Stranger Magics

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  Though he seemed unconvinced, Paul resumed drinking. He even chuckled after a moment, “Well anyway, she’s too young for you, am I right?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he caught my gaze and held it. “Right?”

  “She’s . . . very pretty,” I admitted. “Vivacious. Has a good head for business—”

  “And you’re forty times her age,” he retorted.

  “That doesn’t make me blind,” I snapped. “And since I can’t stand most of the women in the multi-century club . . .”

  The priest sighed and shook his head. “Do right by her,” he warned, and took a pull of his beer. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  As usual, Paul was absolutely right. Had I been wiser, I’d have fronted Meggy the money and helped her move into her own place. But by the end of our first month together—and between work and home, we were together nearly all of the time—I found myself dreading the day that she would move out.

  Meggy was effervescent in a way I had never known another person to be. When she laughed, it was childlike in its lack of restraint, but when she was in a contemplative mood, she seemed the more mature of us. As the summer passed, she showed me Coleridge from the passenger seat of my pickup truck, then her favorite places in and around Phoenix. Under her tutelage, I ate salsa so hot that my eyes streamed, learned which movie theater was least likely to catch patrons who stuck around for a second film, and followed her into the desert to stare up at the stars. In turn, I introduced her to the oldest books in my locked collection and showed her how they were made. I taught her to swing dance. She taught me her mother’s secret Guinness chocolate cake recipe.

  By the time the inferno of the southwestern summer began to cool, I knew I was falling for her in a serious way—and I hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do about it. The foundation of any relationship should be trust, but how could I tell her that most of what she knew about me was a lie? How could I tell her the truth without losing her? If I tried, surely she’d think I was utterly insane and run as fast as she could.

  Really, though, I told myself, it wasn’t as if I had her. Meggy still wore Jack’s class ring, after all, and she spoke of him fondly. But I’d noticed that her calls to South Carolina had become less frequent with the start of the semester, and part of me—a part that I tried in vain to silence—rejoiced at this development.

  Still, as little as I liked it, Meggy was excited about renting her own apartment. I paid her handsomely, and by Thanksgiving, she had a comfortable cushion in her savings account. That Saturday, after she’d recovered from the holiday at her parents’ house, I drove her to her new place, then braved Walmart and the furniture store with her to buy the essentials. Late that night, after Chinese takeout at her new kitchen table, I reluctantly took my leave and drove home to my too quiet house, then flopped onto the couch to distract myself with the television. But even the leather seemed to have absorbed the scent of her shampoo and drugstore perfume, and so I stared at the ceiling and tried to come to terms with the fact that after nearly eight centuries alone, I was in love.

  I could make it work, I mused. If I never told her, if I stopped hunting bothersome faeries and settled down to a mundane existence, then she would never suspect. I’d use glamour to age myself as needed, and we . . .

  The pleasant dream popped like an overinflated balloon. If we were lucky, we’d be together for sixty or seventy years, and then Meggy, her hair white, her vision dim, and perhaps even her memory fading, would slip away. I’d be alone again, but bereaved this time, forever spotting her from the corner of my eye or hearing an echo of her laughter in another’s throat.

  And Meggy deserved better than the illusion I could give her. She would marry Jack in another couple of years, she would leave Coleridge at his side for greener pastures . . . and I would be a memory, just the harmless, friendly loner who’d given her a job. Maybe I’d cross her mind one day and she’d idly wonder about whatever happened to me, but that would be the extent of it.

  And that was as it should be, I decided, ignoring the protestation of my heart.

  By March, Jack had once again become a regular topic of conversation. He was coming home that summer, Meggy informed me, and the two of them were going on vacation. “He promised me we’d go to California,” she said one Friday evening as she dusted the hold shelf behind the counter. “I’ve never seen the ocean, and Jack says I’ll love it. You’ll have to meet him,” she added, grinning at me as she worked. “We’ll hang out. I bet you two will hit it off.”

  I was saved from having to offer a noncommittal response by the jingle of the bell over the door. A short man in a tan mackintosh and dark sunglasses shuffled in, and I appraised the stranger quickly—the raincoat was enough to set off my internal alarm, especially in Arizona. But then I detected the unmistakable stench of magic about him. “Hey, Meggy, why don’t you go see about Monday’s shipping, okay?” I said, keeping my voice light. “And sir, what can I do for you?”

  He looked around at the nearest shelves of paperbacks until she had disappeared into the back, then stood straighter and slipped off the glasses. “Your servant?”

  “My employee,” I said quietly. “What are you doing here?”

  His smile was thin, little more than a twitch of the lips. “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?”

  “You’re a wizard. I don’t need further specifics.”

  “Surely you’ll want my name if we’re to do business.”

  “I don’t deal with your kind.”

  “Oh?” He reached into his coat and extracted a long, fat wallet. “Perhaps this will change your mind,” he murmured, and opened it on the counter. A stack of hundred-dollar bills peeked out from the slit. “I’m looking for a book.”

  “Tempting, but I’m set for the moment.”

  He put the wallet away. “Perhaps something else, then? What’s the price for your services?”

  “I’m not for hire.”

