by Jess Haines
There were numerous alleyways and hidden passages off St. George if one knew where to look. James took them to one such passage hidden within an alley, dodging staring tourists and curious, pointing children. Usually the number of people packing the street was a good cover, but the addition of the colorful red-orange trouble-magnet on his shoulder meant having to double back and change his route a few times.
After a bit of creative footwork to lose some of the curious eyes on their trail, but he was soon passing through what looked very much like a normal, graffiti-smeared smeared wall tucked between a couple of out of the way public restrooms. Lyra barely had time to flinch back and squawk a protest before he walked through it.
Said wall gave way to a stone-lined stairwell lit by sconces that had what looked like floating balls of light set in them. Lyra was hanging halfway off his shoulder by that time, one of her wings whacking him upside the head repeatedly.
“Geez, relax! It’s just an illusion. Calm down.”
“You,” she snarled, “need to work on your communication skills.”
“Story of our relationship, I know. A bit preoccupied here. Give me a break, and keep it down. This is where things are about to get... dicey.”
“Dicey?” she asked, just as they rounded a bend in the stairwell that opened into a huge cavern that should not have existed this far below sea level.
Chapter 6
A sea of colorful tents spread out as far as the eye could see across the cavern before them. Similar globes to those in the stairwell shed a low, but perfectly serviceable light, leaving the cave in perpetual twilight illuminated by the light of a thousand faded stars.
“Keep it down, remember?” James muttered quietly under his breath, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead.
As they continued down the stairwell and onto the main pathway that passed between the tents, Lyra couldn’t figure out what to look at first. Voices whispered from the darkness inside one, beckoning with sweet promises she couldn’t quite hear. A creature that looked like a person swathed in dark silk from head to toe beckoned with a clawed, green-scaled hand, golden cat-slit eyes the size of saucers peering from between the folds, gesturing for them to come closer to see what looked like a selection of tiny bottles on a white plastic folding table. A woman who looked normal, in jeans and a “Sun’s Out, Guns Out” muscle shirt—well, as normal as someone in a shirt like that can look—sat in a fold out chair, expression bored as she paged through a gossip rag while looking after a tent full of mason jars that contained what looked like tiny, furious fireflies on steroids beating against their glass prisons. After a moment of staring, Lyra was able to make out that the little fireflies had the bodies of tiny people, and wings like dragonflies.
A shiver raced down her spine, her feathers raising with alarm. Nothing about this place was natural.
Her claws involuntarily dug deeper into James’s shoulder as a pair of red eyes seethed at them from an unnaturally dark tent. James hissed at her to ease up, his fingertips plucking at one of her nails that was perilously close to drawing blood.
“What is all this?” she whispered, unable to find any one thing to focus on.
“We just call it the marketplace,” he replied, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “It’s a mage market, and it’s almost as old as the rest of the city. Now please be quiet.”
She did as she was told, remembering a little too late that he had warned her against drawing attention to herself by speaking. Her skin was crawling with the sensation of eyes on her, weighing her value, coveting her. This place was full of danger, and whatever magical senses she’d been granted were screaming at her about the danger lurking behind most of the flaps of the tents around them and from most—not all, but most—of the people strolling idly down the pathway around them.
James turned down one of the many smaller paths that broke off from the main one, where there was less foot traffic, smaller tents, and more aggressive hawking from the vendors.
“Keep your garden going strong! Hassle free way to get rid of slugs, tomato worms, aphids, gnomes, sprites, and more!”
“All natural soy and beeswax summoning candles! Guaranteed results!”
“One taste, and you’ll last all night long! The ladies love this one. Just a taste!”
“Free sample! Try our homemade lotions, sunscreens, and vampire repellant!”
The lotion lady tried to grab James and pull him over, presumably to smear some of the greasy-looking gunk that smelled strongly of tea tree oil and desperation on his hands, but he jerked out of her grip and kept on walking. Albeit, a tad faster now. Nonplussed, all Lyra could make of it was that they must have walked into the flea market from hell.
After walking for what felt like hours, but was probably more like twenty minutes, they reached a nondescript beige tent with the flaps shut and no banners or sign to tell anyone what was for sale inside. It was sandwiched between a booth selling “magic” brownies and cookies (considering where they were, she suspected what made them magic wasn’t the usual—though in this place, she couldn’t be sure) and a tent with painting supplies, sculpting clay, and canvases. It was the first normal collection of items she’d seen since they arrived.
He pulled one of the flaps in the beige tent aside and ducked in without preamble, letting it fall closed behind him. The darkness around them was complete, but soon lifted by a match flickering to life, much too far in the distance considering the apparent size of the tent from outside.
“My, my. This is a surprise.”
James sketched a short bow, startling Lyra into spreading her wings. “Moira. I need to ask a favor.”
