by A. E. Lowan
The secretary immediately disappeared from her sight, confirming Winter’s belief that she was human. The walls and floor and ceiling around her took on the crystalline wireframe structure and opened to show her the layout of the floors and building around her – that she was not expecting. Digging her fingers with her short surgeon’s nails into her now-invisible chair to fight the sudden sensation of being suspended high in the air, Winter looked around examining the layers of spell-work. Much of it was glamour, she could see that well enough, layers and layers of it, but the glamour rested on a base of magic. She saw the whole building in glowing outline around her and came to a stunning realization that stilled her breath for a moment – the black glass tower was a faerie building, just like Mulcahy House only so much more massive.
How had he done it? She had signed in at the front desk and been escorted by a security guard who had swiped a card to give her clearance for the elevator to reach this level. She had felt no pulse of magic then, nor when the elevator had operated – nothing but the usual underlying buzz she normally associated with human electricity. Mulcahy House did not run on electricity, it never had. Power lines running out to the Point were a fairly recent phenomenon, mostly because they accompanied phone, cable and internet. The House did not like the electricity and had rejected it. Only a long series of negotiations and pleas with the House had resulted in working television and lines of communication, and even now those could be spotty.
Had Jonathan Moore somehow been able to integrate the magic of the faerie tower with human technology? And where had he gotten the sheer volume of power to build it in the first place? The implications made her head spin.
Mind churning, she saw out of the corner of her magical eye a blister in the glamour in the vicinity of the basement, far, far below. To an ordinary wizard, this would be a mere curiosity, something to observe and remember, but not really anything they could take advantage of. Wizards required counter spells to remove glamour, and there was not a counter spell in the world powerful enough to tackle what Jonathan Moore had laid down here. But Winter was at least a quarter sidhe, and while she was not able to cast glamour herself, that was limited to the Fair Folk alone, she could move and manipulate power. Without thinking, she reached out and probed at the blister, curiosity overriding caution.
The blister shifted, magic moving beneath it.
The door to Jonathan Moore’s office opened and the beautiful-eyed sidhe stepped through. He glowed under her magical sight in the moment before she snapped back to normal. “Mr. Moore will see you, now,” he said, looking at her with even more interest than before.
Winter pulled back from the blister and stood, hitching her bag strap over her shoulder. She gave a small nod to the secretary before slipping through the opening the man provided her as he stepped aside.
Jonathan Moore’s office was spacious, with one wall entirely dedicated to windows. During the day it must have been filled with light. This late she could see the city laid out in lights stretching below them and skirting Mount Sarah, and it caught her eye for a moment. Not many buildings in Seahaven were this tall, so seeing her city like this was a treat she did not get often.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
She turned to face the man who had spoken. He sat behind a large desk with a gleaming piano finish, his ice blond hair trimmed short and neatly combed back from his face, his ice blue eyes, so like her own, regarding her intently. She wondered fleetingly if they could be related. It had been one of the two conditions holding her mother in the Mortal Realm, that no one ask after her lineage, and surely that was the one which had been broken. It was impossible for any present at the binding, her grandparents and her father, to have broken the other one. She suspected it had been her father who had done it, in a moment without thinking, and that was why he never spoke of it, why his grief was so great. Even so, it was frustrating to not know half of her own bloodline.
Winter jerked her wandering thoughts back to the present. Her fatigue was getting the better of her. “Yes, you have a wonderful view.” She noted he had remained seated when she entered and stepped up to his desk to hold out her hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Moore.” She kept her spine straight as she held out her arm, positioning herself in a way to force him up to his feet to meet her half way across his desk.
Let the games begin.
Jonathan Moore looked at her hand and then slowly raised his cold eyes to her face, letting the moment draw out. “Been a while since you met another magician?” he asked, dry amusement twisting the corner of his mouth.
Winter blinked once, and then felt heat creep into her cheeks as she pulled her hand back, cursing her fair Irish complexion for putting her embarrassment on such obvious display. Wizards did not casually shake hands with other magicians, or each other – skin on skin contact breached personal shields, making them vulnerable. But she had not met a strange wizard in years and had never met another breed of magician strong enough to be paranoid about touching. Winter was American and accustomed to being the only powerful magician in the room. She shook hands. Her gaze flickered over to the other sidhe, where he stood just behind Mr. Moore’s desk. Those lovely eyes danced with mirth.
She was glad she could be so entertaining.
With a small noise she cleared her throat and tried to get her footing back. “Yes,” she said quietly, “it has been some time. I am Winter Mulcahy-”
“So my secretary informs me.”
She ignored his rudeness and his dismissive tone. “Do you prefer to be called Mr. Moore or Midir?”
The cold pleasure still played at the corners of his lips. “If we’re speaking of preferences, I prefer ‘my lord.’”
Winter returned his amusement with her own arid humor. “This is America. We stopped using titles a while ago.”
