The Forgotten

by Bishop O'Connell

  Halfway down the tent-­lined street, Wraith spotted two large, gruff-­looking fae talking with some street kids. One fae handed the kids a piece of paper with what might have been an address written on it. When one of the kids glanced her way, she turned her head and kept moving.

  “You there,” another of the big fae said to her in a thick Russian accent.

  Wraith pretended she didn’t hear him.

  “Do you know that one?” the Russian fae asked someone.

  “Nah, never seen her before,” said one of the teen boys.

  Wraith could feel the dismissal in his words, but knew he was watching her. She kept searching for the wizard. Of course, she’d be having an easier time if she’d brought Ovation and the others along, but she couldn’t. Guilt ate at her, and she briefly considered going back to check on them, but she reminded herself that Toto would look after them.

  “I’ll have your answer now,” one of the big, gruff fae said.

  “Beat it, Ivan,” the boy said. “I told you where you could stick your sanctuary.”

  “Da,” the big fae said. “It’s your ass. Kher s nim.”

  Wraith just moved away quickly, head down, not wanting to be around if a fight broke out. The market stretched on, more of the same. Then she spotted three ­people who might as well have been wearing signs that said “cops.” A short, blocky man with a balding head and a woman in her thirties with a severe blond ponytail were shooing ­people away as a lean man in his fifties, apparently the boss, talked to a group of street kids.

  “We’re here to help,” he said.

  The kids laughed. “Of course you are, man,” one of them said.

  “We’re trying to catch the ­people who’ve been taking your friends,” the cop said in a frosty tone.

  “You know about anyone getting taken, Dash?” a dark-­haired boy near Wraith’s age asked a thin blond teen.

  “Nah, I don’t know anything about that.”

  Wraith moved past them, making sure to keep plenty of ­people around her, and trying desperately to blend into the background. No one said anything, but she could feel eyes watching her. When she was well away, she ducked behind a stall and looked back. A faint stream of equations drifted around the woman. It was complex, and despite how meager it appeared, Wraith knew there was power behind it. The woman wasn’t just a mundane with some latent talent, she was skilled enough to hide what she had.

  “You’ve forgotten your way,” someone said.

  Wraith nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “I can see it,” the voice said. From the sound of it, he was really old. “It’s a terrible thing to walk alone down a dark path for which the maps have been forgotten and lost. Makes you feel rather forgotten and lost as well, yes?”

  Wraith turned and looked at the speaker. A man with a lined, weather-­worn face sat behind a table. If his shabby clothes and beard were any clue, he was homeless.

  Wraith’s eyes widened and her jaw fell open. The glow of magic from the items on his table was an intense, shifting spectrum. It was like a two-­million-­candle-­power spotlight compared to the dim glow of the minor charms and miscellany the fifties, slingers, and even some of the fae were selling. When she looked back at the man, his smile—­despite missing some teeth—­was gentle and patient. Magic poured off of him too, but it was kept close, as if carefully controlled. She couldn’t help it, she envied that kind of control.

  “Are you the wizard?” Wraith asked, barely above a whisper. It didn’t matter, as soon as she said the words, she felt like an idiot.

  “That’s what the kids call me,” the old man said. “Of course in my day, they called us mages, or magi.” He gazed off, as if back in time. “I always liked that term, mage.”

  Wraith watched in rapt fascination as a seemingly endless formulation circled around him. It wasn’t overly complicated—­quite the opposite, in fact. It was elegant in its simplicity.

  “But there I go, rambling again,” the old man said.

  The shift in the equations around him was so abrupt, Wraith flinched.

  It was almost like she’d seen him in his underwear and he’d pulled a robe around himself at noticing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .” She looked away, pushing the goggles up on her head.

  “Lots of ­people have eyes, but not many really see,” he said.

  “No, they don’t.”

  The old man leaned forward and looked around before focusing his gaze on Wraith.

  Wraith leaned forward.

  “It’s because they don’t want to,” he said.

  Wraith swallowed at the intensity of his gaze.

  “And they’re smart,” he said.

  “What?” Wraith asked, the uncomfortable feeling vanishing.

  “Do you want to see the train coming at you if there’s no time to jump out of the way?”

  Wraith eyed the old man, noticing for the first time that one of his eyes was blue and the other brown. The corner of his mouth turned up and she knew there was more to his question than the obvious.

  “Yes,” she said, “I would.”

  The old man narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Wraith shrugged. “Because I’m tired of being willfully ignorant.”

  “Despite the cost?”

  “Ignorance isn’t free either; it costs more,” she said. “It just doesn’t cost all at once.”

  The old man smiled, but it was sad. “You have far too much wisdom for one so young. Wisdom like that doesn’t come easy.”

  Wraith let out a breath. “I wouldn’t know.”

  He reached into a bag at his feet and came out with an odd clockwork device. He held it out in his hand and Wraith looked it over. It looked like a gyroscope inside rings of copper sitting on four spindly legs. A single needle pointed down from the base of the gyro at his hand. There were various cogs and springs around the copper rings that might power it.

  “What is that?” Wraith asked, her hand reaching out to touch it.

