Witch-Blood

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  Eventually, as I was tracking down a lead to a promising-sounding scroll in a footnote, I stumbled upon the Arcanum’s files about the courts. They weren’t protected—not from me, at least, since I’d worked out a few common passwords—but I paused before I sneaked a peek. My parents had seldom mentioned anything concerning Faerie, and when they did, it was brief and followed with a warning to keep my nose out of such matters. I gathered that faeries were dangerous and never to be trusted, but no one around had ever volunteered specifics. After a moment’s hesitation, however, the temptation proved too strong, and so I dove in.

  Over the next few years, as I spent more and more time locked in the safety of my room, I returned to those files and tried to fit the puzzle pieces together. In broad strokes, I knew this to be true: there was a world beyond the borders of ours from which magic came, and that world was ruled—or had been ruled, there were some disagreement in the records about that—by two queens and a king, each with a court of followers. Nothing good came from any of them, and the Arcanum had successfully eliminated hundreds of faeries over the centuries. For the more notorious survivors, the Archives kept copious notes: approximate age, court affiliation, past alliances, known aliases, assumed kills, any pictures. Reviewing the files felt a little like flipping through mafia rosters, and I sketched family trees as I dug through them, trying to determine how one faerie was connected to another. Without fail, though, I found myself returning to the big three: Mab, location unknown; Oberon, last seen in Florida; and Titania, who held Faerie by herself. I didn’t suppose I’d ever need the information I was reading, but if the Arcanum was going to throw me out eventually, I wanted to know what was lurking out there before they cut me off.

  I kept up my nighttime reading until the ninth grade, when I could poke around during the daylight hours as well, thanks to my sudden switch to homeschooling. Hel had graduated and moved across the country to start at Vanderbilt, leaving me on my own—and at the mercy of the kids she had helped keep at bay.

  I don’t like to think about that year. Let’s just say that I can describe in incredible detail what it feels like to break a bone. I know what my skin smells like when it’s on fire. I’m also familiar with the exquisite pain that comes with battered internal organs—injuries that Mom treated in-house, despite the Arcanum’s protocol about major trauma, so that we wouldn’t raise a stink. If CPS had made silo visits, I’d have been in foster care in another city, but it’s hard to have government oversight of a facility that no one without a magical connection knows exists. It was the ruptured kidney in October that convinced Mom that perhaps homeschooling was the right choice for me. I cleaned out my locker and piled a stack of textbooks on my desk, and that was that. My parents weren’t going to make me study—they certainly weren’t teaching me—but I had no friends in the silo, and I didn’t dare to roam the halls on my own. And so I dug in, passed the requisite tests, and seldom saw daylight.

  By the summer, I’d graduated high school, and I was stuck. My parents weren’t sending me off to college at fifteen, especially not to my first choice, MIT, but Mom had broached the idea of taking online courses. Though I looked through the offerings, I found it hard to see the point. I’d surfaced a grand total of four times since leaving school, and what I wanted more than a new academic challenge was to see daylight without an escort. Still, I was out of options, and I was bored enough to return to the restricted faerie files…and to my surprise, there had been changes.

  Titania and Mab were confirmed dead, as was one of Oberon’s sons, a longtime nuisance known as the Puck. The status of Mab’s court was still unknown, but the file for Titania’s said that one of her sons, Coileán, had inherited the throne.

  I remembered seeing his name—in truth, I’d looked up the pronunciation—and I pulled up his file for a refresher. Age unknown, alias Colin Leffee—and, oddly enough for a faerie, alias Ironhand. His last residence was a little town in Virginia, and he dealt in rare books. I skimmed down the page, then paused at a bolded, underlined heading: Fifty-seven confirmed kills. Do not engage.

  The list of his victims was long and stretched across two continents. I started with the most recent and read backward, but I closed the file once I reached the tenth, simultaneously grateful that I’d never be called upon to fight a faerie and worried that something like him was out there, unchecked.

  The grand magus called the next afternoon.

