by Evelyn Snow
I’d come down later than usual, hoping to avoid my uncle. It looked like I’d succeeded. Aunt Phoebe was usually out and about by this time, volunteering at the hospital or attending her book club.
“Who’s back?”
She continued to scan the neighborhood as if random hit squads roamed the streets of Montemar, California. “They’re across the street. I don’t know their names. They could be anyone.”
Who wasn’t?
My footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. I passed the antique player piano, and a settee upholstered in a lush floral fabric. I rarely entered this room. The antiques and delicate fabrics nearly gave me hives. From the time I’d been a little kid, the room had been off-limits. Even now, I was always afraid I’d misstep and break something, especially the player piano. It didn’t work and had been years since anyone had lifted the cover from the keyboard for any reason other than dusting.
I peered through the window, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. “Remind me why you’re keeping watch?”
Our neighborhood was close-in to Montemar’s downtown and zoned for multi-use. Across the street, new owners had refurbished an old two-story brick warehouse. It was now a maker space that rented to people in need of a place to work on cars, trucks and buses. The name was unfortunate though—Rolling Thunder. While it evoked vintage hot rods, the name was all too descriptive. After ten in the evening when most of the neighbors wanted peace and quiet, Rolling Thunder ran 24/7 on loud music, bright lights, and open windows. My uncle talked to the owners and convinced them to put restrictions on music. That hadn’t stopped the pounding of hammers or the whine of drills, lathes, grinders, and the deep-throated rumble of diesel engines.
Aunt Phoebe pointed to a sleek, black Mercedes S-class parked in front of an open garage door. “Why would someone driving an expensive car take it there? Why not go to a dealership? German engineering, I’m told, can be very persnickety.”
“Persnickety is probably number one on their buyer checklist,” I offered and even managed to keep a straight face. “What if the owner of the car is just visiting? Or he knows someone.” Or any of a hundred other reasons.
“No way.” She lowered the binoculars and said in a loud whisper. “The driver is a shifter … or a vampire. I’m not sure which, but I’ve seen him before. I’m sure of it. My friend at the hospital said I might be on to something.”
“Naturally, hospice volunteers also happen to be experts at identifying shifters and vampires.”
She dropped the binoculars long enough to shoot me an affronted glance. “Why not?”
I sighed and might have rolled my eyes. Not admitting to anything.
“Oh, stop it,” Aunt Phoebe snapped. “I’m not wrong and you know it. Shifters and vampires are behind most of the drug deals and trafficking in contraband these days. I’m not ignorant. I keep up with the news.”
All media reports aside, fake or accurate, my aunt hadn’t taken Disclosure well. She wasn’t alone. Panels of experts had suggested the first ten years would be the most difficult period of adjustment for the average person. No one knew what algorithm had generated the ten-year estimate. It was one of those “nine out of ten experts agree” things that became common knowledge on the Internet. Those same experts stated that after the first decade, everyone should have had enough time to get used to the new reality—theoretically. They’d never met Aunt Phoebe. More than a decade later, she was still finding a conspiracy or a threat on every corner.
“Seeing a guy across the street who might be supernatural is scary. I get it. But what has he done to you?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“They’re up to something.”
I raised a brow. “And when they’re about to launch their evil and dastardly plan, you’ll be ready? Is that the idea?”
“Exactly. You’re such a smarty pants.” She beamed and tucked a lock of dark hair threaded with gray behind one ear. “It’s like I always say to your uncle—one of these days Evie will come around, you’ll see. All we need to do is have faith.”
What did I say to that?
Aunt Phoebe might have the market cornered on paranoia, but she was also the sweetest, kindest person I’d ever known. It was her sweetness that was too soft emotionally to handle the rapid changes in the world. I couldn’t change my nature; it wasn’t fair for me to expect her to change. If I could, though, I would protect her any way I knew how. A woman fearless enough to sit by the beside of someone about to die was a hero in my book.
