SPELL TO UNBIND, A

by Laurie, Victoria

  “I’m not backing out,” he said stubbornly.

  “Okay then,” I said, shifting my position slightly to make myself more comfortable. “Then, whenever you’re ready, tell me the details of your binding.”

  Kincaid cleared his throat and eyed the floor. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with the memory. “I was bound by a witch who never gave up her name. She was just some old hag who lived down the street from us.”

  “What year?” I asked, surprised that we’d both been bound by old hags.

  “Nineteen thirty-two,” he said. I did the math. We were surprisingly close in age, but we both could’ve passed for our early thirties. Just one of the many minor benefits to being bound. After puberty, the aging process slows way down.

  “We’d just lost our dad to consumption,” Kincaid continued, “and it was at the peak of the Depression so money was tight. Mom moved us from Omaha to Wichita to live with her sister. The house was small and cramped, and in a crummy neighborhood, but it was better than nothing. The mystic who bound me was this creepy old lady who lived down the street in a house that was even worse looking than my aunt’s—”

  At this I had to interrupt. “Wait a second. You’re telling me a mystic was living in some random poor neighborhood in Wichita, Kansas?” Our kind tended not to mix with the poorest of the unbound. Not when their treasures were so easy for the taking.

  “I know,” Kincaid said. “Unusual. But it’s true. Anyway, as I was saying, this old lady’s house might’ve been a dump, but the garden she kept out back was the envy of the whole neighborhood. She grew every kind of flower and vegetable you could think of.

  “Finn and I would walk right past it on our way to the fishing hole every weekend. So one day we’re coming back from fishing, empty-handed, and we’re starving and worried what our mom is going to say because we’d promised to bring home something for dinner, and as we’re walking by the backyard of the old lady, Finn slaps me on the shoulder and whispers that we should raid her garden.

  “I didn’t want to do it, but Finn said, ‘What’s the harm? Even if we get caught, it isn’t like the old lady can run us down.’”

  I smirked, already knowing how this was going to end but enjoying the telling of it anyway.

  Kincaid shrugged. “So we snuck into the garden and began filling our pockets with anything we could grab. I was really nervous about the whole thing, so I kept my eyes on the house almost the entire time. Finn was more cocky about it. He didn’t seem to care, and he just dug in and filled our knapsack and his pockets. When we couldn’t stuff one more thing into our clothes or the knapsack, we turned to leave, and the second we did, the old lady showed up in front of us, only she didn’t look like the feeble old woman we both remembered seeing, tending to her yard. She seemed taller. Stronger. And more threatening.”

  Kincaid swallowed as if the fear from that moment still sat with him. “I don’t know how she got behind us to sneak up on us like that, or how she changed into something so sinister, but I remember all my hair standing up on end, and something told me we were in really deep shit.

  “Looking back, I think Finn felt it too. Right away, he set down the knapsack and apologized to the old woman, telling her how ashamed he was to get caught stealing from her, but explaining how hungry our family was. During that whole time, she didn’t speak a word, she just stared at him with the most …” Kincaid’s voice trailed off, and his eyes held a haunted, faraway stare.

  “The most what?” I asked when he didn’t continue.

  Kincaid shook his head, as if he couldn’t find the word to describe her expression. “She stared at him in a way that made me think she was going to kill him.”

  “How did you two make it out alive?” Mystics weren’t known for their mercy. Stealing from one was a very risky endeavor, as I knew firsthand.

  Kincaid continued. “I think we survived because, right at that moment, things got even weirder. A guy walked into the garden right behind the old lady—”

  “A guy?”

  “Another mystic. At the time, I thought he was just someone who knew the old lady and was coming to visit, but he entered through the gate silently and came up right behind her in a way that was super creepy. He was walking with a cane, but he wasn’t leaning on it; it looked like it was for decoration. Anyway, when he was about ten feet behind the old woman, he lifted the cane high and brought it down, like he was hitting something or someone. He was too far away from us to have hit her, but she reacted as if she’d been beat hard over the head. She fell to the ground, and I remember she was bleeding from a cut on the back of her skull. I also remember Finn and I looking at each other like we couldn’t believe what we’d just seen.”