  The little man’s dark eyes narrowed. “The Arcanum doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “It does now,” I replied. “And you have nothing that I need, so really, unless you’re interested in a first-edition Fitzgerald or Twain, I suggest you leave before you exhaust my patience.”

  His glance shifted toward the door separating the stockroom from the front of the store. “Pity that you’re uninterested in my proposition. It would be a shame if something happened to that pretty face, wouldn’t it?”

  Those who have never had occasion to fight a faerie and try to do so unprepared learn, to their peril, that we don’t play by mundane rules. Two mortals, even two wizards, standing a few yards apart will generally either rush each other or pull out weapons and go to work. But as I can manipulate reality in an environment sufficiently saturated with magic, nine times out of ten, I can be pummeling my opponent’s face before he remembers that I don’t have to walk across the room—and I’ve had a few centuries to cultivate a decent right hook.

  I broke his nose with the first blow. By the fourth, I had knocked him to the floor and was straddling him, punching with one hand while my other groped in his coat for his wand. My searching fingers felt something hard moving beneath them, and I paused in the beating to rip his button-down open, exposing the chain mail beneath. “Clever boy,” I muttered.

  I never noticed when Meggy returned from the back, but as I yanked his wand out of his inside pocket, I heard her call my name. “What the hell?!” she yelped. “Colin! What’s going on?”

  “Get out of here!” I barked, then grabbed the wizard by the raincoat collar and slammed his head against the floor. As Meggy’s running footsteps receded, I snapped his wand in two and let its powdery core run into my hand. “Unicorn horn?” I asked after giving it a test sniff. “And you thought you could best me with that? Now you’re just being insulting.”

  There was blood in his eyes, but not so much that he couldn’t see when I set his wand on fire. It burned to ashes in a matter of seconds, and I brushed the debris from my p
alms as Meggy returned with the office telephone. “Cops are on their way,” she announced. “Don’t try any—hey!”

  I looked over my shoulder to see the wizard limping toward the door. “Let him go,” I told Meggy, and locked the door behind him.

  Uncertain, she clutched the handset like an amulet. “What did he want?”

  “Nothing good,” I said, beginning to feel the ache in my fingers from the unaccustomed beating. “I think I got through to him, but there’s a chance that he might come back with friends. Meggy, uh . . . how would you feel about spending the night at my place?”

  Her gaze landed on the bloody floor, and she murmured, “Yeah. Okay.”

  I stood at the front window, feeling the house’s wards and testing their strength. There was nothing getting in without my blessing, but I was too wired to rest, and too paranoid to take the risk. I was mulling over my options when I caught the quick flash in the street, like the afterimage of lightning on the inside of the eyes. In the glow of the streetlight, I noticed the twinkle of glass, then spotted the middle-aged man in a navy polo and khakis standing by my mailbox. He saw me at the window and held up his empty hands.

  I nodded.

  He walked up the little stone path I’d made through the cactus garden of the front yard and knocked quietly. When I opened the door, he again held out his hands. “I came to offer an apology,” he murmured. “Will you hear me?”

  His face, dark as mahogany and gently lined under his thick glasses, showed no flicker of deceit, but still I hesitated, trying to sense a trap. When no gang of wizards appeared, however, I stepped to the side and pointed toward the den. “Grand Magus.”

  “Lord Coileán,” he replied, nodding, and took an armchair. As I sank onto the sofa, he looked toward the ceiling. “We’re not alone, I take it.” He must have seen me bristle, because he quickly added, “I mean neither of you ill—I just don’t want to wake her.”

  “Appreciated,” I muttered. “Your purpose, then?”

  “As I said, to apologize.” He folded his long fingers together. “What happened today was unauthorized in every sense of the word. I sincerely regret the affront—”

  “That little shit threatened my employee.”

  “He told me as much. I thank you for showing such restraint.”

  I paused, trying to read him. “He’s going to need a new wand.”

  “It’ll be a while before anyone’s willing to make it. The Arcanum doesn’t tolerate rogues.” He glanced at my swollen hands and frowned. “You know, I’ve got a really good salve that might fix you up . . .”

  “I don’t deal in spellcraft.”

  “It’s not,” he replied, standing briefly to pull an unmarked tube from his pocket. “Got this from an old school friend who compounds. It’s basically Vaseline and capsaicin—helps with the arthritis pain.” I shook my head, and he put it away. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  “It’s nothing personal, Greg.”

  He shrugged. “Understood. But really, I mean you no harm.”

  His lack of a wand did nothing to set my mind at ease. One does not become the head of a worldwide organization of wizards without high inborn skill with magic and the knowledge to wield it effectively. Most magi barely need a wand, and I hadn’t seen a grand magus in centuries who relied on one. Greg Harrison had assumed the title young, sometime in his mid-thirties, and he’d remained unfailingly polite in our occasional dealings, deferential and unthreatening, a Harvard man who used the occasional bit of Nashville charm to win over his opponents.

  I sat back and folded my arms. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all.” He pushed himself to his feet and tucked his salve back into his pocket. “Just an official, ‘We’re sorry, and we had nothing to do with this.’”

  “And her safety?”

