Stranger Magics

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  Dedication

  To Jennifer

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Shortly after ten on a windy March evening, I parked my Honda midway up the semicircular dirt driveway of a well-tended farmhouse and surveyed the place, ignoring the panicked sounds of my passenger as he attempted to unbuckle with shaking hands. Father Paul’s trusty white Volvo sat a few yards ahead of me, unattended, and beyond that, a pair of BMW sedans—the homeowners’ vehicles, no doubt—aimed toward the road in case a sudden escape was warranted. Paul had told me nothing about the clients, but then again, understanding people was the priest’s job, not mine.

  I stepped out, listened to the rustling of the nearby pines, and breathed deeply as I stretched my legs after the drive.

  Perfect night for an exorcism.

  Well, an exorcism of sorts.

  In an unusual change of pace, Paul had also told me virtually nothing about the job when he called Slim’s that night to find me. As usual, I’d left my cell phone back at Ex Libris, my bookstore, when I closed up for the day. But Paul knew me as well as any mortal did, and so he’d put the bar’s number on speed-dial. Slim, the proprietor and sole bartender, also knew me well enough to hand over the phone, a notepad, and the stub of a golf pencil as soon as the caller identified himself.

  “The situation’s in Harrow,” Paul had said. “It’s a wide patch of dirt with a stop sign about an hour northwest of you. Can’t be completely sure, but I think I’m dealing with a friend of yours.”

  I’d offered to leave immediately, but Paul had asked me to wait. “I can hold the fort for now,” he’d said as a screen door squealed and slammed behind him. “Maybe an hour or two. Give me time to do a proper house blessing, at least. But, uh . . . I’ve called Joseph in to help, and he’s on his way to you now.”

  That had piqued my interest. “You’ve told him about me?” I’d asked.

  “Very little. Told him to find a dark-haired, green-eyed guy about his age.” Paul had hesitated, then added, “I like this one, Colin. He’s doing well at Immaculate Conception, hard worker, good kid. Go easy on him, huh?”

  Young Joey might have been a fine seminarian, but he had a long way to go before he’d make a decent shotgun passenger. The kid had climbed out of my car on fawn’s legs, clutching the door for support. Seeing him sway in the light of the driveway’s security lamp, I had a flash of guilt for taking the winding, two-lane roads at a hundred miles an hour. I mean, there was no reason not to—I’d built a fine enchantment around my car that made it invisible to police radar, and another that warned away the deer that plague Virginia like overgrown rats—but I knew that no amount of reassurance would have helped the situation. I’m simply not one to follow speed laws.

  And so I busied myself with the kit in my trunk as Joey retched in the tall grass along the driveway. All seemed to be as I’d left it, but still, I patted the contents with my gloved hands until I felt the warning tingle of the iron through the protective leather. By the time Joey came up for air, I had slipped into my usual brown hooded robe and was cinching the rope belt. He looked at me strangely—and a touch queasily, if we’re being honest—and I shrugged. “Fewer questions this way,” I explained as I fastened an oversized wooden cross around my neck. “Exorcists call for backup all the time.”

  One eyebrow rose. I’d told him I was a seller of used books, but I’d left the matter at that. “What are you supposed to be, anyway?” he asked.

  “Monk. Mendicant friar. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Those people in there just want the problem resolved,” I said, nodding toward the farmhouse, “and they’re not going to ask too many doctrinal questions if I tell them that I can make the bogeyman go away. Here, be of use.” I shoved my kit into his arms, and Joey followed me toward the front door.

  There was no need to knock—Father Paul had been watching us through the dining-room windows. “You made good time,” he began, stepping onto the stoop. “I hadn’t expected to see you before eleven.”

  “Good traffic,” I replied.

  The old priest cut his eyes to his green-faced protégé, then back to me. “I see you’re breaking him in gently.”

  “I do my best.” I raised my hood, throwing my face into shadow, and glanced around him into the foyer. “They’re here?”

  “Kitchen,” he murmured. “Back of the house. It started throwing furniture around, and I thought it best if they went somewhere safer.”

  I nodded. There was enough steel in the average kitchen to keep anyone temporarily safe, if they were smart enough to stay close to the appliances or the knife block. “You told them I was coming, Paul?”

  He grunted. “Said I was calling in an expert.”

  “Nothing more?” He shook his head, and I briefly considered the situation before throwing together a glamour that wrinkled my face to late middle age. “They’re scared,” I said, seeing the question in his expression. “They want an older priest, not a green boy. Come, Joey,” I ordered, pushing past Paul before slowing my walk to match my appearance.

  Hearing our footsteps, a young couple peeked around the corner, then crept into the foyer to join us. I sized them up quickly enough: the tiny crocodile on his shirt marked him as a probable NOVA escapee, while her navy sweatpants, deceptively plain, were branded with a small whale. Moneyed, obviously, a professional couple trying their hand with a fixer-upper in the country, commuting north as necessary. Lawyers, maybe, or young politicos.

  In other words, completely out of their element.

  I clasped my hands together and muttered, “Peace be unto this house.”

