The Wishing Heart

by J. C. Welker

  “You know not what you’re up against,” Lady Danu said.

  “But I do.” Anjeline looked to the Sisters. “Within your visions of the future, you beheld freedom. You cannot deny that.”

  “We see fear. The most frightening thing in the world is fear of loss. One heart can bring tremendous devastation, or tremendous healing…” The Fates’ eyes reflected a different picture now, beholding two silhouettes. The image blurred into focus until it showed a fiery figure kneeling over a broken body, lying cradled by a nest of stars.

  Rebel lurched forward. “What is that?”

  The image winked out of their eyes, and a noise came from the Fates, like an exhaling of life. “A glimpse of a possible future,” Anjeline said quietly, with a fear in her gaze that surprised Rebel.

  The chance of failure hit her like a fist to the heart. A cavernous pit of uncertainty. She glanced from Lady Danu, as still as a statue, to Anjeline’s face tensed in worry, and could hear the old mermaid’s warning. You go on this journey, you will die on it. She held Anjeline’s gaze for a moment, knowing something tied them together, something with the power to cure her heart, sending it into a symphony. And she wondered, not for the first time, if this journey really would be the death of her.

  The Fates steepled their fingers in front of their mouthless faces. “Only one path leads to your survival, girl, and your freedom, jinni…” The words hung in the air, and small noises whiffled about as though they were discussing among themselves. “The Book of Knowledge will give you an answer for the sacrifice. You must ask it together. Betake yourself to the magician who holds it. Jezreel the Keeper.”

  Confused, Rebel asked, “By what means can we get to him?”

  “How else you humans travel? You take a cab.” The Fates turned their backs on them in a soundless whirl but said one last thing, “Remember, darkness is a funny thing. It creeps in when you’re not looking.” They pushed up their hoods before floating to the center of the silks, taking up their thread of many lives and knitting once more.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The cabbie yanked the wheel, navigating the turn with speed.

  The contents of Rebel’s stomach slammed into her throat. She went sliding on the backseat, crushing into Anjeline’s side, sending wonderful tingles up to her chest. If this journey wasn’t the death of her, this cab ride might possibly be.

  “Loathe human travel,” Piran rasped, keeping his jacket bound around his wings. His face puckered, perhaps regretting being their guide to the magician.

  The cab turned another street corner, and they nearly smashed into the backseat partition. “Oi?” The cabbie called. “You wants to go down Tower Street, din’cha?”

  Rebel groaned in resentment.

  “This’s worse than being in the vessel with you running about,” Anjeline whispered as strands of hair fell into her blazing eyes. Their shoulders bumped together, sending Rebel’s heart knocking against her ribs. She pulled the hoodie lower over Anjeline’s head, concealing what she could of her fieriness. But it did little good. The vehicle stopped at a streetlight and the cabbie leered at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Eyes on the road,” Rebel snapped.

  “Just listenin’ to da horrid news,” the cabbie said. “A beast of an animal be loose.”

  She shared a confused glance with Anjeline. The radio blared, announcing the death of a businessman, who had been covertly dumping waste chemicals into the river. This morning, he was found floating upside down in it, possibly murdered—and partially devoured. The news reporter continued in a dramatic tone. “Judging by the teeth marks, authorities speculate it was some type of animal. In other news, a group of university students had a rutted night in which they claimed they were lured by a beautiful songstress and bound into a cage under the Tower Bridge. They escaped by a harrowing act which they say came from a fox…”

  Rebel stilled. Guilt pierced her as she suspected whom the singing culprit happened to be. There was but one songstress who now possessed legs. “This is all my fault.”

  “It’s the Siren’s misdeeds.” Piran kept his voice low.

  Anjeline nodded. “Not yours.”

  “She would’ve never cast her wish if I hadn’t trusted Jaxon.” It still hurt to think of him, of his friendship and the way he’d thrown it away without a second glance. If humans were harmed at the Siren’s doing, then surely it was her responsibility to right the wrongs.

  “They’ll reap their consequences. Soon.” Anjeline reached out to touch her hand but pulled back, appearing to think better of it. Again, the hot and cold. Rebel was struck by the overwhelming desire to know what she was thinking, and then rolled her eyes. She had more important matters at hand than her growing feelings.