“Again, what a surprise,” came the droll response. The match drifted to one side, staying steady long enough to light a wick. The tiny flame jumped from wick to wick until a series of oil lamps and candles set in a circle surrounded them. There was no sign of the tent flaps, or even walls, around them.
The woman who had spoken from the dark was not very well illuminated by the candles, and gave off no aura of magic that Lyra could perceive. In fact, if anything, she appeared like an empty silhouette of a woman with impressive curves, sucking in all of the light around her. Lyra couldn’t help but to compare that silhouette to a cutout of Jessica Rabbit.
“Moira, this is my friend, Lyra.”
With the automaticity of polite pleasantries, Lyra said, “How do you do?”
The shadow-woman tilted her head, leaning forward. Lyra, in turn, leaned back.
“Fascinating,” came the quiet, hissed response. Her next question was obviously directed to James, leaving Lyra with the distinct impression she was being ignored. “Why have you brought her to me?”
“This was the safest place I could think to bring her while I get—”
“Hey! Whoa, now! That wasn’t the deal!”
James turned his head to give her a look. “Ahem. While I get the counter-spell. Edward is bringing it to Victor.”
The shadow stilled. Lyra slowly turned to regard James with shock. She’d known he must have been keeping secrets, but would never have imagined he would betray her like this—leaving her with some scary shadow-thing named Moira while he went gallivanting off to supposedly collect her property. Something he had already tried to steal from her once before.
Moira moved closer. “This is not acceptable to your friend, I see. Or to me. You only visit me when you need something. Friends do not treat friends thusly.”
That was one sentiment Lyra could get behind. “I’ll pay you,” she said. James shushed her, but she ignored him. “Help me get that book back and I’ll pay whatever your fee is. I might not be your friend, but I’ll be your customer, if you think you can stop Edward before he gets to this Victor guy.”
“Done.”
“Moira, she doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to.”
Lyra poked his cheek with the curved edge of a talon. “You don’t get to speak for me. Moira, what’s your fee? I can write you a check when I’
m back to normal.”
She had the distinct impression that the shadow figure was looking her up and down. “Normally I would take a slice of your memories, but I will accept one of your feathers as payment.”
“Moira...” James sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Fine,” Lyra said. “Sounds like a bargain to me. No using it against me though. No binding, summoning, or other nonsense of that nature, and no passing it on to someone else. I grant it to you, and you alone.”
The shadow paused. Even James was taken aback that she knew enough about magic to understand that pieces of her body—even a body that wasn’t really hers—could be used against her.
“Your terms are acceptable,” Moira said. “I will assist you.”
James growled a low curse under his breath. “Don’t do this. Stay here and let me handle it.”
Lyra drew herself as tall as she could, staring him down. Despite his relatively calm demeanor, the swirl of fae light in his eyes and the very fine tremble under her claws gave the lie to his appearance. He was scared.
She’d never seen him afraid before.
Though the movements were awkward, she slid a wing around the back of his head in the best imitation of a hug she could muster. Though she knew if he was afraid, she damned well should be too, her anger over the situation she’d been thrust into far and away eclipsed any thoughts about playing things safe. She’d always had a short fuse, but there was a new fire burning inside her.
Magic may have given her a new form, but it didn’t define who she was. If she had to take some risks to regain her humanity, so be it. Whatever James’s stake in this mess might be, there was no way it was as personal as hers. If he wanted the book so badly, she’d give it to him once she was back to normal. Until then, she’d use whatever resources were available to her, seeing as she wouldn’t even be able to carry the darned thing even if she could find and somehow take it from Edward.
“I could really use your help, but if you’d rather stay here, that’s fine,” she said, making an effort to keep her voice low and gentle. “You’ve already helped more than I should have expected, considering our... current relationship status. I’m prepared to accept the consequences of my choices. That includes the ones concerning you. You don’t owe me anything, James.”
He reached up to brush his fingertips lightly over her feathers. “Yes I do. I screwed this up. I should have done more to keep you safe. I shouldn’t have...”
His voice drifted off, his gaze flicking over to Moira, who was watching them as intently as a living shadow could.
Moira, who had been quiet throughout this exchange, took that as a sign to cut in. “As fascinating as this is, perhaps you two can continue your lover’s quarrel at another time. I would like to get down to the business of earning my fee.”
The two exchanged a nod before turning their attention to the living shadow.
“So what’s the plan?” Lyra asked.
Chapter 7
The plan involved Lyra wearing Moira like a cloak, disguising her fiery feathers and making her appear as no more than an oddly cast shadow on James’s shoulder.
Lyra couldn’t stop shivering. Though Moira weighed next to nothing, the living darkness was cold and somehow empty, sucking all the oxygen out of the air around her and smothering the flames burning in Lyra’s breast. She tried not to fidget too much and inadvertently draw attention to the trio, but it was difficult with the constant sensation of being suffocated from the inside out.