  They nodded frantically, looking to Paul for a cue, and he cleared his throat. “Simone, Martin, this is, uh . . . Brother Colin. He’s the expert I told you about.”

  Their relief was almost palpable. “He can get rid of it?” the one I assumed to be Martin asked. “For good?”

  His wife watched with red-rimmed eyes, clinging to his arm, and I nodded again. “Father Paul and I need to discuss the particulars of your case,” I said, taking care that my voice cracked to match my apparent age. “You two would be safest in the kitchen. My things,” I told Joey, and beckoned for my kit.

  He dutifully brought the plastic tackle box over and placed it on the hallway table. Fortunately, the homeowners were too interested in me to see his double-take upon catching my new look. A twitch of my mouth forbade questions, and Joey, though wide-eyed, stepped back without a word.

  Quick study, that one. I made a note to commend Paul for his choice.

  I opened the kit and rummaged around until my gloves touched a wooden cylinder, then lifted it free and passed it to Joey. “Salt,” I told him, “mixed with holy water. Take these two into the kitchen and pour a circle around them for protection.” Martin seemed poised to protest, and so I held up a hand to cut him off. “I take no chances. There are dangerous forces at work, and I’ll work better knowing that y
ou’re protected.”

  They seemed skeptical, but Joey had coaxed them away inside a minute, and I sighed. “So what can you tell me?” I murmured to Paul.

  He waited until their voices faded. “Holy water?”

  “Nope, just Morton’s and tap. Does the trick.” I pushed back my hood and folded my arms. “What led you to fetch me?”

  Paul reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a slim digital recorder, incongruous in his liver-spotted hand. “Aside from the poltergeist activity, they said they’d been hearing a deep voice. Satanic, they told me. I thought I would try to coax it out, see what I was dealing with.”

  “And?”

  “I called to it. It answered in Latin.” He hit the play button, and a voice that sounded like a garbage disposal full of glass shards roared a response to the priest’s question. When he cut the recorder off, I snorted. “You heard that, did you?” he muttered.

  “Heard what?” Joey whispered, returning from the kitchen.

  “Play it again,” I said, and Paul and I watched the seminarian as he tried to make sense of the recording. When it ended, I tapped the little machine. “Did you understand that, Joey?”

  His brow had creased into deep valleys. “Father asked the spirit his name . . . and . . . um . . .”

  “Stumped on the Latin?” I asked.

  He flushed, and I said, “Loosely translated, ‘Two all-beef patties, special sauce,’ et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the old Big Mac jingle,” Paul explained.

  “He’s fucking with you,” I added. “And he’s in the living room. Keep the yuppies out of the way, I’ll have him out in no time.”

  With that, I left them in the foyer and strode into the next room, all pretense of infirmity abandoned. I dropped my kit on the floor and bellowed for the homeowners’ benefit, “Unclean spirit! I command you to show yourself.”

  “Lord Coileán,” a quiet voice said from the empty space beside a dying ficus. “When my lord hears of this—”

  “When your lord hears of this,” I replied in Fae, “you can tell him that I invite him to screw himself. Now, what is the meaning of this? And show yourself before I make you,” I snapped.

  The empty space shimmered like a heat mirage, and then a small, messy-haired boy appeared beside the plant, hugging himself as he glared up at me. “I’m doing no harm,” he whined.

  “You’ve got those two scared out of their minds,” I retorted, keeping my voice down as I pointed toward the kitchen. “And I thought I told you not to try this again.”

  His lower lip jutted. “I’m just having a little fun.”

  The glamour of youth that he wore only served to annoy me. I simply didn’t know what to do with a two-hundred-year-old man who preferred to look like a schoolboy. “You’re trying my patience, Benatin. Again.”

  “My lord gave me leave.”

  “Your lord’s orders are second to mine,” I said, and crossed the room before he could slip away. Grabbing him by the shirt, I hoisted him to my eye level and stared until he looked down. “I told you to let the mortals be. We’ve been having this talk over and over for the last forty years, haven’t we?”

  “Lord Robin—”

  “Damn him!” I hissed, shaking Benatin until he quieted. “And damn you for dragging me out here tonight, you little bastard!”

  His dark eyes widened as he sensed the depth of my anger. “Let me go,” he begged, “I’ll leave them alone, I promise, you have my word, even if my lord . . .”

  As he continued to spout pleas, I carried him over to my kit, reached in, and pulled the iron bar out of the bottom. He tried to jerk out of my grasp when he saw it, but my fist was tight, even gloved. I pinned his left arm to the floor with my knee, ignored his cries for mercy, and pressed the bar against the back of his hand.

  He screamed as his flesh began to smoke, but I held the bar firm for five seconds, letting it sear its way into his skin. When I released him, Benatin leapt across the room, still wailing in pain, then shattered the front window in his haste to escape.

  “And stay out,” I muttered, flicking bits of cooked faerie off my bar before I put it away.

  The couple had been shepherded back into the foyer by the time I had my kit packed. I limped out to greet them, the very picture of the aged warrior, and placed my covered hands on their shoulders. “Bless you, my children,” I wheezed. “The evil one has departed. Go with God.”