  “What did this other man look like?” I asked curiously.

  “He was a character,” Kincaid said. “He had silver hair, like, actual silver hair, and he wore an all-white suit, a white eye patch, and a purple ascot. His cane was also striking; it was bright silver, with a huge amethyst crystal at the head.”

  I gasped at the description. There was only one mystic that could’ve been. “You’re telling me that Vigmar Dobromila was in your neighborhood attacking a low-level mystic?”

  Vigmar had been Petra’s brother. He’d died under mysterious circumstances when I was fourteen, the year I was taken in by Banzan—the Buddhist monk who became my mentor. Banzan had known Vigmar well but not fondly. He’d spoken about him often, describing him in great detail.

  “Yes,” Kincaid said in answer to my question. “That’s what I’m telling you. Although we didn’t know who the hell he was back then. That only came to light later.”

  “So did he kill the witch?” I asked. I had to admit, Kincaid’s binding story was fascinating.

  “No,” Kincaid said. “She killed him.”

  I gaped at Kincaid for a good ten seconds. “How?”

  “With a wave of her freaking hand, Esmé.” Kincaid waved his own hand casually for emphasis.

  I shook my head. “It’s not possible. Vigmar was even more powerful than Elric. How could this old hag have beaten him?”

  “She was more powerful than Vigmar,” Kincaid said bluntly.

  “Tell me what she did,” I demanded. “I want to know everything, from the moment she was lying on the ground, what happened next?”

  Kincaid shrugged. “Not much. She put a hand to her head and let out a shriek, and my brother and I reacted. We rushed the intruder; tackling him together, we threw him to the ground. I think we took him by surprise, and I doubt he’d taken much notice of us when he entered the yard because he was so focused on the witch.

  “Anyway, Vigmar went down, and I thought we had the upper hand, but then all of the sudden, Finn goes flying through the air and hits the garden shed like he’s just been tossed aside by a gorilla. I rolled off Vigmar, about to head to Finn’s side, when I felt myself lifted off the ground and thrown ten feet by an unseen hand. I landed a little better than Finn, who had his bell rung, and as I was getting to my feet, I saw the old lady get to her feet. While Vigmar was focused on us, she waved her hand in a zigzag, and all of a sudden, Vigmar’s chest … it just exploded.”

  “It exploded?”

  “Yeah,” Kincaid said softly, shaking his head. “His heart came flying out of his chest, and the old lady caught it bare-handed. It was still pumping.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  Kincaid nodded. “That was my exact thought too.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The witch pocketed the heart and turned to us. She called us by name, which shocked the hell out of both of us, because to my knowledge she’d never asked us our names, but she called to us and told us to come forward. After watching what’d happened to the guy with the silver hair, Finn and I were too scared not to do exactly as she said. So we got up and walked to stand in front of her, literally shaking from head to toe. She then said that she was grateful we’d distracted her enemy long enough for her to gain the upper hand. For t
hat, she told us, she’d spare our lives, but she couldn’t forgive the fact that we’d stolen from her, so she was going to teach us a lesson by cursing us.”

  “Ah,” I said. “The binding.”

  Kincaid nodded. “She cursed Finn first, and then—”

  “What did she bind him with?” I interrupted, hoping Kincaid might just tell me.

  He frowned. “Nice try.”

  I shrugged. “Can’t blame a mystic for trying.”

  Kincaid continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “And then she cursed me. Her exact words were, ‘Gideon Kincaid, no fruit shall you bear, even if you plant your seed everywhere. Your branch will be stunted, your tree will grow old, but no child will bear the surname you hold.’”

  “Wow,” I said, totally unimpressed. “That’s it?”