“I’m heading out.” I gave her a quick hug.
Her lips curled with disapproval. “Are you crossing that infernal bridge today?”
“Yes.” How much had my uncle told her? He often kept her in the dark for both our sakes. Nobody wanted to see Aunt Phoebe’s fears reach critical mass. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings with my terminal lack of patience.
“Traipsing across that awful bridge is treacherous. I don’t mind telling you it keeps me up nights thinking about the dangers you face every time.” She left the window and deposited her binoculars on top of the player piano. The brass plate above the keyboard read Hohendorfer. From the time I was a kid, I’d always called it Wolfgang, which was easier to pronounce.
“I’ll stay safe. I promise.”
“Make sure you do,” she warned, “because if you don’t, I’m coming after you—magical bridge or no magical bridge.”
Chapter 3
I couldn’t afford to be late. The county bus lines made a limited number of runs beyond the city limits and the bridge to Serenity Point was about fifteen miles south of town. If I missed the 10:03 A.M. bus, there wouldn’t be another until nearly noon.
Forget problems from missing the test which would be bad enough. I wasn’t sure what the consequences would be if the time-delayed spell on the dummy activated while I was still on the Greater World side. I didn’t want to find out.
There were rumors the powerful witches and wizards of Rhiannon’s Wheel, which was the governing body for all paranormals, had ways of detecting and measuring magic deployed on this side of the Pale. Today was not the day to test and see if the rumors were true.
Holden Blackwood, who was my best friend and the boy who’d found me after the bridge collapse, would be waiting for me at the stop along the highway closest to the crossing. He was two years older and knew more about me than anyone else outside of Uncle Delano and Aunt Phoebe. While he refused to attend my exam, he’d insisted on going with me for moral support.
I made it with three minutes to spare. Leaning against the bus stop shelter was Gunny in his usual oversized camo jacket, cargos, and the heavy boots he wore no matter the weather. A duffle big enough to hold a medium-sized body rested at his feet. I suspected it contained everything Gunny owned in the world. He never went anywhere without it.
He tilted the reflective aviator sunglasses he always wore and peered over the rims, revealing a pair of winter gray eyes under a scraggle of coiled gray hair. “I knew I’d see you today. Gonna be a wild one.”
Gunny belonged to the homeless community that migrated north and south along the West Coast with the seasons. I’d never asked about his history, figuring he’d tell me when and if it mattered. All I knew about him were the stories he told about his military service.
He spent his days riding the bus lines. More than once, I’d seen him offer assistance and bus passes to stranded travelers. Angels came in all guises, and Gunny had earned his wings.
“What flavor of wild should I be on the lookout for?” I asked, half-afraid of the answer. Gunny had studied the bridge and the Pale from this side of the fault more than anyone I knew outside of Holden.
He grinned. “Full smorgasbord. Full moon lunar eclipse. Perfect storm for a whole lot of crazy to go down.”
Crazy. Just what I needed more of in my life. Not. Although I’d never admit it, I was glad for Gunny’s presence. The number of women who disappeared every year along
the highway was scary—if I stopped to think about it. I didn’t allow my brain to go there for fear I’d become as paranoid as my aunt.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I told him as we boarded the bus.
After he took his seat across the aisle from mine, Gunny added, “Be sure you’re under a roof before dark.”
“Okay, I’ll remember. What about you?”
“Don’t you worry about ol’ Gunny. I’ve got me a hidey hole. Good’un, too.”
After that, he pulled out one of the map books he studied the way some riders read novels. I stared out the window while the wheels on the bus rolled.
South of town, I got off and set out on foot again, coughing occasionally from the ever-present ash in the air, lugging my backpack and the dummy.
The bridge to Serenity Point loomed in the distance. It looked like it had been ripped out of a fractured fairy tale and dropped onto the modern-day California coast. Rising from the center of the span was a three-story building with wide tunnels below to accommodate foot and wheeled traffic. Floating wooden barges supported the stone pillars underneath massive wooden timbers forming the cross-structure. If it seemed wildly unreasonable to use barges to support tons of stone and oak and forged metal, there was a simple answer: magic.
