by Ruth Vincent
Obadiah was silent.
“I need you to take me back there.”
It was a ballsy thing to ask. But seeing the state Eva was in now, I didn’t have any time to waste.
“It will be dangerous to travel back . . .” he started to say, but then he must have seen my resolute expression, because he finished, “You’re hell-bent on doing this, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“I’m coming back to your place, and I’m drinking some Elixir. I don’t care how dangerous it is,” I said with finality, “I need to go home.”
It was strange going to Obadiah’s club in the daytime. The place had an oddly innocuous look in the winter sunshine, just an old, slightly dilapidated building that had perhaps once been a pickle factory when Brooklyn was a very different place, the kind of building some developer would want to turn into exposed brick condos, not the midnight lair of supernatural expats. I wondered what the other residents of this neighborhood thought of Obadiah’s after-dark premises.
We walked up the steep cement steps. Obadiah fumbled with his keys but before he could unlock the door, it swung open.
The werewolf bouncer—Reuben, with the Southern accent and the too-sharp teeth—opened the door. I noticed he was barefoot.
“Hey, boss,” he said, smiling at Obadiah, flashing his yellow canines. He gave me a nod.
As he stepped back to let us enter, I saw him give a quick glance back and forth between Obadiah and me, as if trying to assess what we were. Did he think we were a couple? His broadening smile seemed to indicate that. I frowned. There was only one thing I wanted and needed from Obadiah right now—and that was his help. The kiss had been a mistake. I needed him because I needed his Elixir; that was all. But the werewolf was still grinning at us. I shook my head at him. He sauntered off to the bar to give us a bit of space.
The club felt melancholy, empty like this. The wooden chairs were stacked upside down atop the marble tables, and the red velvet curtain hung long and closed around the stage. Sun streamed in through a set of high skylight windows I had never noticed when I visited at night, making the bar top gleam—showing the rainbow of colors that glittered like fiery opals in the polished white marble. Still the place felt wrong, empty. Our footsteps echoed as if we were in a cavern under the high tin ceiling, pressed and hammered with nineteenth-century patterns, and when the werewolf spoke from the other side of the bar, his voice echoed too.
“Let me know if you need anything, boss,” he said, and gave me another nod.
“You can go, Reuben,” Obadiah replied. “I’m going to be speaking to Miss Jones privately in the shop.”
“Right on, boss,” said the werewolf with a knowing smile.
I scowled at him and let out a long exhale as Reuben trotted off. He must have already been changing into wolf form, because I could hear his toenails clicking like a German shepherd’s over the hardwood floors as he disappeared into the back of the club.
We walked over to the bar, and Obadiah pressed on the secret spot in the gargoyle’s eyes. I heard tiny gears clicking inside that had been muffled over last time by the loudness of the music. I turned to see if Reuben was still watching us, but he was gone. Obadiah gave the door a nudge with the heel of his hand. It swung open with a loud creak and I stepped through. We tromped up the narrow flight of stairs and entered the secret room.
Even seeing it again, I still felt awe.
The mass of shelves, shifting displays and swinging trapdoors opened and shut a few times, but they calmed down quicker this time—it was like they’d figured out I wasn’t a threat to the place. I ran my hand over the cold, shiny cauldrons, the soft wolf-skin clothing, the Elvin lace. I noticed there were stacks of old books on shelves lining the walls, but I didn’t think they were for sale. I peered at them. Some of the titles were written in Faerie, others in languages even I couldn’t understand—Goblin, maybe; they always had a lot of consonants.
Obadiah walked through the aisles, making the familiars in their cages rustle and whine. He reached out his hand as he walked by and stroked their feathers or caressed their soft fur. And soon the Animalia were content and quiet. He was good with them, I could tell.
We made our way to the bar at the back of the shop, where he kept the Elixir.
“The cops searched my place while we were at the station,” Obadiah said, turning to me. “They knew there was a second story between the club and the roof and demanded to be let inside. Reuben didn’t know what to do, and they had a warrant. So he let them in.”
“Oh no. . . . “
“Yeah. Luckily, because my detection system registered the officers as human, they couldn’t see any of the shelves of magical items, just the bar. But they seized most of the Elixir I had in there. I still have a few vials in the shelves under the floor that they missed, but they really decimated my stash.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Obadiah shrugged. “It’s alright. I’ll deal with it.”
It occurred to me how brazen my request would now seem, given how depleted his store was.
“Thank you for sharing the Elixir you have left.”
“I said I’d help Eva, and I will,” Obadiah replied, nonchalantly.
“Well, thank you.” I smiled sheepishly.
He reached into one of the low shelves and handed me a vial.
I peered at it, its contents shimmering with possibility. Elixir had worked on him. It had worked on Eva, I thought glumly. It could work on me too. My heart was beating quickly. How many more options, how many more solutions would be possible, if I just had some magic at my disposal? But this magic was different. It wasn’t innate. I didn’t know what its effects would be. That scared me.
