Faerie Rising: The First Book of Binding (The Books of Binding 1)

by A. E. Lowan

  Some said that that was what had happened to Maria, that an experiment had killed her. Winter did not believe it, but she had had enough of her own close calls over years of trial and error to urge caution.

  Winter added the last of the ingredients, a tufty herb she needed to reorder from Nepal much sooner than later, and gave the brew the prescribed number of precise stirs from right to left, then left to right, to ensure even mixing. Now she had come to the part that separated an herbal stew from a magical potion. Pulling power, she focused on her glyph-scribed spoon, large and heavily carved of oak for its durability. It had once belonged to Maria. All wizards had focus objects related to their magical specialty, and they ranged from the expected wand or staff to spoons, looms, and brooms, as her grandmother Bridget had liked to explain. Bridget had not been a wizard herself – she had been a Seer – but she figured being Irish and over a hundred years old – somewhat immortal – when she married an eighteen-year-old Dermot Mulcahy gave her enough credit to lecture on the subject. And of course, no one was lacking enough in sense to try to argue with her about it.

  Winter’s father’s focus object, as Keeper of the Library, was a blank leather journal, heavily tooled on the outside. Since he could not speak, he would write his spells and Commands in the journal, and the Library obeyed. He also used it as a regular journal, though Winter had not seen him simply write in it to record his thoughts in years. He had lost the heart for it.

  Pulling and moving power was one of Winter’s primary gifts, derived from her mixed heritage. While all wizards could draw on the power within their bodies, and there was quite a bit to draw on, Winter could pull from outside herself and actually act as a conduit for the magical energy. It was what let her seal the rift in the face of that strange surge the night before, by pulling additional power from the therian’s body – she winced from the guilt that memory prodded within her – and what gave her greater endurance while casting potions. Winter’s sisters had been able to do it, too, but then the infusion of sidhe blood was even more recent for their line than for their various cousins’.

  Winter’s own mother, Tersa, had been a sidhe mix, though of what exactly was never known, but it was theorized to be some sort of greater fae. Tersa forbade the family from asking as one of the conditions of her staying among mortals, and Colin obeyed her wishes. He had no desire to leave his family for Faerie, but he loved Tersa with his whole heart, so when she laid down her conditions to stay he had agreed readily. Such arrangements were common enough when the fae married mortals, and since neither condition was onerous they were never questioned too closely. That Winter and her sisters all developed somewhat normally was frankly all that the Mulcahys hoped for.

  Power was not even a requirement. Dermot’s marriage with the seer, Bridget, had produced one son of their four children with no magical ability what-so-ever. He was accepted and loved with or without magic. Her Uncle Mark ended up being a high school teacher and had had a perfectly normal life with his husband Steve – until they died in a car accident. He was not the only Mulcahy to be born as something other than a wizard, just the only one in her direct line. Winter even had had therian bears in the family in Colorado and one Mulcahy wizard had married a Naiad in San Francisco when he could not find a wizard bride… but it seemed that even mixed marriage and distance could not save them from death.

  Winter swallowed, and swallowed again. She was getting thirsty, and it was the vaguely nauseating smell coming from the cauldron that was setting her off. She wanted more potion. She should not have more – one was more than plenty and she shouldn’t be taking them every day like she was, but she was catching herself sneaking a second sometimes.

  When would come the day it would be a third? When would she skip the frappes and stick to the much harder potion to get through her day? Sooner than later, most likely. She set thoughts of her addiction aside – looked at it as an addiction, accepted it, and moved on. She needed the potion, and she needed to be able to focus to get it. She could not dwell on the complications right now. Maybe later, maybe if the pressure would lighten up a little, she could direct energy to clearing herself of the sticky mess of self-medicating she had gotten herself into. Later, in private, where no one would know of her shame. Her weakness.

  She just needed it a while more.

  She trickled magic down the oaken spoon as she slowly stirred the simmering green liquid, easing the power into the potion. Forcing it would do no good. Potion making and cooking had many parallels, and among them was the rule that good cooking can never be rushed. There were potions in the Great Book that took days of constant attention, and Winter knew of other, legendary potions that had taken years to brew. She was grateful that she could cast up this particular potion in just a couple of hours. But even though it was one of the quicker brews did not mean she could rush things along. So, she coaxed magic into the cooling cauldron, watching the color slowly take on a more vibrant hue, all the while getting thirstier.

  But it wasn’t just about raw power, it was about focus. Determination. With each rotation around the cauldron, Winter focused her will into the magic, infusing it with what she wanted from the potion. Energy, focus, mental agility, alertness. She chanted each word under her breath, sharpening her focus with her voice. Words held power, for wizards even more so than other preternaturals. They used symbolism to focus their magical wills, and words were simply very powerful symbols. Language did not matter. Winter preferred to cast in English, but it was only individual taste. Many wizards cast their magic by using glyphs and charts and weaving symbols together to bring about arcane meaning from ancient languages, but the power was not in the drawing, in the speaking. It was in the will, and the magical attunement to impose that will on the universe. A human with no magical spark could do exactly the same thing she was doing, but would only end up with a warm cauldron of wasted ingredients. It was that spark, that connection to the power flows of the Universe, that made a wizard, and the depths of their connection determined how much potential for power they possessed.

