by VK Fox
Everest opened his mouth to speak when the music began: clear, sweet, and winding through the razor-cold air. Who was playing? Everest groped for the ring around his neck as a reassurance—wanting the solid smoothness of the white gold band—but the necklace was gone.
The tune repeated. It didn’t sound far away, and Everest was three steps along the path before it sunk in what an idiot he was being. Yes, wander off into the freezing cold, alone, following a sweet tune. No gruesome moral lessons ever began that way. Everest turned on his heel and nearly collided with Ian who was right behind him, brow creased.
“Everest, why don’t you hand that to me.” Ian’s hand was extended, palm up, and the birds had scattered. Everest grappled with his meaning until solid, leather-stamped binding pressed into the skin of his rigid fingertips. Shaking, he dropped Fitz’s sketchbook into Ian’s palm from his half-frozen, charcoal-smudged fingers.
“Do you know who this is?” Ian prodding the image into his range of view snapped him fully back to the moment. Everest frowned. Had Fitz drawn this? When? Why?
“No, but I don’t like the look of it.” The warm slide of blood down the back of his throat was gagging and metallic. It churned in his stomach. He started patting his shirt. Maybe the cord had come untied and the ring had dropped into his clothing. The idea of losing it made him sick. After a few frantic seconds, Everest found the ring still strung around his neck. He breathed a sigh of relief—he must have missed it before.
“I don’t like it either.” Ian closed the book and returned it to Everest’s pocket. “Why don’t we go get warmed up at the meeting and talk with the others. We should tell them what we’ve seen and try to puzzle it out.”
Everest held a rough-cut soapstone bird up to the incandescent workspace light and turned it for inspection. If he brought it to life, would it struggle and flap, driven by an instinct to escape? Would it attempt to climb into the air? Was that behavior intrinsic to the shape, or would Everest’s ideas about birds transfer to his creation? Would the result be different if Blue brought it to life?
In his mind’s eye Everest saw the stone bird’s desperation, trying to fly with heavy wings: fluttering in frantic agony for minutes until the weak binding fell away and it reverted to stone. What was really happening when that event occurred? Did the life force, bound to the shape of a bird for the blink of an eye, rejoin some nebulous pool of life force? Did it cease to be? Did it go to heaven? Everest dropped the small stone carving back into Blue’s box with a chunk and reclipped his hair back from his face with a borrowed cherry barrette. These questions were uncomfortably close to home.
“Anytime now,” Blue drawled from where she sat, chin in hand, at the table where she had arranged a variety of implements: sandpaper, a dish of water, and a few metal carving tools resembling dental hooks.
“Sorry.” Everest selected a stone rabbit. The choice would make his love laugh. “I’m not thrilled about this.”
“I know.” Blue’s voice softened. “But for what it’s worth, I really think Dahl’s right. Binding is amazing, and we should explore what new doors it opens, especially since…” Blue gave him a sympathetic once over. “You know…”
Everest dipped the stone rabbit in water before rubbing out a chip with the sandpaper. “I’m not embarrassed by my unreliable future sight, Blue.”
Blue nudged a dental hook at him. “Whew! Well, that’s good. Not your fault, of course. Probably a normal part of getting older or whatever.”
“You’re still making it sound like erectile dysfunction.”
Blue nodded. “Yeah, that’s kind of how I think of it.”
“Wonderful.” Everest focused on the carving in his hands. The rabbit’s ears were slightly uneven. Everest worked on the longer one, washing away gritty debris in the water between sandings.
The morning meeting had been indescribably frustrating. Ian had pulled his love aside and they’d had a hushed conversation while Ian darted several furtive glances his way. After that, the pair of them had acted unsettled and wary, and his love had taken a particular interest in covertly inspecting Everest’s charcoal-dusted hands, but the Grit Room had filled before Everest could pry an answer from him. Once the meeting began, he’d been told to research bindings further because, technically, he hadn’t extracted a precise enough promise when his love agreed to table that course of action.
“Hey.” Blue’s voice cut in as she offered him the carving tool again. “It’s good, it doesn’t have to be Michelangelo’s David, okay? Carve something. Make it hop.”
