Stranger Magics

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  He whistled softly as I headed through the deserted intersection. “And that’s why we don’t call him Puck?”

  “No, the play’s only a part of it.” I spotted the comforting neon sign and window bars of the liquor store ahead. “Robin’s the only child Mother and Oberon had together. They never meant to have one—crossing court lines only leads to problems—but there he was. Mother pushed him off onto a nurse, as usual, and called him her little puk’a—’mistake.’ You can see where that might have given rise to some issues.”

  “Shit, man,” Joey muttered.

  “Exactly.” I pulled into a parking spot in front of the plate-glass window. “Mother rejected him, Oberon tolerated him, and that’s why he ended up in his father’s court. He tried to make her like him for a while, but I’m fairly certain that he’s given up on the exercise by now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he tells me he wants her dead. Coming inside?”

  Joey pointed to his bare feet and shook his head, and I hurried in, hoping to find something better than moonshine. The store was a pleasant surprise, well stocked and reasonably clean, and I returned to the car with a paper sack and a much better mood. “You don’t do tomato juice,” I said, starting the ignition. “What are your thoughts on Johnnie?”

  The seminarian grinned. “Mr. Walker and I have been introduced.”

  “Splendid,” I replied, and tucked the bag more securely under my seat. “You’ll be joining me, then.”

  Joey and I sat in the lobby until four, drinking scotch out of coffee cups and eating peanut-butter cookies while the disinterested night clerk flipped through a worn paperback with a half-dressed man on the cover. When Joey finally passed out, I slung him over my shoulders in a fireman’s hoist and dragged him off to my room for safekeeping. The kid might have made Johnnie’s acquaintance, I decided, dropping him onto my spare bed, but he had a long way to go before he could keep pace with me. Once I was sure that he wasn’t dying, I returned to the lobby to retrieve his tablet, which I carried back to the room at arm’s length in case of combustion.

  I fed Joey Advil and half a gallon of water when he woke hours later, forced him to slink out to the lobby for a biscuit, then rounded up my passengers and headed south.

  Our destination was East Rock Key, a mile-long stretch of sand and scraggly palms bisected by a two-lane road. The island offered little in terms of accommodations other than a short strip of purple and green bungalows, but Robin pointed us onward to the end of the road, a weather-cracked parking lot fronting the beach. Tucked away from the shore in a palm grove was an open-front shack, roofed with rusty corrugated iron and illuminated with strings of oversized novelty bulbs: flamingoes and peppers and improbable blue icicles. The roof extended out to the side of the main building, giving shelter to a few mismatched picnic tables in the sand, where a dozen or so twenty-somethings in bathing suits had gathered with beer cans and plastic glassware.

  “This is it?” I asked, killing the ignition.

  Robin nodded. “He calls it Red’s. Does shrimp boils occasionally.”

  I shook my head, then climbed out and waited for our biker to join us. Catching a whiff of the breeze coming in past the shack, my first thought was that the place reeked of magic, but my excitement died when I realized that all I was smelling was the citronella torches lining the path to the bar. “We’re going to go find him,” I told Toula and Joey, swallowing my disappointment. “Come along if you like, but if you’d rather not—”

  “First round’s on you,” Toula interrupted, stomping off through the sand.

  The search for Oberon was anticlimactically brief, as we found him standing behind the bar with his arms folded, watching our arrival. “You’re overdressed,” he called with a slight twang, cocking his head toward a wooden placard nailed to the wall behind him: No Shoes. Strictly Enforced. —Management.

  Toula kicked off her tennis shoes and headed for the bar. “Got anything frozen back there?”

  Oberon shrugged. “You paying?”

  “He is,” she replied, thumbing at me. “Margarita if you’ve got it, daiquiri if you don’t. Kid’ll have a Coke,” she added, dragging Joey toward a bar stool.

  He peered at Joey, taking in the boy’s helmet hair and jeans, then smirked. “You’re in strange company, young man.”