“And we are… what is that new word?” He looked back to his associate, who gave him an amused quirk of his brow, and then back to her. “Preternatural? It’s one thing to play human, but among ourselves we don’t care about such polite fictions as democracy and equality, now do we, Miss Mulcahy?”
Her jaw tightened, but she had to give him the point. Immortals, in her admittedly limited experience, did tend to get hung up on titles. Erik and Katherine ran their courts very informally compared to other vampires, but she had heard even them occasionally addressed as “my lord” and “my lady.” Raphael, the vampire lawyer based in Seahaven, and the Eldest Himiko held their small courts to much stricter standards. “As you like, my lord.” He had not offered her a seat, but after sitting for so long in his outer office she really would rather stand. It was very rude of him, all the same, and effectively showed his continued contempt of her authority. She needed to get some traction here, and fast. “What about your son? Does he answer to Jeremy or Senán?” She only had one piece in this game, so far – may as well play it.
The amusement flashed from the sidhe lord’s face. If Winter had not been watching so closely she might have missed it. “I see that Summer’s Get found his way to you, then.” His lip seemed to curl up at the name.
“Do you mean Etienne Knight?” Even as tired as she was, she hesitated to mention Cian. Her frayed instincts told her not to. She did not have the energy to wonder why.
“He is also known by that name.”
“Then, yes. He and his are under my protection.” It was important to state that very clearly. If he wanted to get at Etienne and Cian, he would have to go through her – and to do that would be to challenge the balance in Seahaven. “Why call him ‘Summer’s Get?’” She had heard that some fae were often known by multiple names, earning them over their long lives, but that one did not sound complimentary.
Midir leaned forward in his beautiful chair and tented his fingers on his desk. This time his lip really did curl with the force of his disgust. “Because his mother is a whore whose passions burn as hot and as brief as summer itself.”
Winter mentally rocked back a
t his vehemence. “I didn’t think the fae judged based on love and sexuality.”
He averted his eyes for a moment as they glittered with some emotion she could not decipher. “That is because you’ve never met the bitch.”
She took in a breath to keep talking, and Midir was out of his chair and at her side, in her personal space, as fast as any vampire. She choked on her gasp and reeled back a step.
“What do you want, Miss Mulcahy? You wear my patience thin.” He stepped forward into her, looming inches above even her height, the heat of his body radiating against her. She felt her pulse speed up with the threat of his sudden aggression, and her eyes flickered to his companion. The other man looked… intrigued?
Winter felt cold anger rise and used it to brace her spine, to set her feet on the thick carpet. She was a Mulcahy. She would not be intimidated. “I want to talk to your ‘son.’” She emphasized her doubt of his relation to the missing prince. “I also want to talk to you about the magical instabilities lately.” She waved her arm, purposely stirring an eddy of power, shifting it to taste.
“Talk to Jeremy all you want.” The amusement returned, but he did not back up. “He won’t thank you for sharing your ‘crazy,’ and he won’t thank me for sending a skinny, badly dressed busy-body his way.”
Winter heard his words, but was not really listening. She had been so tired… the familiar flavor of the magic in this building, the scents – they weren’t familiar just because they reminded her of her mother. She had spent the whole day immersed in it. She raised her head from her thoughts, and looked Midir in the eyes. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice even. “What are you hiding in the basement?” Whatever was beneath that blister nearly filled the building’s footprint.
He crossed his arms. “What do you mean?”
“You’re causing the instability. The rifts leading to Faerie I’ve seen all over town today, the wild magic that nearly drowned me this morning, that blew them open in the first place, they all possessed a magical signature that underlay everything – and it’s present here, as well. That cannot be a coincidence.”
“And I suppose you’ll tell me that it’s too strong to be a residual trace. That instability washed over everything, you know.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t have to. If it wasn’t true, you would have said so.” Midir’s face clouded with anger, and behind him his associate put his hand over his eyes. What had she said?
Midir paced away from her, towards the window, and stood there for a moment looking out at the lights as if he was king of all he surveyed. He then turned back, the smile again on his face, now razor-edged and ruthless, his ice blue eyes glittering. “And what of it, young lady?” He gave a small shrug and an even smaller laugh. “Are you going to wiggle your spoon at me? Don’t look surprised, I know exactly what sort of wizard child you are – and what your specialty is capable of.” He looked at the other man. “Perhaps she’ll give me a rash with one of her decoctions.”
The man with the beautiful eyes laughed.
Midir crossed the room back towards Winter, his steps slow, menacing. “You see, Miss Mulcahy, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. There is nothing you can do about it.” He stopped, again standing within her personal space. “You have no power here.”
She swallowed down her fear and refused to back down. She knew she was alone here with these men and terribly vulnerable, but she had to know what was going on, what he was doing to her city. She reached down and opened herself… After what had happened with Cian she knew Midir would be able to feel her reading his soul so she knew she would only have a moment…
“What…?”