  Kincaid seemed insulted. “That’s it,” he said flatly.

  “Okay. At least she didn’t kill you. And she didn’t curse you with anything that’s going to get overly in your way, so that’s not so bad.”

  Kincaid’s hard stare was unwavering. He seemed ready to yell at me, so I decided to move on. “Now that I know the details of your binding, we can move forward with the actual ceremony.”

  Kincaid looked away to grab his bag and pull out parchment and a quill, which he handed to me, and while he dug back in his bag for a jade knife, I scribbled down a few lines on the parchment forming the very basics of the mentoring contract where I agreed to be his mentor for as long as he needed me (which hopefully wouldn’t be long) and help him navigate the mystic world, teaching him our history, our laws, and enough skills to keep him alive once he fully immersed in our culture. I also vowed to protect the details of his binding, never sharing it with another soul, and I agreed to protect him in those instances where his inexperience might bring him bodily harm.

  That last line was the one I was most worried about, but there was no way around it; as his mentor, I was bound to offer him protection.

  I then wrote out his part, which was to agree to come into the partnership willing to learn, ready to listen, and accepting of the power dynamic between us. He would also protect any secrets he learned about me and shield me from harm where he could.

  It was only a one-page contract, but it was as powerful an agreement as any we had in our world.

  When I was done with the text, I formed two signature lines, then passed the contract over to Kincaid so that he could read it over. His eyes darted left to right for a few moments, and then he simply looked up at me and nodded.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  I leaned forward to arrange the twelve lit candles into a circle that enclosed us in a ring of fire. Once that was done, I lifted the contract out of Kincaid’s hands and began to read my part aloud. Once I was finished, I turned to him and motioned for him to do the same. He read his portion out loud and when he was finished, he looked at me expectantly.

  “Are you right-handed or left?” I asked.

  “Left.”

  I smirked. “Me too.” I was fairly ambidextrous—as most lefties tend to be—but my dominant hand was my left.

  Taking up the jade knife, I made a deep incision across my right palm and allowed the blood to pool into a small dish much like the one that Sequoya had used. I then looked up at Kincaid and said, “Give me your right hand.”

  He held it forward, palm up, and I made the same cut across the surface as I had my own. I was quick with the knife, but I still had to give the guy credit because he barely even winced.

  I then offered him the small receptacle, and he allowed several drops of blood to drip into it. Once we had enough for the task, I dipped the quill into the small pool of our combined blood and signed my full name to the contract.

  Offering the quill to Kincaid, I expected him to hesitate—I mean, it was a pretty big deal to be bound to someone who’s going to order you around for the next couple of years—but he didn’t hesitate for a moment. His expression set in determination, he simply dipped the quill into the blood and signed his name.

  Even before handing me back the quill, I could feel the marrow in my bones begin to warm. It’s a unique feeling when a spell you’re tied to becomes activated. You heat up from the inside out, and the more powerful the spell, the more that sort of warmth comes alive. It tingles and dances and spreads rather deliciously throughout your whole body, from head to toe. I love the feeling even though it always seems to come with consequences.

  Like being bound to a novice, passing himself off as a cop in the mortal world who also happened to be the identical twin brother of a man so lethal that being within ten feet of him was likely to get me killed.

  Still, I enjoyed the small high of the spell while it lasted. Judging by the look of satisfaction on Kincaid’s face, he enjoyed it too.

  “Now what?” he asked, as the warming sensation began to fade.

  I didn’t answer him immediately. Folding up the contract, I handed it to him, then I went around the circle and blew out all the candles. When I was done, I said, “We’ll wait for the wax to cool a bit, and then we’ll pack up and get the hell out of here.”

  “Then what?” he pressed.

  I sighed. Shit was about to get complicated again. “Then we figure out who killed Grigori to close your case, and locate the trinket that was stolen from his house to conclude my business.”

  Kincaid’s brow furrowed in silent question.

