by Rachel Aaron
“See?” Raven said with a sly look. “You do know him.”
“Who doesn’t?” Marci cried. “He’s one of the most famous mages in the world!”
That was a critical understatement. Sir Myron Rollins was more than famous, he was a legend. One of the first-generation mages, he’d made his own school of magic based around labyrinths. It was one of the most powerful and versatile forms of casting ever invented, at least in modern times, but it was so complicated that only Sir Myron himself had ever mastered it. Marci had given it a try herself in college, but after years of relying on the absolute certainty of Thaumaturgical equations, she hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of the delicate, subtle art that was Labyrinth Casting. She’d still read all his books, though. The man was a true genius of magic, one of the treasures of the age. And apparently buddies with Raven, who was basically a god.
She was struggling to find a way to phrase all of that that wouldn’t sound like fan-girl gushing when Raven leaned forward, his black eyes gleaming slyly. “Would you like to meet him?”
The frantic yes! almost burst out before Marci could stop it. But while, under normal circumstances, she would have given her right arm to meet a mage like Sir Myron, this was all moving way too fast, and Marci had been through enough seer plots now to have a deep mistrust of anything that fell together too easily. “That depends,” she said, clamping down on her excitement. “Does he want to meet me?”
“Spoken like a true dragon’s human,” Raven said. “But why are you worried? I’d think a mage with a Mortal Spirit would have little reason to be afraid of anything.”
The constant shocks of this conversation were threatening to give her whiplash. “You know what he is?”
“Of course I know,” Raven said. “I know everything, and my humans do as well. I’ve been feeding them all the information Algonquin doesn’t want people knowing for decades now. I can share it with you, too, if you want.”
Now things were getting really suspicious. “That’s quite an offer,” she said, keeping a firm grip on Ghost. “But, not to be rude, how can I trust you? I don’t know what Sir Myron has to do with any of this, but if you really are the Raven from the stories, then you’re a trickster and a troublemaker. Why should I believe anything you say?”
The bird laughed again, but it wasn’t a caw this time. It was a warm, large, deep sound, and suddenly, Marci had the all-too-familiar sensation that she’d just poked a much bigger monster than she’d realized.
“You’re not wrong,” the spirit said at last. “When you’re as clever as I am, immortality gets a bit dull. Confounding humans has been my primary source of entertainment since you lot started walking upright. But believe it or not, that’s exactly why you can trust me. Unlike other spirits, I am very fond of you charming little magical apes. Almost as fond as I am of making sure Algonquin’s plans don’t go according to script. She and I have never seen eye to eye on anything. Now that she’s put herself on the warpath in every way, my only logical choice is to align myself with the other side.”
Marci frowned in confusion. “You mean the dragons? But—”
“Dragons aren’t even part of the equation,” Raven scoffed. “They’ve only been in this world for what? Ten thousand years? That makes them the new kids on the block by our reckoning. No one but Algonquin even cares what they do. Honestly, I can’t even comprehend why she’s so obsessed. Yet another thing we don’t agree on.” He shrugged his wings. “So no, not dragons. I’m talking about the other power in this world, the one that was always meant to balance spirits.” He looked at her. “You.”
Marci arched an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Well, not you specifically,” Raven clarified. “I meant humanity. We spirits are the magic, but you’re the ones who push magic around. That’s a far more complicated relationship than anything dragons can lay claim to, and it’s why I’ve braved the serpent’s den to find and free the two of you.”
“Oh no,” Marci said. “We’re not prisoners.”
The bird gave her a funny look. “Really? So the multiple wards and vault doors I saw on my way in are just for decoration?”
That was all news to her, but Marci wasn’t about to admit to Raven that she’d just woken up from being passed out drunk and didn’t actually know where she was. “They’re for my safety,” she bluffed instead. “Heartstriker Mountain isn’t exactly a friendly place for people like me. But I’m not a prisoner. I’m here because I want to be.”
