Heirs of Grace

by Tim Pratt

  I laughed again. “I like you, Hannah. You’ve got a dry sense of humor. Which, you know. Ironic.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So do you want me to come down to wherever you live and use the sword to heal your mom? I’m willing to shave off a few weeks of life or whatever to help you out.”

  “Bekah…I am touched by your offer. Have you found magic capable of allowing you to survive without breathing, or to endure the pressures that exist at such depths?”

  I blinked. “Oh. Right. Logistics. Ah. Not really.”

  “It might also be unwise for you to leave the house for so long, and to travel such a distance, before you have found the vessel. The Firstborn…”

  “Right. I don’t guess your mom can come to me?”

  “Even if she could, she…would not fit into your bathtub. I am also unsure you could survive the process of trying to heal her. She is a god, or something we might as well call a god, and I worry that even the entirety of your human life would prove insufficient to sustain her. Also, it is possible that she has died in my absence, in which case, a life must be given to restore her. I would ask no one to make such a sacrifice, apart from myself.”

  Wow. To have that kind of devotion to her mother. Would I die for my mom? She sure wouldn’t want me to—but then, she wasn’t a god. “So you need me to give you the sword.”

  Hannah nodded. “If you let me use its magic to save my mother, I will return the blade to you as soon as possible.”

  We both looked at the bell. It didn’t ring. Truth, then. Not an elaborate ruse to steal my magic sword.

  “Hell, all right,” I said. “She’s practically my stepmom, after all. Sort of. Family’s family.”

  #

  I walked Hannah to the yard, then put the sword cane into her hands. She bowed formally—she was so weird—and then clasped me against her. Her body was cold, even under the coat, which made sense. She was part fish-god, part lightless sea, after all. I wondered why she bothered wearing the coat. They’re useless when you don’t have body heat to trap and warm you up. But the coat was big and bulky, and probably made it easier for her to travel unnoticed.

  I hugged her back. “Come visit again, and let me know how your mom is doing, okay?”

  “Yes. I will return the sword when I can. Be careful. I believe you are correct—while you are in your house, the Firstborn’s power to harm you directly is limited.”

  “Oh, good. I’m a prisoner in my own palace.”

  “Just until you find the vessel, Bekah. Once you have taken on our father’s power, you will far surpass the Firstborn.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know if I want that. Nobody asked me if I wanted to be a wizard, sorcerer, whatever. I mean…I mostly just want to paint.”

  She shrugged. “Then trade the vessel to the Firstborn for something you do want. That would go against Father’s wishes, I know—but he is dead. He cannot dictate how we live our lives. Not now.”

  “I’m not giving the Firstborn anything, Hannah, except the back of my hand and a kick in the ass.”

  “I cannot say I blame you for taking that stance. I will return as soon as I can, but I may be some time. I can reach the sea in an instant, but the journey to the deep caves where my mother lives is more arduous—it is a place not entirely in this world.”

  Weirder and weirder. “Safe journeys, sister. I’ll miss you. Though I won’t miss those weird noises you made.”

  “What noises do you mean?”

  I gestured at the woods. “I don’t know, the weird trumpety, fluty sort of thing? I figured it was you, hanging out in the woods for days—”

  Hannah shook her head slowly. “I heard those noises, but I did not make them, nor did I see what sort of creature did.”

  “Oh. So much for that theory. Any idea what is making that noise? Is it some crap the Firstborn is doing?”

  “I do not think so. The blue jays fly away when they hear the sound, as if frightened, after all.”

  “Sure they do, anything would, but I don’t see—”

  “The jays are the Eldest Daughter’s eyes,” Hannah said. “Did you not realize? They are not real birds. They are concoctions of spit and feathers and blood, given the form of birds, and sent forth to do the Firstborn’s bidding.” Hannah looked to the trees, and nodded. “Some of them are watching us, even now.”

  Four birds sat on a branch, all their heads cocked at an identical angle, watching us with interest.

  Just then the noise erupted, sounding closer than ever, scream and flute and trumpet, and the birds took wing and flew away. I jumped, but Hannah didn’t seem bothered.