  Dad had gone to work, and Mom, who had a great talent for healing spells, was putting in a few hours at the infirmary before reorganizing our family library, a project she or Dad undertook every few months when the paperback situation got out of control. I was having lunch when the house phone rang, and my first thought was that Hel was calling home to explain a bookstore purchase—it was September, and her sophomore course load was heavy. But when I lifted the receiver and answered through a mouthful of peanut butter, the voice I heard on the other end wasn’t my sister’s, but the slightly gravelly voice of the grand magus. I almost choked, and he waited while I coughed my windpipe clear before telling me—and in retrospect, he was strangely calm about it—“Mr. Carver, I need to speak with you in private. Could you be in my office in half an hour?”

  I was still wearing nothing more than my boxers, but I squeaked out something in the affirmative and ran off to dress with a racing heart. My palms began to sweat as I pawed through my closet for a clean and mostly unwrinkled shirt. I remember thinking Mom was going to kill me if I didn’t at least put on a tie, but in my panic, I couldn’t seem to find one. Then again, as I was sure the grand magus had discovered my Archives snooping and was about to kill me himself, I wasn’t overly concerned about my wardrobe choices.

  Twenty-nine minutes after hanging up, I had thrown on a black golf shirt—it had a collar, I reasoned, and that was close enough—and a pair of khakis, run brushes over my teeth and through my hair, and skidded to a panting stop outside the grand magus’s door. Steeling myself for the blow to come, I rapped and waited, hoping he was feeling merciful.

  The door cracked open a moment later, and there he was—craggy-faced, white-haired, and looking down at me through his glasses with a grim sort of smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Carver,” he said, opening the door wider. “I thought that had to be you running in the hall. Come in, son, come in.”

  I slipped in after him and tried not to stare at his spacious office, easily twice the size of my parents’ apartment. He showed me to the pair of green leather couches, and my eyes wandered to the abstract paintings on the white walls and the well-stocked polished oak bar in the back of the room, which practically sparkled in the fluorescents. I don’t know what I was expecting to find, maybe something a little heavier on stone and candles, but the grand magus’s space seemed warm and thoroughly modern. I tried to imagine Hel taking private lessons in there—my sister, the prodigy, had specially trained with the grand magus for years—and came away slightly disappointed at the lack of wizardly ambiance.

  The grand magus lowered himself to the couch opposite mine and folded his gnarled hands in his lap. “We need to talk.”

  I willed myself not to give my guilt away with a nod. “We do?”

  “We do,” he said, then slumped against the cushions and peered back at me. “I understand you got your diploma. Congratulations, young man, that’s most impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I mumbled, waiting for the blow.

  But the grand magus stayed his hand. “I know you haven’t had it easy of late. Between Helen and your mother, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard about every scratch and bruise you’ve ever gotten. And believe me,” he added with a wry smirk, “I know it ain’t always easy being the different one.”

  At that, I fought the urge to argue with the grand magus that being an African-American wizard in Montana couldn’t compare to being a dud, but I had sense enough to keep my opinion to myself. “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded and watched me, and I tried not to squirm under his gaze. After a long moment, h
e sighed and shrugged. “There’s something you need to know, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to break the news to you,” he said, rubbing his chin, “but there’s no easy way to do this. Mr. Carver…”

  I tensed, anticipating the announcement that I needed to find a new place to live.

  “Mr. Carver,” the grand magus said slowly, “you’re not a dud.”

  “I…huh?” I said, finding that my prepared apology for the hacking no longer fit the conversation.

  “You’re not a dud,” he repeated.

  “Grand Magus…sir…” I said hesitantly, “I, uh…I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m pretty sure I’m a dud.”

  He shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”

  Despite my earlier trepidation, my hopes started to rise—perhaps someone had finally figured out how to fix me. “But…but I’ve never been able to do anything with magic!” I protested. “I’ve tried, but…what am I doing wrong? I couldn’t even get a dragonscale wand to work!”

