Three Kinds of Wicked

by May Dawson

  Cutter rakes his hand through his hair. “Leo? Really? I don’t think that’s a lot to go on.”

  Mycroft says, “It’s not. That’s why you should pose as True, Cutter.”

  Cutter gives him a sharp look, but says, “Go on.”

  “Tera set you up perfectly.” Mycroft paces across the room, as if he’s lost in thought, before he turns, his eyes alight with a plan. “You pulled strings to get her out of there, right? To make sure she was safe. It’ll look like you could be True. You could open the door to making contact.”

  “I’d need a cover story,” Cutter said drily. “One that makes sense given the ten years I’ve spent loyally serving the Crown.”

  “Like you would be the only True ‘loyally’ serving the Crown.” Cax perches on the edge of the table. “That’s why we’re in this mess to begin with.”

  The look Airren shoots him is full of shut up. I’m familiar with that look; I’ve already received it once or twice today.

  “What’s my role in this?” I sit down heavily in one of the chairs. My leg still aches. It’s been through a lot today.

  Mycroft immediately crouches next to me and runs his thumb over the inside of my kneecap. I gasp, and he frowns at me. “This should’ve healed.”

  “I guess my knee doesn’t follow your orders either.” I cover his hand with mine, stilling his touch before he can send another blaze of agony radiating from hip to shin. “Also, I may have fallen on it once or twice.”

  Mycroft’s eyes are filled with fury when he shoots a look at Cutter. “If you’re going to hassle our girl anymore, you’d better make damn sure you do it in person. I want a name and a face when Tera gets hurt.”

  Cutter’s eyes widen in surprise, and he lets out a low whistle. “I’ve never seen you so emotional, Mycroft.”

  “I’m not emotional.” Mycroft tone is flat as ever though his eyes are still angry. “I’m dangerous. Those are two different things.”

  “You’re adorable.” When I pat his shoulder, his heat warms my palm even through the soft material of his t-shirt.

  Mycroft glances up at me, his eyes flinty. A second later, magic spikes through my knee like a hundred bubbles somehow forcing their way through skin and bone. I gasp, biting down hard on my lower lip, and grab the edge of the table to keep myself in my seat.

  Then the pain is gone. All I feel is warmth and a faint ache, like I’ve been sitting too long.

  Mycroft pats the inside of my calf. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes.

  “Was that entirely necessary?” I hiss.

  “Entirely,” he promises me. “Try not to fall on it anymore.”

  “I’ll try not to piss you off, too,” I mutter.

  “That would be wise.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Cutter says, to no one in particular. “Tera, as to your role here. Do you think you could pretend to be a lost girl who has no clue how things work in Avalon?”

  “Why do I feel like you’re mocking me right now?”

  He doesn’t bother to respond. “In terms of our cover story, I wouldn’t make any kind of move yet. I’d just show you a bit of kindness and bring up your feelings about your father. Which are?”

  I stare back at Cutter. I’m acutely aware of the roomful of men with their eyes on me, all of whom my father brought suffering to, one way or another.

  “That’s quite the question,” I say evenly. “Interesting that in our cover story, you’d show me kindness. Are you sure that’s going to feel realistic?”

  I can’t talk about my father with anyone. That silence used to be hard; now it’s a habit. For my first few weeks Earthside, I wandered the streets; when I finally was desperate enough to walk into a homeless shelter, I found myself face-to-face with a kind cop. When I realized the truth sounded like a wild made-up story, I had lied that I didn’t remember anything about where I came from. His face gradually changed as he lost sympathy.

  And who could I ever tell from Avalon? Feel sorry for me, my feelings for my murderous father are so conflicted…did you say you lost a sister in the Savage Night or just a cousin?

  Cutter’s lips tighten at the accusation he hasn’t been kind. Doggedly, he prompts, “You could try telling the truth.”

  “I didn’t plan on lying,” I shoot back. “But I don’t talk about my father much. For obvious reasons.”

