by R. L. King
“Come on,” he says, tossing some cash on the table for the meal and steering me outside. “Let’s sit in the car and try to call her. Maybe she is at the airport. Maybe she got stuck in traffic and missed her flight. Maybe whoever called is planning to ambush her when she arrives in New York.”
I don’t believe it, but I let myself hold on to some measure of hope as I slump into the passenger seat. I’ve been clutching my phone this whole time like some kind of lifeline, and now I tap Twyla’s number and put it on speaker.
It rings several times, then the familiar, cheerful message sounds: “Hey, it’s Twyla. Here’s a beep just for you. You know what to do with it.”
My heart’s beating faster and I’m nearly panting with stress. “Twy—it’s me. Listen—something’s wrong. Whoever called you, it wasn’t Nana. If you get this message, don’t get on that plane. Stay at the airport, and call me. We’ll come pick you up.”
I slump in my seat, head bowed.
“Come on,” Nick urges. “Call the airport. You know which airline it is, right?”
“Yeah…” I make no move to do it, though. I know, more than I’ve known anything in a long time, that it won’t matter. She’s not there. She never was there.
He pulls out his own phone. “What airline?”
“Delta.” My voice is a monotone. I don’t look at him.
He makes the call, working his way with far too much calm through the maze of automated messages until he finally gets a human. As I sit there and stare at my hands, he tells the person there’s an emergency, we’re trying to reach Twyla Rainwater, and they should tell her to call us and not board her plane until she does.
“Okay, thanks,” he says, and hangs up.
“What did they say?”
“He said they’ll flag her file. But she hasn’t shown up yet. No record of her checking in or going through the security checkpoint.”
“Damn.” I look at my watch: nearly two hours have passed since Twyla left my place. She could be late checking in if she’d gotten stuck in traffic or had trouble turning in her car, but that was cutting it close. Suddenly I feel useless, helpless, and very scared that I’ll never see Twyla alive again. Or see her at all again. Finally, after five years, we’d reconnected—my best friend, my sister from another mother—and now I’m going to lose her again. “What do I do, Nick?”
“Let’s go back to your place.” He still sounds calm, but I don’t miss the undercurrent of tension in his voice. He’s worried too. I almost try out my magical sight on him, but catch myself at the last second. Better stay a mundane for now, at least around Nick. You won’t help Twy by getting yourself blown up.
“What are we going to do there? We have to find her.”
“We can’t just drive around aimlessly. There’s no way we’d make it to the airport with enough time to find her.”
“If she even got there.”
“Yeah, that too,” he says soberly.
By the time we reach my place, nobody’s called back—not Twyla, not Nana, not the airline people. I leap out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop, unable to sit still any longer. Nick trails behind me as I dash up the stairs and shove open my door, then closes it softly behind him.
“You think this is Selene’s doing, don’t you?” he asks. His voice is gentle.
“Who else could it be?” I fling myself onto the sofa. Rory jumps up next to me, looking confused when I don’t immediately turn my full attention to her. “She must have found out somehow that we were on to her. But what does she want with Twy?”
“Maybe she was trying to separate you two.”
I snort. “As far as she knows, I’m a mundane. And she’s mostly right. I wouldn’t exactly be much of a challenge.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just tossing out possibilities here.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Nick. I don’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s okay. I get it.” He pulls out his phone. “You want me to call Grandfather? He’s got a lot of connections around here—maybe he can help.”
“I don’t see how, but hell, I’m out of ideas. Go ahead.”
He punches the number and listens for a few seconds, looking disappointed. “Hey, Grandfather. It’s me, Nick. Bron and I have got a bad situation here, and I’m hoping you can help us. Would you call me back when you get a chance? Thanks.”
He hangs up with a sigh. “Who knew magical crime lords have voicemail too?”
“I guess they do when they’re not technophobes like most of my family.” Frustrated beyond my ability to cope, I slam my fists into the couch cushions. “Damn it, we can’t just sit here!”
“Okay. Okay.” Nick takes the seat across from me. “Let’s think about this. What are the ways to track her? She hasn’t checked in at the airport yet, so she’s probably not there. Do you have that thing enabled on your phone where you can find people?”
I shake my head. “No. The other person has to agree to that, and we never even talked about it.”
“Okay, what about magic? Are there ways to track people using that? I remember Grandfather said something about using that Tarot card to try tracking whoever left it.”
“Sure. That’s pretty basic magic. But it won’t work in this case.”
“Why not?”
I slump back into the cushions, and Rory climbs into my lap. “Lots of reasons. First, you need a tether object.”
“You mean like something that belongs to them?”
“Yeah, preferably either something biological—blood, hair, nail clippings, that kind of thing—or an object they’re emotionally connected with. Second, we don’t have anybody to do it. Happenstance isn’t answering, and I don’t know any other mages around this area. Third and most important: mages can hide people from tracking spells if they don’t want to be found, and Selene’s a powerful mage.” My despair grows with every word.
Nick ponders. “Let’s take these one at a time. Twyla was trying to get out of here in a hurry. She was running around like a crazy person, gathering stuff up and throwing it in her suitcases. Are you sure she got everything?”
