by Kim Harrison
“Shut up,” I said dryly, and I would’ve bobbed him but that he was drinking his hot chocolate.
Marilyn Manson finished his . . . really odd version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and the people surrounding the stage screamed for more.
“They’re drawing names,” Robbie said, watching the circle instead of the stage.
Excitement slithered through me, and as the crowd pressed closer, I levered myself back up onto the planter wall. No one would make me leave now for standing on it. Robbie moved so I could steady myself against his shoulder, and from the new vantage point, I watched the last of the names pulled from the informal cardboard box. I held my breath, both wanting to hear my name blared from the loudspeaker and dreading it.
Another man with a city event vest put his head together with an official-looking woman with white earmuffs. The two spoke for a moment, her head bobbing. Then she took the wad of names and strode to the stage where Marilyn was blowing kisses and showing off his legs in black tights. The crowd turned like schooling fish, the noise growing as a path parted for her.
“Can you see?” Robbie asked, and I nodded, bumping my knee against his back.
A wave of expectation grew to make my fingertips tingle. With my back to that huge rock and high above everyone, I had a great view, and I watched the woman stand at the stage and peer up at the band. Someone extended a hand to help her make the jump to the plywood. A laugh rippled out when she made the leap, and the woman was clearly flustered when she tugged her coat straight and turned to face the crowd. Marilyn handed her a mike, giving her a word or two before the straitlaced woman edged to the middle of the stage.
“I’m going to read the names now,” she said simply, and the square filled with noise. She glanced shyly behind her to the band when the drummer added to it.
Robbie tugged at my coat and I missed the first name—but it wasn’t me. “You should start now,” he said as he peered up, his cheeks red and his eyes eager.
Adrenaline spiked through me to pull me straight, and my gloved hand touched the outside of my pocket. “Now?”
“At least set it up while everyone is looking at the stage,” he added, and I nodded.
He turned back around and applauded the next person. Here, on our side of the square, there were already two people standing in the middle of the circle, flushed and excited as they showed their IDs to security. I glanced at the people nearest to me, heart pounding. Actually, Robbie had picked a really good spot. There was a narrow space between that big rock and the edge of the planter. No one else could get too close, and with Robbie in front of me, no one would see what I was doing.
The snow seemed to swirl faster. My breath left me in little white puffs as I dropped the egg-shaped red and white stone to the ground and nudged it into place. The shallow dip in it would hold a potion-sized amount of liquid. It was one of my mom’s more expensive—and rare—spelling utensils, and I’d be grounded for a year if she knew I had it.
The last name was read, and the crowd seemed to collectively sigh. Disappointment quickly turned to anticipation again as the last lucky few made their way to the circle to sign their name in the event book and become part of Cincinnati’s history. I jumped when the big electric lights shining on the square went out. Expected, but still it got me. The tiny, distant lights from the surrounding buildings seemed to shine down like organized stars.
Tension grew, and while the noise redoubled, I dropped to a crouch before the stone and pulled my gloves off, jamming them into a deep pocket. I had to do this right. Not only so Robbie would get me into the I.S., but I didn’t want to go to the West Coast and leave my mom alone. Robbie wouldn’t be so mean, would he?
But when he frowned over his shoulder, I didn’t know.
My fingers were slow with cold, and in the new darkness, I twisted the ground-glass stopper out, gave the bottle a swirl, then dumped the potion. It silently settled, ripples disappearing markedly fast. I couldn’t risk standing up and possibly kicking snow into it, so I could only guess by the amount of noise that the seven lucky people were now in place.
“Hurry up!” Robbie hissed, glancing back at me.
I jammed the empty bottle in a pocket and fumbled for the finger stick. The snap of the plastic breaking to reveal the tiny blade seemed to echo to my bones, though it was unheard over the noise of the crowd.
Then they went silent. The sudden hush brought my heart into my throat. They had started the invocation. I had moments. Nothing more. It was in Latin—a blessing for the following year—and as most of the people bowed their heads, I jabbed my index finger.