She saw… fragments of images flitted about the edges of her vision, like puzzle pieces long lost from the set. No! The fragments skittered about, giving her little more than nonsense – rage, heartbreak, betrayal… oh, so much betrayal. But only hints, only vague impressions, nothing new and nothing tangible. She was having one of her off days. And then Midir’s hand fastened around her arm, pain lancing up through her shoulder as he bruised her flesh in his grip. She could not catch the small cry of pain before it escaped her lips.
“This meeting is over. I need to speak with people who actually matter, now,” he said, his voice sharp with anger as he jerked her toward his office door. He pulled it open and shoved her through, pushing her with enough force to knock her to the floor. She landed hard on her hip and bruised elbow, the carpet providing only so much cushioning. The secretary paused her incessant clicking. He turned to address her. “If she’s not in that elevator in thirty seconds, I want security to escort her bodily from the building.”
Aodhán heard the secretary’s muted affirmative through the door. That had been fairly productive. The identity of Summer’s Get still meant nothing to him, but five centuries was a long time to be away from Faerie – to say he was out of the loop would be a gross understatement. That Midir seemed to know the man’s mother was interesting, but who she was exactly and why she elicited such a strong response in him was now a new mystery, one he would tuck into his mental pocket and see if it would prove useful.
However, what seemed to be the most intriguing was the wizard child. He had been five centuries in the Mortal Realm, squiring his lady through her magical circles. He was a magician himself and knew intimately what wizards were able to do and not able to do, and interacting with power like it was sticky taffy was not a wizard ability. Just looking at her, even as sick as she appeared, he could tell she was not pure-blooded. The corner of his mouth twitched. So the wild rumors they had heard about the Mulcahy wizards breeding with anything that crossed their paths were panning out. If she was not at least half fae, then neither were his twin babies.
But that flare of magic at the end…
Midir crossed to his bar and poured himself a finger of bourbon. He stood, sipping the drink, his eyes distant.
Aodhán came and stood at the other end of the bar. “What magic was that, my lord?” he asked the great prince. Something had been… familiar about it.
Midir was quiet for a few minutes before responding with, “I’ve never seen the like.”
“What was she doing?”
He took another sip. “It was as if she opened me like a box and was rummaging around inside.” He looked into the amber liquid as if he could scry the answers within. Finally, he said, “I need to know more about this wizard child. This close to Samhain I cannot afford any complications.”
Aodhán wanted to know more, too. “Rumor has it she runs a clinic out of a shop in the Historical District. I’ll get the address and we can go look into it after we grab a bite to eat.”
Midir raised his eyes and regarded him for a moment. Aodhán kept himself relaxed, helpful, until the other man nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.”
Aodhán gave Midir a small bow and headed out of his office.
Winter was on her feet and in the elevator under the secretary’s haughty glare – she was sure the woman was counting – in well under thirty seconds, but her hands were shaking so badly she had to push the button to the lobby with the knuckles of her clenched fist. The doors closed with a whisper, and she wrapped her arms around her quaking core, fighting the burning humiliation that made her eyes swim with unshed tears. Her lip quivered and she clamped her hands over her mouth, stifling her traitorous weeping. If she started now she would never get herself back together and she refused to flee the building sobbing.
The doors opened at the lobby and she stepped out, her soft-soled shoes surprisingly loud against the gleaming floor in the silence. The guards at the round desk in the center all looked at her and one spoke to the mic on his shoulder, too quietly for her to make out the words, but his eyes never left her. She did not think it possible for her cheeks to burn any hotter, but they managed to exceed her expectations. To her horror a tear escaped and ran down one cheek, threatening to bring the rest pouring with it. She braced her spine and clutched her bag strap close and made her brisk
way out of the building.
Winter pulled her car door shut, enclosing herself in silence and steel. Her breath sounded harsh in the confines of the cabin, coming too rapidly, and her teeth were beginning to chatter. Her hands shook so badly that when she gripped the steering wheel it translated into shuddering from her hands to her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around herself again and rested her forehead on the wheel. How was she going to get home like this?
Out of the corner of her eye she could see her faded purple canvas bag. She turned her head and just looked at it. Her bag… The next thing she knew she was digging through it, shoving things aside with no regard for delicacy or order, mouth salivating, until her hand closed around cool glass. She pulled the long green bottle from the bag, clawed the stopper free, and drank down the foul tasting potion with both hands clenched. Energy filled her, burned through her veins, driving away the violent shaking… and bringing a new violence of its own.
The nausea struck like a hammer. Winter scrabbled for the door handle, engaged it and rolled out of the car to her knees just as the body of the potion and what little else she had left in her stomach came up with crippling force. All she could do was kneel and dig at the asphalt with her fingertips. She had finally overdone it and she knew it. A part of her had known it even as she dug the potion from her bag and had not cared. She threw up long past the emptiness in her belly, past the burning bile, until it was the punishment of dry heaves wringing out the stolen energy from her muscles and bones, leaving her limp and clinging to the side of her car seat, gasping for breath in the moments between abdominal surges.
