by Melanie Rawn
He hit the button that activated the sound system, wanting some background noise. Half a song later, he freely blasphemed Holly’s tastes in music when Don Henley advised that You get the love that you allow.
“Christ on a crutch! What wouldn’t I give to hear ‘Brick House’ about now—” He jammed his index finger punching the damned CD player off, and swore again as he cradled his injured hand.
“You have wonderful hands.”
Not now—he didn’t want to think about Jamey and the wisteria—
“I always loved to watch you play the piano. I’ve missed that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more elegant—like magic sparking from your fingers when you make music—”
An unpleasant bark of laughter escaped him. Those few hours ago, Jamey hadn’t even known—
“Your hands talk all the time, even when you don’t say a word out loud. They’re good hands. Strong and kind. They’ve never hurt anyone—”
Jamey hadn’t known then what his hands could do, how the magic really could spark through his fingers and bespell things, touch wool or linen or cotton or leather to banish, restore, reweave, warm, soothe, unravel, chill, preserve, destroy—
Silence, he was supposed to be working out ways to spin silence into the silk covering the walls of Westmoreland, use his magic for something of greater consequence than drying rain-soaked clothing. He had never been called on to do this kind of work before. Here he was, almost thirty-eight years old, and he’d probably been part of fewer Workings than Holly, who had no magic at all except her blood.
Coming home had started off okay—watching the familiar landscapes from the back seat of the courtesy van, recognizing most of it, surprised by some of the changes. There’d been that weirdness when he’d tried to take a nap, the not-quite-fiery prickles on his skin that he hadn’t wanted to admit felt like magic. Seeing Holly and meeting Evan had been good, too. But then Jamey showed up. And Holly pestered him, and he hadn’t had enough to drink, but it turned out he had swallowed enough vodka to let Jamey kiss him—
Somebody even more impatient than he leaned on a car horn. He barely restrained himself from following suit.
He felt like an onion somebody had decided needed peeling. Without his permission. With a very dull knife. Brittle outer skin being sliced off; thick layers gouged into, snapping off all the way to the core; fine membranes teased off with a sharp fingernail; poked and prodded for weaknesses—
Another horn galvanized him. He swung the Beemer out of the line-up and onto the grassy side of the road. A quick Y back-and-fill, and he was driving in the opposite direction, between the row of trees and the row of unmoving cars, around the gentle curve back toward Westmoreland. Coming right at him across the grass through the rain was a big green SUV with a gaudy display of police lights on the roof. He swerved and stopped the car, and hit the window button on the armrest.
Evan rolled down his window, already yelling. “What the fuck—? Cam? Are you crazy?”
“Everybody’s stuck! I’m going back up to the house and wait until the rain stops! If I have to, I’ll get another room for the night!”
Lachlan drew breath to argue, then narrowed his gaze. “You know, that actually works! Let me get this thing out of the way and I’ll drive back up with you!”
So it was that Evan parked behind a clump of rhododendrons and dogwood that by daylight wouldn’t hide a damned thing but that by night, in punishing rain, rendered the SUV invisible. Cam waited, drumming his fingers again, thinking about silence.
“Take it around the side drive,” Evan said as he got into the BMW. “Lulah’s truck isn’t parked close enough for a quick getaway, and moving it would look odd. I want something a little more accessible, just in case.”
“ ‘Quick getaway,’ ” Cam muttered. “Oh, excellent.” As he steered the car across the sodden lawn, he kept glancing up at the house he would soon bespell. Aware now of what was hidden within the walls, remembering the oddity that had chafed at his mind earlier, he leaned forward and squinted at the rows of narrow windows. Some were lit, most were not. All were veiled by the same cobwebby sheers as in his own room. But there was still something he couldn’t quite—
“Cam! Pay attention, will you?”