“So you could leave at any time, then?” Raven said, ducking his beak under his wing. “That’s splendid! I have your invitation right here.”
He pulled out a white card and held it out in his beak. Marci took it gingerly, eyes going wide. Sure enough, it was Sir Myron Rollins’s—as in sorcerer to the queen, chair of Tectonic Magic for Cambridge University, Master of Labyrinths, and undersecretary of magic to the UN—personal card with his personal number and a personal, handwritten note inviting her to brunch at some place called the Dragon Diner in Heartstriker, New Mexico at eleven thirty.
“Wow,” she said at last. “You weren’t kidding.”
“I never play tricks with something this serious,” Raven replied somberly. “And I knew from the moment I saw your spirit that the two of you are as serious as it gets.”
By this point, no amount of telling herself to keep cool could slow Marci’s racing heart. “What does that mean?”
The bird’s black eyes flashed as he pointed his beak at the card in her hand. “I’ll explain when you get there. A secret’s no good if you spill it all at once.”
“Oh, come on!” Marci cried. “Really?”
“Of course,” Raven said, preening. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? It wouldn’t be me if there wasn’t a catch. But, assuming you’re really not a prisoner and can actually get out of the mountain, I think you’ll find the effort worth your time.” He winked at her. “Merlin.”
Marci’s breath caught. Amelia had used that word, too. Before she could ask for more, though, the spirit vanished, leaving only the card to prove he’d existed at all.
“Great,” Marci grumbled, clutching the card in her hand. “He’s worse than you.”
Don’t compare us, the cat said, insulted. I tell you everything I know. He knows everything and stays deliberately vague to bait you.
“True enough,” she agreed. “Unfortunately, knowing there’s a hook inside doesn’t make the bait any less tempting.”
Then take it, Ghost suggested. What do you have to fear? You’re a better mage than he is, and you have me.
“I am not a better mage than Sir Myron Rollins,” Marci said firmly. “He’s one of the best in the world, maybe the best. There’s a reason he’s got, like, thirty jobs other mages would consider the pinnacle of their careers. Everyone wants him. He’s that good.”
Not as good as you, Ghost said stubbornly.
“Aww, you’re sweet,” Marci said, petting him. “Wrong, but sweet.”
Not wrong, he argued. Let’s just go see what he wants. Even if it all turns out to be a waste of time, at least we’ll have proven we’re not prisoners. His blue eyes roved over the tiny hallway. This place feels too much like a cage.
She couldn’t argue with him on that one. “I wonder where Julius is,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Or where we are, for that matter.” She glanced at Ghost. “You were up eating magic all night. Do you know?”
No, the cat said, looking away like the entire subject bored him. He’s probably off making plots with his millions of siblings.
That didn’t sound like Julius to her. He never went anywhere without telling her where he’d be, which was as overly cautious as it was cute. When she pulled up the fancy AR system on the new phone Julius had gotten her, though, she didn’t see anything that hadn’t been sent last night, and while reading his profuse apologies for standing her up made Marci grin, they weren’t actually useful right now.
“I’m just going to call him,” she said, hitting his p
icture on the new phone’s sleek contacts list. “Maybe he knows what this Raven business is all abou—”
She cut off abruptly when the call picked up on the first ring, and a voice that was obviously draconic—but definitely not Julius’s—said, “Julius Heartstriker.”
“W-Who are you?” Marci stuttered, shocked. And then she got mad. “Where’s Julius?”
“You must be the human,” the dragon said in a calm voice that somehow managed to be both polite and insufferably condescending. “I’m afraid the Great Julius is currently occupied with matters of vital strategic importance to the Heartstriker clan. But I’ll inform him that you called.”
“You can inform me who you are,” Marci snapped back. “What did you do, steal his phone?”
There was a long sigh, and then the dragon said, “I am Fredrick, the Great Julius’s assistant.”