  “Our father collected all sorts of things in his travels,” Hannah said. “I’m sure whatever makes that terrible noise is just one of them.”

  Was that supposed to reassure me?

  She linked her free arm with mine. “Walk with me to the old well?”

  I followed her to the grassy side yard, and helped her pry the lid off the well. There was a puddle of black water way down at the bottom, throwing up distant glimmers from the sun above. “So what now?”

  “All water has been everywhere, Bekah. What flows from your faucet was once frozen inside a glacier, and squeezed by unimaginable pressures at the bottom of the deepest sea, and rippling in a lightless lake in a cavern no living thing has ever touched. Also, it has almost certainly been inside a dinosaur. All water is one water, and all water remembers the past. I may pass through this pool and reach a far sea. Such is a gift of my birth.” She touched my arm. “If I had lips, sister, I would kiss your cheek. I cannot express my gratitude adequately.”

  I leaned over and kissed her scarf where her cheek would be, trying not to think about the interlocking nightmare of teeth beneath the cloth. “So why couldn’t you just do this in my bathtub?”

  “It…did not occur to me. I do not have a bathtub in my own home.” She paused, then said, “It would also be rude to splash so much water around the room.”

  I stepped back, smiling at her unfailing courtesy, and Hannah gave a little wave, then stepped into the well, dropping in feetfirst. I stepped to the edge and looked down just in time to see the top of her head vanish into the little puddle of water, leaving just a few ripples behind.

  So. An informative day. Not all my long-lost mystery relatives were homicidal pieces of shit. Giving up the sword was a loss, and I’d regret its loss if I twisted my ankle or the Firstborn came at me with a knife or something, but Hannah had provided me with a lot of details about my family, so it was a decent trade. Especially if the sword was really coming back.

  The thing in the woods let out another musical roar. “All right, all right,” I muttered. “I’m going inside.”

  When I got back, Trey was in the kitchen, cooking something that involved sautéing onions, filling the house with good smells. He was wearing an apron and it was adorable. “Good talk with your sister?” he said.

  “It was. We helped each other out. I gave her my magic sword so she could save her mother the sea god’s life, but don’t worry, she promised to give it back, and my magic bell didn’t ring, so I know she was telling the truth.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You’re taking all this remarkably in stride. I know I should be used to that by now, but this stuff weirds me out, and I’m living it.”

  He smiled, producing dimples. “I like you, Bekah. Sure, you’ve got some family baggage, but who doesn’t? Anyway, you brought me back from the brink of death, and took me in to save me from getting murdered. I’d say I owe you a few dinners, and moral support, and some company. Plus, you know. My life.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Trey. I don’t want you to be here unless you want to be here.”

  He put his spatula down, walked across the kitchen, and took me in his arms. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Do you know, when you called and said I had to come over here or else face probable certain death, my first thought wasn’t, ‘Oh no, I might die.’ It
was, ‘Oh, hooray, I get to see Bekah.’”

  “Idiot,” I said. Maybe a little affectionately.

  “My second thought was the one about how I might die.”

  I kissed him. I hadn’t done that, hadn’t really kissed him, since the night of our date, which seemed a lot longer ago than it actually was. Life had gotten complicated in bad ways since then. Maybe it was time to let life get a little complicated in a good way, just for the sake of maintaining balance.

  “So,” he said after a suitable interval. “In your professional opinion, how’s this temporary cohabitation, undertaken solely to avoid my likely death, going so far?”

  “A-plus-plus,” I said. “Would save life again.”

  #

  We still slept in our separate bedrooms, though I didn’t expect to keep that up much longer. I wanted the right moment—wanted it to be special, after all we’d been through—but if the moment didn’t appear soon, I’d engineer it.

  Since we weren’t in the same room, I don’t know if Trey heard the fluting-trumpeting-screaming howl that woke me around three o’clock in the morning. Hannah hadn’t seemed worried about the noise. Maybe it wasn’t something to fear. Maybe it was…I don’t know. A security system? Trust my dead father to forego burglar alarms for something more exotic. Whatever made the noise seemed to like scaring the jays away, so we had that in common. Maybe the source of the noise was trying to tell me something, but wasn't willing or able to do so in words. Too bad I didn't speak the language of weird musical howling.