  “Assured,” he replied as one eyebrow twitched upward. “We have no quarrel with her, last I checked. Well,” he nodded, “you have a nice evening. I can see myself out—”

  “What are you searching for?”

  Greg paused and smiled faintly. “I thought you didn’t deal with my kind.”

  “I don’t, but as long as you’re here . . .”

  He resumed his seat. “We’re looking for a book.”

  “Yes, I’d gathered that. More specifically?”

  “The diary of Simon Magus. The Younger,” he hastily added, seeing my eyes widen. “Grand magus during the Great War—”

  “Yes, I know the name.” I chuckled. “You don’t think it’s scrap by now?”

  “With the number of spells protecting it, I figure it’s fine, wherever it is.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “And that’s the problem—we have no idea where that might be.”

  I studied his face for a moment, seeing a flash of hunger beneath the impassive mask. “You don’t want this for purely historical reasons, I take it.”

  He didn’t try to deny it. “Simon Magus was the creator of a range of magic-storing devices. That’s how we won the war, you know. Anyway, rumor has it that he hid his creations before he died, and we’re guessing there might be clues to their whereabouts in the diary.”

  I shrugged. “Forgotten your locating spells?”

  “If it were that easy, we’d have found the damn book years ago. The Magus went religious in his later years, changed his name, took orders, broke his wand—I suppose you know the rest,” he said as I nodded. “But before he did, he put a particularly nasty little spell on his diary: you can only find it if you don’t plan to use it. And that’s our problem—Simon may have become a pacifist, but I’m from more pragmatic stock.”

  “And the rest of the Arcanum sees things your way?”

  “Council was having a meeting a few days ago to brainstorm ways to find the diary. Someone mentioned you—given how long you’ve been in this business, I assume you know just about every rare book dealer out there.”

  “More or less,” I allowed.

  “Yeah, well, I told the Council you wouldn’t get involved. The fellow you saw today, Jimmy Lamma . . .” Greg removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses clean. “He’s an aide. Smart kid, gifted, not a lick of common sense. He suggested that we could strong-arm you into finding it. I told him he was nuts. And then this evening, he came back licking his wounds and vowing revenge, and when I found out what he’d done, I smacked him upside the head. Guess I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Is he concussed?”

  “No, but that boy can yelp.” He paused to put his glasses back on. “So . . . because we’re having this conversation, I guess it couldn’t hurt to ask you properly if you’d be interested in this venture, huh?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” I agreed, “but my answer’s unchanged.”

  He smirked. “Can’t blame an old man for trying.”

  I sat in the living room for several minutes after Greg muttered a spell and closed the gate he’d opened into his office, waiting for the fug of magic to dissipate. When I was sure that I was alone, I crept upstairs to check on Meggy. She had fallen asleep in her clothes and was curled on her side with one hand tucked under her pillow.

  I closed the door, telling myself that I didn’t need to keep watch outside her room.

  Meggy turned twenty-one that April, and we celebrated with a bottle of champagne and a Monday night of stargazing. By the time I dropped her off, Jack had left a message, and she hurried to call him back while I saw myself out.

  The next morning, she was ebullient. “Jack’s coach wants him to train at school this summer, but he’s going to sneak home after finals,” she confided as she readied the register. “We have to make plans. Have you ever been to California?”

  I made a few suggestions, relieved for her sake that he’d be making the trip. The least he could do after missing the holidays was see the woman who’d been waiting for him for more than a year.

  Finally, the end of the semester arrived, and Meggy grew more excited by the day. Jack would be
home in a fortnight, in a week, in two days . . .

  And then, on the Wednesday morning in early June on which he was due to make his grand arrival, I woke to the chime of my doorbell at six. When I shuffled downstairs to answer it, I found Meggy on the porch, her eyes red and swollen. “He’s not coming,” she managed, and burst into tears.

  Between crying jags, Meggy told me what had transpired. Jack had called the night before with bad news—training was to begin immediately, and he needed to be there to support the rest of the team. His coach was adamant that he not take off for a week until later that summer, perhaps early August. “A delay, then,” I told her, handing her a cup of coffee. “He’ll be here as soon as he can, I’m sure.”

  She sniffed and stared into her mug, then mumbled, “Do you think he’s really training?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he’s met someone?” she whispered. “What if he’s staying at school to hang out with her this summer?” She raised her eyes to mine, blinking back fresh tears. “He promised me we’d go to California. He promised. And now . . .” She bit her lip. “Do you think he even loves me, Colin?”

  Yes, of course he does, I should have said. And he’s missing you terribly right now, whatever he’s doing.

  Instead, I pulled her to her feet. “Get in the truck.”

  We drove through the morning and into the afternoon, piloting west to the coast. Meggy still cried at first, but soon she began to smile again, and then to laugh as the road spread out before us. Her eyes brightened, her face beamed, and she rolled down the window to let the desert wind blow through her hair.

  I stopped near the state line to pick up provisions. While I bought sandwiches, beer, and beach towels, Meggy tried on a dozen bathing suits, finally selecting a simple black two-piece that hugged every curve to perfection. With a giant soda in hand, she hopped back into my truck, propped her feet on the dashboard, and pointed toward the horizon.