by Anton Strout
“A saving throw,” he added, like we were being stupid.
I started to ask what the hell a saving throw was and what it had to do with this, but Marshall cut me off.
“Look, that’s not really the important part,” he said. “I just need you to trust me.”
Rory shot me a look of doubt and I couldn’t help but return it.
Marshall looked hurt for a second, but whatever had him giddy was too overpowering for him and he went back to his manic look. “Nice,” he said, dismissing us. He dug his fingers into our shoulders, pulling us close and lowering his voice.
“I’m not kidding about needing to trust me,” he continued.
“Okay,” I said, a bit confused. “Consider yourself trusted.”
He looked to Rory.
“After everything we’ve fought together?” she said. “Done! Trusted!”
“Now, I need you to disbelieve what you see,” he said.
“And how does one go about that, exactly?” I asked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said without losing a beat of enthusiasm. He thought a moment. “Years of gaming must have helped shape that particular mental muscle in me. Let’s see . . . I guess you just have to trust me over your senses. Normally you believe what you see, right? I’m asking you to believe what I see.”
He motioned out across the floor of the empty arena. “For instance, I need you to imagine that this entire space looks like an impromptu Renaissance festival. There’s people scattered about, people like you and me . . . although there’s a lot of eccentric-looking folk here, too. There are aisles and little shops, and overhead . . . just imagine a pyrotechnic Quidditch match going on.”
Rory sighed. “Marshall . . .”
“Just trust me.”
Although I felt as ridiculous as Rory clearly did, I doubted my own senses and decided to buy into exactly what Marshall was telling me. I couldn’t see any of what he was saying, but I believed it was there.
Something in my mind shifted, feeling like a sharp and sudden dizziness. Much like the changing appearance of Warren’s home from composed to destroyed by a gargoyle, the empty arena all around me began to shimmer, the motion disorienting to the point where I had to fight not to throw up. I didn’t think puking was going to win me any points with whoever was watching. Then everyone else seemed to see it as well, keeping it together, but Rory stumbled and fell to her knees as she tried to take it in.
The empty arena filled with pockets of people everywhere, although it was far from full. They gradually appeared along with sections of tables, stalls, thrones, and chairs throughout the space. Great cauldrons of fire held flames that rose high into the arena, the lighting giving the space an almost primitive cavelike quality. High above, witches and warlocks flew to and fro with the aid of traditional brooms, cloth wings, or by some means I could not quite see. Colors erupted like fireworks as several blasts of energy shot across the open air or at each other, the impacts bursting with explosive lights before fading away with a distinct sizzling sound.
“Holy cats,” Rory exclaimed as she stood back up.
Marshall craned his neck straight up as he tried to take it all in. “This is exactly what I had imagined something like this would look like.”
Rory steadied herself by using her weapon to lean on, marveling at the spectacle all around us. “Whoa,” was all she managed to get out.
“Looks like we found Platform Nine and Three-Quarters,” I said.
Warren had already taken off again, now weaving through the stalls, tables, and people on the floor of the arena. Caleb kept up his pace, ignoring just about everything going on around him. I guess having been part of this world for so long had left him unimpressed.
Rory and I were still busy pushing through the noisy crowd when Warren and Caleb stopped far ahead before an ornate heavy table carved with runic symbols. A single wooden throne sat behind it, several feet higher than the table itself, occupied by a blond woman who looked maybe ten years older than me. At the table before her several men and women worked at a frantic pace on its clutter of maps, stacks of books, and loose paper everywhere.
“I told you they pose no threat,” Warren said to the woman.
“We will determine that,” the woman’s voice boomed out in the space. “Bring them closer.”
Warren beckoned us to him, and the crowd parted as we went. He moved around to the other side of the table, leaving Caleb behind to line up with the rest of us before the woman. I felt like we were being summoned before the principal.
The woman’s hands rested on the arms of her throne, her nails stereotypical with a witchy black gloss coat, giving her a real Goth-past-her-prime look. I had expected someone looking like Maleficent, but this woman’s features were gorgeous—her face soft and full, all of it surrounded by a cascade of wavy blond hair that was equal parts Some Like It Hot and Baywatch. Her face betrayed nothing as she looked us over, running down the line of us. They passed over me and I met hers despite my nerves screaming for me to look away. When she finished examining all of us, her eyes came back to rest on me.
“Are you the one who demanded parlay?” she asked.
Parlay?
Given how relatively young she looked, the word came off ancient on her lips.
“That’s correct,” I said, then gave a nervous laugh.
One of her perfectly plucked eyebrows went up. “You find your presence before me amusing somehow?”
I covered my mouth and turned away for a second only to find Rory staring daggers at me.
“Forgive me,” I said, doing my best to compose myself and suppress my nerves. “I’m just not sure how to address you . . .”
The woman looked to Warren, and the warlock turned away from her gaze.
