Lost Places

by Carla Jablonski

  Timothy stalked into the room and stood over Barbatos. He planted his feet wide as if grounding himself. “I adjure thee, O fallen one, in the name which must not be spoken.” Timothy intoned. “As thou art in this place and time my servant I charge thee, answer without guile—”

  Barbatos sighed and sat up. “Oh, Timothy, spare us the incantations. You know I never lie to you.”

  With a little click, the toaster treat popped up. Timothy started at the sound and grew pale, then sank down in the corner of the room.

  The great mage is more erratic than usual, Barbatos noted. Excellent. Barbatos hid a smirk as he stared at the stricken so-called master. Timothy may have more firepower, Barbatos thought, but I am the true master here. Still, it wouldn’t do to let the magician know that.

  “O great master, what is it that is troubling you?” Barbatos asked, as sweetly as syrup.

  “Something is going horribly wrong with the world,” Timothy moaned. He seemed to be fighting back tears. “It is…destabilizing. What’s happening to me? To the world?”

  Barbatos almost felt a flicker of sympathy; the mage seemed so genuinely lost. Then he smiled. Ahhhh, confusion—another lovely human condition to exploit. Yes, junk food, soft fabrics, and easily baffled minds. Humans. Gotta love ’em.

  “Perhaps it’s something you ate,” Barbatos said, taking a bite of the completely chemical and synthetic snack. He smacked his lips. Delicious!

  Timothy leaped to his feet, no longer weak and sniveling. He really does suffer from mood swings, Barbatos observed.

  “I touch things, and my hand goes right through them,” Timothy snarled, a combination of fear and fury making his body vibrate. “My own mansion keeps disappearing and reappearing. And streets have changed direction, I’m sure of it! You are going to tell me what is happening, demon, and you are going to tell me now.”

  This time, Barbatos truly listened, and he didn’t like what he was hearing. “I was afraid of this,” the demon murmured, his attention diverted from his gummy snack. What Timothy was describing was not good.

  “What do you mean—you could have predicted this?” Timothy demanded. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I was hoping to avoid this problem altogether,” Barbatos explained. “You see, sweet master, life is a matter of variables. And your life, in particular, is notably more, shall we say, tenuous, at best. Precarious, if you will.”

  “What are you saying, demon?” Timothy stepped forward and raised his hands as if he were going to cast a spell. “Speak or I shall compel you.”

  “Oh, hush. Stop exciting yourself,” Barbatos snapped. “If you would let me explain. See, mortals”—he tipped his round bald head at Timothy—“like you, find it comforting to think of the past as something definite and the future as inevitable. Stable. Decided. But time is a fluid continuum. What you call past and future are only currents in it. Currents that are constantly changing.”

  Timothy’s eyes narrowed as he considered what Barbatos was saying. “Go on….”

  “Imagine that time contains a number of futures, each dependent on what the child who might become you chooses to do.” Barbatos waggled a chubby blue finger at Timothy. “Note I said ‘might become you.’”

  “You try my patience,” Timothy growled.

  “Dear, dear, I see a fuller explanation is in order.” Barbatos bit his lip. “An example. Young Timothy Hunter faces a choice: Choose a life of magic or not,” the demon declared in the tone of a lecturer. “Once he sets foot onto one path or another, an untold number of possible futures is created. Soon, another choice presents itself to our dear hero. Turn left or turn right?” He held up a hand to silence Timothy’s protest. “Yes, my dear pupil, it can be that simple. By turning left, Tim Hunter kills off all those possibilities awaiting him had he turned right. Wiped out in an instant all of those future Tims. One of whom could be you.”

  Timothy’s jaw clenched. “Demon, I think I am going to hurt you for lying to me,” he said through gritted teeth, “unless you can prove that you speak the truth.”

  Barbatos shrugged. “Oh, why not?” He leaned forward so that the little hourglass he always wore around his neck dangled away from his chest. “Touch the hourglass, master,” he instructed.

