Digital Magic (The Chronicles of Art Book 2)

by Philippa Ballantine

  Aroha had never even seen it.

  Daniel tried to smile reassuringly. “Te Whanganui a Tara—yes, a beautiful place.”

  But if there was one thing Aroha knew, it was that beauty could be dangerous. Her first sight of the Folk had told her that. A dry throat took away her speech.

  Penherem had gone thoroughly mad since Hamish’s death. It might not be apparent to the casual observer, but Ella was attuned to the pulse of the village; the hurried sounds of footsteps outside her gate, the harsh edge to gossip at the street corner, all said that the peace which once made the village so precious was gone. It made it her nervous and edgy, which combined with the conversation with Doyle into an explosive mix.

  Qoth watched Ella pack that morning, the unusual event attracting the cat’s attention. Ella rummaged around in the dark recesses of her wardrobe and found the large plastic bag she’d hoped never to see again.

  She tipped the contents out onto her bed, her brow furrowed in concentration; ripped jeans, well worn boots, the ugly profile of a gun and the tumble of silvered fabric which was worth more than the contents of her house.

  Ella picked up the shiver cloak and the coolness on her fingertips told her that it was still working. It had not really been that long—only a few months since she’d worn this. Pushing away any lingering memories Ella put it on quickly and tugged the long hood over her head and face. In the mirror it looked ridiculous, really, like some cheap Halloween costume. But once her hand was in the control glove, she could access the functions. It all came back to Ella far too easily; stillness allowed the photosensitive cloth to blend in with the background and its steady matching of heat with the ambient temperature meant even with an infrared camera there would be nothing to see.

  Horrified at the memories it stirred, she tore it off and dumped it onto the bed as if it were a poisonous spider. It had been Doyle’s first gift to her—not without strings, to be sure.

  It remained a great tragedy to her that the very first memory she had was his face. A hard lump was forming in her throat, but for once Ella couldn’t ignore reality. Qoth strolled over and sat himself down in the middle of the shiver cloak to lick her paw. Despite herself, Ella laughed.

  If she’d ever had a family, she couldn’t remember them; it was as if she’d never had a past before Doyle. It gave him a horrible hold over her, despite everything. All there was in her memory was a time when she’d felt wrong and dirty and lost. She’d been a good member of Doyle’s crew, the best thief they’d ever had—but unlike all the rest, she’d actually managed to get away from that life.

  Depending on herself to still possess some of that strength, Ella quickly dressed in her old gear, stuffed the cloak into her leather backpack and left before she could analyze the situation any more. Walking quickly to the VFT, she got on without thinking when it zipped to a halt at the station. She spent the half hour it took to reach London staring at herself in the window, practicing keeping her face calm and her eyes hard.

  She got off at Victoria, still able to remember exactly how to find him. Yet she paused in the muddled chaos of the station, feeling the energies of so many people buzzing around her. Penherem was very far away. Ella was suddenly terrified that she wasn’t strong enough for all this. For sure, this time she wouldn’t have the strength.

  “Ella?” She nearly yelped when a firm hand grasped her elbow.

  “My god, Bakari!” She wasn’t sure just who she’d thought it was, but it was still a relief to see the librarian smiling at her. Then Ronan emerged at his shoulder and she felt suddenly very dim indeed.

  Bakari looked troubled, and she hoped it wasn’t to do with her. “I thought you hated the city worse than me, Mouse. What are you doing here?”

  Once upon a time, lies had come easily to her, but seemingly Ella was out of practice. “Shopping,” she blurted out.

  She might as well have said she was elephant hunting. Ronan looked like he would burst out laughing, while Bakari just shook his head. Looking down, Ella realized she wasn’t exactly dressed in her usual manner. She flushed bright pink and tried to hide her hot cheeks by gazing at her toes.

  Bakari’s hand was now guiding her out of the rush of people. “What’s going on?” he demanded and the look in his eye said he wouldn’t tolerate another lie.