My fingers were so cold, it registered as a dull throb. Holding my breath, I massaged it, willing the three drops to hurry. One, two, and then the third fell, staining the wine as it fell through the thinner liquid.
I watched, breathing in the heady scent of redwood now emanating from it. Robbie turned, eyes wide, and I felt my heart jump. I had done it right. It wouldn’t smell like that if I hadn’t.
“You did it!” he said, and we both gasped when the clear liquid flashed a soft red, my blood jumping through the medium, mixing it all on its own.
Behind us, a collective sound of awe rose, soft and powerful. I glanced up. Past Robbie, a bubble of power swam up from the earth. It was huge by circle standards, the shimmering field of ever-after arching to a close far above the fountain it spread before. In the distance, the faint resonating of Cincinnati’s cathedral chimes swelled into existence as the nearby bells began ringing from the magic’s vibration, not the bells’ clappers.
We were outside the circle. Everyone was. It glittered like an opal; the multiple auras of the seven people gave it shifting bands of blues, greens, and golds. A flash of red and black glittered sporadically, red evidence of human suffering that made us stronger, and black for the bad we knowingly did—the choice we all had. It was breathtaking, and I stared at it, crouched in the snow, surrounded by hundreds, but feeling alone for the wonder I felt. The hair on the back of my neck pricked. I couldn’t see the collective power rolling back and forth between the buildings—washing, gaining strength—but I could feel it.
My eyes went to Robbie’s. They were huge. He wasn’t watching the stone crucible. Mouth working, he pointed a mittened hand behind me.
I jerked from my crouch to a stand and pressed my back to the stone. The liquid in the depression was almost gone, sifting upward in a golden-sheened mist, and I held a hand to my mouth. It was person-shaped. The mist clearly had a man’s shape, with wide shoulders and a masculine build. It was hunched in what looked like pain, and I had a panicked thought that maybe I was hurting my dad.
From behind us, a shout exploded from a thousand throats. I gasped, eyes jerking over my brother’s head to the crowd. From the far stage, the drummer beat the edge of his set four times to signal the start of the all-night party, and the band ripped into music. People screamed in delight, and I felt dizzy. The sound battered me, and I steadied myself against the stone.
“Blame it all to the devil,” a shaky, frightened voice said behind me. “It’s Hell. It’s Hell before she falls. Holy blame fire!”
I jerked, eyes wide, pressing deeper into the stone behind me. A man was standing between Robbie and me—a small man in the snow, barefoot with curly black hair, a small beard, wide shoulders . . . and absolutely nothing on him. “You’re not my dad,” I said, feeling my heart beat too fast.
“Well, there’s one reason to sing to the angels, then, isn’t there?” he said, shivering violently and trying to cover himself. And then a woman screamed.
FOUR
Streaker!” the woman shouted, her arm thick in its parka, pointing.
Heads turned, and I panicked. There were more gasps and a lot of cheers. Robbie jumped onto the planter beside me and shrugged out of his coat.
“My God, Rachel!” he said, the scintillating glow from the set circle illuminating his shock. “It worked!”
The small man was cowering,
and he jumped at a distant boom of sound. They were shooting off fireworks at the river, and the crowd responded when a mushroom of gold and red exploded, peeking from around one of the buildings. Fear was thick on him, and he stared at the sparkles, lost and utterly bewildered.
“Here. Put this on,” Robbie was saying. He looked funny in just his hat, scarf, and mittens, and the man jumped, startled when Robbie draped his coat over him.
Still silent, the man turned his back on me, tucking his arms into the sleeves and closing the coat with a relieved quickness. Another firework exploded, and he looked up, mouth agape at the green glow reflected off the nearby buildings.
Robbie’s expression was tight with worry. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, “I never should have done this. Rachel, can’t you do a damned spell wrong once in a while?”
My heart dropped to my middle, and I couldn’t breathe. Our bet. Damn it. This wasn’t Dad. I’d done something wrong. The man hunched before me in bare feet and my brother’s new coat wasn’t my dad.
“I speculated hell was hot . . .” he said, shivering. “This is c-cold.”
