"Purely off the record."
"I’ve been known to make a portal in my time and maybe didn’t register it."
"Register?"
"Portals have to be registered so they can be tracked and times set up for their use. It’s kind of like air traffic controllers monitoring planes. Portals contain a magic that works as a trace. You know about orbs, right?"
I did. Some spells, like the Solas Charm, create a trace that makes it possible to find the witch or wizard performing the spell.
"Building a portal typically requires a small amount of the Solas Charm put into it. This makes them traceable and trackable, but you still register any portal you make if you don’t want HQ raising a fuss. They get really annoyed when their tracking comes across an unregistered portal. The fines…" He trailed off as if he’d had personal experience with such matters.
"Can you track a portal that doesn’t exist anymore, or re-create it?"
"It’s not easy, but I might be able to manage it if—" And I swear the room got brighter as the light bulb of understanding clicked on over Morelli’s head. "No, I see what this is about. You want to track where the Mauvais took Alastair, don’t you?"
"You saying you can’t? Are you afraid of the Mauvais?" I taunted.
"Of course I’m afraid of the Mauvais. Only a halfwit like you wouldn’t be. But calling me chicken isn’t going to suddenly make me capable of rebuilding that portal even if it could be found."
"Why can’t it be found? I mean, you just said portals are trackable by their very nature."
"Some Magics have been known to experiment with portals that don’t use the Solas Charm. Besides the trace, the Solas Charm component lends some stability. It also makes the portal last longer and the ride go more smoothly. If you only need a portal for a limited amount of time or for a quick escape, you don’t need that stability."
I heard the suck of a refrigerator door being opened and craned my neck to see bread, ham, cheese, and mustard floating out. I arched an eyebrow at Morelli.
"I’m going to have to put a lock on that thing. I can’t believe one person can eat so many pork products. Anyway, even if the Mauvais included the Solas Charm as part of his portal and didn’t put any secrecy spells on the thing when he used it, he would have sealed the location to keep anyone from following him."
"But if he wanted to come back, he’d have to go through that portal, so it must still exist somewhere."
"Not necessarily. First off, why would he need to return to the same spot? Also, he could have built a series of secondary or even tertiary portals." I gave him quizzical look. "It’s like going from L.A. to New York with a quick layover in Denver. Even if the Denver airport closes down, you can still route through Chicago to get to your destination."
"So he could be anywhere," I said, dejection over this prospect gnawing a hole in my gut.
"He could be. I can work on tracking it, but if Runa hasn’t found anything using the resources at HQ, I doubt I’m going have much luck."
"Who else knows how to build portals? Would the Mauvais have known how himself or would he have needed help from someone inside HQ?"
"Hard to say. Portals have to be registered, not the people making them."
Just then a crash came from the kitchen. Morelli’s lips tightened and he sucked an angry breath through his nostrils.
"His magic must have worn off. I told him it only lasts an hour."
"Maybe best to concentrate on healing him rather than magicking him." Morelli scowled at me. "Just saying."
Once Mr. Wood finished his breakfast — Morelli told me, it was actually the second breakfast he’d had — I offered to take my boss into the funeral home so he could catch up on some paperwork. Morelli was having none of it and saw this as some sort of escape attempt. You know, because pushing a guy in a wheelchair across town really boosts your ability to flee. So Morelli joined me and even gave a little salute to the gnome out front as if to say, "See what an excellent job I’m doing at keeping her under control. Now, go tell HQ so I can get a promotion or raise or whatever it is they’re handing out for rewards."
The funeral home was surprisingly busy. As Mr. Wood told me on the way over, there were three clients lined up with more on the schedule. It was a huge improvement from before I left, and I wondered if Daisy might be murdering people to drum up business. I couldn’t prove anything regarding that, but what Daisy had done was convince Mr. Wood to schedule the funerals back to back on the same day so he wouldn’t have to come in more often than necessary.
"Won’t you be tired after that long of a day?"
"Oh no, I’ve got so much energy these days. Healthy eating, exercise, it does wonders."
A little hit of magic now and then probably didn’t hurt either, I thought as I gave Morelli a knowing look.
The interior of the funeral home looked no different, although I did notice Mr. Wood’s belongings had all been moved back up into his living quarters now that he was shacking up with Morelli. But the moment I stepped into my workroom and saw the perfectly made up, perfectly blonde-haired Daisy with my cosmetics tray, well, I didn’t shout, "Interloper!" but I was thinking it.
"Cassie," she said brightly, as if we were old bosom buddies meeting up for coffee.
"Daisy," I replied so drily you could have desiccated the person she was working on and called him Tutankhamen.
She made a tiny hand twist and a cosmetic sponge swiped across a pan of French Honey foundation, then proceeded to dab and dot its way across the skin of her victim. I’m sorry, her client.
"How’s Tobey. He texted me and told me he was in the hospital. I’ve been worried, but I can’t get portal privileges. I did send him a box of chocolates. Did he get them, do you know?"