What would it be like to drink Elixir as a human? It was one thing to fly; it was another thing to change entirely. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the chance. What if it went wrong? My poor human parents—it would break their hearts. But I had to do something. Eva was in this mess because of me. And I was going to prison if I couldn’t somehow prove that Obadiah and I had nothing to do with her fall. Plus, after what Obadiah said was happening to the Shadow children in the Vale, I had to try to help. The glass vial shimmered, as if teasing me: Do you have any better ideas for how to fix this mess you’re in?
I didn’t.
“Be careful,” Obadiah said. “Your friend and Charlotte aren’t the first people something bad happened to after drinking Elixir. It’s dangerous. I used to think it was worth it, that doing magic was worth risking your life. I’m not sure anymore. There have been times I’ve even thought of shutting down my Elixir business,” he said with a sigh, and I looked up at him, shocked.
“It’s one thing for me to take this risk with myself,” he explained. “I guess after so many years I don’t value my life much anymore. But I don’t want other people to risk theirs.”
“Why is it so dangerous?” I asked, the cold dread filling my stomach.
Obadiah shook his head.
“Magic is unpredictable,” he said at last. “For humans, at least.”
We were silent for a moment, until he asked, “You sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” Obadiah said.
Still, it felt like I was running out of options, and no matter how dangerous it was, this was the best chance I had of fixing all that was wrong in my life.
“I’ve made up my mind,” I said at last.
Obadiah opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
“I have to find Eva and bring her back home. And after what you told me about what the Queen does to those children . . . I want to help them too.”
“You can’t save them,” Obadiah said quietly. “Believe me, I tried. Once the Queen puts them in that enchanted sleep—you can’t wake them u
p.”
I bit my lip. “I have to at least make an effort.”
I turned the vial over in my hand, watching the gleaming liquid refract the light and make rainbows on the walls of Obadiah’s store. I undid the stopper. The scent almost knocked me down—it was like a thunderstorm had whirled up all around us.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember how to do a spell. It was so hard in this human body. I couldn’t recall the words. I remembered the feeling, but the specifics had grown vague, like a dream that fades upon waking. How was I going to do this?
Going deep inside myself, I held the intention in my mind of what I wanted to do: turn Fey again, go back to the Vale, find Eva. I tried to visualize it, concentrating until I got a clear picture—my fairy body glimmered before me in my imagination, I could see the crystal spires of the Vale, and behind that, shimmering like a mirage—Eva’s face.
I opened my mouth and let the liquid fall.
As the crystalline drop hit my tongue, all the old memories became vivid again in that familiar sweetness. It tasted like honeysuckles, like liquid sunshine, like that feeling of breathless anticipation of waking up on your birthday as a child. I let it wash over me, praying that it would transform me back into my old self. I felt a tingling in my body, from the tip of my tongue down to the root of my spine.
At last I opened my eyes.
I was still in the store. There was the bar and the shelves, and in the distance I heard one of the Animalia cooing and scuffling.
I reached out and touched my arm: firm, solid skin.
It hadn’t worked.
“What happened?” I gasped. “I felt something, it felt like magic was happening, but . . . nothing!”
I was still here. I hadn’t changed at all.
My heart sank.
What had that ecstasy been? It hadn’t translated into any practical result. I was still standing here, human. Nothing had changed. I felt like crying.
“Maybe I should try it again?” I said, determined.
“If you want,” he said, though I could see in his eyes that he didn’t think a second try would make it go any differently.
“I just don’t understand why it didn’t work!”
He sighed.
“I think you’re asking too much,” he said at last, leaning back against the bar and eying me.
I looked up at him, affronted.
“I’m not saying what you want is wrong. I’m just saying, one step at a time. It’s one thing to do a spell to fly for five minutes. But to do a spell to change life forms, to become a fairy again and travel to another world—that’s powerful magic, Mab.”
“I used to be able to do things like that,” I said sadly, turning away from him.
“You used to be a fairy.”
He must have seen the stricken expression on my face because his voice was gentler this time.
“I’m not saying you can’t do it, Mab. I’m just saying, you might not be able to do it on your own.”
I eyed him questioningly.
“Even when I go back to the Vale to steal Elixir, I can’t do it by myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Traveling back to the other world is hard,” he said with a smile. “You need help.”
“What kind of help?” I asked.
“You need a Focus.”
“What do you mean?”
Obadiah studied my face.
“You don’t know about that?” he asked, sounding surprised. “I thought being an ex-fairy, you’d know all about how magic works.”
I shook my head.
“I used magic,” I said. “I didn’t know how it worked.”
Obadiah raised an eyebrow.
“Humans use light switches every day,” I explained, “but most of them don’t have a clue how electricity works.”
“True,” he admitted.
Still, I felt foolish. Why had I never questioned magic back when I was a fairy, tried to find out more about it when I’d had the chance? But back then, magic had been as natural to me as breathing.