“It didn’t work,” I whispered, and he fixed his vivid blue eyes on me, looking like a startled animal. My breath caught. He was lost and afraid. Another distant boom broke our gaze as he looked to the snowy skies.
From nearby came a shrill, “Him. That’s him right over there!”
Spinning, I found the woman who had screamed earlier. Security was with her, and they were both looking this way.
“It’s an outrage to all decent folks!” she said loudly in a huff.
My eyes went to my brother’s. Crap. Now what?
Robbie jumped off the planter. “We have to go.”
The small man was scanning the crowd, a look of wonder replacing his fear. At my feet, Robbie grabbed my mom’s stone crucible and jammed it in his pocket. “Sorry everyone!” he said with a forced cheerfulness. “Cousin Bob. What an ass. Did it on a dare. Ha, ha! You won, Bob. Dinner is on me.”
I got off the planter, but the man—the ghost, maybe—was staring at the buildings. “This fearsome catastrophe isn’t hell,” he whispered, and then his attention dropped to me. “You’re not a demon.”
His accent sounded thick, like an old TV show, and I wondered how long this guy had been dead.
Robbie reached up and grabbed his wrist, pulling. “It’s going to be hell if we don’t get out of here! Come on!”
The man lurched off the planter. All three of us stumbled on the slick stone, knocking into people wearing heavy winter coats and having red faces. “Sorry!” Robbie exclaimed, all of us in a confused knot as he refused to let go of my wrist.
I squinted as the wind sent a gust of snow at me. “What did I do wrong?” I said, too short to see where we were going. The fireworks were still going off, and people in the square had started singing.
“Me, me, me,” Robbie cajoled, shoving the ghost ahead of us. “Why is it always about you, Rachel? Can you move it a little faster? You want to end up at the I.S. waiting for Mom to pick you up?”
For an instant, I froze. Oh, God. Mom. She couldn’t find out.
“Hurry up! Let’s go!” I shouted, pushing on the man’s back. He stumbled, and I jerked my hands from him, the sight of his bare feet in the snow a shocking reminder of where he had come from. Holy crap, what have I done?
We found the blocked-off street with an abrupt suddenness. The smell of food grew heavy as the crowd thinned. My lungs were hurting, and I yanked on Robbie’s sleeve.
His face was tight in bother as he turned to me, but then he nodded and stopped when he saw me gasping. “Are you okay?” he asked, and I bobbed my head, trying to catch my breath.
“I think they quit following,” I said, but it was more of a prayer than a true thought.
Next to me, the man bent double. A groan of pain came from him, and I lurched backward when he started in with the dry heaves. The people nearby began drifting away with ugly looks. “Too much partying,” someone muttered in disgust.
“Poor uncle Bob,” Robbie said loudly, patting his back gingerly, and the man shoved him away, still coughing.
“Don’t touch me,” he panted, and Robbie retreated to stand beside me where we watched his hunched figure gasp in the falling snow. Behind us, the party continued at the square. Slowly he got control of himself and straightened, carefully arranging his borrowed coat and reaching for a nonexistent hat. His face was almost too young for his short beard. He had no wrinkles but those from stress. Silently he took us in as he struggled to keep his lungs moving, his bright blue eyes going from one of us to the other.
“Robbie, we have to get out of here,” I whispered, tugging on his sleeve. He looked frozen in his thin shirt with only his mittens, hat, and scarf between him and the snow.
Robbie got in front of me to block the man’s intent gaze. “I’m really sorry. We didn’t mean to . . . do whatever we did.” He glanced at the square, arms wrapped around himself and shivering. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You’ll go back when the sun comes up.”
Still the man said nothing, and I looked at his bare feet.
Over the noise came an aggressive, “Hey! You!”
My breath hissed in. Robbie turned to look, and even the man seemed alarmed.
“We need a cab,” my brother said, grabbing my arm and pushing the man forward.
I twisted out of his grip and headed the other way. “We won’t get a cab five blocks from here. We need a bus.” Robbie stared blankly at me, and I yelled in exasperation, “The main depot is just over there! They can’t close it off. Come on!”