  Timothy reached out, then hesitated. Barbatos noticed the mage’s hand shaking.

  “Do you think this is a trick?” Barbatos asked. “Well, suit yourself. But who else has ever told you the truth?”

  Still, Timothy held his hand inches from the hourglass.

  “It’s such a fascinating world you’ve created here,” Barbatos commented. “Will it fade away when you cease to be, I wonder? Or will it grind on until its ticky-tocky springs run down?”

  With enormous effort, Timothy forced himself to grab the hourglass.

  “Ahh, that’s the spirit. Doesn’t hurt a bit, does it?”

  Barbatos knew that as he spoke, the hourglass was showing Timothy all the other Tims he might have been had he made different choices, taken different paths. There was the Tim who lived in Faerie, a magical kingdom. There was the Tim who died fighting some low-level demon and was buried in an unmarked grave. Tims and more Tims, each unique, each possible at some point in tricky time. Each had the potential to survive instead of the Tim who grew up to sit before a tiny blue demon with an hourglass on a chain.

  With a cry, Timothy wrenched his fingers from the hourglass and fell to the floor, moaning. The bombardment of possible Tims must have been overwhelming, Barbatos assumed. That and the knowledge that one of those selves might very well replace this Timothy forever.

  “Obviously, something in the past has changed the present, Timothy. But time still holds the child who could become you,” Barbatos assured the stricken mage.

  “We need to make sure that happens!” Timothy cried. “Make the past behave, demon. Make sure I exist just as I am now!”

  Barbatos smiled, his large white teeth gleaming against his blue skin. “I know exactly how to do that, master.”

  “Then do it!” Timothy stood back up and tugged at the ends of his jacket. He regained his composure. “And do it now!” He stormed out, slamming the door.

  “Confound it!” Barbatos swore, pacing his chamber. “It’s that Molly O’Reilly, I’m sure of it. She must have grown even closer to the boy.”

  His round, lidless eyes squinted as he thought about what he should do. “We must separate them—permanently.”

  He lay down on his enormous bed and gazed at the ceiling, tapping the tips of his fingers together, thinking. No point in telling Sir Timothy about this, he decided. He’s so Molly obsessed, he’d never believe that getting rid of her is the only way to ensure his existence in this form.

  He lifted a glass of sherry from the night table. “And this ragged, desperate, corrupted form is the Timothy Hunter I like best.”

  The door opened again, and Timothy Hunter slumped in. “I—I can’t go out there,” he rasped. “It doesn’t feel right. It’s too…unstable.” He sank to the floor, huddling in the corner.

  Barbatos smiled. “You stay right here, master,” the demon soothed. “And let Barbatos take care of everything.”

  Chapter One

  Present Day London

  THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD TIM Hunter sat on the stoop of the Swan Dance School, enjoying the early spring day. Winter was definitely over, and although his neighborhood tended to stay gray in even the best weather, well, he just didn’t care. He was in too good a mood.

  “Careful there, Hunter,” Tim scolded himself. “You nearly started whistling. No one would recognize you in this unusually cheerful state.”

  He stretched out his legs and leaned his elbows on the step behind him. He had good reason to be a mite cheerier these days. No matter that his whole life had been turned upside down ever since those wacky blokes he called the Trenchcoat Brigade had popped into his life and let him in on one big whopping secret: He had the potential to become a powerful magician. Big deal.

 
That was nothing compared to finding out that the man he grew up with wasn’t really his father and that his real dad, now dead, lived in another world and could turn himself into a falcon at will. So what?

  And just because he’d faced Death—actually met her in person—and been chased, attacked, and nearly killed more times than any other thirteen-year-old boy that he knew, well, just another day in the life. Tim still felt as if he could start whistling or bursting into song like they did in the movies his father—er, Mr. Hunter, that is—enjoyed on the telly.