  Ella chewed the inside of her cheek and looked, really looked, at the two men. They lived and were comfortable in the world she’d tried to hide from, and what’s more, she trusted them—even Ronan with his silently laughing eyes, whom she’d only known for days.

  She let that trust and her own fears open the door to them. They found seats on tall metallic benches and, nursing a cup of hot chocolate, Ella told them all about Doyle, what she’d been and what she didn’t want to become again.

  Bakari appeared more shocked than anything. The inhabitants of Penherem complied with an unwritten code of silence; no one ever spoke of their life outside the village. And Ella was suddenly angry—the world did exist and they’d all had problems there. It was beyond stupid to pretend otherwise.

  It was Ronan who finally spoke first. His hand slipped over hers and she didn’t flinch from this odd gesture from a stranger. “You can’t go there alone. We’ll come with you.”

  The offer made her both excited and afraid. They’d see where she’d come from, but then she would have more chance against Doyle with others there to show disapproval.

  “Yeah,” Bakari crumpled up his cup and lobbed it carelessly into the recycling can. “Can’t let anyone get away with threatening you like that—especially after these last couple of days.”

  When Ella shot a look at Ronan, he shrugged. “We’ve had an interesting time in the city.”

  “Interesting enough to make your Doyle look like a spoilt kid.”

  She grinned at that. “Well, actually you’re not far off.”

  “Then lead on,” Ronan pushed back his stool.

  “We can sort this guy out and be back in the Green Man for a pint by dinnertime.” Bakari said.

  Ella wasn’t so sure, but she couldn’t deny it felt much better with the two men at her back. They took the rattle bang Tube to the East. She waited until they were the only ones in the carriage before slipping on the shiver cloak, but kept it deactivated. Ronan didn’t say a thing, but she caught Bakari’s raised brow. He didn’t need to say a word, she knew the look—not many would expect secrets to hide behind her mousey looks and quiet nature. But then again, sometimes that was the best way to hide.

  The press of people assaulted them once they climbed up from the underground in the usual sprawl way, seemingly trying to walk right through everyone: they all had somewhere important to be. Bakari swam around them like a boat pushed in the ocean, while Ronan repelled them with a smile. Ella could only envy the boys that; she was shoved on all sides, too polite to thrust back or stand her ground. It was yet another reason she hated the city.

  But there were good things too—the smell of curry laksas sold out of roadside stalls, the rhythmic patter of speech which owed nothing to the rural world, and the clash of colours which danced on the retina. Ella inhaled. She’d missed all this. No place was totally without merit, but the sprawl hid its dark heart beneath a veneer. She fingered the cloak’s console and thought about that darkness.

  Bakari and Ronan followed her without comment, content to let her lead. The Eight Bells commanded the rough little square it looked out over, and even with its peeling paint and the swinging sign that had seen better days, it was still the centre of life in the area. It also happened to be the middle of Doyle’s web. Ella stood looking up at the darkened windows, remembering how welcoming this place had seemed when first she'd come here, now it held nothing but memories of broken trust.

  “We'll go in the other way. See you in there.” Bakari drifted past, not acknowledging he even knew her. Only Ronan shot a smile of encouragement.

  That look warmed Ella, so when she shoved open the door and strolled in it was with more than a
little swagger in her gait. I’ve changed, she reminded herself. I’m not that scared little girl Doyle found five years ago.

  But apparently this didn’t matter to those inside the pub; the patrons didn't even glance in her direction, too busy trying to get the hard-pressed landlady's attention. If she didn’t know her, Ella might have felt sorry for her, but Doyle’s mother Izzie was not one to attract sympathy: she would have dished out swift justice to anyone that offered it.

  A quick scan of the Bells’ interior did not reveal her son. Ella managed to slip neatly between two slightly sweaty bar flies and attract Izzie's attention. The ease with which she got it confirmed she was in trouble; Doyle’s Mum had never been Ella’s greatest fan. Over one shoulder, Ella caught Ronan’s eye once more. He’d miraculously already secured a pint and was leaning nonchalantly on the bar, picking at the wizened peanuts on offer.