He veered further from the main road and stopped the car in the middle of the front lawn. Wiping a circle in the windshield condensation, he said, “It’s the windows. Something in them? Behind them?” He chewed his upper lip, then exclaimed, “Count them! Can’t you see it? Look—my room is in the front, right up there.” He drew the layout in the moisture still on the windshield. “Three windows in the sitting room, two in the bedroom, one in the bathroom. The suite below is identical. So are the second-and third-floor suites on the other side. Six windows on each floor for the guest rooms, two to light the main staircase and hallways—”
“No, there are nine windows on the right-hand side of the building.” Evan seemed to hear what he’d just said. And repeated the important word, very softly. “Nine.”
JAMEY WAITED FOR THEM BESIDE Lulah’s truck. When the black Beemer drove slowly past him, he jogged through the rain behind the car, following the service road. He was ready with the pertinent question when Cam and Evan got out.
“What happened to being sneaky? Dark clothes, pretending to leave the premises—”
“Traffic jam,” Evan explained. “If anybody asks, we’re waiting here until the rain slacks off, and spending the night if necessary.”
“Who thought that up?” he demanded as they crunched across waterlogged gravel to the kitchen door.
“Me,” Cam offered tersely.
The door opened, spilling light onto the walkway. A pair of weary young women emerged, wearing the Westmoreland livery—pale blue shirt, black slacks, purple vest, silver nametag—to huddle together under an umbrella. Cam leaped to hold the door for them, oozing charm.
“Ladies, allow me. Be careful where you step. In fact, may I drive you over to your housing? That umbrella’s no protection at all. You’re going to get drenched.”
“Nein, danke,” said the blonde, eyes downcast.
The other girl was staring at the dimples as if she’d never seen the like before. Cam said something in German that made her laugh. She eyed his long, lanky frame, cast a yearning glance at the car, and was in the middle of something that sounded like an acceptance of his kindness when the other girl snarled at her for a good ten seconds. Cam backed off, apologizing, and they went on their way.
“Ursula was amenable, Hadwisa was not,” he said mournfully. “And though the kitchen has closed for the night, I was offered cocoa—”
“I’ll bet,” Jamey muttered, leading the way inside.
“—before Hadwisa reminded Ursula that the dormitory would be locked and alarmed at midnight and everybody else was already in bed.”
“Nice work,” Evan approved, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the kitchen. “How good is your German?”
“I know enough not to get arrested. In fact, I can not get arrested in seven or eight languages.”
“Congratulations,” Jamey said. “Can you do something useful, like dry us off?”
The requested service was performed, the runoff soaking into a mat by the back door. As Cam worked on Evan’s boots—it wouldn’t do to leave muddy footprints on the carpet—Jamey scanned the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary. All the usual accoutrements of a restaurant: massive Sub-Zero refrigerators, pristine metal counters, two huge Wolf stoves, pots and pans and utensils gleaming in tidy rows. Whiteboard with the next day’s specials scrawled in red; cautionary signs about handwashing and hair nets and so forth, the usual Health Department placards in English and Spanish with computer-printed additions in other languages. Jamey recognized German script and Russian Cyrillic characters, but the three others defeated him.
“Polish, Hungarian, and Romanian,” Cam said at his shoulder, startling him.
“How did you know?”
“Ger
man and Russian are easy to recognize. Polish, Hungarian, and Romanian use the same alphabet as the rest of Europe, with their own accent marks and—”
“Mr. District Attorney,” Evan cut in, “do you think we need to look into the immigration status of those two young ladies?”
“I beg your pardon?” He blinked.
“Ursula and Hadwisa,” Evan said, with emphasis. Then, responding to Jamey’s frown: “Those two young ladies named Ursula and Hadwisa who were speaking German and who probably weren’t born in Kansas City?”
“Oh.” He considered. “Well, Sheriff Lachlan, now that you mention it, perhaps we ought to check the papers of every worker at this establishment.”
“Excellent. How about we start upstairs?”
Cam shook his head. “And we bid a fond farewell to Fourth Amendment protections against unreasonable search and seizure.”
“You really haven’t been back in the States for a while, have you?” Jamey led the way down the central aisle between aluminum counters.