  Airren rests big hands on my shoulders. “It’s all right, Tera. Would it be easier if everyone else left? If it’s just you and me, and we’ll create a cover?” His ocean-blue eyes are concerned. That gaze brings a sudden lump to my throat. If I have to spill my secrets, at least I can do it without them being written squeakily across the blackboard.

  I nod. I have to make myself useful.

  As soon as the door has clicked shut, Airren reaches into my backpack and tosses me my wand. I catch it awkwardly against my chest, because I wasn’t expecting that.

  He pulls out his own wand. “I thought we could practice. It can be easier to talk sometimes with busy hands.”

  It can be easier to talk sometimes when you don’t have to meet anyone’s eyes.

  “Thanks,” I say. “We should’ve had this conversation under the spell last night, apparently. Instead of me making out with Mycroft and Cax.”

  Airren sighs. Then he nods to the wand, as if it’s suddenly taken over his thoughts. “How’d you get Mycroft to loan you that thing?”

  The way he says it implies Mycroft’s always been protective of his wand.

  I crinkle my nose at him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty damn cute.”

  It’s a throwaway line—I don’t understand why Mycroft gave me his wand as soon as he knew I needed one—but Airren’s lips still quirk to one side.

  His gaze is appraising. I think I’m going to get another Airren lecture—maybe this one will be about modesty—but all he says is, “True.”

  “You’re all suckers for me.” I want to be true, even if I’m not sure it is. Then I realize my inside thoughts are seeping out again. I grab my thigh just above my knee. “Mycroft. Did that motherfucker spell me again when he healed my knee?”

  “It seems like it.”

  “I cannot be totally honest in front of Cutter.” The pleading note in my voice makes me sick.

  “Why’s that?” Airren’s voice sharpens. “What’s the secret, Tera?”

  “Me,” I whisper.

  Airren stares at me, rubbing his jaw absently, and I forge on. “It’s one thing if I tell you—or Mycroft or Cax—something personal about me. I’ve decided to take a wild gamble on you being exactly what you seem to be.”

  “What do we seem to be?” Airren pulls a chair next to me and settles in, his broad shoulder brushing mine. He picks his wand up, moving it through the air in a familiar cast.

  After he nudges me, I pick my wand up too and begin to follow his motions. “Good guys.”

  It sounds as stupid and hokey out loud as it did in my head. Significantly hokier, in fact.

  “We try to be,” Airren’s voice is serious, as if he didn’t find that stupid at all. “None of us are perfect. Fighting the True…it hasn’t always brought out the best in us.”

  “At least you’ve been on the right side.” I shake my head. “Okay, okay, they’re going to get tired of waiting around for me. Um, let’s see. My father.”

  But then I don’t manage to say another word. Too many memories swirl around, confusing me. Any tender moment seems like it might disgust Airren, who fought to keep my father from destroying this land.

  A long minute passes. The two of us form spells in tandem before Airren slashes through them to break the spell—not that mine would come to fruition anyway.

  Then Airren says, “I’ll tell you the first thing I remember about my father. I think I was about four or five. We lived on the bank of the Ellis River—I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there.”

  When I shake my head, he goes on. “It’s deep and fast-moving. There are caves along the waterline. My fri
ends and I were obsessed with the idea of exploring them when the water was low. Of course, our parents—not being idiots—forbade us from going into those caves. But I followed orders about as well as you do.”

  I’d protest this thought—why should I follow orders, anyway—but I like the way his lips quirk when he teases me.

  He goes on. “I’d been playing on the banks all day with my best friends, daring each other to go into the mouth of this cave. As the sun set, and they went home, I decided to go deeper than we’d been before.”

  “Why am I not surprised Tiny Airren was fearless?” When he hears the teasing note in my voice, there’s a quick flash of satisfaction in his eyes, as if he’s gratified he can put me at ease.

  “Tiny Airren was stupid,” he corrects. “If I’d known my father could see me from the overlook of the castle, I would’ve high-tailed it home to avoid an inevitable long talking-to. I also would’ve high tailed it home if I’d known that the river was rising. The Ellis ebbs and flows abruptly; it’s not a natural river.”