“Tsk, tsk, O’Shea,” she said. “Formalities, formalities . . . What would happen if our kind gave up on the finer points of civilization, hmm? We’d still be trying to sling plague spells at each other from our respective caves. Manners, Mr. O’Shea.”
Warren nodded, and though I could see a fire burning in his eyes, when he spoke there was no vitriol in it. “Yes, of course,” he said. “My apologies.”
She turned back to us. “I believe introductions are in order,” she said, eyes moving to Caleb. “Hello again, Mr. Kennedy.”
“Hey, Laurien,” he said. “How are those special creams working out for you?”
“I’ve felt younger,” she said, sounding completely and utterly unimpressed.
“Haven’t we all?” Warren muttered off to the side.
She held her smooth-skinned hands up, flexing them. For a split second they appeared wrinkled, then went back to their state of perfection.
“I can fix that,” Caleb said. There was no hint of worry or concern in his voice, charm oozing out of every word and finished off with that crooked winning smile of his.
“For what I paid, I should hope so,” she said, and moved down the line to Marshall.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Blackmoore.”
Rory and I both shot Marshall surprised looks.
“What?” he asked. “Laurien is a steady customer. How was I supposed to know she was the Wonderful Witchess of Oz?”
“Isn’t ‘know your customer,’ like, job one of owning a business?” I asked.
Warren cleared his throat, and I stopped bickering long enough for Rory to step forward.
She tapped her pole arm on the floor and gave a low, deep curtsy with all of her dancer’s grace. “I’m Aurora Torres,” she said. “Your Majesty.”
“‘Your Majesty,’” the woman repeated. She looked to her group of people working at the table. “I like that. You could all take a lesson from her.”
Either they were too busy to respond or they didn’t want to. By the eye rolls I saw, I was banking on the latter.
�
�I’m Alexandra Belarus,” I said, adding, “Your Majesty.”
The woman smiled. “Belarus,” she said. “Interesting . . .”
“Is it?” I asked.
“It is,” she said, giving a single nod. “I am Laurien du Lac. And you need not call me ‘Your Majesty.’ Laurien will suffice.”
I relaxed at that, but only for a second.
“Why do you find my family name so interesting, Laurien?”
“Oh, we are quite aware of the activities of your kind,” she said.
“Our kind?” I asked, not sure whether I should be offended.
Rory, on the other hand, had already decided.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Rory asked, stepping forward with enough anger on her face that I had to grab her arm.
The assembled people at the table had stopped working now, their eyes all on the exchange that they just happened to be in the middle of.
“I’ve got this, Ror,” I told her and turned back to the head of the council. “Forgive my friend, but that came out sort of accusatory.”
“J’accuse,” Laurien said, holding a hand up as if making a solemn swear.
The smug look on her face and the whole holier-than-thou tone grated on my last nerve. Rory hissed in pain and I looked over to find that my nails digging into her arm were the cause of it.
“Would you care to elucidate?” I asked. “Or would you prefer I unleash my friend on you?”
“Long have we known of the Spellmasons,” she said. “And long have we been relieved to see them absent these past few centuries.”
“Hey, this is my family you’re talking about!”
“Understood,” she said, her voice becoming more hesitant and diplomatic, “but be that as it may, my people were happy to hear of Alexander Belarus’s disappearance.”
“You know of my great-great-grandfather?” I asked. “Then why would you say that?”
“You seem to be under the impression that he should be held in some kind of high esteem . . . ?” she said. I nodded. “Let’s just say that introducing an old-world creature such as the gargoyle into this country was not considered by most of the existent magical community to be the most welcome of choices.”
“My great-great-grandfather was a great man,” I said, hearing how defensive my voice was.
“I know our history,” Laurien said with a triumphant smile. “Do you know yours, Miss Belarus?”
“I . . . I thought I did.”
“And now you come before me with little understanding of your family’s past or the chaos you have unleashed upon our city.”
“We came here because we wanted your people to stop hunting us down,” Rory added. “We came here in peace!”
“I suppose that’s a weapon of peace, is it?” Laurien said, pointing to the pole arm in Rory’s hand.
“The important thing is that we came,” I said, talking over the two of them. “I set this up. I wanted to lay things out on the table.”
“It’s taken you some time to come around to it,” she countered.
“Hell, six months ago, I didn’t even know there was a magical community,” I said. “It wasn’t until I met Caleb that I even heard about all of you. And again, I did make the effort to come before you.”
“But only after unleashing hordes of gargoyles all over our city,” Laurien said pointedly.
“I’ll own that,” I said. “I’m not making excuses, but it was an accident—”
Caleb stepped between us. “Ladies, ladies . . . this is no time to play the blame game about who may or may not have been responsible for the Great Gargoyle Fiasco of last year.”
Rory hmphed, drawing a look from Caleb, but she said nothing.
She might be pissed about Caleb’s part in all of it or that he was quickly trying to cover his own ass, but she was also smart enough to realize that here and now was not the place to bring it up.