  I went downstairs, broom in my hand—I’d lost the sword, but I wasn’t about to investigate weird noises without some magical implement at the ready. I didn’t turn any lights on, so my eyes stayed adjusted to the dark. I stepped out onto the porch and looked into the night, the shadowed trees, the bright stars, the moon. No dragon, no monster, no—

  But something moving down the driveway, away from the house. I squinted, wishing for magic telescopic vision, but I couldn’t make out much. A dark car, running without headlights or taillights, sneaking away, maybe scared by the mysterious noises from the woods. I wanted to believe it was just someone who’d gotten lost on the back roads, but nobody would go down that long driveway with no lights on if they were up to innocent business.

  Somebody had driven here on purpose, to look at the house—or to try and get a look at me. The Firstborn didn’t seem to bother much with cars, and Hannah wasn’t the driving type. So who was it? And what did they want?

  The way my luck was going lately, I didn’t have much doubt I was going to find out.

  Episode 3

  Spoon

  After seeing that mysterious car drive off into the darkness, I stayed up late for a couple of nights, sitting on the porch with my magical broom, but the visitor didn’t come back—at least not that I noticed. Then I had an inspiration, and asked the house to keep an eye out and let me know if it returned. (The house, as per usual, didn’t give any indication of hearing or understanding, but I chose to have faith. The house was like a mute and capricious—but loyal—butler.) Eventually I convinced myself the car was nothing to worry about, and tried to relax in my pretty-much-impregnable castle, get some painting done, and enjoy Trey’s company.

  I actually had a great couple of weeks, before I used the spoon, and before I met my half brother, and before everything went to shit.

  One of my guilty pleasure pastimes: a few times a day I’d go out with the broom and use it to smack the Firstborn’s fake blue jays out of the trees. Being knocked off a branch with a magical broom was needlessly cruel for the genuine birds in the mix, but I took comfort in Trey’s insistence that they were just winged vermin. After about ten days of vigilance, the jays started avoiding the house entirely—the real ones were smart enough to stay away, and the Firstborn stopped sending her nasty flying spy-birds. It’s possible she switched to fake squirrels made of bathtub-drain hair and fingernail clippings or some other form of woodland spy, but I’d made my point, at least: You can’t mess with me without consequences. Fuck off to wherever you came from, and take your little birdies, too.

  After a couple of days in what we came to call Bekah’s Magical Safe House, Trey decided he should return to his real life, the threat of the Firstborn notwithstanding. His parents were annoyed he’d missed Sunday dinner, and he didn’t want them muttering about him shacking up with a client, even one he didn’t represent directly anymore. We agreed on a code phrase we could exchange to prove our identities to one another—that was fun, I recommend everyone do it just for giggles—and swore that neither of us would drop in on the other unannounced. It wasn’t much of a precaution, but we hoped it would be enough to keep us safe from the Firstborn’s insidious costume changes. My half sister Hannah’s insistence that the Firstborn wasn’t as powerful as she pretended to be was reassuring, too…and so was Trey telling me he’d inherited a shotgun from his great-grandfather and he intended to keep it handy in case he got any unwanted visitors at home.

  Not that he kept entirely to himself, though. He still visited me a lot—not every day, but every couple of days. He’d drop by for an hour or two, to help me out and keep me company. Ostensibly he was there to assist my search for magical objects, but in truth we just liked being with one another. Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s like you’ve known them your whole life—they get your jokes, they see the world the way you do, and you fall into a natural rhythm. We’d been through a lot together, and what had begun as a flirtatious attraction was becoming a deeper friendship. I was happy to have it…and interested to see what else it might become.

  As for sexytimes, well, we kissed hello and kissed good-bye, and sometimes we found a clear bit of wall space to push one another up against for kisses in between, but we didn’t take it much further than that—the attacks by the Firstborn were still too recent for me to totally relax, and I think Trey sensed that, because he didn’t push. His patience made me like him even more.