  I don’t remember anything about the Ellis, or even what part of the country it’s in. It’s yet another reminder I don’t know enough about my own world.

  “But I didn’t know any of that. I followed the bends in the cave until I heard the trickle of water running down paths carved by years. The mouth of the cave filled with water, forcing me back up. I wasn’t sure if the flooding would force me underwater or if I’d be safe if I stayed high. I tried to swim for it, but the water was so cold and it slapped hard against the rocks. I was terrified.”

  My wand flows in unison with his now, cutting smoothly through the air. I watch him from the corner of my eye, his gaze intent on nothing, as if he’s lost in this memory.

  “Then I saw this dark shape, kicking powerfully though the water. My da surfaced, shaking the water off his face like a seal. He held his arms out to me. ‘Hold your breath son, and trust me.’ I tried so hard, but I started kicking and flailing when I breathed in water. But he held me tight, dragging me up to the surface, until he could push me up onto the bank.”

  “For a few long seconds, he clung to the edge of the bank, looking exhausted, like he might let those fast currents sweep him away. I was still coughing and choking, and I started crying, and he heaved himself up onto the bank. He wrapped me in his arms and the two of us lay there for a few long minutes, soaking wet, freezing, exhausted.”

  “Then my father sat up, kissed my forehead, and said, ‘Son, let’s not tell your mother. She’ll hide us both.’” He grinned. “I don’t even know how Ma would’ve twisted that around on him, but she did have a temper.”

  Airren slashes the air, canceling the latest spell. “Now, I grew up, and I realized my father was not a perfect man. That man, who loved me so much and stood a mile tall in my eyes when I was a kid…” He shook his head. “It takes bravery to see your parents as they really are...and it’s all right to be sad about it.”

  I’m quiet for a few long seconds, taking this in. Airren is trying to make me believe I can talk about my father without being judged. I don’t know if I believe that or not.

  But, fair trade.

  “My first memory of my father is when he brought my mother back home. I don’t remember her leaving, but it must have been hard. I remember things before that in bits and pieces: my mother reading to me, my mother crying in the garden on a beautiful summer day.” When they came in the door, it was as if it had been raining for a year and the sun had just come out. “I ran to her and she picked me up and said, ‘I’ll never leave you again.’ And my father looked so proud of himself. He hugged us both and he said, ‘I’ll never let you down.’ He’d obviously done something to make it up to her, whatever it took, to bring her back…”

  “But that’s the thing,” I went on. “I mean it when I said he did whatever it took. I didn’t realize it right away, but as time went on, I realized my mama was…not right. So, that’s how I feel about my father, in a nutshell. He loved me. He always tried to take care of me, but sometimes, the things he did were terrifying.”

  Airren doesn’t even look at me; he’s still practicing with the wand, and I follow his movement.

  “Slide your thumb back a little.”

  “I miss my mother.” It’s a random, stupid thing to say; I didn’t have my real mother from the time I was seven years old. I had the odd one, the one who wasn’t quite my mother, the one I didn’t trust anymore. I miss the very first mother I knew. “I wonder if he controlled her all that time.”

  A shiver runs down my spine, remembering my mother kissing me goodnight and packing my trunk for boarding school and reading to me without any animation at all. My mother smiled every time my father laughed without her eyes ever crinkling at the corners. I shake my head, eager to change the subject. I hope I’ve given him enough.

  “So, if you thought someone was True,” he says, “And they asked what you thought about your father…”

  “I’d say he thought he was doing the right thing,” I said. “But what he did was awful in the end.”

  I glance toward Airren, worried that he’ll be looking at me with eyes full of judgment—because I, of all people, have to keep my father’s crimes in mind—but he nods.

  “All right,” he says. “Then we have your story. Do you think the rest of them can hear it?”

  “Yes,” I say softly, though the idea makes me ache. “But can I go? Outside, for a few minutes, so I don’t have to hear it?”

  Airren hesitates. “All right. If you bring Mycroft’s wand and stay in the library.”

