Feral Magic

by Nicolette Jinks

  There was an incredible lack of information about the Lady of the Vase, only a short article that was written by Mordon in an artifacts book. The Lady was essentially Death’s nameless sister, presiding over what could only be called purgatory or prison; during the turn of the Egyptian Wizarding Empire (there were no lamb time references, so I had no clue when that was), the Lady’s reign was restricted to those souls who were so unwise as to touch the mouth of the vase. Apparently there was a vacuum effect once one person touched the vase, so it was highly recommended to stay as far away from her vase as possible. During the Arthurian Era, it was used to contain the most wicked of all sorcerers, including the infamous Morgana. Mordon wrote in the notes that Morgana was also called Moragan, Morgan, Morgana Le Fey, and Morgain, as well as any spelling variations imaginable.

  My lighter chose this time to burn up the last of its fuel, and I sighed, closing the books. All in all, not a bad night’s work, though I had hoped to find answers and all I found instead were more questions. Tomorrow I would follow the guide I’d stumbled across on how routines to use for improving dexterity and endurance with mastering magic. I would practice using the focus point to channel my magic. One thing my reading tonight confirmed was that the ring would help me to not go feral, and the more I became reacquainted with the wind, the more I wanted a sane relationship with it.

  The next day, I checked on Mordon downstairs to find that he had no work for me despite the boxes still to be unpacked, books to be shelved, and jewelry to be put in the case. Lief and Lilly were occupied with an onslaught of thieves who had taken advantage of the distraction, and Barnes was not to be found. Instead of returning to a brooding Mordon or go back to my books, I stayed in Merlyn’s Market and watched the people go about their business. A man with a gaggle of children came into the open area and began to teach them about controlling their magic and channeling it properly so their spells would not backfire. Memories came back to me about helping my brother through his backfire stage as a child.

  It was not much longer before I was sucked into the lesson, helping the instructor and talking with the children; being around them refreshed my training and I learned several new focusing exercises I was determined to practice. Lilly found me once she was off duty and pulled me with her; we got some of my money exchanged and I purchased a few bags of groceries.

  Mordon barked a few updates at Lilly, and to me he grumbled about where I put one of his books yesterday. I pointed to it on the shelf and he grunted.

  I did not see him for the next two days; when we crossed paths, he either vented at me for things I had nothing to do with, or gave me the cold shoulder. While I was willing to give him a wide berth for a time, his continued ill temper made me short with him in return. After two days of training and being cooped up between my suite and the market, I was not so thrilled when he tried to blame me for misplacing yet another thing in his shop when I had not touched it.

  “What did I do to deserve this treatment?” I nearly shouted, “Is it about the focus ring? If it’s special, it’s yours!” But the thing would not come off my finger, and that only served to drive me more frustrated.

  “It’s not coming off,” Mordon said, very soft, his back turned to me. He let out a long breath. “Not yet.”

  With that, he tromped down the stairs and into his shop. I reached out into the air and pretended I could strangle him, letting out a small shriek.

  “I could do that to him when he gets like this, too,” came a slow, gruff voice from behind me.

  “What is his problem?”

  Barnes shrugged. “I always presume it’s a drake thing. They’re more like dragons than they care to admit.”

  “And how do you cope?”

  He snorted. “I get into a brawl with ‘im then start pouring my latest brandy wine recipe.”

  “Mmmm,” I said, “What about Lief and Lilly?”

  “Lief gives ‘im one a those long lectures an’ when he’s had enough, Mordon goes on a long flight and comes back normal. ...Lilly, well, she tells ‘im to suck it up and stop scaring the customers.”

  “I doubt there will be much more talking between us,” I muttered and fell into the breakfast nook.

  “You did good,” Barnes said, coming to sit next to me, “What you need now is something to distract yourself.”

  “Nothing involving books, magic, or keeping it civil.”

  “Perfect, you can come with me for a day trip.”

  “Oh?” I asked, “And what do you do for recreation?”

  “Ever gambled on snail races?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Snails?”

  “Comin’ or not?” He asked, heading across the living room floor. He paused near my door and barked, “The Mermaid’s Tale!”

  I wondered if he had been hitting the brandy already, but a door took shape in front of him, morphing from the wall. Barnes looked over his shoulder and said, “Well?”

  What could I say? He had my curiosity piqued, and my restless mind would not be able to focus with while imagining what happened at snail races; it couldn’t be as dull as it sounded. I trotted after Barnes, and he held open the door for me, a portal straight into a busy place that had to be The Mermaid’s Tale.

  “Thank you,” I said to hide my puzzlement over the room that lay beyond.

