Stranger Magics

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  I held Joey back and shook my head. “Rule one regarding intervention when two faeries are fighting,” I told him, “is don’t.”

  He reholstered his weapon. “I’m guessing I should never call her Tink, huh?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t go there,” I replied, and drank.

  Chapter 21

  “You don’t sleep, either?”

  Greg looked up from his desk as I closed the door behind me. He had put us up for the night, but as the guest rooms came unsupplied with any libations, I had found my way back to his office, ignoring the pair of guards stationed in the hallway near our rooms.

  “You get to be my age, and sleep’s the first thing to go, right before hearing and hair.” He gestured toward the bar, and I nodded my thanks. “Seventy-eight might not sound like much, but when all those years start weighing down on you, you realize how heavy they are.”

  I lifted a bottle of scotch. “You’re preaching to the choir. Join me?”

  “Can’t,” he replied, patting the purple mug beside his laptop. “Missy’s orders. I sleep even less if I get that gunk in my system.”

  “So you’re drinking coffee instead?” I retorted.

  “Decaf,” he said mournfully. “She’s going to keep me healthy if it kills me.”

  I glanced at the bridal portrait on the wall, then chuckled as I poured a double. “You’re lucky to have her, you know.”

  “I keep telling myself that,” he muttered, and closed his computer’s lid. “She’s none too pleased that you’re here, Coileán.”

  “She has a healthy sense of self-preservation. It’s commendable. Cheers.” I clenched my eyes shut against the burn, then put the empty glass back on the bar. “Tell Missy we’ll be gone in the morning, assuming that Robin’s not dead and Toula’s not in the middle of a crippling existential crisis.”

  “I make no promises concerning Toula, but your brother is good as new, more or less. We’ve got a few down here who specialize in healing magic—he’s going to be a little shiny for a while around that burn, but the fractures knit well. They pulled a little power off the sphere running the wards,” he added before I could protest. “No one’s touched the other three. Anyway, they gave him a shot of morphine and put him to bed about an hour ago.” His face tightened. “I’d offer you backup if I could,” he said quietly, “but my hands are tied, you’ve got to understand that. I’ve got to think about my people, and getting involved in an inter-court conflict—”

  “And the best you could offer would still be little better than cannon fodder,” I interrupted.

  “You said it, not me.” He forced another sip of coffee down, then glanced at the ceiling. “Toula’s been out there awhile. Want to check on her?”

  “Out where?” I asked, following his eyes upward.

  “She’s got a place. Head out the main door and hang a right—it’s the trailer with the big marijuana flag in the window. She’ll be on the roof.” He paused, then swung his mug toward the little coffeepot on the filing cabinet. “Maybe she’d like something warm?”

  Greg’s prediction had been spot-on, and I found Toula sitting on the tar-papered edge of a dilapidated single wide, kicking the wall as she stared out at the stars. “Coffee?” I called to her, holding up a plastic travel mug, and she shrugged.

  “Roof access is through the trapdoor,” she said.

  I made my way through the dark shell of a trailer and out onto its top, then handed Toula the mug. “It’s decaf.”

  “Pity,” she replied, but drank anyway.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, shivering in the clear night while she sipped. Finally, I asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Hands are sore.”

  I glanced down and saw in the security lamp’s glow that her bare knuckles had turned bluish. “Someone downstairs could fix that for you—”

  “Nah.”

  The silence rolled out over the prairie.

  “You want to talk?” I tried.

  She shook her head.

  “Fine.” I pushed back from the edge of the roof and stood. “Might want to sleep. I thought we could make the attempt in the morning, if you’re all right—”

  “Why didn’t she come for me?”

  Toula’s voice was so soft that I almost thought I’d imagined it. “What was that?”

  “Why didn’t she come for me?” she repeated, still staring into the night. “The Arcanum raised me. If she’s really my mother . . .”