  We started sorting through the house, looking for the items we’d found in the mirror sanctum: the smoking jacket and the spoon and the cup. We actually found the cup, at least we were pretty sure, nestled in a cupboard among twenty other mismatched mugs—heavy pottery, a dark chocolate brown in color—but if it did anything magical we couldn’t figure it out. (Things we tried: drinking hot and cold beverages from it; pouring water out of it onto the ground; making tea in it and then gazing at the dregs of leaves in the bottom hoping for revelations; hitting Trey in the butt with it.)

  “Maybe it’s like a combo deal with the spoon,” Trey said. “You get the mug and the spoon together and, uh…poof.”

  “You mean one of these spoons?” I opened the spoon drawer, because in Archibald Grace’s kitchen, there was a drawer just for the scores of available spoons—soup spoons, dessert spoons, serrated grapefruit spoons, serving spoons, and, of course, long-handled coffee spoons (at least thirty of those alone). The coffee spoons weren’t identical, but neither of us had paid much attention to the exact details of the one we found in the sanctum, so I had no idea which one I was looking for—assuming it was any of them, and that the spoon in question wasn’t hidden somewhere else altogether. “What do we do if we find the right one? Bang it against the side of the cup? Fill the mug with the blood of orphans and give it a few stirs? I’m all for experimentation, but we wouldn’t even know if we got a result, necessarily. We found the book from the mirror sanctum, easy, and we’ve got no idea what it even says, let alone if it has any hocus-pocus qualities.”

  “I guess it’s possible Mr. Grace was just having a cup of coffee in his sanctum,” Trey said. “Even wizards get cravings for caffeine, I suppose.”

  Stumped on the cup, we also checked every available closet for the smoking jacket, to no avail. But there were those hidden rooms—a whole tower!—that we couldn’t access, a fact I got fairly obsessed with, for what little good it did me.

  We found some interesting things, though, hidden in that warren of rooms between
the living room and my studio:

  A violin, kind of beat-up but still playable, and when you plucked the strings, all the lights in the house came on; pluck them again, and the lights all turned off.

  A pair of painfully ugly horn-rimmed reading glasses with scratched-up lenses, but if you put them on and went outside in the daytime and looked up, the blue sky was transformed into blackness, revealing thousands of stars. The view was clearer than I’ve ever seen in my life, even on nights camping miles from any light pollution.

  A chunky diver’s wristwatch that, when you wore it on your wrist, made the hand above it invincible and numb—I punched a hole in a plywood board and didn’t feel a thing, stuck the hand in boiling water, picked up hot coals, and bounced knife blades off my knuckles.

  Trey liked the watch. We were sitting out on the porch, enjoying the early autumn cool while I smashed random old bricks into powder, just because I could. “You’re like Iron Fist,” he said.

  I brushed brick dust off my hands and sat down in the wooden chair beside him, flexing my numb fingers. “Sorry? Is that a kung fu movie thing?”

  “Comics. Danny Rand-K’ai. Luke Cage’s partner? No?”

  “Sorry, I’m the wrong kind of nerd. You’re into comics? I thought you were a frat boy.”

  He gestured at himself. “You see this, Bekah? This whole package here? It contains multitudes.”

  “I knew you were full of something.”

  “Iron Fist is a martial artist who can focus his chi into his hand, making it hard as iron. He uses this awesome power to punch bad guys into walls, knock down steel doors, stuff like that. I also could’ve gone with a Hellboy reference, though his badass hand is more like stone, and you’re vastly cuter than Hellboy.”

  “He’s the giant red guy with the horns in those movies, right? That’s a pretty high bar for cuteness. I’m glad you think I cleared it. No points for the compliment, but half points for effort.” I flexed my iron fist. “The only problem with this particular superpower is I can’t feel anything in my right hand when I’m wearing the watch—not heat, not pressure, no sense of touch at all. It’s like wearing an oven mitt made of ice. So I won’t be wearing it all the time, as pleasant as it would be to punch the Firstborn in the face with my Hellboy fist.”