by A C Spahn
Another bowl was there, containing someone else’s set of belongings. Just basic stuff, wallet, cellphone, fancy metal pen, but I was so used to being the only one here that it surprised me.
“Someone else is visiting?” I asked, passing through the metal detector. No beep.
“Her sister,” the guard said.
A fist closed in my gut. Already I swam in fear and guilt. I’d hoped to relieve some of that by coming here. But if I wasn’t alone ...
Someone rapped softly on the metal door blocking my way. The guard drew his gun, though he kept it pointed at the floor as he opened the door. A dark-skinned woman with short, tightly curled hair stepped out. She wore business attire, and her expression was somber. Wordlessly she collected her things from the second tin by the metal detector. The guard let the door shut, and I heard its lock click.
“She say anything?” the guard asked, holstering his gun.
The woman swallowed. The tightness around her mouth showed the compressed sorrow of one who would cry, if she wasn’t so weary of being sad. “Not this time. She’s in her cat form today.”
The guard grunted.
The woman passed me without a glance. She didn’t know who I was, but I recognized her from a family photo I had once seen. Two Hispanic parents, with their five adopted children. All adults. All smiling. Carefree. Or they had been.
The guard eyed me. “You ready?”
I nodded. I didn’t think I could find the right words if I tried to speak.
He drew his gun once more and let me through the metal containment door. I stepped into a square room tiled the same as the rest of the hall. But the rest of the room’s structure was reinforced with steel. Two doors on opposite walls looked more like those in a high security prison than a mental facility. A single padded chair sat between the two cells, and above it hung a security camera protected by a steel cage. I eyed the red line tracing a circuit along the camera’s base. No one had confirmed it for me, but I suspected it was a mark of enchantment, and that the camera did more than monitor visitors. It also absorbed magic in this room, should any somehow manage to manifest in a building full of Voids. I couldn’t feel magic drumming in the rest of the facility, but somehow this little spot always felt emptier.
The cell on my right was unoccupied. I pulled the single chair over to the cell on the left. Sinking into the seat, I stared through a small window in the cell door. It had a metal slider that could close the window fully, but the woman visiting before me had left it open.
Inside, a full-size mountain lion lounged on a twin bed, paws massaging the rumpled sheet. A set of women’s clothing lay ripped to pieces on the floor. Beneath her golden fur I could make out two black lines, one on her rear leg and one on her neck, each forming a circular design.
The big cat’s coat ruffled as she saw me, and she lifted her head. Golden eyes gazed through the bars on the sliding window.
“Hello, Maribel,” I said quietly.
The shifter blinked, confusion and anxiety warring in her gaze. She rose on four paws, then her form seemed to compress, fur receding into patches of bare skin, before growing out once more. Body parts danced between animal and human, first one, then the other, again and again. She banged her head a few times against the metal wall, then abruptly went still, as if paralyzed, and flopped over on the mattress once again, staring at me with madness in her eyes.
Guilt swam through my gut. This was my fault. Maribel had been hunting me on behalf of the Void Union, and had discovered Sam’s untamed magic instead. When confronted, Sam had accidentally enchanted Maribel, and in her panic, she hadn’t focused the enchantment properly. It clashed with Maribel’s shifting enchantment, and the warring magics stole her sanity. To protect Sam, I’d claimed Maribel was a rogue enchantress herself, and that she had cast the magic that stole her sanity. That was why she was here, in the secured cells of the psych ward. They thought she was not only insane, but dangerous, full of magical potential that could burst out at any time. Hence the magic-absorbing camera above me.
I couldn’t fix Maribel’s condition. Once magic took your mind, that was it. But I felt I owed it to her to at least visit. To not hide from what I’d done. Sam had joined me, at first under my insistence, then voluntarily, until she’d quietly informed me she’d seen enough of the suffering she’d caused. I’d let her stop coming, but couldn’t stop myself. Maybe if I faced my mistakes often enough, it would help me avoid making more. God knew, I needed to avoid that now more than ever.