Everest sighed but took the tool. The handle was cool and textured, easy to grip. “Why can I do this?”
“Great question, but it kind of doesn’t matter, right? You can do it, and now we need to make it safe. Wartime concerns and all—we’ll dissect why it happens later, but right now it has to work.”
“What if the two are connected?” Everest turned the tool in his hands. “When I wrote the word ‘Survivor,’ I wrote it because it fit—it felt right. Like I was summarizing a core truth and inscribing it where it belonged. The word was important, but it wasn’t the whole story.”
Everest tested the sharp end of the metal hook against the soapstone, carving a light scratch in the surface. Rubbing over it with his damp thumb, it all but disappeared. “The same is true for linked books. The words alone aren’t enough to form a link. Other factors have to fall in place as well.”
“So your method of binding is probably closer to linked books than traditional golemancy. Different words, different effects, but you’re still binding magic.” Blue tapped her foot on the concrete floor. “How can you not see how cool this is? You’re connecting people who have proven themselves with complimentary power! Now that we’re talking, it’s just like someone forming a link through a book: the right person, the right words, the right object, and presto! Magic!”
Everest was still rubbing at the scratch on the rabbit. Would it hurt the creature when he came to life like a cut? Or would it be like an old scar, or even part of his natural shape? “So the right person.”
“Like Dahl.”
“And the right word.”
“Yeah, he’s survived so much—against all odds, right? So you wrote ‘Survivor.’”
“And the right tool.” Everest looked flatly at Blue as her face became pouty. “A Sharpie.”
“Hey, it’s a permanent marker, right?” Blue’s giggles spilled over. “Okay, so maybe that’s the weak link. We need a super magical awesome pen for you, or whatever. I’m sure they exist. Then you can write bindings all day.”
Everest considered the rabbit, reaching out with his mind to the plump stone. What word would be right for this little one? He absently began inscribing, letting his second sight wander, scratching deep gouges into its tummy. “If we are to think of these bindings as links, then we should consider the risks and limitations in the same light. Bindings will not take on anyone; it has to be the right person. One binding per person for their sanity and the safety of the barrier. Bad bindings can happen—the possibility of mental and emotional distress and degradation are very real...” Everest trailed off as he finished the carving. Nothing happened to the still, cool stone.
“Did you do it?” Blue leaned in, her eyebrows up, peering at his hand.
Everest shook his head. On the rabbit’s belly he had carved the word Mika. What did that mean? Why had he chosen it? Why hadn’t it worked?
Blue leaned over. “Mika? Why Mika?”
“I don’t know.” Everest frowned. “It feels familiar, but I can’t call a definition to mind. I think it’s a name.”
“What were you trying to accomplish?” Blue’s voice was kind but had an odd ringing, like the air after an explosion. “I mean, do you know what binding you attempted?”
“I wanted the rabbit to be real—to be what he truly was.” The room was stuffy and small. Everest pressed the ring around his neck into his palm hard enough to hurt.
“Hey, no worries! Ev
en star pupils can’t be right a hundred percent of the time. Maybe go for something less complicated.” Blue took the rabbit from his hand and nudged another one in. “Take a deep breath, and let’s try it again.”
Chapter Ten
Ida and Beth were sleeping in a swaddled bundle when oh nine hundred hours rolled around. Jane wasn’t going to the all-hands-on-deck meeting. Dahl couldn’t make her. She was going to lay in her bunk and cuddle tiny, wrinkly mousekins wrapped in gauzy blankets. They were so much like Ian—curly black hair and deep, delicious skin.
Jane couldn’t stop staring at the girls’ upturned noses and tiny fingernails: miniature perfection. Babies were real magic.
The twins barely opened their bleary little eyes, but when they did they would probably twinkle with his warmth and enthusiasm. Hopefully. Or they’d scowl at the world like it was picking a fight. One or the other.
Ian came in with a blast of cold air and a huge grin.
“Your face is going to freeze like that.” Jane teased.
“Good. About time.” He reached down to squeeze her shoulder.
“How did things go this morning?”
“Okay. We have our marching orders.”