“Don’t make any phone calls you wouldn’t want the FBI to hear,” Evan seconded.
“ ‘Work in progress,’ ” Cam muttered. “Right.”
“DOORS ARE ALL taken care of,” Lulah said as Cam, Jamey, and Evan rounded a hallway corner on the third floor. Unable to help himself, Cam blinked a couple of times in surprise; his aunt gave him one of her scathing little smiles. “A lock is a lock in this place. Work on one, find the rest, link all of them together, and now I’m standing around waiting for you to get on with it.”
“Using the same principle? Hmm.” He thought about it—a little too obviously. Lulah reached up and flicked a finger against his temple. “Ow!”
“I brought some toys,” she whispered, as if imparting the grand secret to all magic. “So did Nicholas. You want help?”
“No,” he replied, stung. “I don’t need Nicky’s shiny rocks or your concoctions. I can do it.”
“All by your lonesome,” she approved. Turning to Jamey, she continued, “You’re getting the full razzle-dazzle tonight, aren’t you? I’ll apologize later for not telling you about us—”
“No need to apologize. I quite understand your caution. What sort of toys?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“Can I get a little silence here?” Cam asked.
“Was that a rhetorical question,” Holly muttered, “or are you inviting them to become awestruck at the speed and precision of your work?”
He distributed his sunniest smile among them all, complete with dimples. “Actually, it is rather pretty.”
And it was. Taking Lulah’s cue, he’d done what was necessary to a panel of silk wall. Using it as a pattern, he encouraged it to spread, fingering its way from one expanse of oyster-and-burgundy stripes to another. It looked like a computer model of flight paths weaving their way across the globe—and all at once he remembered how eerie that map had looked in the days following 9/11, when nothing flew across North America except planes belonging to the United States military. This was different. Tendrils of light curled down the corridor and curved down the stairs, decorating the walls in silence. From the third floor down to the second the white-gold brightness wove and spread, then descended to the ground floor, sliding around the cold dead steel of fire doors to find more silk. In front of him the upper hall was a tunnel of glittering interlocked lines, delicate and twinkling. It really was too bad Holly couldn’t see it.
Nicky could. He gave a slow, approving nod. “Clever.”
Holly and Evan knew better than to expect anything spectacular—or maybe they were relieved that nothing spectacular had occurred. Cam reminded himself to badger them for the full story of Evan’s encounters with magic. Jamey, on the other hand, looked like someone watching a French art film: waiting for a plot, chafing at the uncertain focus, wondering when—or if—something would happen.
At last Jamey said, “That’s it?”
“You expected phantom dragons breathing fire?”
“An abracadabra or two would’ve given it some atmosphere.”
Evan laughed. “As a friend of ours says, magic is within. Everything else is just props. Anything you’d care to share with the class, Nicky?”
He was sorting through a handful of gemstones. Props or not, they were useful, as Cam well knew. He fished the amber from beneath his t-shirt, warmed it in his palm for a moment, then saw Jamey frowning at him. “It was my dad’s, and his dad’s, on back about two hundred years.”
“And to think I used to worry that you might have arthritis,” Jamey muttered.
“Oh, it’s good for that, too. Also eases stress, cures hay fever, protects against evil spirits, is an antidote to poison, and heals ear infections.” As Cam rattled off the list, he became aware that Nicky’s face was wearing its own version of scathing.
“Amber,” the older man intoned, “also encourages eccentric behavior. Settle down, children. I know you don’t think you need this, Cam, but use it anyway.” And he passed over a smooth, irregular lump of bloodstone. When Cam just stared at it, resting in the hollow of his palm, Nicky hissed, “Az Istenért! It opens doors and loosens bonds—and it also topples stone walls, as some of us have reason to know. Holly, if you would?”
Cam appreciated the sympathetic look she gave him; being scolded by Lulah and Nicky in the same five-minute period was not a prescription for enriched self-esteem. When a drop of her blood was smeared onto the rock, Cam nodded his thanks and closed his fingers into a fist. The stone warmed to his hand much faster than it seemed it should. And he was reminded that not only had it been a very long time since he’d done any real work with gems—let alone with Holly—he had never done this kind of thing at all.