  It was a tavern with low lighting coming from thirteen candle chandeliers over thirteen tables with an odd number of chairs to each table. Pipe smoke billowed up around my face and I waved at the sweet scent as I walked through the door. A cheer came up to greet me as Barnes followed.

  “Constable! Told ya he’d be here!”

  “Nick of time, as always!”

  “...can I change my bet to his?”

  “Who’s this you bring with you?”

  The calls came from all directions, and I felt very small once an assemblage of patrons crowded about us, sweaty faces peering at me and flushed men eying me from across the room. There was in the ambiance of the room that made my magic feel relaxed; it was a peculiar sensation I couldn’t describe. I felt strangely welcome, even despite my self-consciousness about being the center of attention.

  “She single?”

  “Outta the way, folks! I got a bet to make.” Barnes laughed through the crowd and they reluctantly parted ways for me as well. We came to a table that stretched around the lazily-shaped bar resembling an island; it had a sandy bottom, with various obstacles scattered throughout the track such as leafy twigs, bits of chopped fruit, rocks, and shells. Sixteen tick marks were spaced evenly along the track, and these corresponded with a billboard behind the barkeeper. The man passed Barnes and I each a sheet of paper with 1-16 and three lines below it.

  “You write down your top picks for which snail will reach each marker,” the barkeeper explained. Barnes huffily hid his paper and refused to allow anyone to sneak a peak, taking furtive glances at the odds for or against any particular snail. I sat staring at the snails for a few seconds, nodding absently while the barkeeper talked jovially about his favorite snails—a garden snail with animated flames painted on its shell, a black snail with a yellow shell, and a red ramshorn snail. I was soon lost in the variety of snails available—several looked as though they were primarily aquatic, but this track did not seem to bother them. Possibly that was due to some spell.

  In the end, I went with my gut. I picked a purple-fleshed, cream-shelled snail for my favorite up till maker 14, then the garden snail to finish the race. When I passed the paper back to the barkeeper, his eyes opened and he said, “Where did you learn to bet?”

  I gave him a smile and the same amount of money I would use to buy a meal, hoping that I might see some of that money come back to me, though with thirteen snails in the race I doubted it.

  “Final call for bets! Final call!” a few more sheets were turned in, then the barkeeper held his wand up and a countdown started in the air. The crowd chanted with the numbers.

  “Thirteen...twelve...ten...nine...eight...sev
en...seven...six...”

  I wondered if the miscounting was because they had been downing too many drinks. At my less-than-impressed expression, Barnes whispered, “Double numbers don’t have a place here. You know, numbers like eleven, twenty-two, thirty-three, and the others. Bad gambling numbers.”

  And they double-counted seven so the total number would still equal thirteen, or some such thing. There was a little shot and the bubbles around the snails popped. The purple snail started to wriggle forward while the others appeared interested in getting to know their neighbors.

  “How long will this race last?” I asked.

  “The record is 45 minutes for the first snail to cross. Average is an hour and a half. Takes about two or three hours for all of them to cross, if it’s a quick day. Seven or eight if it’s a slow day, and people usually stay long after the race is over.”

  I cocked my head at him, “And what do we do in the meantime?”

  “Whatever you can think to do in here! Ya can’t leave; if you do, you forfeit your bets.”

  “Ah,” I said, “Can’t have that.”

  “Not with the way you bet!” He said, clapping a hand on my back.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Doesn’t matter! Here, Barkeep! Two orders of fish and chips, a heavy stout for me, an’ your best guess for my friend Miss Swift!” Barnes thumped a fistful of cash onto the bar, and the man laughed. A waitress caught my eye and giggled.

  “Constable,” she scolded, “You know I tend to the food orders.”

  “Of course, but I can’t order around such a pretty thing as yourself.”

  She winked at me. “I’ll have the food right out, doll.”

  Still feeling uncertain about joining the crowd the way that Barnes did, I took a seat at the bar and watched the race with half my attention. A blush colored cocktail landed in front of me, a bright cherry sitting in the bottom.

  “That’s from the man in brown,” said the barkeeper, motioning to the corner of the room, “It’s an Avalonian variation, berry juice, ginger ale, and a splash of vodka. He was very specific.”

  I squinted through the haze and recognized him, though not the woman on his arm. They sat in a corner booth with Barnes and waved me over. I picked up my drink and the two baskets of fish and chips the waitress passed to me, and slid into the booth next to the man.

  He looked a fair deal like me; his hair was more brown than golden, though, and his eyes were more green like Mother’s. He was slender like she was, too, while I was stockier like our father. His hair laid in chunks about his chin, not blending very well when it was not styled in the traditional spikes called for by mediators between feys and fairies.