  Winter’s connection, through her sidhe blood, was deep indeed.

  Finally, the potion reached the color and temperature she sought, at just the perfect time. It would be a good batch, and her mouth was watering. Her hands trembled as she carefully cleaned her spoon, washing all remnants of the potion off so as to not taint the next brew. It took all her control to get out the ladle and funnel, to set them down gently by the cauldron and not just ladle the potion directly into her mouth. It was an addiction, but Winter would keep a reign on it. She opened the washer and pulled out the now warm and dry bottles, setting them in rows on the counter. Some potions required a precise temperature for the bottle, some even required a particular color or quality of glass, but this potion was not so exacting. Winter used the tall green bottles because the potion itself was green, and because she had a lot of them, so they would all match. Winter had picked up the habit of using bottle shape and color to identify her potions from Maria, and often only labeled those potions she intended for public consumption. She also tended to cast a small return charm on each bottle to encourage those to whom she gave them to turn them back in. She had a local glass blower that she gave frequent business to, who made to her specifications and did not ask too many questions about her stranger orders, but she was pricey, and Mulcahys tended to be frugal.

  Winter took the funnel and the ladle and carefully filled the first bottle with just the right amount of potion… and then set the ladle down, feeling the bottle warm in her hand.

  This was stupid.

  She brought the potion to her lips, feeling the heat spread through her core even as it travelled to her belly. If she tried to fill all the bottles without drinking, she would be either a shaking mess of cravings by the end or racing through the process and getting the dosages wrong. That was what she told herself as she spun about and leaned her backside against the low counter, throat working as she tipped the bottle higher and higher, fil
ling her body with false warmth. Her free hand worked in the air as she swallowed, her fingers clenching spasmodically with each convulsion of her throat.

  Winter finished drinking, gasping for breath, and rested the bottle against her forehead. There was no strength to be found in the glass against her brow. She closed her eyes, and fought to not cry.

  She had no time for tears. The city was burning and she would have fires to put out today.

  CHAPTER SIX

  October 27th decided to dawn chilly and rainy as Winter pulled into her parking space in the small merchant/resident only lot behind Olde Curiosity’s Gift Shoppe. Founded by her Great-Aunt Curiosity Mulcahy-Reynolds in a bid to keep herself occupied when her husband Arthur went to fight for the U.S. during WWII, Curiosity’s was a fixture of the Historical District… for those who knew to look for it. The mundane eye would usually slip from Sweet Treats on the corner of Old Main Street and Pacifica to Katherine’s Retreat on the left, skimming over the small store with its backroom clinic and upstairs apartment. But those with a magical spark, or those guided in by them, would notice the painted metal sign hanging over the red door, and the small display framed by lacey curtains in the window. Over the years, Winter often found herself surprised by those who could find their way to the tiny shop.

  Winter could see none of this as she opened the back door centered on the windowless brick wall, and was surprised when she reached to turn on the back-room light, only to find it already on. Music was playing – too loud. “Hello?” she called nervously, knowing only three other people had keys to her store, and none of them should be here at just before eight in the morning.

  “We’re in front!” came the call back. Winter rolled her eyes in relieved exasperation. And there was one of them. The very one who should not be in here on a Friday morning. Well, that explained the music, at any rate. She crossed the back room, dropping her canvas bag in the desk chair and hanging up the old Army coat where she would remember to drop it off at the cleaners later. Blood still darkened the olive-green fabric of the left sleeve, and as the coat had once belonged to Uncle Arthur, Winter did not trust it to her home washing machine. Katherine’s usual cleaner was accustomed to getting blood out of older fabrics – surely they could handle the bloody old coat.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” she asked, passing through the thickly beaded curtain to find two teenagers bustling about the front of her store.

  The boxes that had littered the floor were mostly gone, what little they had in them tucked neatly away on the store shelves. A pleasantly plump brunette girl of about sixteen tossed a broken-down box onto a pile of its mates and flashed Winter a bright smile. “Just Brian and me,” she said, her voice raised up above the electric guitar and not-unpleasant male singer, and pushed her glasses up her nose. “We were hoping to get this done before you got here… so, surprise!”

  Winter reached over to where Jessie had plugged her MP3 player into her speakers and turned the volume down to something more conducive to conversation. It sounded like they were listening to Johnny Smith again, Jessie’s favorite. Winter did not listen to a lot of music, but what she had heard of the rock star through Jessie she liked.

  The young Black man rested his hands on his broom and smiled warmly at Winter in greeting. “Jessie said you needed some help, so we came over.” His long, thin dreadlocks fell just a little into his dark eyes to brush below his collarbones, and his gloriously broad shoulders and defined chest strained the fabric of his bright white t-shirt when he moved, neatly framed by the baby backpack he wore. Dangling from it was Justin, Brian’s two-year-old brother, busily chewing wetly on a toy that he occasionally rubbed against the back of Brian’s head. Brian did not give it much notice and let the toddler muss him at will.

