Spell Caster

by Clara Coulson

  One consideration I have to make before I accept this woman’s olive branch though: “Does this information come with strings attached?”

  She blinks at me owlishly for a moment, then laughs. “No, nothing of the kind. Unlike some of the more unsavory fae lurking around in the gutters, I don’t do dirty deals. If I want a favor from you, I’ll present you with a written contract, much like the one you delivered to Reid from the Wolf rep. Most of us fae do those things the right way, you know? The ones who don’t generally aren’t welcome within five miles of a faerie hill. Hell, you’d be hard pressed to find any of that sort in Aurora, even out in the suburbs. Reid’s not a fan of bad-faith fae.” She clicks her tongue. “Neither am I.”

  While I can’t verify anything she’s saying, her friendly face strikes me as genuine. Still, I hesitate a few seconds more, not sure I trust my judgment of the fae after being so thoroughly mind-fucked in Reid’s domain.

  In the end though, I decide the benefit of her intel will likely outweigh whatever leverage she might gain over me from a handshake made under the assertion of “no strings attached.” So I reach out with my damp, chilled hand and give her proffered one a quick squeeze. If she’s annoyed by the film of cold water I leave on her skin, she doesn’t let it show.

  “Name’s Anya,” she says. “And you are?”

  I wipe my hands off on my pants and tug my gloves back on. “Cal Kinsey.”

  “Well, Cal, let me give you a condensed rundown of how faerie freeholds work.” She clears her throat like some stern schoolteacher about to give a group of rowdy children a lecture. “The two faerie courts own a lot of ‘real estate’ in the form of interstitial spaces that sit halfway between Earth and Faerie. Some of these spaces are like roads or tunnels, bridging two places together”—I keep my face neutral to make sure I don’t give away the fact I know about those spaces already—“and others are like buildings of various size and shape. The latter are referred to as ‘hills’ because a lot of them are actually inside Earth hills, particularly those on the other side of the Atlantic, in old Europe. Following me so far?”

  I nod.

  “Awesome. So, before World War II,” she continues, “the hills acted as community gathering places for the faeries who lived in the surrounding areas, and they were permanently staffed with small contingents from either the Winter or Summer Court’s military, who acted sort of like police to resolve disputes and other issues among the local fae populace. After the war, when the bulk of the fae on Earth moved back across the veil, the hills were abandoned en masse, and the courts were left with a bunch of magical real estate they didn’t want falling into Earth-born hands but whose upkeep was too expensive to justify. The solution? Lease them for cheap to any interested faerie parties.”

  “I’m assuming that’s where the whole ‘freehold’ idea comes in?” I absently rub my neck, the tip of my fingers tracing the scar from Vanth’s blade. I haven’t paid much attention to that scar for a while; it lost its intrigue after I lost my déjà vu power. But Reid’s probing stare, a stare that lingered on the mark, as if he could tell exactly where it came from, dredged up the echoes of my encounter with the powerful denizens of the Etruscan Underworld, and now the marred skin seems to tingle at the caress of the cold air. “You lease a space from one of the courts indefinitely,” I add, “and it becomes a freehold?”

  “Exactly.” Anya draws one of her fingers across the grass, and the frost that melted under the warmth of my hands refreezes, turning the grass a ghostly white. A hard look with my magic sense reveals a faint wisp of pale-blue magic that spirals through the air in a way I’ve never seen waste energy move before.

  Faerie magic. I shouldn’t be surprised it behaves in strange ways.

  “So, does the lessee just pay up and do whatever they like with the hill,” I say, “or are there some kind of terms involved in the lease?”

  Anya taps the side of her temple, indicating I asked a good question. “The latter. In exchange for getting the lease at a ridiculously low price, the lessee has to take on some of the same responsibilities that the fae military contingents used to hold. Namely, to implement faerie law and policy as it relates to resolving disputes between faeries, and to give safe haven to any law-abiding faeries in need.”