  Izzie didn’t smile at Ella, but her eyes narrowed even more than usual, peering at her through chunks of mascara. “He’s upstairs,” she jerked her head towards the door which lead to the private part of the pub. “You know the way.”

  Ella tried to keep her face unreadable. “I’m not going up there, Iz.”

  The landlady stared at her hard, looking for any sign of a crack. Then with an immense sigh of irritation, she flicked her head over her shoulder and roared, “Doyle—get your butt down here!” She turned back to her flock of patrons.

  Perhaps Doyle had been waiting for that, lurking in the recesses of the upstairs, hovering in that way he had, for he appeared quickly. As if by magic he suddenly occupied the doorway, his gaze instantly locking on hers.

  Ella had the uncomfortable feeling of having her past flash before her eyes. The image of the shaggy haired larrikin for an instant was all she could see of him—completely blocking reality. That old image conjured up old feelings, but once it cleared and she looked into Doyle’s face, they passed, leaving only a vague sorrow.

  He’d once been very beautiful to her; that was the truth, but that was all in the past. The life Doyle had been living since then had obviously caught up with him, for he was no longer that cheery, laughing boy.

  He flinched, perhaps reading sympathy in her expression, but glared right back with red, glassy eyes. He’d become a man in the five years since she’d seen him, and a man she no longer wanted to know. After all, even at his worst, that old Doyle would never have sold her out.

  He ducked his head and gestured her over to the stained faux leather seats of the closest snug. Ella said nothing, but slid gingerly into the corner, waiting for Doyle to say his piece.

  He at least had the grace not to be able to look at her. Instead, his fingers fiddled with a crack in the ancient vinyl. It seemed a somehow lonely and vulnerable gesture to her.

  Ella had to bite hard on her tongue to stop from asking inane questions like How are you? She reminded herself sternly that she didn’t care about that.

  Doyle wetted his lips. “You remember TCP?”

  “Vaguely. That Liner buddy of yours?”

  Unnoticed over his shoulder, she saw Bakari and Ronan slip into the booth behind them.

  “Yeah. Well, he heard that there was some serious money out looking for you.”

  TCP wasn't much into human relationships, so Ella could imagine how long he could hold out against that lure—especially since money immediately went into his Liner gear.

  Doyle smirked. “I know what you're thinking, and normally you’d have already been sold down that river, but since I knew about these guys I told him to wait.”

  “Caution? From you, Doyle?” That couldn't be good.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah well, Infinity Rose is not to be messed with.”

  Bakari’s large brown hand was suddenly very firmly wrapped around Doyle’s shoulder and when he made to rise, Ronan slipped smoothly out from his seat and moved in next to him.

  “Unfortunately, Doyle,” Ronan said softly, “Neither are we.”

  Doyle could have made some noise; he probably had half a dozen friends in the pub right then, so Ella reached across and grabbed his hands: they were icy cold. Her eyes found his. “I don't know what you’re trying to get out of me—but this is something you don’t want to be in.”

  He remembered, she could see that he did; all those harum-scarum days when nothing had seemed impossible and nothing was too much. But they’d both learned since then. There’d been a lot of growing up and a lot of pain too.

  “For what we once were,” Ella said, “tell me the truth.”

  Sweat beaded on his brow and his hands twitched in hers. “I told them you’d come here if I asked.”

  Bakari’s face twisted in disgust and Ronan was looking at her in a Do I kill him now? way. Her throat was dry, but she gave him a short shake of her head. Not today.

  “How long have we got?”

  Doyle wrapped his hands around his face as if he wanted to rip it off. “They’re already here.”

  Ella managed not to look up in shock.

  “Let me snap this vermin’s neck,” Bakari hissed. “Please, Mouse.”

  But Ronan had already taken her elbow. “Leave him. He’s been as true to himself as he can—and we’re still alive.”

  The three of them shouldered their way through the patrons and Ella didn’t look back.

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” she muttered. “How dumb can you get?”

  Ronan’s hand rested in the small of her back. “Not dumb—remember, Doyle knows all about Penherem. This way there’s no nasty incident in the village.”

