by Y. S. Lee
“I’m not throwing away anything,” she told him patiently. “I’ve only decided to keep you at my side for all of it.”
He swallowed convulsively, leaning into her touch. “You can’t marry someone else and expect me—”
“Jonathan!” At that, she gave up and rolled her eyes, letting her hand fall to her side. “Are you truly that blinded by the rules? After showing me yourself how to break them?”
He shook his head slowly, his stunned gaze fixed on hers. “Every member of the Boudiccate has to be married to a mage. Everyone knows that’s the rule.”
“Yes, and everyone knew that only men could be mages,” she said, “until tonight. The rules are changing now, aren’t they?” The smile that spread across her face seemed to rise from her very soul, fully liberated at last and ready to spread its wings. “You’re the one who started it, all those years ago. You rebel!”
“I’m not the one turning the world inside out tonight.” The step he took toward her was only an inch, but she felt it like the promise of victory. “But Amy,” he murmured, his breath kissing her forehead, “we can’t know that it’ll work. Even if we do convince the Great Library to take on Cassandra as a student, the Boudiccate is another matter entirely. You could lose everything because of me!”
“But I won’t,” she told him firmly. “No matter whether they agree to admit me or not—and you know exactly how hard I’ll work to persuade them!—I can’t possibly lose everything, no matter what they decide. Not if I’ve gained you.”
He was the one man in the world whose presence made her feel stronger than she ever had before, ready to take on the world unrestrained by old fears. Who could ever be a better partner for a woman with ambition?
It was time to create her own vision of the future.
“Jonathan Harwood,” she said clearly, “will you marry me, share my life, and be my husband forever?”
Her words rang out into a sudden, unexpected silence, just as the mages and Miranda finished their conversation. Every head in the room swung around to stare at them.
Lord Llewellyn’s mouth dropped open into a disbelieving “O.” Mr. Westgate’s eyebrows rose in speculation. Cassandra, still standing alone in the center of the ballroom, broke into a delighted, triumphant grin.
I knew it! she mouthed across the room.
Surrounded by mages, Miranda Harwood blinked in visible shock...then pressed one hand against her lips as her eyes suddenly sparkled with her second tears of the evening. The unhidden joy in her gaze, as she looked across the room at the two of them, was enough to make Amy feel as giddy as if she could rise like a fey-light and float through the air.
“Amy Standish,” said Jonathan ruefully before the gathered assembly, “you certainly know how to make a proposal to remember.”
“Well, then?” She cocked her head, smiling up at him with delight. “What is your answer, for everyone here to witness? Because I know you are perfectly capable of saying no to whatever you’re asked in front of all the world.”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. “Never to you,” he told her. “And I promise you, Amy, I never will.”
“Ohhh!” Amy had spent all her life learning poise and self-control. But she wasn’t entirely inhuman.
After ten months of holding herself back from kissing Jonathan Harwood, she couldn’t resist flinging herself into his arms any longer, in full view of their joint family and the most powerful mages of their nation.
Luckily, he welcomed the act with unmistakable enthusiasm...and it turned out that he was very good at one particular kind of magic after all.
A Note From Stephanie Burgis
Spellswept is a prequel to The Harwood Spellbook, a series of romantic fantasy novellas featuring Cassandra as an adult—and of course Jonathan and Amy, too! The Harwoods always stick together.
The series begins with Snowspelled, which Ilona Andrews called ‘clever, romantic and filled with magic.’ I hope you’ll enjoy the further adventures of the whole family!
I’ve also written two darker adult historical fantasy novels set in the real-life Habsburg empire, Masks and Shadows and Congress of Secrets, along with multiple MG fantasy adventure novels, most recently The Dragon with a Chocolate Heart, which won the 2017 Cybils Award for Best Elementary/MG Speculative Fiction novel and was chosen as A Mighty Girl Book of the Year for 2017.
Sign up to my newsletter now to receive free tie-in short stories as I write them and also get the chance to win early readers’ copies of my books, along with being notified first of all new stories and novels. You can also read excerpts from my novels and read many of my published short stories for free through my website: www.stephanieburgis.com
The River Always Wins
Laura Anne Gilman
The River Always Wins
SeaBe’s had been the biggest splash in the club scene, once. You went to hear music you couldn’t get anywhere else, throbbing drums and wailing strings, musicians and dancers black-eyed and white-faced, mocking themselves up like the fish that floated belly-up past the domed ceiling, the angry sounds of a dying river, a fucked-up city.
You thrashed your rage on the floor, cold cement and crushed dreams, and left your scrawl on walls thick with algae and crud, because light never reached there, down ten steps from the last lowest level on the A line, under the city, under the river. Under everything.
It had been ours, and then we grew up and moved on, and it became someone else’s, because there was always enough for someone to be angry about, enough to mock, enough to mourn. For sixty years, it had been there, tucked under the tidal flow of the river, a cement and steel testament to sheer stubbornness.
Tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, it wouldn’t be. They were closing it down, tearing it out. The river had finally won.
Word had gone out, the way word always went out about a gig at SeaBe’s: mouth to ear. No advertising, no marketing. You had to know, or know someone who knew. And for this, n00bs weren’t invited. If you hadn’t been here, you couldn’t come back.