  She opens the Velcro flap on her camera bag and starts tugging the zipper around, but it gets stuck on a loose thread. “Most freeholders do the bare minimum necessary to fulfill the terms of the lease, but Reid takes it all quite seriously, to the point where he reels wayward fae partial-bloods into his circle and does his best to make sure they get back on the straight and narrow—and stay there. Lest they risk the ire of the courts by giving the fae a bad name through criminal activity.”

  The zipper finally spits out the thread, and she finishes unveiling the contents of her bag. A large, fancy camera, as I anticipated, along with a few small notepads and a handful of pens and pencils. “Properly managing the fae community to this degree in a city like Aurora relies on Reid accumulating as much information as possible on the state of Aurora’s supernatural sociopolitical relations. Unsurprisingly, the events of the past year have ruffled Reid’s feathers quite a bit. Rogue practitioners blowing up buildings and spreading deadly curses. Angry Wolves looking for vengeance prowling around in the shadows. Attempted vampire coups and virtual slaughters at public events.” She quirks an eyebrow. “But you know about all that already, don’t you?”

  “Unfortunately.” The phantom sensation of Lizzie Banks’ hand stabbing me in the chest makes me wince. “So, what you’re trying to get at here is that Reid’s on edge because of the recent supernatural upheavals, so he’s…pricklier than normal?”

  “That’s a nice way to put it. Seeing as he’s been a huge bastard lately.” Anya digs two fingers into a small pocket hidden inside the lining of her bag and plucks out what appears to be a business card. “You are far from the first person he’s psychically assaulted in recent months, and you definitely won’t be the last. He’s not taking chances with any supernatural unknowns, even if they have a Crow’s badge and wear a pretty face.”

  She winks at me as she offers the card. “My point is, Cal, don’t take his actions too personally. It was absolutely a dick move, forcing his way into the mind of an obvious magic novice just for the sake of a strength test, but he did that in the interest of ensuring the safety of the people he seeks to protect. And he wasn’t actually planning to harm your mind or body. I can promise you that.”

  Ignoring the obvious flirtation, I take the business card from her outstretched hand. The card stock is a pale-blue color, and elegant gray trim frames the important information presented in bold black letters. Her name, “Anya O’Brien,” and the word “Journalist” sit near the top, while her email address, website URL, and the display names for two social media accounts are arranged across the bottom. I commit the email address and website to memory, then tuck the card into my pocket.

  “Out of remote curiosity,” I say, gesturing to my current getup, a basic jeans and T-shirt combo with my blue winter coat thrown over top, “how did you all know I was a Crow the second I walked through the door? Makes sense to me now that Reid knew my identity, but the rest of you?”

  Anya smirks. “It’s the way you act. The measured steps. The cautious looks. The perpetual suspicion on your face. You’re all trained the same way at that academy of yours, and it shows in the way you interact with the supernatural. Most of the fae, even the partial-bloods, can peg a Crow from half a mile away, which is why we’re conveniently never at the scene of any of your incidents. We avoid DSI encounters like the plague.” Her smirk falters. “As you can imagine, post-World War II, we aren’t too fond of human paramilitary forces.”

  We let the history of the world hang between us for a moment, solemn.

  Then I say, “Yet you instigated a conversation with me.”

  “Because you’re a mystery. And I have a penchant for solving those.” She gestures to the pocket where I s
tored her card. “DSI’s not allowed to hire major practitioners, human or not. Which means they’ve either been in violation of their agreements with the supernatural communities for some time, or you recently came into that power you demonstrated back at Reid’s.” She leans toward me, playful scrutiny dancing through her expression. “My bet is on option two: You didn’t have any magic, and now you do. Or rather, you gained access to magic you didn’t know you had.”

  “How did you know…?”