  After two more streetlights, the cab pulled up to a curb.

  From his jacket, Piran withdrew a small pouch, opened it, and pinched dark powder between his fingers. “Thank you for the ghastliest ride.” He blew the sparkling dust at the cabbie. The man’s face split into a smile, forgetting their existence as they exited the cab.

  Rebel peered up at the building they now stood before, and Anjeline’s eyes followed as if trying to digest what she saw. “The Magus Order resides here?” Rebel asked. “Shouldn’t it look more, well, maximized for sorcery or something?”

  She expected an impressive structure. A hidden fortress, maybe. But this brick building was nothing to gaze at, barely noticed among the skyscrapers hugging it on either side. It looked smashed between the high-rises, like a relic of stone. Other than the brass star hanging above the entrance, the building had no signs or markings. People passed, not giving it any attention as though it hadn’t existed. Or maybe, she realized, the building isn’t meant to be noticed.

  “You think there wouldn’t be wards on a magician’s sanctuary?” Piran said. “Less attention equals less trouble for the Order.”

  The moment they crossed the building’s threshold and the door closed behind them, Rebel sensed the faint wards of energy and felt Anjeline shiver. The sounds of the street faded as though they had entered a dream. The walls and ceiling gleamed of black marble veined in crimson. A massive column sat in the middle of the foyer, blocking access to a single elevator.

  Plucking a stylus from his jacket, Piran drew two circles on the column. As the lines gleamed, the column began to move. It turned clockwise, displaying a hidden door that slid open. And there sat a man on a stool. He blinked owlishly at them, his face wrinkled up like weathered bark, and when he opened his mouth, his voice echoed. “Who disturbs my slumber?”

  “Old Oldrich,” Piran greeted. “We have orders from Lady Danu.”

  Craning his neck, the man’s gaze swayed between them. “Yes, yes. The Wishmaker.” His face softened with dreaminess. “What magus you come seeking?”

  “Jezreel the Keeper.”

  Holding out his creased hands, Old Oldrich waved them forward, and as they stepped closer, his nocturnal-like gaze analyzed Anjeline in pleasure. When he turned to appraise Rebel, his features puckered and his eyes flashed. “Swindlers aren’t allowed entrance—” He raised one shriveled finger that glowed crimson.

  “The Fates sent us,” Anjeline snapped, her eyes shining with their own warning. “Rebel is my guard. Where I go, she goes.” She moved slightly, bumping their shoulders together. A smile threatened to overtake Rebel and she felt grateful that those eyes were burning a hole in his, and not his finger in her.

  “The Fates?” Oldrich lowered his finger. “Pass you may, Wishmaker, but the swindler must remedy a riddle to enter the Magus Order.”

  Rebel rolled her eyes. Even magicians had their form of codes. She gave a nod and realized “why a riddle?” hadn’t reached her lips. The longer she spent engulfed in magic, the less she felt the need to question, for nothing made sense, regardless.

  Leaning toward her, unblinking, Old Oldrich recited the riddle. “I can be stolen or given away and you will live, yet you cannot live without me. Tell me, what am I?�
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  For several beats, she racked her brain. She disliked riddles, never cared for word problems, not that she’d attended school long enough to be taught properly. All right—what could you give away? But you couldn’t live without it? She dimly remembered something from her books, a tale regarding stolen treasures. Riddles had obvious answers, which became clear only after you knew what that answer was.

  “You know this.” Anjeline touched her arm.

  The gentle contact buzzed over Rebel’s skin, humming all the way through her to her beating chest. I can be stolen or given away and you will live, yet you cannot live without me… Oh? Then she thought gravely: oh. She scowled at the man. Was he making a joke?

  “A heart,” Rebel answered.

  Oldrich simpered. “You’ve chosen well, Wishmaker.”

  An agreeing smile flickered over Anjeline’s face, and with a wave of Oldrich’s fingers, the elevator’s iron doors opened, and they stepped inside. “Floor thirteen,” he yelled up to the elevator as if it comprehended.