Some speculated the throwback design was because Arizona claimed the Nineteenth-century version of London Bridge. Cali opted to build a ye olde version so the state wouldn’t be upstaged
The always tricky truth about the bridge was that it had been designed by alchemists from the Nightingale Lands. Greater World architects and engineers had nothing to do with it.
The appearance was about what you’d expect from wyrd scientists who believed nothing worthwhile in science or engineering had been discovered since the year of our Lord, 1700. Using an ancient design was meant to prevent another disaster like the one that had killed a hundred other people besides my parents. The designers reasoning: Physics might fail, but magical spells were forever.
In the distance, Holden waited for me. Standing under the weight of the heavy wooden timbers above, he looked small and fragile. It was an illusion and part of the magic of the bridge. In reality, Holden was a lean six-two compared to my five-five. He had a mane of wild curly hair he usually tamed with an elastic band at the back of his neck.
When he lifted an arm and waved, I tried to wave back, but had to drop it to fight off a swell of nausea. The sick feeling wasn’t because of Holden; it was the bridge. I always reacted this way to it.
Despite my aunt’s firm convictions, I’d never agree with her that the bridge was evil. It was a thing made by human beings. Perhaps it was more unique because it stretched across a paranormal fault line, but it was still only a bridge, even if getting close to it made me want to hurl.
At my approach, Holden tilted his head and frowned. “Is that a pirate golem?”
I looked down at the dummy. The blunt end of one mud-caked wooden leg stuck out at an odd angle. Somewhere between the bus stop and here he had lost one of the pink rain boots. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I can see it.”
“What’s it for?” he asked.
“My test.”
He laughed. “If you say so.”
If my arms weren’t burdened with the dummy, I would have whacked him one.
We headed up the ramp onto the bridge. If we continued straight ahead, we would cross to Neverwood Island and stay in the Greater World. Every year, thousands of tourists crossed to the island, never dreaming the quaint bridge concealed access to another world.
Because Holden and I were headed to Serenity Point, we needed to make a turn—hopefully without a misstep that meant falling into the Pacific Ocean. Making the turn successfully meant going sideways. Sort of.
Holden went first, and I followed. He pivoted away from the lanes leading to Neverwood. To an ordinary observer, it would have looked as if he’d blinked out of sight. In a sense, he was still there. It was there that had changed. I could still see him because I was a witch.
The move was hard to explain to someone who’d never done it before. The best I’d come up with was to say it was like turning at a ninety-degree angle to reality and then slipping through an invisible doorway that hadn’t been there until the precise moment you were ready to step through.
Once, Holden had tried to explain it by saying the doorway wouldn’t appear until the observer was ready to see it. Physics or whatever, which had never been my strong suit. I didn’t have to understand an internal combustion engine to operate a vehicle. Holden, on the other hand, would have given anything to understand the magical spells and mechanisms behind the bridge.
Once we’d made the shift and crossed through the clouds and fog of the Pale, the air cleared. The ever-present smoke from the California fires had vanished. Fluffy clouds dotted a bright blue sky. Instead of a salty ocean, beneath the bridge flowed the wide Newan River. Beyond, the green wedge of land forming the border of the Nightingale Lands was visible.
Rising above the trees, I could see the stone tower of Battenborne castle in the center of Serenity Point. Soldiers in black carrying long wands patrolled the battlements. They were tiny as ants from my vantage.
Along the bridge, the sidewalk and the lanes in both directions were open with little foot traffic coming to and from the turnstiles. Ahead, the three-story Crossing House filled the center of the bridge. On the lower level, it contained the Customs office plus an assortment of shops, including Summoned Confections, my favorite bakery. Alchemical labs took up the second floor. The third level was devoted to living and working quarters for the bridge tender.