James had explained that they were going to see the warlock, Victor Thorn, and that bringing Lyra to him was the equivalent of dangling a mouse in front of a cat. There was no way he wouldn’t pounce, given the opportunity.
The best way of disguising her was to dampen the shimmering heatwaves of her aura so as not to tip their hand to Victor or his cronies. If they got to Edward before he could give Victor the book, between Moira and James, they expected they could overpower him. If he had already turned the book over to Victor, things became a bit more complicated. She would come along to provide a distraction if necessary, with Moira as some extra magical muscle, but James had given the impression that he was certain he could talk Victor into giving them the book, and that they should not provoke him into a battle under any circumstances.
If it came down to it, it was possible Moira could snatch their prize. They could then split up and reconvene after dark by the park down the hill from the St. Augustine lighthouse. Lyra had no idea how to get out of the underground marketplace, but James and Moira had both told her she would “just know” when the time came. Considering she didn’t know how this underground marketplace could even exist so close to the ocean—there were parts which she was certain must extend below the tourist-packed beach, physics and common sense to the contrary—this whole “just knowing” business sounded more like they didn’t know either, but she wasn’t about to point out the inconsistencies.
This time, as they walked through the conglomeration of tents, James moved too quickly for most of the vendors to bother hawking their wares at him. Lyra took note of the route that they took so that she could find her way back to Moira’s tent, or the entrance James had used to get them into this madhouse in the first place.
At the back of what Lyra took to be the south end of the cave, the tents thinned out and more established (if no less strange) businesses existed in crude buildings made of anything from wooden boards to stones to sand castles. As with the tents, many had flags or other signs to indicate the name of the store or the wares to be found inside. Some had counters open to the aisles, serving drinks or food. It was quieter here. The vendors and shoppers were no less shady than those by the tents, but there was a quality to the air that made it just a smidge more inviting.
Instead of ozone and herbs, this part of the cavern smelled more like churros, incense, and a heady tang of brine, like some exotic carnival by the sea.
Oddly, while the scent of fried dough and sugar usually made Lyra’s stomach growl, now it wasn’t in the least bit appetizing to her. The subtle hint of burning myrrh in the distance intrigued her more.
She hadn’t eaten since the toaster pastry hastily gulped down with a mug of coffee to jump start her day hours earlier. By this time, she should have had a raging case of the hangries, taking out her hunger in the form of fierce, frustrated anger on the nearest target. While she certainly felt a fair share of anger toward Edward for what he had done to her, and her temper flared up with more ease than usual, she wasn’t experiencing the general angry-at-anything-that-moves irritability that came with low blood sugar.
It bothered her that she had no appetite, and that even though she was not feeling particularly hungry, the scent of the burning incense in the distance smelled more appetizing than the food stalls they were passing. It made about as much sense as the rest of this crazy place.
Unsettled as she was, she remained alert and kept a close eye on her surroundings. She was starting to see what James and Moira had meant; some sunlight was piercing the gloom at this end of the cavern through some thin slits in the ceiling four or five stories above their heads. Though they would not be able to follow, some of those gaps looked big enough for her to fly through. Assuming she could figure out how to fly, if it came down to it.
As they came to the far wall, several archways were carved into the stone, and some paths followed the natural twists and turns of the cavern. James chose one of the archways, pausing and holding up the back of his hand to one of the runic symbols cut into the stones. There was a brief flash of some kind of magic, there and gone again in a blink.
While there were no other effects Lyra could see, James didn’t pass through the archway immediately. At some unseen signal, he moved forward; there was a brief sensation like cellophane stretching over their skin—well, feathers in Lyra’s case—and then they were passing through a hallway cut through porous stone.
Soon the stone gave way to dark wood panels, set with sconces with lar
ger glowing orbs than the ones that had been in the way they had entered the marketplace. Despite the added light, even against the rich, polished wood, the cold and clinical chill to the air had Lyra shivering again. It wasn’t just her. James’s muscles were tense under her claws, bunching around his shoulders.
After a time, they reached a series of doors set at intervals. Most were shut, but a handful were open and provided glimpses into additional establishments that were just as strange as those in the tents of the marketplace. One looked like a hookah lounge, full of lush velvet couches and pillows in many colors. The smoke being exhaled from the hookahs formed into winged beasts with tiny orange ember eyes, flying in a swirl of sooty vapor around the room and making cries like the crackle of a campfire. Another had floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with bottles of oils and herbs. The room had no lights except the dim glow of the contents of numerous bottles, and the farther back the room went, the darker it got. If anyone was inside, she couldn’t see them.
There were others, but Lyra didn’t pay them much mind. They had reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway, and James had stopped in his tracks. He had lifted a hand to knock, but paused before going through with it.
“Listen,” he muttered to them under his breath. “No matter what happens, I need you to stay quiet. If Victor has the book, we’re not going to get it by force. We won’t have a chance if he gets his hands on you, Lyra.”
“And what if he gets you?” she muttered back.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he knocked.