“Someone died today,” I said quietly. “A young man, enchanted, victimized by fleshwriters. Like me.” Like you, I silently added. Maribel twitched, and the moment of paralysis seemed to wear off. She continued to watch me warily. Her tail thumped on the bed behind her.
“I’m going to find out who killed him,” I said. “I’m going to avenge him. That was what you used to do, before you wound up here. You were a Hunter for the Void Union. Third non-Void ever to pass hunter training. You were very proud of that.”
More stares. More tail swishing.
I sighed, letting my eyes close. “I wish I could heal you. I wish I could make things right.” Not just Maribel’s predicament. Everything. So many enchanters abusing their power. Slaughtering perceived enemies, trampling those in the way. How many victims were dead or insane because of magic like mine? How many more were to come?
When I opened my eyes, Maribel had taken her human form. She stood there, naked, blonde hair loose and hanging past her shoulders. Rage twisted her mouth and put creases in her forehead. “Magic,” she growled. Then shouted, “Magic!”
I rose warily, backing toward the door. The guard burst through it a moment later, gun drawn and aimed at the cell.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s no magic here.”
The guard’s posture relaxed, but he didn’t lower the gun. “What’d you say to upset her?”
“Nothing. You can check your security footage. I was just thinking out loud.”
He eyed me doubtfully, but holstered his weapon. “You need to leave.”
Wordlessly I headed for the door. Maribel’s voice halted me. “Enchantress,” she whispered.
I whirled. She stood right at the cell door, face pressed to the barred window. Her eyes locked on mine. Insanity still lurked there, but accusation sparked in the blue depths. Her eyes flicked toward the empty cell opposite her, the one built to contain someone like me. A nasty smile blossomed on her face. “Enchantress,” she repeated, louder.
I darted out of the room, tailed by the guard. Maribel shouted over the bang of the door behind us. “Enchantress. Bruja! Enchantress!”
Jamming my things in my pockets, I started down the hall. “Enchantress!” Maribel’s voice pursued me. “Enchantress! Enchantress!”
Not caring what the guard might think, I broke into a run.
Chapter 5
THE GREATER BAY AREA held a variety of seasonal events during the summer, among them the local Renaissance Faire. Jousters, actors, dancers, and fighters entertained crowds in a large arena while curving dirt roads snaked around the rest of the fairgrounds, hosting booths and stalls selling everything from traditional handcrafts to walking shoes for those who didn’t bring good footwear. Wooden rides rose above the tents and temporary buildings, jugglers and other performers wandered the streets in costume, and the smells of peppered turkey legs and roasted corn scented the air.
Our booth took up a spot halfway down one curving path, between a clothing shop and a stall selling gigantic pickles. We co-rented the space with a handful of other vendors, each taking one weekend and several weekdays throughout Faire season so everyone had a chance to cater to both the adult patrons of the Faire and school groups during the week.
My costume was the product of a couple years of Faire attendance. I wore a loose white blouse tucked into layered skirts in earth tones. Over the blouse I’d laced a green bodice, topping everything with a leather belt and a homemade leather satchel. It was a si
mple costume, made entirely by hand, and I offered replicas of each item for sale to Faire attendees at our stall.
Desmond’s costume put mine to shame. He wore a peasant’s breeches, boots, and doublet, but he also had a chainmail vest he’d made himself, and carried a longsword belted to his waist. It wasn’t the same sword he used when fighting paranormals for the Void Union; that one had sharpened edges and a few scuffs from previous kills. This was a stage sword, used in his fight demonstrations when he wasn’t tending the Faire booth.
“I’ll be on stage from eleven to eleven-thirty,” Desmond said. He stood near the front of our booth where customers could see him, carving fine details into the wings of a wooden falcon. He also sold carved faeries, dragons, swords, knights, and mobile miniatures of some of the Ren Faire’s rides. “We do the swordfight again at one, three, and five.”
“I’ve got things covered here,” I said, listening to a man across the dirt walkway play a dulcimer with little hammers. Somewhere nearby, drums were beating as part of a performance. The rhythms made me hyper-aware of the contrasting drumming of magic over the Faire. Kadum. Kadum. Kadum. Not strong enough to need release, but I’d need to stay close to my purse in case the magic suddenly swelled and forced me to dispel it.