Marci blinked. Her first instinct was that the dragon was lying, but she dismissed the idea as quickly as it came, mostly because she couldn’t imagine a dragon who would lie about being an assistant. That said, F was pretty high in the Heartstriker alphabet of power. Assuming he was also telling the truth about his name, she couldn’t understand what a dragon like him was doing picking up Julius’s calls. Then again, though, Julius was on the Council now. Given how big and rich Heartstriker was, that probably made him equivalent to a senator or a CEO, which was kind of cool. And kind of annoying, especially if it meant she was going to have to go through this nonsense every time she wanted to talk to her dragon.
“Okay, I get it, you’re his secretary,” she said. “But can I just talk to him anyway? It’ll only take a moment.”
“He does not have a moment,” Fredrick said haughtily. “As I already told you, he is very busy with extremely important matters. His new position requires a great deal of attention.”
“So I’ve been learning,” Marci grumbled. At this point, she was starting to wonder if she’d ever see Julius again. “When will he have a moment?”
“I do not know,” Fredrick said. “But as I said, I will inform him you called, Miss Novalli.” He paused after that, and then, like it had just occurred to him, he asked, “Is this an emergency?”
She rolled her eyes. “Would you have acted differently if it was?”
Fredrick’s reply was an icy silence, and Marci sighed. “No emergency,” she said, looking down at Myron’s card. “Just tell him I’m having lunch with a friend and to call me whenever he can.”
The dragon didn’t make a sound to let her know he’d gotten that. He just cut the call, leaving Marci clutching her phone with shaking hands.
Dragons, Ghost said in disgust. The more I see of them, the less I like them.
“They’re not all bad,” she said, shoving her phone back into her pocket. “Most of them, sure, but some are okay. Well, Julius and Amelia, but two makes some.”
Let’s just go, Ghost said, hopping down to the ground. The sun is already above the horizon. We’ll be late if we wait.
“I can’t go like this,” Marci said, looking down at the plain, cheap T-shirt and cloth pants the infirmary had given her to replace the shredded and bloodstained clothes she’d come in with. The drab outfit might have been passable if she hadn’t also reeked of alcohol from her wild night of drinking, but she wouldn’t go outside right now looking like this, much less to a meeting with the world’s greatest mage. She was wondering what in the world she was going to do about it when she remembered the emergency change of clothes she kept in her bag…right before she realized she had no idea where her bag was.
For a heart-stopping second, that set off a panic. Her bag had her wallet, all her casting materials, her Kosmolabe, everything important in her life. She was just starting to freak out in earnest when she spotted a familiar, bulging shape sticking out from behind the edge of the couch. Sure enough, when she reached over, her grasping hands found the handle of her overstuffed shoulder bag, and Marci nearly collapsed in relief. Julius must have put it there, she realized. He was so thoughtful about these kinds of things. But as she unbuckled the flap and dug down for the emergency change of clothes she was praying was still stowed at the bottom, her hand bumped into—alas, not the soft cloth she’d been expecting—but something sturdy and cardboard with sharp, regular edges.
Frowning, Marci grabbed the mysterious object and yanked it out to reveal a cardboard container roughly the size of a shoebox. Going by the printed label, it was obviously mail of some sort, but Marci didn’t remember picking up a package or putting it in her bag. It must have been important, though. Her bag space was precious and limited, and this package had clearly been carefully tucked into the bottom below the wrapped Kosmolabe and her regular casting supplies. But despite the evidence that she’d clearly considered the package important, Marci had no memory of getting it, or of ever going to the private post office the stamp showed it had been delivered to. She was about to just rip it open and see what was inside when she spotted a name printed in stark, Unicode government font across the top.
Aldo Giovanni Novalli.
She frowned. There was the problem. The mail carrier must have delivered this to the wrong Novalli, because she’d never met an Aldo in her life. Given that the return address was for a morgue, she could see now why she’d saved it. Unfortunately, Marci didn’t have room for charity right now, and she wasn’t going back to the DFZ anytime soon. She was about to say screw it and just toss the box in the trash when her vision began to blur.