  With no need of assistance, the doors closed, and it began to lift.

  Her gaze drifted to Anjeline, and Rebel wondered how long she knew the answer to the riddle. Probably since the old man had voiced it. With every step on this journey, she could feel the void widening, the distance growing, taking them closer to freedom and her further from Anjeline. She chided herself for feeling this way when she knew Anjeline would soon be leaving. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  She felt a thumb rub the skin on her inner wrist, and her heart thundered in her chest. Anjeline’s eyes met hers as if understanding her thoughts, between the space that divided them. But the moment was halted at the elevator ding.

  Thirteen glared in glowing letters on the door as they glided open.

  Down they went, into a corridor lined in a checkered floor and onyx doors, all inscribed in different rune-like symbols. To her disappointment, the hall was empty. She expected magicians to be lingering about—or at least something unusual. Piran came to a stop in front of one particular door. A brass label proclaimed: Jezreel the Keeper, Magician. Below the title, a symbol was carved in the shape of a spiral with a line merging in it.

  Rebel waved her fingers over the sign, sensing the faint buzz of energy that signaled the presence of magic, and understood. “His mark?”

  As Piran nodded to them, his hair glimmered, moonlike. “Jezreel’s an icon among magicians. Done great things for the Sun Court.” He eyeballed Rebel. “But he’s rather eccentric, so don’t annoy him.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Maybe he can give you a funny bone and me a heart.”

  “Or brains.” Piran grinned. Avoiding the iron doorknob, he rang the bell.

  No one answered. He sighed, his bangs puffing out with his breath, and he knocked this time. The door creaked open. She shared a glance with Anjeline, taking that as an invitation. They brushed by him and pushed it open, stepping into the place. It was an enormous room, lit by the high windows that looked out over the city, within sight of the Tower of London. Puzzlement mixed with delight when her eyes landed on the sight greeting her.

  A labyrinth of tomes.

  Books were stacked into towers, practically rebuilding a tree, creating a forest of knowledge. Leather-bound hardbacks sat against parchments, and scrolls of spells rested atop open manuals on every subject from alchemy to necromancy. Rebel’s eyes glossed over as she touched the spines of a few, breathing in the familiar smell of leather and oils from countless fingers, like a fine bouquet.

  Anjeline eyed her in amusement. “This must be what your heaven looks like.”

  In addition to the countless books, the room overflowed with Jinn. Statues of Jinn on plinth stands, Jinn paintings and frescoes. For every book, it seemed there were as many statues, warlike Jinn, beast-like Jinn, blue and crimson Jinn, even one that, Rebel noted, looked an awful lot like Anjeline. They passed paintings hanging crookedly along the walls, portraits of magicians with fiery beings.

  Piran’s wings shivered. “Sir Jezreel?” he called.

  “Come in! Come in!” yelled a muffled voice from behind a bookshelf.

  Narrow walkways of books led them between a complex network to another wall of shelves, where they heard someone struggling. They hastened through the aisles toward the voice and came upon a bookshelf where a head of white hair was peeking through books.

  “If you please, I’m stuck,” the magician said.

  Around the side of the bookcase, they saw the other half of the magician’s body protruding out, standing on the tall ladder set against it. The magician was pinned, his head and arms wedged between the slats of the wooden ledge. In a few minutes, Piran had crawled up the bookcase and extracted him. He sat the magician on a sofa squeezed between two bookshelves and in front of a crackling fireplace, looking a little worse for wear.

  Jezreel the Keeper was a parody of a man, slight of frame and long of nose, with hair sticking up in wild tufts and a handlebar mustache to match. His magician’s coat was embroidered with a gargantuan roc bird on the chest. “Thank you, dears,” he breathed. “I was trying to reach a tome of Merlin’s, but the slippery book got away from me.”

  Rebel glanced around. Across the hall, a tattered book with archaic markings actually seemed to move toward a pyramid of other tomes.

  “Good to see you, Piran. I was wondering when you would arrive.” Jezreel adjusted his small spectacles that kept slipping down his nose and smiled.

  Piran bowed to the magician. “Sir, where are your guards?”