  The thought ended unspoken, and I returned to my spot beside her. “It’s nothing personal. I doubt any of the Three has ever raised a child. Mother had surrogates for all of us, and I’m sure Oberon did, too. They can’t be bothered.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “That’s the truth.” I hesitated, at a loss for words of comfort. “Toula, this . . . this isn’t the end of the world. I mean, you said it yourself, there are worse things than learning you’re half-fae. And besides,” I said, trying to sound brighter, “with the bind off, there’s no reason that you couldn’t petition the Arcanum for membership—”

  She snorted. “Are you kidding? I’m witch-blooded fae. There’s no way in hell they’d take me.” She sighed and cradled her cooling coffee, then muttered, “What am I going to do?”

  “You focus on today, and then you focus on tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, and you find something that makes the tomorrows worthwhile.”

  Her eyes cut to mine. “And what is that?”

  “You’ll be the first to know if I figure it out.”

  I rose again to give Toula her privacy, but her voice stopped me before I could reach the trapdoor. “Promise me something, Colin.”

  “Yes?” I asked.

  Toula didn’t look at me. “If we get Olive out of there . . . you’d better damn well be there for her, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, and slipped away.

  I stepped out of the elevator and headed for my guest room, intent on at least giving the bed a try, when I heard a familiar tenor drawl behind me, “Not so brave now, are you?”

  Turning, I spotted Steve Brownfield, alias Drago, standing a few yards down the corridor. He still sported his black duster and boots, but he held no wand. “Go to bed, kid,” I said. “I’m not dealing with you tonight.”

  “Not your choice,” he replied, taking a few slow steps toward me. His boot chains jingled, and as he fisted his hands, I saw the dark piece of metal stretched across his fingers.

  “They actually let you underground, did they? I’m surprised. Thought the Arcanum kicks its witches out.”

  Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Who’re you calling a witch?”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ve got no wand, no power to draw on—”

  “Got these,” he interrupted, holding up his fists. The metal pieces were topped with short spikes, and the color suggested that he wasn’t wielding brass.

  “Come on,” I sighed, folding my arms, “really? You want to rumble here, now?”

  “Scared, faerie?”

  “No. But once I finish with you, Greg’s going to kick whatever’s left of your ass because I’m his guest, and last I checked, hospitality means something to him. So try me if you like,” I offered with a shrug. “If you didn’t get enough back in Virginia, I’ll be happy to give you more.”

  “You’ve got a big mouth,” he retorted, then charged at me, arms pumping and steel spikes glinting in the dimmed overhead lights.

  Without magic at my disposal, I was reduced to fighting like a mortal, which was far from ideal. But few make it to my age without learning at least a little about unarmed combat, and I’d been in more than my share of skirmishes. As Steve ran at me like a murderous bull, I held my ground and raised my fists, then pivoted when it was too late for him to change course. He stumbled past me, thrown off kilter, and one of his spikes ripped a gash in my sleeve but missed my arm. While he tried to recover, I grabbed the collar of his duster and yanked with al
l my might, and Steve flew backward. His head bounced off the thin carpet, and as his world spun, I stomped on his wrists until he screamed.

  After giving him a solid kick in the ribs for good measure, I stepped back, inspected my loafers, and watched the punk try to pull himself off the floor. “All right, Stevie, that’s me besting you with and without magic. Had enough?”

  Footsteps behind me heralded the late arrival of the guards, and I glanced over my shoulder as they slowed. “Can someone tell me why this kid has a death wish?” I asked them.

  One of the guards had pulled a knife, but his comrade stepped forward before he could do something stupid. “Lord Coileán—”

  “I just want to go to bed,” I griped. “Drago, Dark Lord of the Storm here rushed me with spiked knuckles. Where the hell were you two?”

  The lead guard paused, considered the boy writhing on the floor, then stifled a laugh. “Sorry—Drago?”

  “That’s what he called himself. Steve, right?”

  The guard shook his head and chuckled. “He’s Magus Brownfield’s nephew. Don’t know where he came up with the title, but his mom didn’t like living underground, so God knows what sort of instruction he’s had.”