  “Reid,” she says matter-of-factly. “He probed your soul for a seal. Very subtly, mind you, but I still caught it. I’m guessing he’s seen you around town before today, or has documented some of your past involvement in local supernatural incidents, either of which would’ve revealed you as a supernatural entity, because Reid is damn good at sniffing out potential magic threats. The fact he didn’t know your true nature until today means your true nature wasn’t perceptible the last time he saw you. There are very few ways of accomplishing that outside a flawless faerie glamour. One of them is a life seal.”

  Discomfort bubbles in my gut—I’ve revealed my secret to way too many people today—so I flip the conversation back on her. “You sound like a very plucky investigative journalist. What is it exactly you investigate?”

  She gives me a knowing look but doesn’t comment on the topic shift, probably because she doesn’t want to alienate me. Since I’m a potential source of information for a report. Or potentially the subject of a report. “Publicly, I’m a freelance journalist who submits mundane interest pieces to a variety of online publications. Under the radar, I’m an ‘informant’ who sends quarterly reports on supernatural social problems on Earth to the Advisory Council of the Winter Court, in order to keep the court apprised of any rising issues that might impact their policy decisions.”

  “Hence your presence in Aurora, a recent hotspot of supernatural turmoil.”

  She gives me a What can you do? shrug. “That’s the gist of it. A few months back, I was instructed to take a break from my intelligence gathering operation centered around the ongoing practitioner and vampire infighting in Europe to research the recent supernatural conflicts in Aurora and write up a detailed report on the matter. I think the Council is worried that the violent skirmishes that have been escalating across Europe for the past several years will spread to North America as the two rogue groups, the Black Knights and Methuselah, focus on their expansion efforts.”

  I scratch my chin, thoughtful. “Why do the fae in the Eververse care what happens on Earth, when so few of their number live here now?”

  Anya shakes her head. “Because the faerie courts are expansionist by nature, and like to have a hand in every pie. They didn’t object to the exodus back to Faerie in the late 40s because the degree of violence suffered by the fae living in Europe during the war—in particular the partial-blood fae, who were too magically weak to defend themselves from the practitioners among the Nazis—was so obscene that they couldn’t justify asking people to stay on Earth. But all that shit happened the better part of a century ago, and while the fae never forget or forgive any slights against them, they are quick to move on from past problems and seek out future opportunities.”

  “Wait.” I consider her statement for a long second. “They’re planning another immigration drive? The fae are going to move back to Earth, to the levels they had before the war?”

  “That is the ultimate plan, yes. Having a strong presence on Earth comes with numerous benefits, and the courts are eager to get those benefits back. But…” She raps on the spiral binding of one of her notebooks. “The fae never make major moves if there’s too much uncertainty in the outcome.”

  “So they’ve got a small army of people like you monitoring the supernatural sociopolitical climate on Earth, allowing them to make informed decisions.”

  “Precisely.”

  A few gears slot into place in the clockwork of my brain. “Oh, I get it. The more contacts you have in the thick of the mess between the ICM, the Vampire Federation, the Lycanthrope Republic, and the rogue groups, the more accurate your reports to the Winter Court can be. And you figure that I, the odd young Crow delivering vital documents from the Wolves who just so happens to be partially nonhuman and in possession of substantial magic, am likely to be right in the middle of the cesspool. So you chased after me to butter me up with a friendly smile in the hopes that I’ll message you sometime with info you can send back to your court.”

  Anya raises her hands in surrender. “Hey, you can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ve got an important job to do, just like you Crows. The Council relies on me to provide accurate information about what’s happening on this side of the veil, because the choices they make based on that information affect tens of thousands of faeries. And to get a lot of that information, I have to ask the right people the right questions. So, yes, I work my ass off to build robust contact networks wherever I go.”

  Which is something I can’t fault her for. I’d do the same thing in her position.

  “All right.” I sigh. “In that case, I guess I can’t be too annoyed with you for following me so you could badger me into accepting your business card.”

  “Don’t forget I could’ve just stalked you around town.” She sticks out her tongue, teasing.

