heart stopped.

  “Priya?”

  His dark eyes went all squinty as he smiled and touched the tip of his nose to mine.

  “Mistress!”

  I pulled away from him and scooted across the cement into a sitting position. He squatted down in front of me, flapping furiously, and folded his wings into two black compact shapes against his back.

  My voice stuttered along with my panicked heartbeat. “It can’t be—you’re . . .”

  “Changed,” he said with great pride. “I am reincarnated into a new body.”

  “You’re a boy,” I said dumbly.

  “A beautiful boy,” he agreed. His chest plumped with pride. “Do you find me pleasing?”

  “Uh . . .” I blinked rapidly, my eyes darting over his bare silverfish skin, ripped with muscle. “Sure. You’re something, all right.”

  He smiled with that mouth full of sharp, metal teeth. It was freaky. And kind of cool. “Are you as happy to see me as I am to see you?”

  “I . . . umm, Jesus! How are you here on Earth? In the flesh, I mean?”

  “I am as surprised as you. My species does not travel corporeally between the planes. Perhaps your magick is stronger. Or perhaps my new body is special. I have only had it a short time.”

  “If it’s really you—”

  “Of course it is. How could you not know me? I died saving you.”

  I grimaced. A terrible pang of guilt clinched my roiling stomach. But I still wasn’t convinced. This could be the Æthyric equivalent of an Internet stalker. Maybe bird-boy had hijacked Priya’s identity.

  “How did you die, exactly?” I asked. “I need proof.”

  “I was eaten alive by hundreds of lichen insects that a Pareba demon sent after me.”

  My pulse pounded in my temples. “Anyone might know that,” I said shakily. “Tell me something no one would know but us. Priya and me.”

  “You sent me to find a spell to change your hair color when you were young and vain. I told you it was a waste of my skills, but you insisted.”

  “I wasn’t vain.”

  “You were vain,” he insisted.

  “You never found the spell.”

  “It doesn’t exist. But that didn’t stop you from stripping the color from your hair anyway, did it?” He reached out with one arm, silver-skinned and corded with wiry muscle, to snag a lock of the bleached section of hair behind my ears.

  A small sob escaped my lips. “Priya.”

  “Yes.” He touched my cheek again, and this time I placed my hand over his. I was astounded. Shocked. Reeling. And totally, completely humbled. It felt like I’d just brought an old friend back from the dead.

  And in a way, maybe I had.

  It felt strange to touch him. Him—I still couldn’t believe it. He looked young. Maybe twenty, maybe older. It was hard to tell with Æthyric creatures. They tended to age slower than humans. I let go of his hand and swallowed hard, trying to hold back tears.

  “I heard your call,” he said. His feathery eyelashes fanned as he blinked. “I knew it was your Heka. Unmistakable. And the magick was so strong. It made a tunnel of light through the sky. I stepped in the tunnel and your Heka pulled me right through the veil.” He made a descriptive gesture with his hands and blew out a whoosh! sound.

  “Holy shit,” I murmured.

  He glanced around us for a few moments, surveying the twinkling city all around us, as if he just noticed where he was. He lifted his face and inhaled, breathing in the night air, then turned back to me and smiled. “I am so happy that you did not call another guardian to replace me while I was gone.”

  “You told me to wait for you.”

  “And you did.”

  “Well, I waited as long as I could. I wasn’t sure you were alive yet.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “You called me because you need me. You are in trouble?”

  I shifted my legs and glanced at his wings, the tips of which were softly bent where they met the roof behind him. “Umm, yes. Maybe. I’m—my Moonchild power is changing.”

  “You are getting stronger,” he agreed. “I could tell that from your call. And your Heka smells rich.”

  I made a face. Maybe he was smelling the blackberry bar vomit. “Anyway, I’ve been able to do crazy things with it. Slow time, make a weird silver fog trap out of my halo—”

  “And pull your guardian through the veil. You are powerful,” he agreed. His lips quirked up. “It is exciting.”

  “Anyway,
” I said, “I’m worried about my power getting stronger, but I’m mostly worried because I saw a projection of my mother.”

  His dark brows lifted. “And that is strange because . . . ?”

  Oh. Right. Priya died before I found out my parents were guilty of all the ritual killings, handed them over to the White Ice Demon, and let her whisk them away to the Æthyr as her war prize. It took me several minutes to tell the story, but Priya listened intently, crouching before me with his silver arms wrapped around his legs, his chin resting on his knees. He was barefoot, I noticed. And his toenails, though not as long as the talon-like nails on his fingers, were glossy black.

  “I will admit, I never liked your family,” he said when I was done.

  “Why didn’t you say anything? Did you know they were guilty?”

  He shook his head rapidly. “Of course not. If I thought you were in danger, I would have warned you. But I did not understand the workings of this world, and it was not my place to give opinions about your personal life.”

  “You don’t seem to have a problem with it now,” I noted.

  He shrugged, black eyes gleaming. “I am different now. But let us return to your problem. You thought the White Demon would kill your mother and father in the Æthyr.”

  “My parents tricked her. Used her. I just assumed she would take their lives.”

  “But now you are worried that she didn’t.”

  “I heard my mother whispering to me. I saw her—it was like a projection, you know, how you used to appear to me. I’m worried. I want to use the Moonchild power. But if she’s alive, could she find a link through my Heka signature?”

  Priya’s face drew up as he thought about this. “It is unlikely, but there is only one way to find out. I will hunt her in the Æthyr.”

  A heavy relief sank through my bones. “Would you, please?”

  “I am yours to command.”

  “Don’t say that. I don’t want to command you. I’m asking a favor.”

  “I was made to serve you. When I was reborn into this body, the first thing I remembered was your face.” The way he said this made me equal parts flattered and uncomfortable. And he was staring at me intently, though it could be because his gigantic black owl eyes make every glance intense. It was hard to tell.