  “That's true,” Bakari said. “But we’ll probably not even get to see it again.”

  They paused for a moment at the entrance to the Eight Bells. “I have the cloak,” Ella reminded them. “They’re only after me, it seems.”

  “Nice as a shiver cloak is—I don't think these people will be fooled by it.” Bakari looked uncharacteristically grim, even as he surveyed the street. “Now I know how a fish in a barrel feels.”

  Ella wasn’t afraid—not when the threat was unknown, but her heart was pounding.

  Ronan’s hand found hers and she didn’t flinch from it. “Now, Ari,” he chided, “We might not make it to the VFT, but there is more than one way out of London.” He pulled Ella off the step and down the street. Bakari became their silent shadow.

  “Your friend,” Ronan smiled at her, “is supposed to be one of those people who still believe in magic—what do you think about it?”

  Ella somehow knew this was not a question asked lightly, and certainly not one to be laughed at. “Well, I don't know. I think perhaps there is more. I mean... there has to be…”

  Ronan smiled that roguish smile that was so unsettling. “Let's just say there are some small magics left within London—still a few keepers of the old paths.”

  Bakari's indrawn breath whistled over the top of his teeth and Ella could taste the unrevealed things between them, like a rope of tension.

  “Be quiet now,” Ronan growled over his shoulder. “Magic doesn’t flourish in words, but in deeds.” He suddenly sounded like he was not completely from this century, an old Dickensian character perhaps, or something from Chaucer. Ella could not quite put her finger on the odd cant in his voice.

  Surprisingly, Bakari hushed. In this odd little triangle they went down the busy street, isolated somewhat from the ebb and flow of the twenty-first century.

  She could feel the eyes on them, not just of those they passed, but of those they did not see. Ella’s finger itched to trigger the shiver cloak. She hunched her shoulders against the chill and the sudden fall of icy rain while a thousand difficult questions burned in her brain. Why would Infinity Rose want anything to do with her? She could think of nothing—nothing except the endless dark which yawned in the past before Doyle. She shuddered and almost ran into Ronan, who had stopped in the middle of the street. He had his head raised like an animal scenting the air.

  Bakari pressed close, effectively sealin
g her between them. “What the hell is going on?” And Ella could see what he meant simply by looking down, as a thick grey mist was beginning to pool around her feet. She could feel reality slipping as it grew.

  “Interesting,” Ronan murmured. “Very interesting, but not very reassuring.” He bundled Ella against him and pulled her faster down the street. “We'd better get off the street quickly.”

  “Sorry,” Bakari took her other side. “This was not what I had in mind when I said we’d help.”

  “Just for a moment,” Ronan whispered into Ella's ear, “imagine that there is magic in the world. Beneath London there are still the threads of that running, silently but strongly.”

  No laughter came, Ella felt it should, but it didn’t feel like a fairy story—it felt real.

  He squeezed her a little. “It's not easy, those paths, not as strong as they once were—but right now they may be our best hope.”

  “Yes,” Ella said, “Ummm… magic….”

  “But you said there wasn't any left,” Bakari argued over the top of her head.

  “The paths still work. The earth doesn’t forget… now if we can just find a guardian.”

  Ella and Bakari looked at each other but said nothing. People still ebbed and flowed around them, oblivious to the mist rising from around their feet, while panic began to well in Ella’s throat. Couldn’t they feel the air?

  “Ari,” she clutched her friend's hand. “Can we just get out of sight—please?”

  “If we do,” he replied darkly, “we’ll be dead within minutes. The only thing keeping us safe right now is that the Rose doesn’t want to be seen.”

  “But this,” Ella asked, “Surely…”

  “Just trust us, Mouse. Don’t ask any questions. Just trust us.”

  She had little choice, as they seemed the safest island in a swirling mass of chaos.

  Ronan was craning his neck, looking over the jostling crowds, searching for something she was obviously incapable of seeing.

  Yelps of annoyance began to filter forward from behind; the harsh eruption of someone pushing through the crowd towards them.