“Well, I can tell you how I do it,” said Obadiah. He had gotten up from his chair and had begun to pace again through the aisles of shelves. I could tell it was a habit with him, and I didn’t know if it was nerves or if it helped him think better, or if he was just restless in soul—probably a bit of all three.
“I don’t have the same inner resources that you did when you were a fairy,” he said, “so in order to do a spell, I have to get that energy from the world. From other people.”
My eyes widened. “But you can’t involve them in your spell without their consent? You don’t hurt them, do you?”
Obadiah shook his head. “I don’t ask anything of them at all. They take no part in what I do. They’re just bystanders.”
“Then why do you need them there?”
“Because they create the Focus.”
He saw the confusion on my face, and he continued.
“The way I do a spell of this magnitude, Mab—it needs a great crowd of people, focusing on a single object at once. All that attention, all that concentration on a single point—I can use that energy to power my spell.”
“How do you know this works? How did you learn how to do this?”
“When I was in the Queen’s dungeon with the other children, our guards were all Goblins. I learned a bit of their magic. It came in handy.” He glanced bitterly at the empty bar. “Anyway, I stole a book off one of the guards before I escaped. Goblin magic was easier for me to learn than fairy magic.”
I nodded. I could see how that would be true. The Goblins didn’t have Elixir flowing through their veins like we fairies did. They had to work to make their spells. The fairies thought they were superior to the Goblins because of this, and the Goblins thought they were superior to the fairies for the same reason.
“You learned how to do Goblin magic?” I asked.
Obadiah nodded. “You’ll probably think it’s clumsy, but it works,” he said. “I watched them enough times and I practiced. I have to drink Elixir to make it happen, of course. But I can do it. At least temporarily. Going between worlds is very, very difficult, though. That’s why you need the Focus.
“It is a bit cumbersome,” he said. “But it’s not hard to find a crowd in New York. And when I can find a crowd of people—hundreds, thousands, the more the better—focused on a single thing—that thing, the Focus, becomes the portal that opens up another world.”
I had never used anything external when doing a spell, just called upon my own inner resources, the Elixir that flowed through my veins. This was all new to me, and I was nervous.
“So this Focus thing sounds all well and good in theory,” I said, “but how are you going to get a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people to focus on any one thing at once? We don’t have much time. I mean, Eva’s Fetch won’t last more than a few weeks.” My stomach tightened. “The cops could have us arrested and we could be charged with attempted murder any day now. I don’t know how you’d be able recruit that many people in time.”
“We don’t have to recruit them. They’ll gather on their own.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think about it, Mab,” he said. “Where will we find a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people, all gathered in the same place, focused on the same exact thing? The time is nigh, and it’s one of my favorite Foci—too bad it only happens once a year.”
And then it hit me.
It was so incredibly perfect that I started to laugh.
“The Times Square New Year’s Eve ball-drop!”
Obadiah smiled.
“Bingo.”
Chapter 13
My visit home for Christmas had not gone well. Maybe I shouldn’t have made the announcement in the mid
dle of Christmas dinner; then again, there’s no good time to tell your parents that you might be going to prison. Dad called his lawyer brother, yelling into the phone for him to fix this, never mind the fact that Uncle Bill was a tax attorney; meanwhile, Mom cried hysterically into her eggnog. I felt like I’d failed them. They’d begged me not to go back to New York, only tearfully agreeing to let me leave when I promised them I’d call Detective Foster back and take the deal.
But I hadn’t called Detective Foster. I was going to set things right, but I would have to do it my own way. It was New Year’s Eve day, and I was standing at One Times Square, stamping my feet and shivering in the frigid air. Meet me under the ball, Obadiah’s pigeon note had read. Well, here I was. Where was he?
The crowd had already started to gather. I could see them milling around the buildings, waddling in their overstuffed coats, their funny New Year’s hats. Everyone was talking and laughing excitedly, bouncing up and down on their heels, rubbing their hands together, trying to ward off the deep midwinter cold.
And we still had almost eight hours to go.
I must confess—I’d always thought the million or so people who gathered to wait outside, in the freezing cold for eight hours or more on New Year’s Eve, just to watch a stupid crystal ball descend, were idiots. And now here I was, outside in the bitter wind, standing in the mass of people blowing paper whistles and holding plastic New Year’s babies and wearing fuzzy top hats.
Dammit, where was Obadiah?
And then I saw him. Even in the great throng of people that were moving in and out of the one break still left in the police barricade line, he was unmistakable, a head taller than everyone around him, clad in a long, black coat—ever the one to stand out from the crowd.
When he saw me, he smiled. It was one of those completely involuntary smiles, an expression of genuine happiness. For a second, I forgot how freezing cold I was.
“I was worried you weren’t going to come!” I called out to him as he approached. He embraced me, kissing my cheek—and somehow that normally chaste gesture wasn’t so chaste when Obadiah did it.