He certainly did. They’d been delicious
"He got them. He’s on the mend." I pointed to an eyeliner pencil that was now drawing a smooth streak across the client’s eyelid. "You shouldn’t have to do this much longer. I’m sure I’ll be back soon."
And that was my nice way of saying: Get out.
"Oh, I find I like it. Maybe we can be partners, or co-workers, or whatever you call it. I’m sure once Nino is out of his wheelchair and back on his feet full time, the work will just be rolling in." She paused. "Rolling in. Get it?"
"Nino?"
"Nino Wood. Short for Ninonodes, actually. Don’t tell me you didn’t know his first name."
"Of course I did."
Didn’t I? I just never used it. He was always Mr. Wood. But Ninonodes? Was not expecting that.
Needless to say, after a couple hours of helping Mr. Wood with his paperwork (Daisy insisted she didn’t need my help), I felt more than a little sullen on the return trip to Morelli’s place.
I was being pushed out of the one job I had enjoyed, and it was my own fault. If I’d been able to deliver the watch for Corrine, I wouldn’t have brought back the dead. If I hadn’t brought back the dead, I wouldn’t have had to get involved in my magic fiasco and I wouldn’t have put Mr. Wood’s business in jeopardy. If I’d learned to control my magic, I wouldn’t have been sent to HQ and Mr. Wood wouldn’t have needed a temporary replacement.
Daisy was temporary, right?
It was frustrating and disheartening. After all, I’d initially started on this magical adventure in an effort to save the very business I might soon be dismissed from. Assuming of course, that I didn’t get captured by the Mauvais or extracted by HQ first. I couldn’t blame Mr. Wood. He needed to keep up with his funereal work to pay his hospital bills and living expenses. He also needed, deserved, a reliable employee to help with that work. Unless business really went bonkers, he couldn’t afford to take on two assistants. And since one was proving far more useful and far less hazardous than the other, I knew which of us would win out if push came to shove.
Once Mr. Wood had settled back in at Morelli’s with a crochet needle and some cream
y-yellow yarn, Morelli asked if I was ready to go back. I wasn’t exactly, but I suddenly felt out of place. He allowed me a few minutes to go up to my apartment and grab some clean clothes and a couple new books, including a pictorial history of Portland I thought Nigel might be interested in — although I wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea to mix histories in an already mixed up mind.
Morelli then came up and, with many criticisms over the mess in my closet, escorted me through my portal.
As we stepped out, I felt a strong tug to go back and see Pablo, or maybe to be around Lola’s comforting air, but Morelli told me at this time of day the London portal would soon be busy and we wanted to get there before the rush. While we waited, a strawberry blond-haired woman with round hips and slim shoulders came running up to us.
Fiona normally wore fairly casual attire — a sundress or a simple skirt with a plain blouse — but today she had put on a crisp, dark pink dress with tiny white dots and a sharp, white collar leading down to a V-neck that set off the slimness of her upper body. Despite the bright attire, her face was grim.
"We need to go through now," she said in a frantic command that was a jarring change from her usual stoic demeanor. "Something’s happened. Or happening. Busby’s just contacted me and told me to get Cassie back ASAP."
"Should I go with you?" Morelli asked.
"No, best to stay here. It may turn out to be nothing." But her tone and the way her eyes were darting around, implied that she didn’t believe her own words. "Keep your phone on. If it is something, if we need you, I’ll contact you. I don’t know what this is, but try to act normal for now. We don’t want to raise a panic if we can avoid it."
Morelli nodded his head sharply as if taking instructions from a drill sergeant. "We still need to talk, Black," he said. Then, wringing his hands worriedly, he headed down Magic Main Street in the direction of the Sorcerer’s Skein yarn shop.
15 - THE TOWER TUMBLES
I WENT THROUGH the portal first. The moment I stepped out, I slammed into Chester’s broad chest. He didn’t seem a bit fazed by it, as if that sort of thing happened to him all the time. Instead of stepping back, he took hold of my upper arms, picked me up, and set me aside like a piece of furniture in the wrong place.
Fiona came through and joined us, then hurriedly asked, "What’s going on, Chester? Is it really so urgent?"
"Go to Sir Olivia’s office," he said, and now that I was looking into his face instead of his pectoral muscles, I could see distress furrowing his heavy brow.
"What’s going on?" All I could think was Alastair had shown up. And I don’t mean a living Alastair.
"Go to the office," Chester repeated. "I have to find the others."
I didn’t know who the others were, but I didn’t have time to ask as Chester was already thudding away.
"Come on, quick," said Fiona, moving confidently along the corridors and stairways with the rapid steps of someone familiar with a place. When we emerged on a hallway I recognized, sounds of horror came from Olivia’s office.
We raced inside. In front of one of the unicorn tapestries that decorated the walls and insulated the stony room, hovered a large television. Or, I thought it was a television. It turned out to simply be a screen. No cords. No antenna. No cable box. Just a pamphlet-thick screen that I later learned could be rolled up and stored in Olivia’s desk drawer.