The room went a little sideways, and Jane struggled to reorient. “Marching orders? That had better be Sana Baba slang for breakfast.”
“Good one.” Ian failed to be reassuring. “Do you need anything, sweet girl? Pain meds or water? Are you ready for breakfast?”
Jane narrowed her eyes. The pain wasn’t bad—not nearly what she’d been expecting. The idea of a surgical incision deep enough to pull babies from wasn’t super fun to dwell on, but Blue and Dahl had done a good job. Things were remarkably tolerable.
Ian shuffled his feet. “I’ll see if I can find something a little more special than oatmeal.” The big man kissed his fingers, touching a tender, smooch-infused hand to each of the girls before bending to give Jane one on the cheek. Ian made his exit speedily, keeping the gust of cold to a minimum, and Jane got a glimpse of dazzling white. A minute later the door opened again, and Dahl slipped into the twilight interior space.
He grinned and tossed a manilla folder on the comforter. “She who dances must pay the fiddler.”
Jane groaned and tried to kick the papers off the end of the bed.
As Ian carried Jane into the Mooney M20 small aircraft, she waved at Sister Frances Ruger and cursed Dahl under her breath with feeling. Yes, they were under terrible time pressure for reality coming apart, but fuckaroos, a few days of rest would have been nice. Not everyone wanted to jump out of major surgery and into the next risky venture the same day, asshole.
Dahl had informed her that she would be traveling along with Ian, Joyeuse, and the babies (if you want to take them—fuck you, Dahl) to the Sisters of Perpetual Help’s east coast convent.
“You’re sending me into the field less than twelve hours after a c-section?”
“No, Saint Jane, I am not sending you into the field. I am giving you the cushiest useful job available—sit in a library. I’m sure the sisters have a big comfy chair and milkshakes. You don’t even have to trouble yourself reading anything, just look pretty and exude whatever magic keeps your little group from being found. If it strikes you to assist further in saving the world, maybe pick up a book. Ian will do the heavy research, and with any luck we’ll get a firmer grip on the whole threat-to-reality situation.”
And with that Ian packed a bag, Dahl called out with the Iridium satellite phone, and two nuns arrived in an overgrown Cessna.
Kissing her on the head, Ian arranged her blanket. “I’m going to secure Joyeuse and then the girls one at a time, okay?”
“Fine, can you get the bassinet too? I think we can make it fit next to the seat.”
“Sure thing.”
“Why are we bringing Joyeuse?” Jane rubbed her forehead, trying to wrap her exhausted brain around the next few days.
“Since Charlemagne is our best lead, Dahl thought he might be helpful. I don’t know what he can do, but I guess we’ll see. I’ll be right back.” Ian kissed her one more time and squeezed back through the comically small door. An ephemeral, shadow antler crown rested on his brow, black velvet with bone-white tines, which passed through the top of the hatch insubstantially, so visible this morning Jane flinched in anticipation of him getting snagged—which was silly, because of course they weren’t real.
Jane studied her skin in the dim cabin, searching for any evidence of the magic she’d tried to flip on. Was there a faint bioluminescent shimmer? Had what she’d done even worked? Two more secret keepers, Blue and Megan, along with way too much coaching from Dahl about reaching for her power, had dissolved into a lot of bickering about whether she’d achieved the effect or not. There was no light, but had there been before? Jane seemed to remember light. She didn’t feel any different, but did that mean anything? Last time she’d used this effect was a knee-jerk reaction. But to try replicating an impulse? It was fucking impossible.
“Hey, Jane.” Sister Mary’s smile-lined face appeared in the doorway. She was dressed for action: black combat habit decked out with tactical gear and holy trinkets. “I heard you’re heading out and I wanted to make sure I caught you.”
“Like ships passing in the night,” Jane mumbled.
“Congratulations. You two make beautiful kids.” Sister Mary beamed. “I can’t wait to attend the baptism.”
“Yeah.” Jane sighed. “As soon as we save the world, right?”
“You got it.” Sister Mary gripped her shoulder. “If anyone’s up to the challenge, you are. I wouldn’t be surprised if your last link was Joan of Arc: leading the troops into battle.”