I had no idea why I was there. I hadn’t planned on coming back. That part of my life was done, over, moved on.
Tili had bent my ear for a week about “one last hurrah” before I gave in.
Digging through my closet for something to wear had been a hike down WTF Lane. “No wonder I was angry all the time, wearing that,” I said, poking at a battered leather jacket even the most desperate thrift store wouldn’t take now. But the boots at least still fit, still felt comfortable.
Punk was for kids, or the relentlessly, unapologetically immature, like Tili. But for one last night, I could pretend.
There were kelpies crowding the entrance when we got there, stomping like they owned it, manes and tails teased out and dyed a dull green glow like they’d been bathing in phosphorescence before coming down.
“I hate this shit.” My gills itched, and I rubbed at them. “Fucking kelpies and their fucking death fetishes. Why the hell did we even come?”
“Pay respects,” Tili said, rocking the kilt and leather like she’d never gotten out of it. “Gotta pay respects to the old lady before she goes down.”
There wasn’t a cover; no point, when everything went to hell in the morning. There were bills stuffed in a coffee jar at the door, anyway. It would go somewhere, to someone. Maybe just to buy the owners one last toot before closing, or coffee for the wake-up realization.
“Fuck respect.” The words felt good, the heavy fricatives in my mouth. “Listen to the shit they’re playing. Buncha shit.”
“We said the same about your shit.” An agni-kumara, ghosting past, heads both turned to stare at us, mouth apple-black, eyes gold-lidded like a funeral mask. “And the ones before us said the same about our shit. Only common thread was everyone upstairs thought we were all shit.”
Tili sneered. “Fuck you.” The language of the club, carrying the feel of ritual, call and response. Someone dissed you, you fought back. But the
words lacked the bitterness we used to carry, and the other fatae just smiled and moved on.
Punk grannies, we’d called the older ones back then, half-sneering, half in awe that anyone could survive that long. We were punk grannies now too, Tili and me, and maybe that was what had my gills in a knot. Because if we’d never come back, we’d still be young, still have everything ahead of us and all the ire to burn.
I couldn’t remember the last time I got that angry—got that anything—about something. It was like it had all gotten burned out of me, left smashed into the dance floor, echoing against the amps.
“Come on,” Tili said. “Let’s do this up right.”
I sighed, forcing my hand away from my neck. The scene was making me jittery, too liable to let the venom tucked under my nails leak, and while it couldn’t kill me, you did not want that shit anywhere near sinus tissue. Which reminded me—“Promise me we won’t wake up in the gutter, covered with piskie-glitter and seaweed this time.”
“No promises,” Tili half-sang, grabbing my arm. “And anyway, that time was your fault. And you’re a respectable adult now, right?”
“Right.” I was. Maybe that was what was wrong, why all this felt wrong.
There was a clump of imps and piskies by the bar, sporting the pink-and-red colors of Spoiled Butter. I’d had a halfway-serious flirtation with imp punk, backwhen, and wondered if there was anyone there I might recognize, and if there were, if I wanted to see them.
I really didn’t.
The music shifted, got louder and faster, and someone over near the bathrooms threw a punch, a wave of cheerful violence slipping outward, curses hurled with fists and chairs before the ripples faded back into determined, frenzied dance.
“Some shit never changes.” But Tili was grinning now, upper canines glinting in anticipation. It had weirded me out at first, hanging with an Erinyes, but she’d been a pretty good clubbing companion, and we’d stayed friends even after all these years.
“Down, girl,” I said, watching her eye the dance floor. “I need a drink first, at least.” At the end of the bar away from the imps, I decided. The only thing I could imagine worse than Tili taking offense at something one of them said would be her deciding to adopt them, and I’d never had a clue which she might do until it was too late.
“Two shots of Jack,” I said when we finally made our way up to the scarred wood, then did a double take. “Marco?”
The bartender did his own double take, then reached across the bar to pull me into a one-armed hug, while his other arms continued pouring drinks. “Girl, I wondered if you’d show. Long time never see. Where the hell have you been?”
“Life. You know.” I didn’t want to tell him I hadn’t thought of this place in years. You don’t get too old to be punk, fuck that, but you do get too busy. I’d gotten too busy, that was all. Being a respectable adult. “Do you remember Tili?”
Tili lifted a hand to wave, and Marco slid her the first shot in return, then handed me mine, taking one for himself as well.
“To all the ass we’ve kicked before,” I said, and then downed the shot, wincing a little as it went down. “That shit still sucks.”
“You’re getting old,” Tili said, sucking hers back like it was Budswill.
“Fuck you.” Fatae lifespans tracked all over the place, and the fact that mine was shorter than hers had been a sore spot for twenty years now.
“Infants, infants,” Marco said, already pouring other orders. “Go, dance. Fuck some shit up. The undertakers will be coming soon enough.”
I’d gotten separated from Tili during a particularly energetic set by the second band; she was across the club, an arm around someone tall and hairy, dancing a little in place as they talked. I could have pushed my way through to join them, but the vibe where I was didn’t suck, and I didn’t feel like making small talk at the top of my lungs with strangers. But then Tili turned and caught my eye, tilting her head to say “get your ass over here.”