As they descended to the second-floor landing where Cam had sensed the doorway—cautious and alert for any stragglers among the guests or any staff on patrol—Cam wondered how many times he had used his magic for aggression. Aside from that afternoon with Jamey, practically none. A Witch learned early on that certain things were acceptable and many things were not. He’d gotten away with the prickly heat on his teacher’s shirts for three gleeful days before his father found out—and a month living in a world muted of magic had taught him his lesson. Some people required more stringent lessoning in the ethics of Witchcraft—there were rumors about the boyhood exploits of great-grandpa Flynn, for instance, and nobody had ever let one of the Kirby cousins forget the time she’d tried to cheat on a chemistry lab final and nearly blown up the whole high school. By adulthood one was expected to toe the line without exterior prompting. Some people didn’t, of course, which was why Alec and Nicky had been kept so busy for so many years.
Cam had known excellent mentors and fine examples all his life. He remembered with squirming shame every single instance when he’d behaved with less than scrupulous deference to the moral imperatives of his kind. Opening a door into a hidden staircase wouldn’t be added to the list—but it was entirely possible that somewhere in their explorations tonight he’d have to make some aggressive moves.
He wondered suddenly how Nicky and Alec had justified doing some of the things they’d undoubtedly done.
“Magic is a tool like any other,” Alec had told him once. “Well, not quite like any other, but you know what I mean. You can use it like an elevator to get where you want to go faster and easier—but stairs are better for your heart.”
“An elevator?” Nicky rolled his eyes. “You have the most remarkable talent for obscure and semi-meaningless meta phors—”
“Ha! ‘Semi’ means ‘half,’ so you just admitted I’m at least half right!”
“I’ve admitted no such thing. Alec,” Nick explained to Cam, “is a glass-half-full kind of person.”
“Whereas Nicholas isn’t of the glass-half-empty persuasion. No, his outlook is that the glass is almost certainly cracked and won’t hold water at all!”
Cam knew how the glass felt.
They had reached the landing. The bloodstone was almost uncom
fortably warm in his hand now. They were all watching him, expecting him to do something. Remembering the windows, he turned to his right, then realized that because he was facing the front of the building, he should be looking left. Rattled, he marched over to the place where he’d tried to walk through the wall, trying to let the stone guide him. Loosen bonds, open doors—
Would there be a knothole with a hidden catch, like in the attic at Woodhush? A nearly invisible seam somewhere, a knob, a pressure-sensitive panel, a certain nail in the wainscoting—
The bloodstone was cooling in his palm.
“Stop trying so hard,” Lulah murmured from behind him. She grasped his left hand and pressed a small, smooth oval into it. Glancing down, he saw a bit of wood about the size of an apricot pit, banded with silver. A letter had been burned into it with a metal die. Turning it over, he smiled suddenly, for the obverse was a different wood, white and fine as ivory, with a different rune—and this one was lightly touched with blood. Though it had been years since Leander Cox had taught him about different kinds of wood and Clary Sage had made him memorize the tree alphabet, these two came back without effort. Rowan and Holly: Luis and Tinne.
Why this would help wasn’t something he had time to ask, because the bloodstone and the wooden charm were both warming in his hands. He smelled wool, and tasted the chill of brass on his tongue, but beneath both was the feel of water. He didn’t understand it, but he used it. Confident now, he faced the wall, laid his fisted hands against the silk, feeling the stone in his right hand quiver even as the wood in his left hand seemed to become liquid and then solid metal and then liquid again.
Slowly he slid his hands down, letting the warm certainty permeate his knuckles and spread through his fingers to his palms. At the wainscoting, he stretched out his thumbs, and smiled. The catch was just behind a vase of flowers on a small carved wooden cupboard. Awkwardly, without unclenching his fingers, he used his thumbs to shift the vase. On the underside of the wainscoting he found the little button.