  “Tell me something I didn’t know,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

  The old king chuckled softly, then beckoned to his well-sculpted assistant. “Vinnie, start a tab for these folks and take care of them, okay? I need to step out for a second.” With that, he jumped up and pushed himself over the bar, then began striding toward an outbuilding. “My office!” he called after him, and Robin and I jogged through the sand to keep pace.

  When the door closed behind me, Oberon turned on the lights, a green-shaded banker’s lamp on the desk and a bare bulb poking out of the chrome fixture squatting on the wooden filing cabinet behind him. He wore gloves, I could tell upon closer inspection—plastic and translucent, but thicker than food-service disposables. They clashed with his clothing, dark blue board shorts and a white linen shirt left open to bare his tanned chest, but they seemed to do their job. I hastily stuffed my driving gloves into my back pocket and took the stool he offered, and Robin followed suit.

  “So,” said Oberon, settling into the swivel chair behind his desk and folding his hands beneath his chin, “who wants to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Faerie’s been closed off,” I replied.

  He arched a thick ginger eyebrow. “Coileán, your grasp of the obvious never ceases to amaze.” Robin laughed, and Oberon turned his attention to his son. “All right, what did you do?”

  That sobered him quickly enough, but I interjected before he could protest. “The enchantment at the heart of this has a lock. The wizard out there thinks she knows how to open it.”

  He nodded slowly. “Interesting. And you’re here because . . .”

  “Because we need magic if we’re going to accomplish that, and the merrow have something that could be of use.”

  Oberon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “You want me to summon Grivam,” he groaned.

  “Only if it’s no trouble,” I retorted. “I mean, we don’t really need magic ever again . . .”

  He sat up and shrugged. “I don’t.”

  Robin began to speak, but I beat him to it. “Bullshit,” I said, planting my palms on his desk. “Disregarding for the nonce the little matter of the Gray Lands, what’s going to happen to good old Red in ten years, hmm? Twenty? You’re going to start selling miracle wrinkle cream with your beer, is that the idea?”

  His face remained impassive. “You think you’re the only one with a contingency plan, boy? I’ve sold this bar to myself three times, and the paperwork is already in place—”

  “There’s not going to be a fourth. People aren’t stupid, and they’re not blind. Come on,” I snorted, “who would ever believe that you’re a day over thirty? You can’t make yourself age, you can’t sell the bar to someone who looks just like you, and you’re going to have to start over when the questions begin. So yeah, you need magic. I need magic. Your idiot son needs magic,” I added, pointing to my silent brother. “And if that’s not enough, this entire realm’s going to go to hell if things start to migrate in from the Gray Lands.”

  Oberon folded his arms and glared at me, his attire giving him the look of a sullen surfer. “I don’t like your tone.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” I replied, going to my feet to better stare down at him. “All we ask is that you get Grivam, and then you can go back to your little bar and your jailbait.”

  “They’re legal. I card.”

  “Sure you do.” I folded my arms in mirror of his. “Look, I don’t want to be here, and if I knew of a faster way, I wouldn’t be dealing with you. But my daughter’s trapped in Faerie, and her mother’s with her. We think she’s one of your children, by the way. I’m trying to get them out of th
ere before Titania does something stupid.”

  His brow wrinkled. “When did you breed?”

  “Accident,” I said shortly.

  “And what makes you so sure the mother is mine?” he continued, drumming his fingers on his bicep.

  “Seems to be half fae. Only redhead in the family. Mother had a one-night stand with a bartender in Florida. This would have been about thirty-eight, thirty-nine years ago . . .”

  He shook his head. “If she’s noticeably half fae, she’s not mine.”

  “She wasn’t,” I replied. “I never suspected until she ran through the gate and lost ten years when her glamour dropped. The wizard says there was some sort of a bind on her.”

  With a deep sigh, Oberon muttered, “Shit.”

  I pulled out my wallet, then slipped a folded photograph free of its sleeve. “Here,” I said, passing it to him, “her name’s Meghan.”