  “Oh, they were irritating me. I’ve come down with allergies. Allergic to Sidhe dust.” He waved it off, the sleeves of his coat flapping. “Now that you’re here, everything is going to be fine. All will work out for those who toil so hard.”

  His words sounded like a riddle, and Rebel understood what Piran had meant before. There was something about his face that looked both young and old, and he wore what appeared to be pajama pants poking out from under his garish magician’s garment.

  “Sir, you received Lady Danu’s message?” Piran asked.

  “Indeed.” Jezreel twisted his mustache handle, and his eyes sparkled as they locked onto Anjeline. “The Wishmaker. Solomon’s Batal.”

  He looked her over in appraisal, for longer than necessary. Rebel didn’t like it. Something about his gaze on Anjeline disconcerted her. It took a moment to realize why. He was a magician, after all. He had summoned Jinn before, possibly even attempted to invoke Anjeline at one time.

  Anjeline gave him a nod. “We haven’t met, or I’d remember.”

  “No, no.” Jezreel waved a bony hand. “But I’ve heard many wonders respecting you. It’s an honor you came to me. Surprising, though, that you come out in the open like this, and with the vessel?” He looked her over, searching for any sign of it.

  “It’s safe.” Rebel patted her satchel.

  Jezreel’s bushy brows inched up, as if she had sprouted an extra eyeball. “That’s dangerous, isn’t it?” He stood, limping a little closer to her, and the layers of his coat swished. “One possessing magic could simply steal it from you.”

  “You can’t steal from the Fingersmith.” She gave her trademark grin. “I might be magic-less but I still give a good throat punch.”

  He sized her up. “You must be the Fingersmith? The one on the black list of each Court, hunted by the Prince of the underneath? I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

  Rebel’s smugness burned out like a match. It might have been the tone of his voice or the return to reality that made the unease rise inside her. She wasn’t the only one. Anjeline’s scowl emerged, staring him down, and she stepped between them, staying close to Rebel—not touching, but close enough that Rebel could feel the warmth and hum of her presence.

  “We take it you heard news of the Siren’s exploits?” Anjeline persisted.

  Jezreel nodded. “Bloody Siren.” He spoke in a sinister whisper and turned to Rebel. “Whatever anonymity you might have had, y
our thieving ways have put an end to that. The wolves are afoot.” He flicked a hand toward the television set against the wall.

  An announcer came on the screen, her hair in a perfect coif. She warned of recent animal attacks, reporting several unconfirmed cases as the screen changed and a building’s sign flashed across it: Gramone’s Institute. Rebel stiffened at the sight. “An Institute for displaced youth was reported to have been wrecked by a mob of wild animals,” the reporter went on, “however, the new headmistress denied the youths’ claims that these animals were in fact…wolves…”

  Rebel stared at the screen with startled eyes. The Institute appeared in complete disarray. Windows shattered. The entrance doors were splintered in half. Behind the news cameras, she noticed the new headmistress there, a woman who looked far less human. Lady Danu had promised she would extract Madame Gramone, and she’d kept to her promise. Just in time for the Institute to be warded off from Wulfram and his pack. Ironic, how things worked out. Or didn’t.

  Piran looked to her. “The Night Guard’s scented you out.”

  Even through her leather jacket, she felt Anjeline’s warm hand on her now, the heat bleeding through her rising dread. Again, Rebel’s heart gave a little purr at the contact. Anjeline looked as though she wanted to close the distance between them, but wouldn’t. Rebel stared at her hand, ignoring the images on the screen and the remnants of what her actions had damaged.

  “Romp with beasts and you’ll bear the scars.” Jezreel’s words sounded judgmental, but when she glanced his way, he grinned.

  There might have been a time when Rebel would’ve bitten back with a witty retort, but now wasn’t that moment. “More to the point. Can you help or not?” she asked.

  His brows quirked. “In a hurry, are we?”

  “You’re our last hope for an answer.” Anjeline lowered her hood, her eyes caught the faint bit of light, and the smoke that sizzled off her could not be ignored. “The Fates wouldn’t have sent us to you if we didn’t require the Book of Knowledge.”