Part of me is growing frustrated, already tired of fending off his attempts to help. But he does have a point. I jump up, tipping Rory off my lap (I’m really going to have to make it up to her later, after this is all over) and dash back to the guest room.
Twyla was thorough. There’s no sign of any of her clothes or other items. She even made a half-assed attempt to make the bed, which I don’t blame her for because I know how much of a rush she was in to get out of here.
I’m about to give up when I remember the bathroom. I push past Nick in the doorway and hurry across the hall.
My bathroom is cluttered with my stuff—I’m not exactly a neat nut—but in this case, it works to our advantage. On the sink next to my hairbrush and toothbrush is an unfamiliar tortoiseshell comb. Hardly daring to hope, I grab it and hold it up to the light. Elation bubbles up when I spot a few strands of her long, black hair caught in the teeth. “Yes!”
“Found something?” He’s hanging back—probably wisely, the way I’m darting around like a headless chicken.
“Yeah—she left her comb, and it’s got some hair in it.” Carefully, I carry the comb out to the kitchen and slip it into a plastic freezer bag like it’s a piece of crime-scene evidence. Which I guess it kind of is.
“Well, there you go. One tether object, ready to use.”
I stop, shoulders slumping again and my hopeful mood ebbing away. “That’s great, but we still don’t have anybody to do it. If Selene’s got Twyla, she’s probably going to kill her. And you can’t track a dead person. So unless Happenstance gets back to us soon—”
“What about you?”
I snap my head up. “What?”
“Why can’t you do it? You said it was basic magic. Do you know how?”
“Nick—” I glare at him. “Yeah. Of course I know how. They teach you that in the first year of apprenticeship. But
knowing how and actually doing it are two different things.”
As worked up as I’m getting, Nick refuses to join me. “Did you do it during your apprenticeship?”
“Yeah! But Nick, that was like six years ago! I haven’t practiced any magic for five of those. It’d be like if I learned how to fix a carburetor in high school, but never got near a car in the meantime.”
His steady gaze is on me. “You can do it, Bron. Especially for something this important. You saved me by knocking that thing away before it hit me—and that was when you were still dealing with all that guilt and PTSD. Now you not only know what happened wasn’t your fault at all, but your friend’s in trouble. You can do this.”
I let out a loud breath. He will not let it go—but deep inside me, in a place I thought I’d walled completely off, something stirs.
Can I do it?
I wasn’t lying: tracking rituals aren’t difficult. And I do have the best kind of tether object, short of blood. Not to mention that Twyla and I are very close—not as close as true relatives, but almost.
But—
“She’ll be blocking it,” I say, dejected.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? If Selene’s up to something, the last thing she wants is for somebody to track her.”
“But who’s going to track her? What does she even know about what’s going on out here? Do you think she knows Nana’s been looking for her? Could Nana track her?”
“I have no idea what she knows. That’s what scares me. But no, Nana can’t track her.”
“Why not? I thought you said she’s really strong.”
“Because she’s too far away.” Apparently Nick’s magic books didn’t cover this part of the lesson. “Tracking spells have limited ranges. Even a powerful mage—way more powerful than me—could only get about a hundred miles. If the target’s still alive it’ll point the caster in the right direction, but they’d have to repeat the spell again until they got closer. Nana’s way too far away for that.”
Surprisingly, Nick looks satisfied by my answer. “Okay, then that’s a good thing.”
“Why the hell is that a good thing?” If Nana were here, she’d bust through any kind of protection or wards Selene might try to put up.
“Because as far as Selene is probably concerned, that doesn’t leave anybody here who can track her. You said it yourself—as far as she knows, you’re basically a mundane. And even if she’s somehow found out about me, I’m a mundane too. Nobody knows about my glitch thing except Grandfather’s people, and I don’t think they’re in any hurry to go tattle to Selene. Remember, she tried to frame the Happenstances for that murder.”
My little bit of hope stirs again, but not as hard this time. “So…you’re saying that maybe she won’t do anything to hide Twyla, because as far as she knows, nobody’s looking for her magically?”
He shrugs. “It’s worth a try. What’s the worst thing that can happen if it doesn’t work?”
“Well…if she’s watching, she might find out somebody’s looking.”
“But if she’s busy with whatever she’s doing, she’s not watching. And she can’t come back and hit you through the spell, right?”
“Right.”
He’s pacing now. “So as I see it, there’s every reason for you to do the ritual, and not much of a reason not to. You’ve got a few hairs, right? Even if it turns out you’re not strong enough to do it, or she is shielding her, we can still ask Grandfather to try it again with the other hair.”
Damn it. Everything he says makes sense, and I’ve never been one to wallow in self-pity. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, to find Twyla before Selene kills her, I’ve got to do it. I just got rid of one super-sized portion of crippling guilt—I don’t need another one.
“Fine,” I say, half-frustrated, half-excited. “I’ll try it. I think I might even have my notes from my lessons, in my storage area. Come on—let’s go see if we can find them.”