  “Shit,” the other guard muttered, pulling a small phone from his belt. “We’ve got to call the magus, don’t we?”

  I loitered against the wall until Greg and a gray-haired woman in a fluffy blue bathrobe stepped off the elevator. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, catching sight of the casualty. “Get up, Stevie. Your mama’s on the way.”

  Greg gave me a long, weary look, and I walked closer. “He attacked me a few days ago at Meggy’s place, and then he came at me just now. What would you have had me do?” I asked.

  The woman—Magus Brownfield, I assumed—just shook her head. “Sorry. My nephew doesn’t visit often.”

  “We’ll take it from here,” said Greg.

  I nodded to the guards and started on my way, but before I could go more than a few steps, the elevator chimed again, and I heard a woman scream. Looking back at the newcomer kneeling beside Steve, I surmised that his mother had arrived and decided that my presence could improve nothing about the situation.

  Still, the hallways echoed, and I heard her when she screeched, “That monster could have killed my son, and you’re letting him walk away?”

  I flipped the lock and flopped onto the bed, willing morning to come. The door seemed strong, but it’s difficult to sleep in a bunker full of irate wizards who’d prefer to see you dead.

  “Unless someone has a better idea, here’s the plan,” I said, settling into the fourth chair at the round table.

  We had gathered in a sitting room near Greg’s office, where his staff had left us breakfast, but no one looked particularly hungry—or rested. Toula’s spikes drooped, a testament to the time she’d gone without a shower, and her under-eyes were dark and swollen. Robin seemed clean, but half of his face was still an ugly red, smooth and shiny with the burn. Even Joey sagged, though he had come to the table with his sword and improvised firearm strapped on and ready.

  “We get the spheres, get over there, and try to reason with Mother,” I continued. “No sudden moves, no heroics unless it’s a last resort.”

  Robin’s unsinged eyebrow lifted. “That’s your master plan? Diplomacy? When has that ever worked?”

  “There’s always a first time,” Joey offered.

  My brother rolled his eyes. “And with what are you proposing that we barter? Galahad?”

  “Me.”

  Toula and Joey began to protest, but I raised my hands. “For whatever reason, and I’m sure it’s not going to be pleasant, she wants me back under her thumb. I can take care of myself. The goal is to get Meggy and Olive out unharmed, understood?”

  “And what about my goal, hmm?” Robin retorted. “What’s in this for me?”

  I glared at him across the table. “You’re not seriously suggesting that we kill Mother, are you?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting!”

  I sighed. “We’re not even strong enough together. We could give her guard some trouble, but as far as Mother’s concerned, it’s suicidal to think—”

  “We have her,” Robin interrupted, jabbing his finger at Toula. “She could be enough—”

  “She’s untested.”

  “I’ll do it for Meg,” Toula murmured, pushing her half-eaten banana aside. “But only if I have to. I’d really rather not kill anyone, you know?”

  “Weakling,” Robin muttered.

  “Psycho,” she snapped. “Priorities, okay? We get them out, and then you can plan world domination when we’re safely the hell away from there.” She bit the inside of her lip and glowered at the table. “Mab’s going to know once the realm’s open again. Whatever she has planned . . .”

  “Could help us,” Robin finished.

  “Could kill us,” Toula retorted.

  “Children,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead, “focus. Toula, if I get stuck over there, I’m trusting you to keep them safe, all right?”

  “Yeah, of course,” she replied, “but I still think this plan sucks. I’m not agreeing with Tink, but a show of force might help . . .”

  “Or it might just piss her off. No. We get them to safety, I do what I have to, and if you think of a way to spring me once they’re safe, I’ll be grateful.”

  “Still sucks,” Joey mumbled.

  I turned to him and shook my head. “Your job is to stay here and wait for us to get back.”

  “Aw, come on,” said Robin before Joey could complain, “if he wants to kill himself, let him go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “No one is going out in a blaze of glory,” I snapped.