  And all because of Molly. Molly O’Reilly. “My girlfriend,” Tim declared, testing out the words. It was new, this boyfriend-girlfriend thing, and he was still getting used to it. So far, he liked it—liked it a lot. Most important, he now had someone he could share all of his bizarre experiences with, someone he could trust. Someone…

  “For heaven’s sake, Tim, you are taking up a lot of space,” a familiar voice behind him observed. “How are we supposed to get down the stairs?”

  Tim tipped back his head and gazed at Molly. She stood above him, hands on her hips, thick dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, brown eyes sparkling. Beside her stood their friend Marya, a girl Tim had met when he had saved her world, Free Country, and encountered again after she had decided to stay permanently in London.

  Marya grinned. “Maybe we should try to jeté over him.”

  Molly hooted. “Be my guest,” she told Marya. “You’re a lot better than I am at jetés. I don’t think I’d clear him.”

  Tim scrambled over to the side of the stairs. “Take all the space you need. I don’t want to get caught in the face by your feet. I’ve heard all about toe shoes.”

  The girls laughed. “You’re right to be scared,” Molly said, dropping down beside Tim on the step. “Those toe shoes are really hard! I don’t know how you can wear them,” she said to Marya.

  Marya leaned against the railing, her long red hair blowing slightly in the breeze. “You get used to them, I guess,” she said. “And they make pirouettes so beautiful!” She bounded down to the sidewalk and did a few turns in her sneakers. She made a face at her feet. “You see? Sneakers are no good at all for spinning!”

  Tall and slim, Marya was a year older than Tim and Molly, but in some ways she seemed quite a bit younger. Tim knew that was because she’d spent so much time in Free Country. She had left his world long before he’d been born, so everything here was brand-new to her. She and Molly had become close friends ever since they’d met at the Swan Dance School, where they both took classes.

  Marya grabbed her knapsack from where she had plopped it on the sidewalk. “Gotta go. Annie is going to take me to the ballet tonight, and I promised I’d help her at the café so she could leave early!”

  Annie was the cool waitress who had taken Marya in when the girl had decided to stay in this world rather than return to Free Country. She had helped Marya find Tim in the first place.

  “Have fun!” Molly called as Marya took off at a run.

  “I had an idea of something we could do this afternoon,” Tim said as Marya disappeared around the corner.

  “What’s that? And don’t say I get to watch you skate-board.” Molly pretended to yawn. “Because that would be sooo boring.”

  “No, I think this is something even you will find interesting,” Tim said, getting to his feet. He slung his backpack over one shoulder. “I thought we’d go on a picnic. I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet. Only they aren’t exactly people.”

  Molly jumped up. She glanced around to make sure no one was nearby who might overhear them. “Magic-type people?”

  “Exactly.” Tim grinned. “It’s time I gave you a minitour of my magical life.”

  “Awesome!”

  They strolled along the pavement. “So where are we having our picnic?” Molly asked.

  “You’ll see,” Tim said.

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Okay, Hunter, don’t think that just because you’re some kind of magical big shot that you can get away with acting all mysterious.”

  “I’m not,” Tim protested. “It’s just that if I tell you, it’s going to sound dumb, and I promise you that it isn’t.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that!” Molly declared with a grin.

  Tim grinned back. “This way.”

  Molly gave him a sidelong glance as they waited for the light to change. “How does it feel to do…to be magic?”

  Tim thought hard about her question. “Mostly confusing,” he admitted. “Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing, or what I’m expected to be doing, or if I’m supposed to be doing anything at all. But it’s also amazing. Especially when I manage to make something happen the way I want to—when I perform the magic on purpose instead of by accident.”

  He shook his head, knowing he could never find the exact words to even come close to explaining the energy surge, the connection to intense forces, and the clarity and concentration that magic required. “It’s powerful,” was what he finally came up with. “Scary and exciting, and exhilarating.”

  Molly nodded thoughtfully. “Do you use, I don’t know, tools? Like a magic wand or something?”

  “Not really. But I do have something that I think has magical properties.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smooth stone. “Tamlin, my real father, gave this to me,” he said, showing it to Molly. “It’s called an Opening Stone. I think it opens doors to other worlds.”