  Without a word, he pulled off his glasses and polished them clean with his shirt, and I got the sinking feeling that he was stalling. When the lenses were smudge-free, he slipped them on and looked at me once more. “You’re not a dud,” he said yet again, but softly. “You’re a witch-blood, Mr. Carver. It’s high time you knew the truth.”

  He could just as easily have slammed a sledgehammer into my stomach. “What?”

  “Witch-blood.” The grand magus’s mouth tightened, and he seemed to force himself to go on. “Your father,” he began, but hesitated. “The details aren’t for me to tell. Suffice it to say that your mother isn’t your biological mother. You were, uh…well, you were a surprise.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “My…mother?”

  “I’m just grateful that Rachel’s a blonde,” he replied, almost talking to himself. “With Howard and Helen as dark as they are, at least you were plausibly Rachel’s. But…” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Now that your, uh…biological…mother is dead, it’s safe to tell you the truth.”

  The grand magus watched me in silence, and I realized that he was waiting for me to force his hand. Fighting a surge of nausea, I heard myself mumble, “Who’s my mother?”

  He nodded—whether in resignation or approval, I didn’t know. “Her name was Titania.”

  “What?”

  He sat there impassively as I started to hyperventilate. “You know something about the courts, do you?” he asked, then frowned, rose, and sat beside me. “Okay, son, put your head between your knees,” he said, pressing on the back of my neck. “Take a deep breath…atta boy, let it out. Feeling woozy?”

  “Feeling sick,” I mumbled, clutching my ankles.

  The cushion shifted beside me, and a few breaths later, the grand magus’s squat office trashcan landed by my leg. “Wouldn’t be the first time that thing’s seen action,” he said, patting my shoulder, then sat opposite me again and waited while I pulled myself together and tried not to be ill.

  Mom, the one parent who actually took care of me, wasn’t my mother. Dad had cheated on her with…

  No.

  No.

  I was a dud, damn it, but I was Arcanum through and through. I wasn’t fae, I couldn’t be…

  The grand magus cleared his throat. “If you’re thinking badly of your father right now, don’t,” he said. “I can’t explain it, but…don’t blame him.” He paused, watching me struggle, then murmured, “Titania left you up top when you were a day or two old, and we figured out who you belong to. The Council and I just thought you’d be safer if we kept the truth quiet for a while.”

  I lifted my head from my knees to find him watching me with concern. “So what now?” I muttered. “Truth comes out, what difference does it make? Whether I’m a dud or a witch-blood, I’m still stuck in my room.”

  He hesitated, then replied, “Well…yes and no.”

  “Sir?”

  “As I said, Titania’s out of the picture.” The grand magus folded his arms and looked off into the corner of the room. “I know Coileán. The old boy’s going to want to know about you.”

  “Me?” I yelped.

  He nodded. “And he’s probably going to be pissed, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. Oh, not pissed at you,” he clarified, catching my expression. “He’ll give me grief about keeping him in the dark, but he’ll get over it. He’s not stupid.”

  My heart started hammering as I thought over what I’d read. “Coileán…you mean—”

  “Your older brother,” he said. “Lord Coileán, if you want to be polite about it, which is usually a wise move. We may not have a great history with the courts, but I’ve always found that it’s safest to avoid unnecessarily antagonizing faeries. He’s half, incidentally.”

  “Half…”

  “Fae. Which is lucky for us, as the full-blooded ones are impossible bastards. Coileán’s reasonable enough,” he continued as I eased upright. “Stubborn when you poke him the wrong way, but at least he’s open to negotiation. Did they mention any of this to you in class? I know they go over the big Three, but…”

  I shook my head. “They don’t let me take classes. Dud, remember?”

  “Oh…yes, of course. Sorry,” he mumbled with a grimace. “Doesn’t matter right now. What I’d like to do is get him down here and make the introductions, then test to be sure your dad was right about who you came from.”