  Winter glanced around the much-tidier store, appreciating what looked like a couple hours-worth of work. Fixtures were straightened and dusted, what stock she had left was put out on display, even the cash wrap was organized and cleaned. She wanted to defend her ability to handle it herself, but squelched the impulse in favor of a politer response. “Thank you! But, Jessie, you shouldn’t have skipped school to do this…”

  “What school?” interrupted Jessie. She walked around to the cash wrap and made to grab up another box.

  “The school you have every Friday. I don’t want your parents…”

  Jessie rolled her caramel eyes and set the box down on the counter. “Don’t get me started on them, please. It’s too early. Besides,” she said, picking up a large take-out coffee cup and handing it to Winter, “Frappe!”

  “What?”

  “Now, here’s your caffeine hit. You need it. Mocha frappe with espresso.” Jessie screwed up her pert little nose with distaste. She was not a coffee drinker.

  Winter took her coffee, her mascara-darkened brows pulling inward in a small scowl.

  “Drink,” the teenage girl ordered.

  Winter drank deeply of cold mocha and whipped cream with chocolate syrup. She didn’t care about the calories, empty though they may be. The way the energy potion burned through her, she needed all she could get. Besides, she really liked the way The Daily Grind made their frappes. “How did you pay for this?” she asked as thought followed enjoyment. She did not pay Jessie enough to be buying her frappes. Jessie was supposed to be saving for college. It was why Winter paid for her cell phone and martial arts classes and had given her one of her family’s old cars for her birthday. She would have bought her a new car, but in Jessie’s neighborhood that would not have been safe or sensible. Jessie’s parents had already declared that Jessie was on her own for college.

  “I took the money from the register and just rung it as petty cash,” Jessie replied, picking up her box again and heading off toward the store shelves.

  Winter nodded. That was fine. Something nagged at Winter’s mind, and she took another drink from her coffee, feeling the caffeine seep into her system and chasing the brain lag the energy potion left in its wake. Register… And it clicked. Today was Friday, book-keeping day. Book-keeping was not something she had the time, or the talent, for. On Fridays she always sent it out to a free-lancer who was retired and doing a little book-keeping for some of the Historical District stores part-time. “You derailed me!” she accused, turning on Jessie in exasperation.

  Jessie turned from the shelves, and Brian gave her an I-told-you-so look. She bent and set the box on the floor, then stood, hands on her ample hips. “Yeah, I did. I’ll own it.”

  Winter glanced at Brian and gave him a small smile. “Excuse us, please.”

  Brian nodded. “You need me to go?”

  “Oh, no, please. We’ll just take this to the back.” She looked at Jessie and motioned to the back room. Jessie admirably refrained from rolling her eyes and preceded her behind the cash wrap to the back room.

  Jessie leaned her backside against Winter’s large work table and looked unrepentant. “I’m sorry I played you…” she began.

  Winter waved away her apology. “That’s not the issue, Jessie. You knew you were in trouble and you were putting off me being upset at you about it. You’re sixteen. I expect some trouble evasion.”

  Jessie opened her mouth to defend her honor.

  Winter continued. “You’re also very honest and own up to your mistakes. So, no, I’m not mad at you for derailing me. I am, however, concerned about you skipping school.”

  Now Jessie did roll her eyes. “Yes, because the educational standards at South City High School are so high that missing one day to help a friend in need will prove detrimental to my permanent record.”

  Winter’s raised her right eyebrow. “Your vocabulary hasn’t suffered.”

  “I picked up my vocabulary from you, Miss Mulcahy.”

  Winter thinned her lips and started again. “I know South City is not the best school in the city…”

  “Best?” Jessie squawked. “They won’t let my sketchbooks through the metal detectors. You know why? Because I might assault another student
with the metal wire binding!”

  Winter watched the younger woman flail her arms and jump around as she vented her frustrations. This was a common conversation.

  “I wanted to go to Seahaven Academy of the Arts! But, no, my parents wouldn’t fill out the transfer paperwork.” She shoved her long brown hair out of her face in irritation. “And when I filled it out, they refused to sign it. Said they weren’t paying for me to be an art fag. It was free! I’d passed the fucking audition!” She paced back and forth, and finally flopped her backside back against the heavy work table again, dejected. “I’m only allowed two units of art at South City. You know what we do in art class? Everyone sketches the same wooden model that’s missing an arm, over and over, while the teacher gets progressively more wasted as the hour goes by because, you know, the next period is his planning period. Usually by the bell he’s pretty close to passed out. If he passes out before the bell, the asshats in the back who never do anything anyway start throwing what little art supplies we have.”

  Winter did not bother to correct her for cursing when she was venting like this. She sighed and reached out to rub Jessie’s arm in sympathy. “You can major in art when you get to UWSH.”

  Jessie shrugged off her hand and Winter let her. Sometimes Jessie would let her touch her, sometimes not. Winter accepted it and moved on. “How? I have to audition to get into the program, and with only two units of art in four years on my transcript they’ll just laugh at my application.”

  “You know I won’t let that happen.”

  Jessie shook her head and looked mulishly away. “No. No string pulling. If I can’t earn my way in, then I don’t belong there.”