Thinking about magic made me think about last night, which made me think about all the burdens lying on my shoulders. Suddenly antsy, I rose from my chair and came to stand beside Desmond at the entrance to our booth, which had two rows of tables displaying our crafts for sale. “Are you feeling up to fighting?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s exercise, but it’s choreographed. Not as straining as real sparring.”
A middle-aged man dressed in burgundy velvet passed by our stall. His costume suited a minor noble, and from the quality design of the pieces I figured he was a regular. Only one thing gave him away as a customer and not one of the Faire’s paid actors–the sunglasses perched on his sun-reddened nose.
He plucked them off and leaned over the table to browse a display of my leatherworking. “Prithee, good lady, canst thou customize these bookmarks?” he asked, holding up a couple of my pieces. “I has’t three daughters someplace hereabouts who dost enjoy a good reading.”
I grinned and dropped into a terrible British accent. Customers loved it when we played along. “Aye, milord, for a pittance of thy coin I can indeed print designs aplenty upon yon leather bookmarks.”
“Then mistress, I do ask that ye write upon yon bookmarks my children’s names, lest one should misplace hers and claim another’s for her own.”
I curtsied and had the man write his daughters’ names out, then used my leather stamps at the back of our booth to print the letters in a fanciful font. As I showed him my work, he tipped his feathered hat. “Thy handcrafts serve most well. By the way, your English is very good.”
My gut clenched. I told myself he probably just wanted to compliment my faux-Ren speak, that he hadn’t just assumed English was my second language. “Thanks,” I said brightly. “Yours, too.”
His eyes widened slightly, and I suppressed a sigh. Yup, he’d meant to compliment my ability in one of the languages I’d grown up speaking. At least he hadn’t called me “articulate.”
He was extremely courteous through the rest of the transaction, perhaps by way of apology. I followed him back out of the booth and stopped beside Desmond. “First sale of the day,” I commented.
Desmond nodded, his eyes not on me. He’d stopped his whittling. Frowning, I followed his gaze down the dirt path. A man came our way, dressed in an open-fronted silk shirt with tight-fitting pants and a sword belted to his hip. He appeared Latino, so I guessed he was going for the period’s archetype of a Spaniard. He stopped at our booth and gave me a polite, appraising nod before turning to Desmond. He spoke in Spanish. “Hey, sorry I didn’t get back to you the other day.”
“It’s okay,” Desmond answered, also in Spanish. “So, can you make it? Nobody else was able to come, but I’d still like to have video game night.”
“Sorry,” the man repeated, shaking his head. “I have work.”
Desmond frowned. “That’s what the other guys said.”
“It’s a tense time. You should know. You’re the one fighting ghosts and finding bodies. Whatever’s going on, though, I don’t think it’s only happening here. I haven’t heard from my friend in Des Moines in weeks. The other Unions all seem to be on communication lockdown.”
My heart started to beat faster. Harrow might not have shared the peril facing the Voids across the continent, but apparently rumors had sparked.
“If something is going on, I’m sure the Legionnaire will tell us what we need to know,” Desmond said warily.
“Yeah. Anyway, just wanted to let you know why I won’t make it to your hangout.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. We’re going to try out Tanya in the fight demo this weekend. She’s been understudying you for weeks, and it’s time we let her go onstage.”
Anger stiffened Desmond’s shoulders. His ears burned a reddish-brown. “She’s understudied the rest of you, too.”
“Yes, but you have this shop to run. We figured you could use the break.” The man flashed a perfunctory smile, then headed away. “See you around headquarters.”
Desmond gave a halfhearted wave, then turned and stalked into the booth. His chainmail rattled as he ran his hands through his hair, the gesture tense.
Once the man passed out of sight, I entered the tent and spoke quietly, switching to English. “Who was that?”
Desmond turned. His light brown cheeks darkened with anger. “Until a few minutes ago, I would have said a friend.”
“He kicked you out of the swordfight.”