  Their grateful words of thanks followed me out into the night, and I let Paul tend to them as I loaded my car. Before I could slip away, however, Joey jogged up and whispered, “What was that?”

  “Faerie,” I grunted, slamming the trunk. With the homeowners watching, the robe had to stay in place, but at least it was dark enough in the driveway to drop the glamour.

  Joey took a step back as my face changed. “What do you mean, faerie?”

  “They had a faerie problem,” I muttered, casting my glance on the broken front window. “Nothing demonic, just annoying as hell.”

  “The furniture flew around! I saw it!”

  I shrugged. “Not a difficult trick. I’ve had dealings with that one before,” I added, opening the car door, “and he shouldn’t bother them again. Benatin knows I’m serious.”

  Joey held the door open against my tug on the inside handle. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Another time, kid.” A tiny flicker of will was all it took to heat the door frame to an uncomfortable temperature, and Joey released it with a cry of surprise. Before he could recover, I slammed it closed, tucked my robe up over my knees, and headed home.

  As I climbed the stairs into the apartment above my bookstore, I heard the kitchen phone ring and picked up my pace. I knew it could only be Paul; no one else would call me at midnight. I grabbed the handset and flopped onto my couch. “This couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “What took you?” Paul asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Dropped Joseph off half an hour ago.”

  “I got caught behind a semi.”

  “Why’d you bother to drive, anyway? There’s nothing scenic about switchbacks in the dark.”

  “Eh,” I yawned, “clearing my mind.”

  “Colin, if I could open a gate straight into my garage from anywhere, I wouldn’t be shy about using it.”

  I chuckled and tucked my free arm behind my head as I kicked my loafers off and onto the rug. “Fair point. Is it debriefing time? We couldn’t do this tomorrow?”

  “Depends on how early you wanted to chat,” he replied. “I’ve got a conference call with the bishop at eight, and he’s going to ask about Harrow.”

  “My condolences, and since when are you telling the bishop anything about me?”

  “He knows the bare minimum. Satisfy my curiosity, and then I’ll make up something vague to give him.”

  “Atta boy.” A select few of the Church higher-ups knew of my existence, but in general, the less that was spoken of me, the better everyone slept. “Benatin again. One of Oberon’s miscreants. I wouldn’t be too concerned about a repeat performance.”

  I listened to the sound of Paul’s pen scratching against his battered notebook. “Yeah,” he murmured as he wrote, “I saw the window. He put up a fight?”

  “Not much. I gave him a little souvenir, and he ran.”

  “Mm. Did he say why he was messing with those two?”

  “No, but he’s full-blooded. That’s explanation enough, yes?”

  “Indeed,” he sighed. “Psychopathy’s such a delight.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir.” Propping my feet on the armrest, I said, “Tell me about the kid.”

  “Why, did he pass his audition?”

  “Audition? You’re saying I get a vote in this now?”

  The priest laughed. “Input, at least. Think you could work with him?”

  I mulled the question over, considering his performance that night. “Perhaps. More importantly, do you think he could work wit
h me? And does this mean retirement is imminent?” I asked, hoping to be mistaken.

  To my relief, Paul said, “Not imminent, but it’s past time that I started training a proper replacement. The boy’s done well academically, and the bishop signed off on it. I think he has promise.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll trust your judgment.” I pulled a pillow under my head to free my arm. As I held out my hand, a tumbler of single malt materialized in my grip. “So really, what have you told him?”

  “That we’ve been working together for a while, and that you’re not to be trifled with. But if you don’t hate him, I’ll start giving him a fuller picture.”

  I paused for a sip of scotch. “Sure, enlighten him. See if he runs for the hills.”

  “You see, now, that’s the outcome I’m trying to avoid.” Paul groaned softly, and I could imagine him wincing as he shifted in his desk chair. “Any suggestions?”

  “Whatever Father Mark told you back in the day seemed to work. What was his preliminary spiel?”

  “The basics,” said Paul. “A bit about the courts—Mab got kicked out and went MIA, Oberon’s gallivanting around in the human world somewhere, and Titania’s playing king of the hill back in Faerie, more or less. He told me you were generally on our side, but”—his voice modulated to mimic Mark’s wavering tenor—“I was never to forget that I was consorting with a high lord. Take precautions, carry iron.”

  I rolled my eyes and finished my drink as I thought of Paul’s eternally dour predecessor. “Mark never trusted me.”

  “Bit of an understatement. What are you drinking?”

  The glass refilled, and I sipped again. “It’s peaty, you wouldn’t like it. Look, Paul, tell the boy whatever you think best. You’re the best judge of how much he can take.”

  His chair squealed its familiar protest, and I knew Paul was heading for his modest liquor cabinet. “Maybe I won’t tell him about Mommy Dearest right away.”

  “She hasn’t left that realm in centuries. Oberon’s court is the bigger problem.”

  “Granted, but that’s beside the point. Colin . . .” He hesitated. “You have to understand that it’s somewhat nerve-wracking to know you’re running around with the heir to Faerie. It takes . . . adjustment.”