  He unfolded the picture and glanced at it only a moment before handing it back. “Okay, yes, I suppose she’s mine. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Getting Grivam over here would be a good start.”

  He sighed again, but stood and headed for the door. “Fine. Just this, and then you take your menagerie with you.”

  “Agreed.” I pulled Robin from his seat. “And now we know that you shoved your baby sister into Faerie. Think about that one.”

  He shrugged me off and followed his father out of the building, calling after him to slow down.

  “The bind was a kindness,” Oberon half shouted above the roar of the outboard motor. “I remember that woman—Candy, right? Tandy? No—”

  “Sandra,” I said.

  “Sandy. Knew it was something like that. She was too easy.” He glanced at Toula, who perched in the middle of the boat, concentrating on her breathing to quiet her nausea. “Apologies to present company if insulted.”

  “How far out are we going?” Toula muttered, gritting her teeth every time the boat hit a wave.

  “Just around the back side—there’s a bit of an inlet, deep, wooded. Old bastard comes up there when he’s of a mood.” Oberon turned the rudder, steering us around the island, while Joey wrapped his arm around Toula’s shoulders, sheltering her from the spray. In light of the chop and her unsettled stomach, she didn’t bother shaking him off.

  “How could binding her have been a kindness?” Robin asked.

  His father shrugged. “You know the difficulties with the half fae,” he replied, cutting his eyes to me. “Better for her not to know. Sandy insisted on going bareback, so I put the bind on her, just in case. Probably a good thing I did.”

  “So . . . what then?” I cut in. “She was aging, but . . .”

  “The bind would have killed her eventually,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “She would have seemed to keep aging, maybe to a hundred, hundred and ten, and then the enchantment would have taken care of the cleanup. She’d never have known the difference.”

  Joey whipped around, shocked. “You’d kill your own child?”

  Oberon smirked. “Never met the kid, and I’ve lost track of half the ones I have.”

  “Easy, Galahad,” Toula muttered, gripping the Joey’s arm before he could rise from the bench. His eyes blazed, but he stewed in silence.

  I glanced back at Oberon. “Any other potentials out there?”

  “Nah,” he said, bracing as we hopped a crest. “It was too much work to put the bind on. Gave me a terrible ache for the next week. Never again. No,” he said, tapping his head, “I came up with a much easier solution.”

  “Oh?” I muttered, not sure I wanted to know what Oberon’s idea of a solution was.

  He nodded, nearly smiling. “If there’s any chance of pregnancy, I just make her barren. Problem solved. Not nearly as complicated as it sounds, either. I just got tired of all the kids, you know? Ah, here we are,” he said, slowing us to a halt in the middle of a natural bay.

  I gave Toula and Joey pleading looks, silently begging them not to say anything, while Oberon reached over the side and planted his palm on the surface of the water. He closed his eyes, frowning as he strained, and a white glow appeared below his hand, spreading and descending like an underwater aurora. With that, he sat up, exhaled loudly, then wiped his wet hand on his shorts. “And now we wait,” he announced, looking at his passengers. “Did anyone bring entertainment?”

  The popular conception of mermaids puzzles me. Take a human female, cut off her legs, and slap on a fishtail—how does that make any sense?

  The merrow resemble what might happen if you mated a human with a dolphin—they’re gray and smooth of skin, hairless but for short bristles covering their bodies, and sleek but relatively fat. In short, there’s nothing particularly sexy about a merrow in his element. There is, however, an abundance of teeth.

  Though native to Faerie, most of the merrow crossed into the mortal realm long before my time, because, I can only suppose, they also wearied of putting up with the fae. Unlike us, they can’t manipulate magic, though they’re sensitive to its presence. But even without magic, they can shape-shift—sort of an emergency measure in case the water dries up.

  Grivam surfaced slightly after nine that evening, tugging on the side of the motorboat hard enough to get our attention. Oberon looked over the side, spotted the pair of webbed hands clinging to the hull, then muttered, “Took your time, did you?”