  “Great, then we’re agreed,” Joey said smartly.

  Toula lifted her finger. “I like backup plans. Galahad comes along.”

  I could feel my blood pressure mounting. “In what universe is that a better plan than mine?”

  “He can fight, he’s willing, he goes. End of discussion.”

  “He’s defenseless!”

  Toula remained calm. “Once we’ve got magic back, I can shield him with a spell. We keep him safe, he gets to slash things.”

  I fought for patience. “And what if she turns on you first? If I have to engage, I can’t guarantee that I can keep him protected, too. And you’ve never been unbound, Toula—”

  “Exactly! I’ll be at full strength!”

  “Or you’ll be completely overwhelmed! It isn’t safe—”

  “I’ll take that chance,” Joey interrupted, pushing back from the table. “I said I’m with you guys, and I meant it. Now, are you going to reopen Faerie, or are you going to sit around all day arguing about it?”

  I stood to look him in the eye. “You don’t have to do this, kid.”

  “Stop.” He grabbed my shoulders and shook his head. “I want to.” He glanced at the door as Greg walked in with the last of the Arcanum’s precious spheres. “And I guess it’s go time, huh?”

  Chapter 22

  The problem with the spheres and the spell was that neither had come with clear instructions.

  “I just think I should be the one to tap them,” Toula explained as the three of us stared down at the spheres on the cleared breakfast table. “I mean, these were spellcraft creations, right? I’m the only one here who can handle that properly.”

  “But you’ve never opened a gate before, have you?” Robin countered. “What if you can’t manage the surge?”

  I cut my eyes to Joey, who stood behind Toula, armored, armed, and ready. He pantomimed little circles with one hand—Hurry it up—and I nodded. But before I could approach the spheres, I heard voices rising in the corridor, and Greg ducked back into the room.

  “Problem,” he said, interrupting Robin and Toula’s bickering.

  Pointing to the door and the growing chorus beyond, I muttered, “I’d gathered. What’s the trouble now?”

  “You, more or less.” He lo
cked the door but continued to lean against it. “Dotty Brownfield’s been complaining to the Council from the moment that she was sure her boy was going to live. And word’s spread that I’m giving you the last of the spheres, so, uh . . .” He winced as someone in the hall shouted his name. “Y’all should get out of here posthaste.”

  “Guard the door,” I told him. “Joey, if they break through, hold them off. We’re only going to get one shot. Toula, do it.”

  “But—” Robin began.

  “Get out of her way,” I snapped, dragging him back from the table. “Toula!”

  “Patience,” she mumbled, holding her hand over the spheres, and closed her eyes. “I can draw, but I need to be judicious with this. It’s going to take me a few minutes to bring the visualization up.”

  Fists pounded against the door, and the voices outside were swelling into the angry roar of a mob. While Toula’s fingers twitched, knitting together the spell that would allow us to see the lock, Greg and I traded worried glances, and even Robin kept his eyes on the door. The grand magus grimaced as the voices of individual Council magi called to him from the crowd, and I saw his gaze drop to the doorknob.

  “Come on, Toula,” I muttered.

  Her face had begun to glisten with the effort it took to simultaneously draw power and weave the spell. “I need time.”

  “We don’t have time. This doesn’t have to be pretty.”

  “Just another minute . . .”

  “Now, Glinda!”

  Her eyes snapped open long enough for her to shoot a death glare my way, and with a final flick of her wrist, the green tendrils of the visualization blazed to life above the table. “Call me that again, and—”

  “The lock,” Robin interrupted. “How do we open it?”

  She pointed to the chaos at the heart of the construction, a swirling knot that pulsed half a second ahead of the more orderly spell around it. “That’s the enchantment. It’s in there somewhere.”

  “You don’t know?” he cried.

  Toula gestured to it again, exasperated. “It’s enchantment! Reading the contours of that crap is hard enough. I couldn’t get every detail! If you think you can do better—”