  “It’s a drill,” the old man said.

  Wraith snatched her hand back and looked at him. “A what?”

  “A drill,” he said. “When things are forgotten, sometimes you have to dig deep.”

  Wraith swallowed, but managed not to turn and run.

  The old man just stared at her. “Choo-­choo, girl.”

  Wraith glanced at the old man’s mismatched eyes, then back to the drill. “How much? I don’t have—­”

  “I’ll sell it for a song,” he said.

  Wraith blinked. “A song?”

  He nodded.

  “What song?”

  “Your mother’s favorite song,” he said.

  Wraith’s stomach twisted and she pushed her hands into her pocket. “I don’t know what her favorite song was.”

  “You will,” he said. “When you remember, you can give it to me.”

  Wraith looked from the old man’s wrinkled face to the drill, still held out for her, and back. “You’re crazy.”

  “Look around, girl,” he said.

  When he didn’t continue, she did. No one was paying them the least bit of attention, not even the fifties and slingers. ­People were just going about their day, not seeing her or the old man.

  “I’d be crazy to be sane,” he said and laughed.

  Wraith turned back to him. “Deal.”

  The old man held the drill up. “On your word. For a song.”

  Wraith took the drill gingerly, making sure to keep the needle away from her skin. “On my word.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said and smiled as if he’d just sold her a used car.

  Wraith looked at the drill, holding it at almost arm’s length. “How do I use it?”

  “Wind the dial, set it in your palm, then hold on,” he said.


  It wasn’t the words but the tone that sent a shiver down Wraith’s spine.

  “Just remember, Dorothy, Kansas might not be like you remember,” he said.

  She gave him a questioning look, but he just chuckled and adjusted himself on the upturned bucket that served as his seat. He resumed staring into space as if she wasn’t there.

  Wraith turned to leave, opening her bag to put the drill away. A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. The drill fell to the ground.

  “What faction are you with?” a tough-­looking boy asked her.

  Wraith jerked away from him, causing the goggles to fall down over her eyes.

  “What’s this?” the boy asked and picked up the drill.

  “It’s mine,” Wraith said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Wraith stared at him through the colored lenses of her goggles. She could see the ripples of magic that flowed over him, hiding his true appearance. To her, though, he sported a long goatee, frizzy hair, and a pair of small horns on his forehead.

  “Give it back,” Wraith said, her voice barely above a whisper. She slipped her hand inside her bag and into the glove.

  “And what if I don’t?” the boy asked. “I’m a Ghost and we control this section of town. Do you know what that means?”

  “No, and I don’t care,” Wraith said. “Give it back.”

  “It means you pay us a toll, slinger,” the boy said, the last word coming out like a curse. “And this will cover enough for you to get the hell out of here.” He pushed her shoulder and she stumbled back a step before catching herself.

  Something snapped inside her. Wraith drew her gloved hand out of the bag and, with barely a thought, an equation formed in her hand.

  “BANG!” she yelled.

  The fifty was hit in the chest by an invisible wrecking ball and went flying through a stall across the street, then bounced off the chain link fence several feet behind the stall.

  “Fitch!” a girl screamed.

  “Don’t touch me,” Wraith said through clenched teeth.

  Everything went completely still and quiet for a long second. The only sound was Wraith’s heart as she looked down the long street lined with shoppers and sellers, none of them moving, all of them staring. Then the whispers and murmurs began.

  Several mundanes had phones out and were recording. Wraith clenched shaking fists, and that’s when she saw the drill. It was floating in midair right where the boy, Fitch, had been holding it.

  “It’s some kind of publicity thing, I bet,” someone said.

  “It looks so real!” someone else said.

  Wraith looked around at the growing mass of ­people. Her head swam and she wobbled on her feet as a cold and vile fear rose up inside her. Power poured into her, feeding the fear and her vision began to grow dark. Then the fear fled from her, taking the power with it. Wraith shook her head, then snatched the drill from the air and stuck it in her bag. As she latched it shut, she heard a bloodcurdling scream. ­People started running in all directions, shoving each other aside and even trampling stalls in their desperate attempt to flee. But still, no one even brushed against her. They parted around her like a boulder in a stream. She craned her neck trying to see, but it turned out she needn’t have bothered.

  Visible above the crowd were a dozen snatchers making their way up through the market. They were roughly humanoid shape, a wispy, living darkness. As they moved, the shadows seemed to cling to them. Her stomach dropped and her blood ran cold.

  “No,” Wraith whispered. “This is wrong.”

  Someone touched her shoulder. “We’ve got to go, Stretch, right now.”

  Wraith spun, gloved hand lifted and ready to unleash—­

  Her mouth fell open and her eyes went wide.

  Shadow stared back at her, and it really was Shadow, but she looked so tired. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were sunken.

  “No,” Wraith said. “You were taken. I was coming to find you.”

  “I can explain, later,” Shadow said. “We have to go.”

  “Ferrousan!” a familiar voice shouted.