Jane was quiet, sifting through her tumbled heap of emotions. Sister Mary glowed with confidence, and that somehow made it worse. How could she lead a charge when she didn’t even know if she was using her links functionally? Some hero she was turning out to be. Exhausted, full of dysfunction and self-doubt. Did Joan of Arc ever feel like that?
Somewhere deep, Father Gentle’s soft words stirred inside her.
We do have power—it’s called faith. Sometimes it comes from God, and then it’s called miracles.
Sister Mary offered a few more congratulations and warm smiles as she unloaded her bag for a stint at Camp Nowhere. Jane’s dad hugged her, counted out pain meds, and packed snacks. Jane’s mom lingered by the side of the jet and kissed each of the girls before Ian carried them onboard, cradled in his massive hands. After liftoff, Jane dozed while Ian rocked sleeping babies at 17,000 feet.
The convent catacombs did have a comfy chair, but no milkshakes. Sister Isadora Elizabeth Dominique, or Sister IED by Blue’s designation, greeted them with plump cheerfulness and a lot of cooing noises. Ian settled into research mode while Jane was fussed over in a way that almost made her forgive Dahl.
“Hot lunch should be here soon, luvs. Oh, and Jane, don’t forget your medical check upstairs. Always a good idea after home surgery.” Sister Isadora beamed at them from her perch beside the bassinet as she dangled her paracord rosary over in the babies’ field of vision, catching and losing their interest with the impromptu mobile. After a few minutes, she clipped it back on a belt carabiner and bustled back to the heavy wood door. “There’s an intercom system here, so buzz if you need anything. We’re at your disposal.”
After the Sana Baba library Jane would have sworn she’d seen it all, but this room was equally impressive, if more intimate. “Catacombs” wasn’t quite the right description. More like “Story Time with the Dead” or “Totally Blinging Skeleton Hide-and-seek.” Recessed alcoves among the built-in bookshelves housed human remains encased in splendor.
Gold wire filigree strung with precious gems wound around ribs and jaws while fingers draped in gauze clutched wondrous chalices, ceremonial knives, or intricate crucifixes. Eerie wax faces rested under gossamer veils and shining crowns. Jane squinted at the skull closest to her: sapphire eyes on a bed of seed pearls stared out while the
nasal cavity cradled lace-fine goldwork.
“Who are these people?” Jane squinted at a name plaque, but it didn’t look like English.
“Catacomb saints.” Ian lifted his warm face to gaze at the golden remains. “Bodies of people thought to be Christian martyrs because they were found in ancient Roman catacombs with the letter “M” carved beside them. At one time in history many Catholic churches had been sacked or burned, and while rebuilding they wanted new relics. These skeletons were decorated and sent around the world.”
“They must be worth a fortune.” Jane focused on the details, because trying to take in the whole effect was too much and her eyes got swimmy.
“Yes, the jewels and gold came from donations, but it’s the artistry that’s priceless.” Ian’s voice was soft and reverent. “Sometimes nuns did the artwork. Maybe the Sisters of Perpetual Help had a hand in this.”
“That’s so cool. Did you learn about the bodies from Sister Mary?”
“No.” Ian came to retrieve a fussy Beth. “I started reading everything I could find on Catholicism after I met you.”
Jane looked up. Ian had gone sheepish while he rocked Beth in his huge arms. “Well, Mr. Sendak, you had your sights set on me from minute one.”
Ian shrugged. “I did.” Beth was curled up against his chest, engulfed by his right hand. “Look at how that turned out.”
“Mmmm. I guess you’re a natural.” Jane grinned and unpacked their research list from her “I Heart Mushrooms” backpack, glancing over Dahl’s elegant cursive decrees. “Well, your son’s a dirty liar, but don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll do better with the girls.”
“Oh?” Ian glanced over. “Is there a change of plans?”
“Today we’re supposed to research Charlemagne here in the library and I’m having a med check, like we discussed.” Jane bit her lip. She was going to fucking kill that man when they got back. “Tomorrow we are going to Kennett Square to find more information about the aftermath of Eileen Kendle.”