  “Your pardon?” Grivam replied, his Fae accented but otherwise impeccable. He pulled himself partway out of the water, and Joey gasped.

  “Nothing of importance, my lord,” I replied, giving Joey a warning glare as he fought the obvious urge to scramble to the far side of the boat. “Thank you for coming. We have a matter of great urgency to discuss.”

  The merrow king’s inner eyelid retracted as his face began to dry in the breeze. “Young Coileán,” he said, bobbing slightly with the waves. “I admit, your presence here is . . . surprising.” He glanced around the rest of the boat, then said, “Young Robin, greetings. It’s been a time since our last meeting. And . . .” He cocked his head as he examined green-faced Toula, and Joey, who was doing his best not to panic. “Your companions, my lords?”

  “The boy is with me,” I replied; Joey had no idea what was being said. “And the girl—”

  “Fotoula Pavli is my name,” she interrupted, her voice calm. “I’ve heard much of your people, my lord, but have yet to have the honor.”

  His black eyes, side-set already, seemed to widen toward the space where his ear canals opened. “Pavli? I’ve not heard of one bearing that name since—”

  “My father is dead and gone, and his daughter is not her sire,” she replied. “And she is also not entirely comfortable on the water, if you’ll excuse me for not leaving my seat.”

  Grivam’s wide mouth opened in a nightmarish approximation of a shark’s smile. “Understood, little wizard. Now”—he turned his attention back to Oberon—“your coming has been anticipated. What’s happened to Faerie?”

  “Nothing of my doing,” Oberon replied, flicking his hand toward Robin and me. “Those two seem to think they can fix it.”

  One of Grivam’s eyes swiveled toward me, while the other focused on Robin. “What’s the cause of this, then?”

  “Spellwork tangled with enchantment,” I replied, covering for Robin yet again. “A trap of Mab’s design.”

  “You didn’t tell me she was behind this,” Oberon muttered.

  I ignored him. “Breaking the spell will require one faerie from each of the courts working in tandem. We also need a power source, which is difficult, as we seem to be running out of magic.”

  Grivam nodded. “You have the third?”

  “Not yet,” I admitted, “but we’re working on it. We came to you for assistance for the power source.”

  “Do you recall Simon Magus?” Toula interjected. “Grand magus of the Arcanum . . .”

  “A time ago, yes, a great time,” Grivam replied. “He was a mi
ghty man in his season.”

  “Did he give you a gift?” she pressed. “After the Great War, did he entrust you with an object?”

  “Yes, yes, a gift was made.” Grivam paused, peering at us more shrewdly. “What importance is this gift to you?”

  “We think it can help us open Faerie,” said Robin. “Surely that’s enough . . .”

  But the old merrow shook his head. “Nothing comes without price, young Robin. You must learn this lesson.” He looked around the boat, studying our faces in turn. “What is being offered for the Magus’s gift?”

  “Whatever you desire,” I replied before the others could try to dicker. “Within my power to grant, of course.”

  “Of course. And a generous offer, young Coileán.” He flashed his predatory smile once again. “Because we have a mutual interest in this venture, my price will be low. A trifle in comparison to the gift’s true worth.”

  “What is it?” Robin asked, leaning forward.

  Grivam rested his elbows on the edge of the boat. “My youngest, Ilunna, has seen her two hundred fiftieth moon. I would make her a present for the occasion by seeing one of her desires granted.”

  I ran the numbers. Two hundred fifty moons put the girl at about nineteen. I’d been with worse. “I should be happy to assist you in this endeavor,” I replied. “She’d have no cause for complaint.”

  “My thanks, young Coileán, but no, not you.”

  By then, Robin had caught up on the math and realized what was at stake. “Then I would be pleased to—”

  But Grivam shook his head again. “She is still young, and she would prefer someone closer in age.”

  Toula’s finger popped up, and she said, “I’m willing.” Robin and I turned as one to stare at her, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Really?” Robin asked, suddenly intrigued.

  “Oh, like you two have never slept with men,” she retorted.