I shook my head, miming a need to go splash water on my face. She rolled her eyes, but went back to her conversation.
Having committed to the bathroom lie, I started pushing my way to the back, skirting the dancers and their flailing limbs, keeping my drink raised at shoulder-level to keep it from getting jostled. My heart was beating too fast, my gills still fluttering, and I couldn’t just blame it on dancing. Maybe a few minutes alone was a good idea.
The bathroom was the first place I noticed any significant changes; they’d replaced the doors on the four stalls with ones that actually locked, and the lights didn’t make you look quite so month-dead any more. Other than that, it was still the same squalid shithole it had been a decade ago, and I suddenly regretted bringing my drink in here, because there wasn’t anywhere clean enough to put it down.
A human by the counter slapped her palm down on the counter next to her, getting my attention, and indicated a short row of drinks lined up under the ledge, clearly waiting for their owners. I nodded and slid mine in at the end. That was a rule of trust you didn’t abuse in the women’s bathroom. I might not end up with the beer I’d walked in with, but I’d be reasonably certain there was still nothing in it but alcohol.
I didn’t actually need to use the shitter, and for a moment I couldn’t remember why I was there, then my gills fluttered again, bringing back that queasy feeling, like I’d already had too much to drink. There were no mirrors over the sinks, just cracked concrete, decades of condensation leaving green and brown stains under the graffiti. Someone had used a florescent pink marker to scrawl, ‘you’re gorgeous when you bring down the patriarchy’ in a heart shape over a stain that looked like an upraised middle finger. I raised my own finger in salute, then turned the taps, listening to the squeak and chunk of ancient pipes working.
The human at the sink pulled out a hand mirror and started reapplying eyeliner. Someone in one of the stalls flushed, then cursed softly.
Splashing cool water over my gills made my entire system chill down, and even the drops slipping under my torn collar didn’t bother me. I was sticky and gross and we had to be at work tomorrow morning, and I didn’t want to go home.
“You okay?” The human had lowered her eyeliner and was staring at me. “You look kinda…” and she made a vague gesture with her free hand.
There was a thudding noise, ripping away anything I was going to say, and a pair of faun crashed through the door, then suddenly stopped, realizing they’d hit the wrong head.
“Whoops, sorry,” one of them said, while the other staggered forward into an empty stall, slamming the door shut behind him half a second before we heard the sound of him peeing.
“Jesus effing Christ,” the human said. “Dudes, what?”
“Whoops,” the second one said again, but didn’t back out. “Anyone got any gum?”
“Sweet baby Bosch,” I muttered. “I liked it better when they just pissed against the wall outside.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” the faun said with a shudder, oblivious to our disapproval. “You ever piss outside in the winter?”
All right, he had a point. But he was also a faun, which meant in about three seconds he was going to try to hit on me, or the human, or both of us, and I wasn’t in the mood, and she looked like she wanted him to make a move just so she could knee him.
My gills fluttered again, and I felt cold sweat prickle on my skin.
I washed my hands one last time, just because I could, then wiped them dry on my jeans, snagged my beer, and tried to sidle past the faun who was still blocking half the doorway. He shifted, off-balance enough that it was clear he’d been drinking more than beer, and his hooves slipped on the tile, sending him sideways. His empty hand flailed, and caught at my shirt, fingers closing on the fabric and tugging, hard.
Hey hey hey
Nobody was talking.
Hey where ya going?
A memory. A memory of something I couldn’t remember. Wouldn’t remember. No.
Summer-sweat and
fingers gripping the front of my t-shirt, tugging me forward. Hey, sweetcheeks, c’mon, what’s wrong?
And I could feel someone touching my gills, cold fingertips pressing in, and I couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe.
“Hey,” someone outside the world shouted. “Hey, what’s wrong with her!”
The floor up close was prettier than it had any right to be, the rough concrete glittering with bits of mother-of-pearl or something mixed in, and the irony of that, of clodhopper feet and thick-soled boots stomping over something so delicate, made a sob catch itself in my chest, and it hurt like a motherfucker, like the burn of venom in my mouth, and I realized I’d dug my nails into my bare arms hard enough to scratch.
I stared at the crooked red marks in my skin. Fuck. But just nails, not…
Oh my god oh my god someone please
I was screaming. But not now. Some otherme, otherwhen. When? I needed to remember, and couldn’t.
Someone dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder, hauled me up like they’d assumed I’d just gotten knocked over, and shoved me back into the crowd with a cheery grin, like I was new meat still learning how to mosh.
I didn’t want to oh my god someone please
My gills fluttered, too obvious, too frantic, as though I were gasping for water, and I could feel the needle-sharps under my nails press forward. Panic, adrenaline, flight or fight. I had to get out of there, had to get out of the crowd, had to-
Had to get out of here before I hurt someone.
My breath hitched and I heard myself starting to keen. Too late, too late….
The body closest to me turned, weaving, their eyes already hazy, searching for me before they dropped to their knees, arms coming up not to cover their ears but to reach for me, grabbing, trying to-