“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” I said. “This is about the Cagliostro Medallion and one particular gargoyle who wants it. You may have heard of him in his previous human life as the Butcher of the Bowery.”
“An enemy of the Convocation,” Warren added, giving no indicator of his involvement in all this, which I found strange.
Laurien raised an eyebrow at that. “This is a serious threat of which you speak,” she said. “Why should I trust the word of a Belarus?”
“I came here to help as best I can!” I said with exasperation starting to take over. “What is your problem with my family anyway?”
“It seems you know less of your history than you think you do,” Laurien said with a little smugness to her words. “Your family’s disappearance from our circles is looked upon as a great day. The cowardly disappearance of the last Spellmason was a boon.”
“Alexander Belarus wasn’t a coward,” I said with rising anger growing in me. “He chose to disappear. He went off the grid because he worried what people would do if they got ahold of his secrets. He knew the chaos that would ensue if madmen were to learn the arcana of the Spellmasons.”
Laurien sat in quiet contemplation on her throne for a few moments, then stood, walking around the table to me. She took my hands in hers, which I found remarkably cold. I couldn’t suppress a shiver. Laurien smiled.
“Walk with me,” she said, and led me off in silence into the impromptu marketplace.
“You speak of Alexander Belarus with pride,” she said when we were halfway down one of the aisles, “as if he were noble.”
“He was.”
Laurien laughed. “That is not the man our history remembers.”
“No?”
“You call him hero, no doubt, given your name,” she said. “We call him killer.”
I stopped in the aisle as if slapped. “Excuse me?”
“He came before this Convocation wishing to form a guild,” she said. “He seemed lonely more than anything, hoping he could find connection among our arcane kind, but he did not fit well. He was closed off, a reluctant teacher, wanting to reap the benefits of being one of us, but keeping much of his work secret.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Alexander had come to this country in fear of his life. Even when he found like-minded practitioners of the arcane arts, no doubt that fear crippled him from sharing. Even my own education on Spellmasonry has been hard-won, like assembling a giant puzzle. I take it his reluctance to share made him unwelcome among your people?”
“Worse,” Laurien said. “One day one of his students went missing, and while none of our people could find damning proof, Alexander’s disappearance—and that of the Spellmason secrets—seemed a rather telling jury.”
“I don’t come from a long line of murderers,” I said. “I can promise you that.”
“We shall see,” Laurien said.
“My great-great-grandfather went off the radar to protect people, to keep others from abusing his power. If one of your people crossed him, I’m sure he took care of it, but I don’t think he would have murdered them.”
I didn’t mention the large stone golem that might have done a bit of that handiwork on his behalf. The last thing I needed was for Laurien and her people to have confirmation of my family’s hand in direct gargoyle violence.
Laurien’s face shifted to a softer look as she considered my words, lightening the mood even though she looked far from convinced by them.
“You know, I can understand his wanting to disappear,” she said. “As you say, I am sure there were those who wished to take advantage of his knowledge, of his power. There are times when I wish I could disappear as well.”
“You’re a witch,” I said. “I’m sure you can disappear if you want.”
“Yes, but not the way Alexander did.”
“You talk like you were there,” I said. “How old are you?”
She smiled, and looked down at me. “Surely you know it’s impolite to ask a woman her age.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let me rephrase. Is it possible you knew my great-great-grandfather?”
Laurien shook her head. “There are ways for humans to extend their lives, especially among our kind,” she said, “but none that I know of that will last for centuries upon centuries. Would that there were!”
We continued along through the stalls, the witch examining table after table of laid-out items. While she perused the goods there, I watched the stalls’ owners. Face after face at booth after booth was filled with an eager hope in their eyes. These people wanted her approval; they craved it. She tapped her dark nails at several items as we went, and the owners would pull them from the tables and pile them away from the rest of their wares.
I had a million questions, but I decided to take things easy with her as I sized the woman up. After several minutes of shopping silence, she took me to the far end of the arena away from everyone.
“Tell me, Alexandra Belarus, what is your intention in my city?”
“Not to sound competitive,” I countered, “but I sort of think of it as my city, too.”
“That does come off as competitive,” she said. “Do you think to take this city over with these gargoyles you have unleashed, then?”
“What?” I asked, a little shaken. “No. I simply meant I grew up here. Born and raised. I love New York. I’m not looking to take it over.”
Laurien studied my face, no doubt looking for a hint that I was lying or was being insincere, but I had nothing to hide.
“Good,” she said. “Personally, I always wanted power, but now that I have it . . . Well, I spend much of my days settling petty squabbles.”
I looked up at the explosions and flares of light that the flying witches and warlocks were hurdling at one another.
“Is that what’s going on up there?” I asked.
She nodded. “There are many issues that need resolution when it comes to the arcane community of the greater New York area. Decision by Right of Conflict is one of the ways our people can seek resolution.”
“What could there possibly be to fight about?” I asked.