  “Wow. It keeps changing color,” Molly commented.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure why it does that.” Tim stuck it back in his pocket. “I still have a lot to learn about magic.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you’ve done pretty well in this self-taught crash course of yours.”

  As he thought about what Molly said, Tim realized it was kind of true. I really have come far in a short amount of time. It’s like I’ve been living in fast-forward. He grinned broadly. And it’s cool to think I can be a magical tour guide for Molly, instead of the trespasser I normally feel like.

  “What was the first magic you ever did?” Molly asked.

  “You’ll laugh,” Tim replied. “I turned my yo-yo into an owl.” He sighed. “I miss him. He saved my life.”

  As they rounded a corner Tim realized they were passing the cemetery. “Hang on. Let’s duck in here. There’s something I want to check out.”

  Molly looked slightly nervous. “Don’t tell me. You’re going to talk to ghosts and make dead people rise out of their graves?”

  “Nothing that gruesome, I promise.” He took her hand and pulled her along the pathway until they arrived at his mother’s grave. They stood together silently for a moment.

  “There’s something growing here,” Molly observed.

  “I planted them,” Tim murmured, gazing at the pale green shoots that now stood a foot high. “They’ve grown since the last time I was here.”

  “What are they?” Molly asked.

  Tim shrugged. “I don’t know. Death gave them to me.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Huh?”

  Tim stepped forward and peered at the plants. “They’ve got little buds on them. I wonder what they’re going to be.”

  “Did you say ‘Death’?”

  Tim glanced at Molly. “Why don’t I tell you that story later,” he said.

  “Fine by me,” Molly said. “The whole death thing gives me the shivers.”

  Tim gazed at his mother’s headstone and remembered the latest shock he’d experienced—the one about his mother’s identity. “Do you think she was telling the truth?” he asked Molly softly.

  “No.”

  Tim smiled. He didn’t even have to tell Molly what he was talking about, or who. She knew he meant Titania, the Queen of Faerie, who had recently claimed that she was Tim’s real mother. And she was none too happy about it. Neither was Tim, come to think of it.

  “I don’t trust that green queen,” Molly added. “I don’t know why she’d lie, but from what I saw, she might do
it just to mess with you.”

  “Possible.” Tim nodded. “She was mad at me for so many things.”

  “Maybe she wants to mess with your mind because you’re so powerful,” Molly suggested. “You know, the way athletes try to psych out their best opponents before a big game.”

  “Could be.”

  “I’d steer clear of her, if I was you,” Molly warned. “She’s got one nasty temper.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tim said. “I certainly have no plans to visit Faerie anytime soon.”

  Molly continued to stare at the green shoots. “Weird that life can come from death,” she said finally.

  Tim nodded. “Yeah, Death is kind of like that. She’s really different from what you would think.”

  “She?” Then Molly shook her head. “Another time, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  Molly gazed around the cemetery. “So was this where you wanted us to have our picnic? I thought you were going to introduce me to someone. It’s not a dead person, is it?”

  Tim laughed. “Nope. Very far from it. Let’s go.”

  They wandered along the quiet pathway leading out of the cemetery. As they reached the exit, Tim felt his throat tighten a bit with emotion.

  “You know, it’s really great for me to be able to talk to you about this stuff,” Tim said. “I hated having secrets from you.”

  Molly gave him a quick sideways glance. “I knew about it, you know,” Molly confessed. “Oh, not what the secret was but that you had one.”

  “Really?” Tim asked. “How?”

  Molly shrugged. “My grandma used to tell me I was fey. Now, most people would consider that another word for crazy, and there’s certainly O’Reillys who are mad as loons. But Granny always said it meant that I was sensitive to things. I knew something was up. I never asked because I figured you would tell me when you were ready.”

  “Thanks for that,” Tim said.

  “Besides,” Molly added, poking him in the side, “I knew if I wanted to I could just arm wrestle the secret out of you.”