  Wraith turned. SK and Fritz were holding back the snatchers while everyone else ran. SK was using well-­placed gravity to hurl items—­ranging from chairs to cement Jersey barriers—­at the snatchers. Fritz reached into her jacket and drew a pistol with a giant vacuum tube where the barrel should be. Countless arcs of electricity danced inside the glass tube as she took aim and fired. A bright flash of lightning leapt forth and hit one of the snatchers, sending it convulsing to the ground.

  Wraith turned back to Shadow. “No! I saw the coins! This isn’t right!”

  “Wraith, please—­” Shadow reached out to touch Wraith’s shoulder.

  She recoiled. “Don’t touch me!”

  The world twisted and spun around her. Everywhere she looked, Wraith saw nothing but lies. The fae and fifties, the mundanes, even the snatchers! It was all lies, and she could see them, the twisting equation that surrounded them all. She looked at Shadow, and she saw it there too.

  “No more lies,” she whispered as she felt power rush into her.

  Shadow lifted her hands. “No, don’t—­”

  Wraith reached out with the gloved hand, seizing the quantum thread that ran through the false world.

  “NO. MORE. LIES!” she yelled, and tore it all away.

  Chapter Twenty-­One

  Dante stopped a hundred feet short of the market’s entrance.

  “What is it, then?” Siobhan asked.

  “There are a lot of ­people here,” Dante said. “Keep that sawed-­off cannon out of view.”

  “And here I was planning on using it to point out attractions,” Siobhan said.

  “He’s asking you to button your coat,” Elaine said.

  “And what will I do when trouble breaks out?” Siobhan asked them both.

  “I don’t intend for any trouble—­” Dante words were cut off by a shout.

  A mass of ­people were making a hasty exit from the market, but more were converging around something further in.

  Dante looked at Siobhan, who just shrugged and smiled.

  “Come on,” Dante said and walked quickly into the market.

  It didn’t take long before the press of ­people made progress impossible.

  “Damn,” Elaine said and ducked behind some spectators.

  Dante looked at her, eyes narrowed.

  Elaine nodded behind him.

  “Out of the way, please. FBI,” someone said with authority.

  Dante turned with everyone else as a stern man in his fifties flashed credentials and the crowd opened a path for him. He was followed by two others, one looked like a bald human fire hydrant, the other was a striking woman. Something about her didn’t feel right.

  “I ran into them earlier,” Elaine said when the agents vanished into the throng.

  “That’s fecking perfect,” Siobhan said. “Bleeding feds, just what we need.”

  A cold shiver ran down Dante’s spine, then he felt a surge of power, like the pull of the ocean as a big wave approaches in the distance.

  “That’s a lot of magic,” Elaine said, looking from Dante to Siobhan.

  “And I think I know who,” Dante said, trying to see.

  Siobhan reached into her coat and gripped her shotgun. “I could clear this place out pretty quick,” she said.

  “I’m sure the FBI agents would like to have a word with you if you did,” Dante said. “Something is about to happen, something—­”

  Twelve nightmarish creatures, formed of nothing but darkness, appeared from nowhere. They were tall, almost two feet taller than Dante and three times his width. Their shadowy forms swirled around them like robes, and they reached out with ghostly hands.

  “The snatchers,” Elaine whis
pered, disbelief heavy in her voice.

  For a moment, time froze.

  Then it was bedlam.

  ­People screamed and stampeded out of the market, trampling stalls and other ­people with equal abandon. Dante grabbed Siobhan and Elaine, tossing them against the wall and out of the path. He leapt after them, barely avoiding the panicked rush. In moments, the previously packed market was empty enough to allow them to move.

  Dante pointed at the ­people who lay on the ground, moaning in pain after being crushed. “Get them out of here!” he shouted to Elaine, then turned to Siobhan. “You’re with me.”

  Siobhan already had her shotgun out.

  “How am I supposed—­” Elaine started to ask.

  “Drag them!” Dante snarled as he drew a pistol.

  He and Siobhan moved forward after the snatchers. When he saw one reach for a changeling street kid, he fired twice, aiming high to make sure he didn’t hit the kid.

  The hits were like splashes on inky water. The snatcher lurched like someone had bumped against it accidently, not like it had been hit with two forty-­five-­caliber rounds.

  “Get off ’im, you mac mallachta!” Siobhan shouted and fired.

  She was apparently firing slugs. Her shot hit the snatcher on the shoulder and it exploded like a water balloon. The shade started to turn, but Dante and Siobhan fired together. They both came up empty at the same time, but the creature fell to the ground and evaporated into nothing.

  “What the bloody hell are those things?” Siobhan asked.

  “Conjurings,” Dante said, shaking his head. “Powerful ones.”

  “You don’t say?” Siobhan asked as they both reloaded.

  At that moment, two changeling kids appeared, quite literally out of thin air, and began fighting the remaining snatchers.

  Dante could do nothing but stare for a long moment. One, a boy in his late teens who was clearly of mountain fae parentage, used his earth magic to hurl cement barriers, and anything else he could think of, at the conjured monsters. The other was a diminutive teenage girl, with tinker blood. She wore a belt of tools and drew an odd-­looking gun from her jacket. It looked like something out of a Jules Verne steampunk mashup novel. She leveled it and fired bolts of lightning, swearing in German the whole time.