“So…” Holden began, eying me thoughtfully as we walked, “how confident are you about your test today?”
“I feel okay about it. Why?”
He shrugged. “No reason. Those time-delayed spells are notoriously unreliable, that’s all.” He’d shoved his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket and walked with his shoulders hunched forward slightly.
“You’ve been over to The Demon’s Horn.” It was the brewery where the local odds makers hung out. Because of the prime view of the Greater World available from Serenity Point, a thriving business had sprung up where locals made bets on everything from the outcome of Greater World elections to sporting events and cultural and social trends. Watching the Greater World through the lens of the Pale was like their Internet, television, and movies rolled into one.
“I might have lifted a pint or two,” he said, “but it’s no big deal. You know me. I like to cover all the bases.”
“I hate sports analogies. Especially when you don’t even play baseball. How much did you wager?”
“You’re jumping to the conclusion I—”
“Placed a bet on my chances of passing today,” I finished for him as I hugged the dummy to my chest. “Don’t pretend you didn’t. What are the odds?”
After a long pause, he said, “Twenty-to-one.”
“Woot! That’s excellent!” The odds board at The Demon’s Horn had correctly chosen the winner in every presidential election and Super Bowl for decades.
Holden averted his gaze.
“Wait … it’s twenty-to-one I’ll pass, right?” In the silence that followed the unanswered question, my stomach knotted. Holden might have a perfect face for poker, but he was terrible at keeping anything from me. “You might as well tell me. I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It’s just the odds,” he mumbled. “It’s not a prediction, not a spell or even a crystal ball. Only somebody’s guess of how things will turn out. Nothing more, nothing less. Think about it—the guys who hang out at The Demon’s Horn don’t have a life—betting is what they do instead. You’re better than that, Evie.”
“Win a few, lose a few—no big deal. Is that it?”
A smile of relief brightened his face. “Exactly. I knew you’d understand. I’d never try to profit from someone else’s misfortune.”
“Twenty-to-one against.” I switched the dummy to
my other arm and shifted the weight of my backpack. “With those odds, someone who placed a bet that I’ll pass would stand to make a bundle, assuming things work out the right way.”
“Someone who wasn’t afraid to bet against the house,” he added, grinning.
“I love it you have so much faith in me. What’s with the lousy odds?”
He kept going.
“I need to know why, Holden. If you didn’t want me to know, you shouldn’t have brought it up.”
We’d reached the middle of the bridge and stood in the shadow of the Crossing House.
Holden approached the turnstile barring his way. At about chest height on a vertical column next to the turnstile, a smooth rectangle of sapphire had been embedded in the wood. It was a soul reader and one of the more recent security enhancements built into the bridge meant to control access to the Nightingale Lands. Holden placed his palm flat on the glossy surface. In response, it flashed a clear light, and he proceeded through.
When he was on the other side, he turned back and said, “Remember when you were practicing at the library the other day?”
Because of my uncle’s ban on the use of magic at home, I’d practiced in the study rooms in the library at Battenborne University. “What of it?”
I took my turn, placing my hand on the soul reader. This time, instead of glowing bright as it had for Holden, it shone red—the way it would have if the device detected an ordinary, non-magical or possibly evil entity attempting to cross. The red light didn’t hurt, but I jerked my hand back as if it had burned me.
Holden groaned. “Not this again. I thought they fixed it.”
A bell tinkled somewhere inside the depths of the Crossing House.
“He better not make me late,” I grumbled.
High above my head, a shutter on a third-floor window banged open and a familiar head and shoulders emerged. Ballard Kepler’s normally smooth blond hair stood out as if he’d experienced a recent shock. In one hand he held a long, brass spyglass and in the other hand, a wand. His bushy eyebrows pushed up, wrinkling his forehead. “I should have known it was you,” he shouted. “You’ve broken the sensors again, Evangeline.” He waved the hand holding the wand. “Go back thirteen steps and then try again.”