Everybody in the building has their own small, locked storage closet to go with their apartment. Fortunately for me, mine doesn’t have much in it. I quickly locate the dusty banker’s box labeled LESSON STUFF and rip the lid off. An annoyed spider scoots out and disappears over the edge. A few moments of digging reveals a familiar folder with a black cat on the front. “Here we go.”
Nick peers over my shoulder, fascinated. “Your writing’s terrible, you know that?” he grumbles. “And for an artist, those diagrams are hopeless.”
I shoot him a glare as I shove the box back into the unit and lock the door. “I was in a hurry. Mara talked fast.”
As I riffle through the old pages, another wave of nostalgia washes through me. I’m hearing Mara’s pleasant, kindly voice as she explains some magical concept, and picturing myself sitting in her comfortable armchair, scribbling away. I even recognize some of the doodles I did in the margins of my notes.
What would I be doing now if none of this had happened? Would I have an apprentice of my own by now?
I shake my head. Action now—reminiscing later. “Come on.”
“Where are we going? Where will you do the ritual? Do you need to go back to that ritual space from before?”
“Too far. I can make a circle in my living room. I doubt she’s far away, so it doesn’t have to be big or complicated.”
His longer strides catch up to me at the top of the second-floor landing. “What about components?”
“We don’t have time to go back to that shop, even if they’re still open. We’ll have to improvise. But that’s okay. Tracking spells don’t require anything special—just some chalk and candles. Crystals would be nice, but aren’t strictly necessary. Fortunately I have several decorative candles I haven’t used yet—cats and lit candles don’t play well together.”
I force myself to calm down as I scramble around the apartment gathering what I’ll need. I’m not doing Twyla or anybody else any favors if I screw this up or get so nervous I miss something. “If you want to help,” I tell Nick, “move the furniture and clear out a space in the middle of the floor.”
In a few minutes I’ve got what I need, and Nick’s prepared as big a space as he can. It’s still not very big—my living room isn’t cavernous—but it should be enough. Rory sits perched on top of one of the moved couches, looking confused and annoyed. She doesn’t like anything in her home environment to be changed, and she’s not shy about sharing her displeasure with her human servants.
“Anything else I can do to help?” Nick asks.
I stand aside, taking some deep, cleansing breaths and trying to give myself a pep talk. This isn’t nearly as big a deal as the ritual I did before to summon the spirit—but then I had Twyla looking over my shoulder to tell me if I did anything wrong. With this one, I’m all on my own. I sure hope the whole “riding a bike” thing is true, or I’m going to be in a lot of trouble soon.
“You can make some coffee or tea if you want to. And if you don’t mind listening to me blather on, I’ll talk out what I’m doing as I do it. It’ll help me organize my thoughts.”
“Listen to you talk about doing magic? Oh, no, Bron, how can you possibly impose on me so much?”
I consider throwing something at him, but I don’t want to waste the energy.
It takes me longer than I hoped to make the circle. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m nervous about Twyla, nervous about making a mistake, or just that it’s been a long time since I did it last. As I trace the diagram, checking my notes every few minutes to make sure I’m getting it right, I narrate my process to Nick. He’s an attentive student, listening with rapt attention. I wonder if he’s thinking he might be able to do this himself someday. For his sake, I hope it will turn out that he has other powers besides his glitch thing, but I know it’s a crapshoot. Wild talents sometimes only have their one ability, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.
Rory’s almost as attentive as Nick, still sitting on the back of the couch. I guess she
’s forgiven us for moving the furniture.
Half an hour later, I’m as done as I’m going to get. The circle is simple, about six feet in diameter, anchored by candles at the north, west, south, and east. I pace around it one last time, checking for flaws.
“Ready?” Nick asks.
Am I ready? I did the last one, and that was a lot more dangerous than this one. “Yeah. I think so.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Now comes the part I don’t want to have to say, for Nick’s sake and my own. “Now, I’m afraid this is when you’ll have to clear out. It shouldn’t take long—no more than fifteen minutes or so.”
“Damn. I’d almost forgotten about that part.” He’s making no effort to hide his disappointment.
“Yeah, it sucks, but it’s for the best. Keep working on that control of yours and maybe it’ll be different one of these days. Oh—can you put Rory in my room before you go? I don’t want her pouncing on the candles in the middle of the ritual.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll go downstairs and sit in my car. You can call me when you’re done and we’ll head out.” He scoops up the indignant cat and carries her down the hall as I do my final preparations. By the time he comes back, I’m seated cross-legged in the center of the circle with a few hairs from Twyla’s comb on a plate in front of me and a map of the greater Los Angeles area spread out next to me.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m out. Be careful, okay?”
“Yeah. That’s the plan.”
I remain where I am, watching as he slips out and closes the door behind him, then give him five minutes to make sure he’s got enough distance so he won’t glitch the ritual.
Okay. Here goes.
I force myself not to let despair or pessimistic thoughts creep in—if Selene has Twyla behind wards, there’s no way I’ll be able to find her. And by the time Happenstance’s people can do another ritual—if they even will—it will probably be too late. But I can’t think about that now.
I am going to find her.