  At that moment, I wasn’t sure what was more concerning, the fact that the grand magus wanted to invite a faerie into the silo or the fact that I might be kin to one. As I tried to process the last five minutes, he returned to his desk, punched a code on the intercom, and waited until a female voice I didn’t know answered. “Hi, Toula. Need to see you for a sec.”

  When he cut the connection, I was staring at him, aghast. “Was that—”

  “Ms. Pavli is a help to me,” he interrupted, returning to the couch. “And she’s also a witch-blood, so bear that in mind.”

  The grand magus seemed unfazed as a streak of white light appeared beside the door, then widened into a rip in the fabric of existence. A gate, I realized as I gawked—that was a gate, the sort of higher-level magic I’d read about but had yet to see…and the woman who stepped through, sporting spiky black hair, a tank top, and purple sweatpants, had to be Apollonios Pavli’s daughter. I knew her by reputation—or, to be fair, I knew about her father, executed before I was born for the murder of forty-three wizards in Chicago. To my surprise, Toula looked more like a twenty-something on a lazy Saturday morning than the face of evil incarnate.

  “Hiya,” she said to the grand magus as she closed the gate behind her. “What’s going on?”

  He gestured to me but kept his eyes on Toula. “Have you met Aiden Carver?”

  “No, can’t say that I have,” she replied with a squint. “Carver…any relation to—”

  “Helen’s brother,” he confirmed. “Half brother, I should say. Tell me, does he remind you of anyone?”

  Toula peered at me in silence for a few seconds, then pursed her lips and glanced at the grand magus. “Honestly? Maybe it’s just me, but I think that kid looks kind of like Titania. What was I supposed to say?”

  I cringed, and Toula’s blue eyes darted back and forth between the grand magus and me as she realized the truth. “Oh…oh, shit, Greg, you don’t mean—”

  “That’s the hypothesis we’ve been working with for the last fifteen years.”

  She whistled low and rubbed her bare arm. “Does Colin know?”

  “I was about to tell him.”

  “Good,” she snapped, “because if you don’t, I will.” She looked at me again, then slid beside me on the couch, moved the grand magus’s trashcan out of the way, and took my hand. “Hey, bud, are you okay?” she murmured, giving my face a closer inspection. “Did Greg just tell you, too?” I nodded, and she aimed an exasperated sigh at him. “Dude, I’m sorry, I know it’s a shocker,” she continued as she squeezed my hand. “He sprung it on
me last March, and I’m still working through everything. You grow up Arcanum, and then one day, you find out that your missing mother is, you know, Mab. Surprise!” She released me and slid back on the cushion, putting a little breathing space between us. “Look, the test is easy, and we’ll get this settled. If Greg’s right about you…I mean, it could be a lot worse. Colin’s all right, as faerie lords go. Can you, uh…can you do anything with magic?”

  “Nope,” I muttered.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She stood and turned to the grand magus, then asked, “Official business? Want me to look presentable?”

  He gave her a long glance over the top of his glasses. “If you could shoot for professional, that would be a welcome change.”

  “Gramps doesn’t care,” she replied with a shrug, but an instant later, her sweats had changed into a black suit and high heels. “Better?”

  The grand magus waved her on, then stood and motioned for me to join him as Toula opened another gate. “I may need to do a little prep work,” he told me quietly. “Why don’t you wait in the hall?”

  The silo’s walls were thin, and so I heard the muffled voices when Toula returned. Hers was easy to pick out, and I knew the grand magus’s well enough. The third sounded younger than his and moderately pitched, a smooth baritone, and as far as I could tell, unaccented. Then again, I couldn’t make out what was being said, so all I was left with was snippets of unintelligible sound and my churning stomach. An hour before, I’d been making a sandwich and thinking of starting a new robotics project from the scraps in my bedroom—and now I was eavesdropping outside the grand magus’s office while he spoke with his assistant, the witch-blood daughter of Apollonios Pavli, and the faerie king who might or might not be my brother. It was enough to make me want to slink off and hide in the janitor’s closet.