  I roll my eyes. “Like you’d see me. I can wear a veil.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Would that be the hilariously shitty veil you were wearing on your way to Reid’s door?”

  “How did you—?”

  “Wards plus security camera.”

  “But I didn’t even sense—”

  “Faerie magic. Much harder to discern than human magic.”

  I pout. “It wasn’t that shitty, was it?”

  “It was pretty damn bad.” She stifles a giggle. “How long have you been practicing that spell?”

  “Uh, about two hours?”

  She bursts into a fit of laughter. “God, you’re really a novice, aren’t you?”

  “Look, it’s not my fault I’ve had a life seal on my magic since I was born, and it just broke three weeks ago,” I mutter. “Also not my fault I have no teacher.”

  Her laughter cuts out. “You have no master teaching you magic?”

  “Nope. Can’t ask a major practitioner to teach me because alerting the ICM to my status as a magic powerhouse will get me booted from my job. And DSI’s minor practitioners don’t have enough juice to properly instruct me on major magic. So I’m learning via textbook.”

  “That sucks.” She frowns, sympathetic. “I’d offer you a few pointers if I could, but human magic and faerie magic don’t really jive.” She zips up her camera bag, with a bit too much force, indicating she’s seriously contemplating my conundrum. “I might be able to find you a decent teacher though, if I prod a few of my contacts to give up the names of some…discreet individuals. Though by ‘discreet,’ I do mean people who aren’t entirely on the up and up.”

  “Hm. Think I’ll pass. Law enforcers and law breakers don’t really mix well.” I run a hand through my hair. “Plus, the whole secrecy thing is about to become a moot point anyway. If the rest of today’s exciting events go down like I suspect they will, I’m going to be writing a…”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Fumbling, I yank it out to reveal a text message. From Riker. Informing me that we now have a primary suspect in the murderous wizard case. And instructing me to head directly to the DSI garage in an hour’s time, decked out in full combat gear, so that I can join the teams currently preparing to go to war with the fall guy for the man who’s slaughtered three innocent civilians, six werewolves, and an entire team of agents.

  “Oh, would you look at that?” I murmur. “It’s the beginning of the end of my career.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The DSI garage is packed with a virtual army when I arrive. Since most of my team is out of commission, Naomi Sing and crew have been recalled from their joint ghoul-killing mission with Nakamura’s team in Ohio, and they
huddle around their SUV as Riker briefs them on the relevant case developments and explains the latest theories about the wizard, his pet polong, and their combined combat capabilities.

  Ramirez and Delarosa stand near a stack of heavy weaponry lined up along one wall, the duo bickering about which guns to take and whether the new magic-reinforced riot shields are small enough to be properly utilized inside a residence. And lastly, three auxiliary teams loiter in the corners, out of the way and out of sorts, every agent among them so nervous they’re practically quaking in their boots.

  After what happened to Byers’ team, who can blame them?

  I’m the last one to arrive in the garage, courtesy of the fact I was halfway across town when I received the callout message. Realizing I was going to be late if I didn’t hustle, I conjured up another veil—whose construction was again so shitty that Anya couldn’t help but snicker at me—and raced back to my apartment using every shortcut I know, including one that required me to cut across a back yard guarded by two Rottweilers that sniffed out my presence but blessedly chose not to chase something they couldn’t see. Once I made it back to my apartment building, I threw on my uniform in an impressive thirty seconds and hightailed it downstairs to my truck.

  All things considered, I made good time. Doesn’t stop Riker from giving me the stink eye though.

  I respond with a wave and a sheepish smile, mouthing, Sorry. Overslept.

  He rolls his eyes and returns his attention to Naomi to give her a few final pieces of advice.

  Naomi takes to her role as operation head with zeal. When Riker finishes speaking with her, she shouts to get everyone’s attention and starts spouting orders left and right. Ramirez and Delarosa follow her commands without complaint, and have their teams quickly load up the SUVs with the requested weapons and other equipment.