Olivia, Busby, and Rafi were all watching the screen. On it was a scene instantly recognizable to any armchair traveler: a grassy plaza sprawling beneath the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
And like so many tourists’ photos, next to the tilting tower was a hand held in a position against the side of the structure to make it appear as if the owner of that hand had the strength to push the tower over. Or to hold it up if you put the hand on the other side.
Although it hadn’t even been lunchtime when Fiona and I left Portland, in Pisa it was early evening. The day trippers had mostly departed and the tour buses had rolled away long ago, but there were still plenty of tourists lingering around, enjoying the warmth of an Italian summer.
From the screen came a loud rumble. The area around the tower shook. It knocked a few people to the ground, but they didn’t stay down long. They scrambled — some on hands and knees — to get out of the way. Others were being dragged away by braver bystanders.
Because the hand was pushing.
With the first couple shoves, the tower found a balance point and managed to teeter back into position. I held my breath, but the others in the room sighed with relief. On the third push, the tower traveled past this balance point, but somehow remained rooted to the ground. The room went silent, as if making any sound might create a butterfly effect that would be the last straw for the structure.
For a few moments I thought maybe the Leaning Tower would just have a new angle of lean from now on.
But then the hand flicked the tower with its index finger.
And the tower fell.
The column crashed to the ground, the top third breaking completely apart. Dust puffed up and debris flew out from the shattered masonry.
The silence broke into angry chatter when words flashed across the screen. Words that nearly had my breakfast making a reappearance:
Send the girl so we can bridge this problem. You have two days.
And then the screen went blank.
Not because the Mauvais had control over Olivia’s television, but because she had a remote. Not all things are magic, you know.
"This puts the Starlings one spell closer to being out of range," Busby said. "We need to come up with a plan."
Well, it would certainly be about time.
* * *
Thankfully, the plan was not to hand me over to the Mauvais. Not yet, anyway. The plan was to double down on tracking where the portal had gone. So, while Rafi and Olivia tended to issuing reassurances to the magic communities around the world, and especially to the Pisa Magics, I joined Runa, Fiona, and Mr. Tenpenny to dig deeper into portal probing.
"The trouble with a Magic vanishing is that they really do vanish with amazing efficiency," Runa said.
We were sitting in a small office she’d been given to use while she was at the White Tower. As she’d only moved in a couple days ago, the room had few personal touches other than her black doctor’s bag and an alarm clock with Bugs Bunny in the center, his arms serving as the minute and hour hands.
"And the trouble with going back and forth between portals," I said, noting the time, "is that you end up missing out on afternoon tea." They looked at me like this was completely inappropriate to bring up. "Think about poor Fiona who’s missed lunch to get here."
"Only for Fiona," said Runa. She then performed a little swish-and-flick maneuver with her index finger. The pleasing mint-and-honey perfume of her magic hit me just before a pot of tea, four cups, and a three-tier serving dish brimming with crustless sandwiches, tiny tarts, and fluffy scones appeared. "I have to admit, I’m starving. I’ve barely been off the ward for ten minutes today. Your parents," she said to me as I poured us each a cup of smoky-scented tea, "are proving tricky."
"I thought you figured that out," said Mr. T as he selected a flower-shaped sugar cookie. Despite the desperate situation in Olivia’s office, his eyes had practically fallen out of his head when he saw Fiona in her dress. He’d now scooted his chair as close to Fiona’s as possible, angling his body toward hers, and making sure her small plate was kept filled with whatever she craved.
It would seem love was cropping up everywhere in MagicLand these days, and I wondered bitterly what it was like to fully trust someone enough to enjoy your crush on them.
"It works," Runa said. "I know it works, but it’s like the moment I get their levels up, they crash back down. I get these half-glimpses of them as they once were only to see it whisked away a second later."
"Have they said anything?"
"No, it’s too f
leeting and I don’t want to strain them with an interrogation. I just don’t understand what’s keeping the magic from sticking."
Three pairs of eyes turned to me.
"Don’t look at me. I haven’t even been in the country. Could there be another absorber in the ward?"
"There is one," Dr. D said. "She’s only a weak absorber, but I’ve still placed her as far from the Starlings’ room as possible."
"And the portal scans?" Busby asked.
"About as fruitful as my healing abilities. I swear, I’m so frustrated with failure. Now I know how Gwendolyn felt trying to teach Cassie potions." This jab earned her one of my you’re-not-funny smirks. "I had a scan done of portal usage over the past week, but I’ve found nothing unusual. All usage has been for legitimate purposes. Well, except for the owner of the Burning Wand sneaking off to Mexico with his mistress. A Norm. Can you believe it?" she said, as if the woman’s magic status was the most scandalous part of this piece of news. "If his wife finds out, his head is going straight through one of the saloon’s plate glass windows."
The Untangled Cassie Black Page 10