  The woman next to him was so pale as to be nearly translucent, golden freckles scattered over her small nose and down her fine neck. Her hair was carrot red, hanging down about her elbows in thick ringlets. Batting her eyes at me, she was making a clear effort to avoid looking at Barnes sitting next to her. I had not expected my brother to end up with a fairy.

  “Mother’s going to flip,” I said with an evil smile.

  “You know Leazar?” asked Barnes across the table.

  My brother smiled. “Simbalene, you know Constable Barnes. This, here in The Mermaid and sitting quite decently with magic, is my sister Feraline. Fera, this is Simbalene, my wife.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, more than a little numb at the news. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  “Engagement is...pretty much a human invention,” said Leazar.

  “A rather silly one, no offense,” said Simbalene. “If you need the transition time, there’s nothing to stop you from taking it, but I prefer to do the thinking beforehand, make a decision, and just do it.”

  That could have come straight from my brother’s mouth. “You two seem very well-matched.”

  “Barnes is one of my most trusted friends,” Leazar said, as though he felt he owed an explanation to me, “And I thought he should be the first to know, followed by family. I would have extended the invite to you if I’d known you were on this side again.”

  He raised his eyebrow, as though accusing me of being the one who didn’t share news. “I still can’t do flames; the last time I tried to burn a letter, it burned.”

  Simbalene laughed, a delicate laugh like tinkling bells. Most of the similarities between fairies and feys ended with the laugh; Leazar had inherited Father’s rumbling laugh, and I was suddenly curious what their children would laugh like. “I will ask my husband to mention your good fortune in our letter, then.”

  “So, sister,” said Leazar, pulling me up to him with an arm over my shoulder, “There are plenty of men with eyes on you; know any of them?”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

  Barnes’ rough voice surprised me. “Sure she does.”

  “I do?”

  “Who?” asked my brother, leaning forward as though he were involved in a secret.

  Barnes reciprocated his body language with a conspiratorial smile. “Mordon Meadows.”

  My stomach did a little flip and I caught my breath.

  “Mordon? He’s that drake that hangs around Merlin’s, right?” asked Leazar.

  Surprised, I said, “Mordon spends most of his time angry at me for nothing, what do you mean he likes me?”

  “What about the rest of the time?” asked Simbalene, and the others went quiet, waiting for my answer.

  I swallowed and shoved Barnes’ basket at him, but it was clear they weren’t going to talk until I solved their curiosity. “He’s nice.”

  Barnes snorted. “He’s downright drooling.”

  “I haven’t seen him even look at me for longer than a second.”

  “What kind of a man would he be if he let himself get caught?” said Barnes, “Getting caught comes once you’re certain she returns the affection.”

  “Besides,” added Simbalene, “Your best angle is when you walk away and turn to look at something.”

  I stared at her, feeling slightly violated. “That’s terribly specific.”

  “I would have sent you the Avalonian if your brother hadn’t.”

  I choked on said Avalonian. “You’re practically my sister.”

  She shrugged. “Nevertheless, now you know what to expect when you meet my friends and family.”

  From there we went into a lengthy discussion of fairy culture and ritual, ending in a fairy game of dare which went around the table. By the time the last snail crossed the line, Barnes had stood on the bar and yodeled, Leazar swept the entire room into a square dance, Simbalene dusted two spatting lovers with fairy glimmer, and I coaxed nine drinks out of strangers without so much as talking to them. Even when the barkeeper stopped giving me alcohol, I still received a couple more “IOU” ginger ales. Barnes collected on our earnings—it was a good deal, much of it coming from me guessing 12 rankings perfectly—and declared it was time we move on.

  It was a darned good thing the barkeeper knew our portal door because neither of us could enunciate well enough to open a portal to get home.

  The barkeeper called up our portal and we sauntered through it and into our home.

  The living room was bright with the sun and I tumbled into the first chair I found. Barnes made his way over to his door. “I got some Hangover Be Gone potion, be right back.”

  Once that door shut, I saw no more of him and some part of me was relieved. I did not feel so bad, really, though I wasn’t in any shape to run a marathon or take part in heavy spellmaking. Curling into a ball, I snuggled up in a blanket and basked in the sun.

  The wainscoting door downstairs slammed shut, waking me from my rest; I was much more alert than I anticipated being, and when I heard Mordon’s weighted footsteps moving quickly up the stairs, I let out a quiet groan. This wasn’t going to be good.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mordon stood in front of me, hands on hips, frowning. “Where were you?”

  “Safe,” I grunted.

&nb
sp; “I should be the judge of that. Where did you go?”

  “With Barnes, now I’m going to go get some rest,” I said with a bouncy voice and one of the smiles I used to gather drinks. I stood up and brushed by him, heading to my door. “Excuse me.”