  Impulsively, I lean forward. As soon as I lunge at him, I steel myself for him to pull back.

  But Airren’s arm closes around me, drawing me close, his face in my hair. He squeezes me gently.

  “Blame Mycroft.” I have no inhibitions right now, and apparently my inner self is a hugger.

  “I like holding you,” he says.

  I’m the one who pulls back slightly, in surprise.

  Airren’s lips quirk up in amusement. “It doesn’t take a spell for me to be honest.”

  28

  Mycroft sets his jaw at the thought of me on my own, turning his back to us.—I step in front of him to show I have his wand held against the leg of my jeans, and he raises an eyebrow.

  “What are you going to do, club someone to death?” he asks. “Don’t do that. You’d break my wand.”

  “Don’t scare her.” Cax pushes Mycroft into the room ahead of him, and. Mycroft glances at me over Cax’s head, his eyes worried.

  “I won’t leave the floor,” I promise him. His wand feels cool between my fingers.

  “She won’t be further away than she can call for us,” Cax tells him. “She needs a break. Wouldn’t you need a break?”

  “A break from us?” Mycroft asks drily. “I can’t imagine.”

  Cax pushes him inside. Cutter follows them without comment—glancing back at me with a polite nod—before the door closes. I’m alone.

  Mycroft is a pessimist. And Cax is right. I desperately need a few minutes to myself after that conversation with Airren.

  But I can’t help feeling rattled. I wander through the warehouse room, staying within earshot of the boys; I could yell for them, and they would come. The room is as long as a football field, stretched the length of the massive library. The walls are plain concrete, and the room is lit by a long glass tube stretching the length of the room, illuminated by magic. The plain metal shelves hold more than modern and ancient books. There are boxes on the shelves, and relics wrapped in protective tape and paper: enormous gilt vessels and teak boxes and what appears to be an actual treasure chest from a shipwreck, with a bit of dried seaweed clinging to its rusted brass lock.

  I turn back to the door to the office. The low murmur of their voices rises and falls, although I can’t make out the words. Cutter is probably nodding and Cax running his hand through his hair as Airren describes my father’s gentle abuse. I bite down on my lower lip, pushing do
wn a swell of emotion at the thought. Every secret laid bare leaves me more vulnerable to them, more vulnerable than I’ve ever meant to be.

  I shake the thoughts away before I lay Mycroft’s wand down next to the treasure chest and brush my fingertips over the lock. Has it ever been opened or did someone deposit this chest onto a shelf, still damp from the ocean, before they abandoned it here forever?

  This small mystery reminds me of why I love Avalon so much; there’s always something strange and magical around every corner. There’s always an adventure.

  I’d like for my adventures to stop involving corpses, though.

  As my fingers skate over the rough rusted brass of the lock, and the lock crumples under my fingertips, I hear a frantic but tiny tap-tap-tap. It sounds like a knock. My heart leaps into my throat.

  Mycroft’s wand rocks frantically back and forth. The tapping is the weighted end smacking over and over again into the metal shelf. The tip seems to buck and spin, trying to rise into the air.

  I reach for the wand, but then hesitate. The idea that wands carry some kind of intelligent magic imbued within is the stuff of our children’s fairy tales too. I know fairy tales aren’t real, yet I feel light with curiosity.

  It jerks to one side. It slams into the treasure chest before it tumbles off the shelf onto the floor. There’s a soft clink as it hits the ground, before it hovers an inch or two above the ground. The silver grip seems to drag it back down toward the concrete floor.

  Then the wand takes off down the aisle, zooming low. As I chase it, I glance back at the door again. Could this be yet another trap in this world I don’t quite understand?

  The wand slams into a shelf, scattering glass bottles and metal boxes and yellowed papers. There’s the distinct crackle of breaking glass as the it whirls. I grimace, although there’s no one there to see my apologetic glance. Apparently I’ve let this wand go rogue. I should’ve tucked it back into my pocket the second it began acting dicey.

  Now there’s a spill of glass shards across the shelf and onto the floor; the tinkling sound of broken glass still echoes in the air.