“I choreographed that fight. I should be on stage with them.”
“It’s not only the fight, though. He’s obviously a Void.” I ignored the rumors spreading about the other Unions’ silences. With Harrow’s warning echoing in my head, the less I said about that, the better. “He’s dumping you as a friend, isn’t he?”
Desmond dropped his hands to his sides. “I didn’t expect this from him. From any of them. I had friends in the Union. But these last couple months, it’s like I’ve gotten the plague.”
I slipped my arm around his waist, holding him close. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It kind of is, though.”
“It’s not your fault that they hate you just for being what you are.” He sighed and sank into one of the chairs we’d set up. I stood close, trailing my fingers through his messy black hair in a comforting gesture.
After a minute, Desmond spoke again. “I never really fit in anywhere as a kid. With my mixed heritage, I always felt too brown, or too white, or too Hispanic, or not Hispanic enough. Given my martial arts classes, people kept assuming I’m part Japanese even though I don’t have any Asian background. Add that I’m into this kind of stuff–” He waved a hand around at the Faire and his array of woodcarvings. “–and I wound up as a loner for most of my life. When I discovered I was a Void, and that there was a whole organization of us, it was like finding this higher calling that bound me to other people. I felt like I belonged for the first time.”
My hand slipped down to rub his shoulders. A lot of this sounded familiar. The Voids and the cults might be on opposite sides, but they used similar recruitment techniques.
“And now ... now I’m on the outside again.” He threw a hand in the air in a gesture of exasperation. “All for doing the right thing.”
“They’ll come back around,” I said. “The ones who matter. The ones who still shun you were never your real friends to begin with.”
He rested his forehead in his hands. “I know. But that doesn’t make it easier.” After another sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and pulled me into a quick hug. I held him tight, pressing my cheek to his chest, letting him feel my warmth.
Any lingering thoughts of fleeing to escape the cult evaporate
d. Desmond had been abandoned by enough people in his life. I knew that pain. It lived within me every second of every day. I would not inflict it on someone else, not when they needed me most. Not when we needed each other.
“I’m here for you,” I murmured. “You’re not alone.”
He rested his chin on my head. His thumb brushed my cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.
We stood that way until another customer arrived. Over a hundred people bought our crafts throughout the day, making a tidy profit over the cost to rent the booth. And when the sounds of swordplay clanged through the air from a nearby stage, followed by the cheers of an adoring audience, we pretended not to hear.
Chapter 6
I SPENT A GLORIOUS DAY not thinking about ghosts, fleshwriters, or Bane Harrow. The Faire simply left no time for speculation or strategizing. But on Wednesday, business returned to normal. When I woke, knowing I would have to start solving the murder, thinking about the corpse of that boy wearing a tattoo like mine, I wanted to crawl under the covers and hide. Just get to Haven, I told myself. Once you’re up and working, you’ll be able to think more clearly.
A set of bells dangling over the glass door jingled softly as I let myself into Crafter’s Haven. Five aisles marched toward the back of the store, crammed with art supplies. Everything from beads to paint to yarn. Vivid, abstract murals decorated the walls above the shelves. To one side of the door, two checkout counters waited for customers, while to the other side, my workshop beckoned shoppers to survey my art. A broad counter divided my shop from the rest of the store, its dark wooden surface spotted with flung paint in all colors.
Above it hung an oak beam from which I suspended crafts for sale. Artistic pride warmed my chest as I approached my workspace. Currently I displayed several shirts I’d dyed and enhanced with buttons and rivets and buckles, all very steampunk. I’d also hung a number of delicate metal sculptures made for gardens, where they would dance in the wind. A couple abstract paintings hung on the wall. Several brown and orange floral wreaths were in progress on the work counter, and even a few in Christmas colors. Crafty people started prepping for holidays early. My glue gun lay beside them atop a full bag of glue sticks. I liked to give other artists some exposure, and my customers enjoyed variety, so one small section of my display was set aside for hosting new artists’ work. Currently it held a half dozen impressionist paintings by a local artist I’d met selling her art out of her car downtown.