She reached up in alarm, but fear turned to confusion when she touched her eyes to find tears rolling down her cheeks.
What’s wrong? Ghost whispered.
“I don’t know,” she said, scrubbing the mysterious tears away, not that it did any good. They just welled up again, pouring down her face without stopping. And as they kept coming, the uneasy feeling that she was forgetting something important grew heavier and heavier.
It’s nothing.
She looked up in surprise to see her spirit sitting right in front of her, his blue eyes peering straight into hers. “What’s going on?” she whispered, scrubbing the strange tears away yet again. “What’s happening to me?”
Rather than answer, the spirit reached up to press a paw to her face. And that was when things got strange, because while Marci’s blurry eyes saw a cat’s fluffy forefoot, her skin felt a man’s freezing hand land gently against her cheek.
You are mine, the spirit whispered, his voice deep as a chasm. Bound to me forever. As you have sacrificed, so will I remember and honor. The others come and go, but we are each other’s. Mine to yours, yours to mine. Always.
That was as touching as it was creepy. Too bad Marci didn’t understand a word. “What does that even mean?”
It means what it always meant, Ghost said cryptically, looking away as he dropped his paw. The bond was paid. Even if you don’t remember the price, I am the Spirit of the Forgotten Dead. I am the one who remembers, and I will remember you and yours forever.
That made even less sense than what he’d said before, but Marci decided to let the whole thing drop. According to her phone, it was already ten, which meant she had an hour and a half to get dressed, break out of here, and somehow get to the town outside the mountain. That schedule left no time for mysteries, so Marci decided to save the strange box for later, placing it carefully on the couch before grabbing her spare clothes, which had been crushed beneath it.
Five minutes and one ironing spell later, she was looking much better. The tank top and running shorts were still not as formal as she would have liked, but it was better than smelling like a wino, and it wasn’t like she had anything else. With that, Marci declared her outfit done and moved on to her next task: getting out of wherever this was.
“Hooo boy,” she said when she saw the insanely warded wooden door waiting at the end of the tunnel-like hall. “Raven wasn’t kidding.” She looked around at the stone bunker with its medical bay and closet full of identical tactical suits. “At least I know wher
e we are now. This must be Chelsie’s room.” She scowled at the multiple locks. “No wonder it’s so uptight.”
Can you break it? Ghost asked.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Marci said smugly. “Breaking things is my specialty.” Especially when she had a spirit who could walk through even warded walls.
That thought was Ghost’s cue, and he trotted straight through the door, describing the wards from the inside out as Marci grabbed the chalk from her bag to start drawing the counter-spells.
Chapter 8
By the time Ian’s breakfast was over, Julius was feeling uncharacteristically positive about the new direction of his life. He’d eaten his fill and had an actual reasonable conversation with several of his siblings that didn’t involve death threats, which had to be some kind of record. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was actually getting along with his immediate family when he turned to grab the food he’d set aside for Marci only to find it was gone. He was staring at the place where it should have been in confusion when he heard a loud crunch.
Julius jumped at the sound, whirling around to see Bob standing directly behind him with Marci’s to-go box in his hands.
“What are you doing?” he cried as Bob shoved Marci’s Belgian waffle into his mouth. “That’s not for you!”
“I had no choice,” Bob said with his mouth full. “Ian’s been hogging the dining room for an hour.” He glowered over at Ian, who looked as surprised as Julius. “Other dragons need to eat too, you know.”
“I never said you couldn’t come in,” Ian replied coolly. “Everyone is welcome.”
“How egalitarian of you,” the seer replied, licking his fingers. “Though I have to admit I’m a little shocked by how quickly you’ve adapted to the new Julius-culture.” His eyes widened in horror. “Ian, could it be that you were secretly a Nice Dragon the whole time?!”
Julius hadn’t known it was possible for a dragon to look as insulted as Ian looked at that, and he quickly changed the subject before his brother did something they’d all regret. “That food was for Marci.”