“Stop!” a man’s voice shouted, and we bolted. Well, Robbie and I bolted. The guy between us was kind of shoved along.
We dodged around the people with little kids already leaving, headed for the bus stop. It took up an entire block length, buses leaving from downtown for all corners of Cincy and the Hollows across the river. No one seemed to notice the small man’s feet were bare or that Robbie was drastically underdressed. Song and laughter were rampant.
“There,” Robbie panted, pointing to a bus just leaving for Norwood.
“Wait! Wait for us!” I yelled, waving, and the driver stopped.
The door opened and we piled in, my boots slipping on the slick rubber. Robbie had shoved the man up the stairs ahead of me, falling back when the driver had a hissy about the fare. I stood a step down and fumed while Robbie fished around in his wallet. Finally he was out of my way, and I ran my bus pass through the machine.
“Hey,” the driver said, nodding to the back of the otherwise empty bus. “If he blows chunks, I’m fining you. I got your bus pass number, missy. Don’t think I won’t.”
My heart seemed to lodge in my throat. Robbie and I both turned. The man was sitting alone beside a center pole, clutching it with both hands as the bus jerked into motion. His bare feet looked odd against the dirty, slush-coated rubber, and his knees were spread wide for balance to show his bare calves.
“Uh,” Robbie said, making motions for me to move back. “He’s okay.”
“He’d better be,” the driver grumbled, watching us in the big mirror.
Every block put us farther from the square, closer to home. “Please,” I said, trying not to look desperate. “We’re just trying to help him get home. It’s the solstice.”
The driver’s hard expression softened. He took one hand off the wheel to rummage out of sight beside him. With a soft plastic rustle, he handed me a shopping bag. “Here,” he said. “If he throws up, have him do it in there.”
My breath slipped from me in relief. “Thank you.”
Shoving the bag into a pocket, I exchanged a worried look with Robbie. Together we turned to the back of the bus. Pace slow, we cautiously approached the man as the city lights grew dim and the bus lights more obvious. Thankfully we were the only people on it, probably due to our destination being what was traditionally a human neighborhood, and they left the streets to us Inderlanders o
n the solstice.
The man’s eyes darted between us as Robbie and I sat down facing him. I licked my lips and scooted closer to my brother. He was cold, shivering, but I didn’t think he was going to ask for his coat back. “Robbie, I’m scared,” I whispered, and the small man blinked.
Robbie took his mittens off and gripped my hand. “It’s okay.” His inhale was slow, and then louder, he said, “Excuse me, sir?”
The man held up a hand as if asking for a moment. “My apologies,” he said breathily. “What year might this be?”
My brother glanced at me, and I blurted, “It’s nineteen ninety-nine. It’s the solstice.”
The man’s vivid blue eyes darted to the buildings, now more of a skyline since we weren’t right among them anymore. He had beautiful, beautiful blue eyes, and long lashes I would have given a bra size for. If I had any to spare, that is.
“This is Cincinnati?” he said softly, gaze darting from one building to the next.
“Yes,” I said, then jerked my hand out of Robbie’s when he gave me a squeeze to be quiet. “What?” I hissed at him. “You think I should lie? He just wants to know where he is.”
The man coughed, cutting my brother’s anger short. “I expect I’m most sorry,” he said, taking one hand off the pole. “I’ve no need for breathing but to speak, and to make a body accept that is a powerful trial.”
Surprised, I simply waited while he took a slow, controlled breath.
“I’m Pierce,” he said, his accent shifting to a more formal sound. “I have no doubt that you’re not my final verdict, but are in truth . . .” He glanced at the driver. Lips hardly moving, he mouthed, “You’re a practitioner of the arts. A master witch, sir.”
The man wasn’t breathing. I was watching him closely, and the man wasn’t breathing. “Robbie,” I said urgently, tugging on his arm. “He’s dead. He’s a ghost.”
My brother made a nervous guffaw, crossing his legs to help keep his body heat with him. We were right over the heater, but it was still cold. “That’s what you were trying to do, wasn’t it, Firefly?” he said.