  I had realized on the way here that, through his friendship with Grigori, Kincaid might have seen the egg either on his person or in his house. My plan had been to wait until we were officially bound to each other—thus able to trust each other—before asking him about it.

  “You spent time at Grigori’s house, right?” I asked.

  “I did. But just a few times.”

  I nodded. “Do you ever remember seeing a Fabergé egg out on display?”

  The furrow to Kincaid’s brow deepened. “No,” he said, and I felt my hopes fall. “But I did notice he carried a little gold egg around in his pocket. I figured it was his good luck charm.”

  And just like that my hopes rose from the depths. “Did you find it on him?” I asked. “When the body was removed, I mean. Did you find the egg?” It was possible that Grigori had used up almost all of the juice from the egg, but even if it had one final burst of magic to offer, if I found it and presented it to Elric, I’d still technically be fulfilling my end of his bargain.

  “No,” Kincaid said. “It was missing. And I know because I checked.”

  “Why did you check?” I asked.

  Kincaid shrugged. “Grigori was my friend. I would’ve liked to have kept something of his to remind me of him.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him. “I need to find it, Detective.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s put it this way: Either I find that egg and hand it to Elric, or by one minute past midnight on Sunday, you’ll be needing a new mentor.”

  Kincaid snorted. He thought I was joking. I cocked an eyebrow and pressed my lips together to show him I wasn’t. He sobered quickly. “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “What’s so special about the egg?”

  “It was crafted by the merlin Peter Carl Fabergé, and it was once owned by Alexandra Romanov, the tsarina, and given by her to Grigori after he used it to save the life of her son Alexi. Or, rather, when the little Tsarevich died, Grigori used it to bring the boy back to life.”

  Kincaid blinked. “You’re telling me that I was within five feet of the egg?”

  “You’ve heard of it,” I said drolly.

  “I have. Finn’s been after it for decades.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Kincaid chuckled, but it wasn’t an especially humorous chuckle. “There isn’t much more in this world that I’d love than to deny my brother one of the things he wants most.”

  “That’s telling.”

  Kincaid shrugged and handed me the sleep mask. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get t
he hell outta here before my evil twin shows up.”

  I took the mask but studied him for a moment before putting it on. “Someday you’re going to have to tell me why there’s bad blood between the two of you.”

  “Or not,” Kincaid said, and I felt that his word on that was final. Which was fine. I’d just have to dig up the truth for myself.

  Chapter Ten

  Day 2

  Kincaid and I spent the next two hours at the morgue, and Grigori Rasputin, I noted, was still dead. He’d been the hardest man in history to kill, yet someone had finally finished him off. I almost wanted to hand it to the killer.

  Kincaid set up a meeting with the medical examiner—Dr. John Schneider—and the body, introducing me at the meeting as a material witness and consultant on the case.

  Schneider eyed me skeptically, but he seemed willing enough to entertain the both of us with the details of Grigori’s death.

  “He suffered,” he began, pointing to the gaping hole in the corpse’s abdomen. “They all suffered, but I think this one and one of the women suffered the most.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kincaid asked.

  “Shock set in for two of the victims fairly quickly. It’s my educated guess that victims three and four either died immediately from the shot of adrenaline to the heart while they were being eviscerated, or very shortly thereafter. Adrenaline levels in both of them were off the charts, but this character in particular,” Dr. Schneider said, tapping the toe tag of Rasputin, “he bled out, and his adrenaline levels were only slightly above normal. Uncanny, really, when you think of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’d tried to remain calm while pinned to a chair and his entrails cut out.”

  “What about the other victim?” Kincaid asked. “The woman.”

  Schneider nodded. “Victim number two. Yes, her adrenaline levels were also lower than expected. Not quite as low as this man but still well below normal. She would’ve watched the other two victims expire nearly instantly while she and this man lingered fully conscious, bound to their chairs and suffering significantly.”