Stranger Magics

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  “If I’m going to live like a rat,” said Greg, locking the five of us into his well-stocked study, “I’m going to be a happy rat. Knock yourselves out,” he offered, gesturing toward the mahogany bar. He bent to the mini-fridge in the wall and pulled out a bottle of water, then settled onto one of the two green leather sofas and crossed his legs. “I’ll send over for dinner in a bit,” he said as I poured a neat triple of Macallan. “No tricks. Now, what do you know, and what can we do to get the magic flowing again?”

  I passed the bottle off to Robin, sat on the sofa facing Greg, and dropped my bag at my feet. “My thanks,” I began, raising my glass in quick salute before downing half of its contents. “Toula knows the spell better than I do, naturally,” I explained as she sat beside me with a G&T, “but my understanding is that all we need is one of us from each court and sufficient power to get the gates open again. That’s why we’re here.”

  “We’ve got the diary,” Toula added. “Simon Magus’s diary, you know?”

  Greg’s dark eyes widened. “Good Lord, where did you find—”

  “My, um . . . well . . . she’s kind of . . .” I began, and floundered.

  Fortunately, Toula knew where I was heading. “I got Meg, his baby mama, into the dealing circuit. Didn’t know about the baby-mama bit. She tracked it down for me.”

  “And now she’s trapped in Faerie with the aforementioned baby,” I cut in. “Who’s actually sixteen—”

  “And as it turns out, Meg’s one of Oberon’s kids,” she interrupted, “so you see how that could be a slight problem, right?”

  Greg turned to look at Robin, who remained at the bar with the bottle and a newly emptied highball glass. “What?” Robin muttered, pouring a refill. “Her court affiliation isn’t my fault.”

  The grand magus looked back at us with confusion. “And . . . he’s here because he’s of Oberon’s court?”

  We hesitated. “Yes and no,” I said after a moment. “I mean, yes, Robin’s covering that court, but he—”

  “I triggered the damn thing, all right?” he snapped, slamming his glass down on the bar. “Happy? Can we all just move on and stop dwelling on it?”

  “Mab kind of set him up,” Toula explained. “And he got attacked by a nice little old lady with a teakettle last night, so he’s cranky.”

  “I’m not cranky, I’m in pain,” he growled, pouring for a third time.

  “We’ve probably got some morphine around here somewhere,” Greg replied, “but not if you drink yourself unconscious first.” He looked at Toula and me, then asked, “What do you need from me?”

  I reached into my bag and pulled out the wrapped spheres. “We have two,” I said, unwrapping one to give him a peek. “It’s not going to be enough. Toula thought you had at least a third . . .”

  Greg frowned, then pulled his reserve sphere from his pocket and put it on the table between us. “Records say that Simon Magus made twelve, and he distributed them widely at the end of his life. We’ve been able to track down ten over the years, and I knew Grivam had the eleventh—”

  “I hid the twelfth,” I interrupted. “So, you have ten? That should be more than enough.”

  But Greg shook his head. “Six of them are just curiosities, long since drained. Two, we’ve drained keeping the wards together, and the third one should be empty by this time tomorrow.”

  “Which leaves that,” Toula muttered, looking at Greg’s sphere.

  “Moon and stars.” I sighed, pushing myself off the couch, and glowered at the wall behind Greg. “Toula, was there anything in the diary about recharging them?”

  “Not that I’ve found. It looks like he ripped some pages out.”

  “Then our only hope of breaking this thing is . . . that,” I snapped, jutting my finger at the three spheres on the coffee table. “I guess we’ll see if that’s enough, because if it isn’t, we’re well and truly fucked. But hey, Greg, at least you kept your wards going for another few days—”

  “How were we supposed to know?” he protested. “Security first, that’s always been the Arcanum protocol—”

  “Damn the protocol! This isn’t covered by any protocol, you bleeding idiots!” I yelled, then snatched up my glass and drained it to keep from throttling the grand magus.

  The others gave me a moment to regain my composure. When my breathing slowed, Greg pointedly cleared his throat. “Putting aside for a moment the power situation, who’s standing for Mab?”

  I could feel Joey’s eyes on me as I took my seat. “I’ve heard rumors that she’s kept her court in the Gray Lands . . .”

  “I’d heard that, too.”

  “Yes. Well, unless you know of one of her people in this realm who’s suicidal enough to break an enchantment Mab set up . . . I may need to cross the border. I was going to try to make a gate, but since we’re down to three spheres, if you could point me to the nearest natural gate . . .”

  Greg’s lined face was still for a long moment, and I assumed that he was thinking of a way to throw us out before he murmured, “I know of one.”

  “A gate?”

  “Better. One of Mab’s people.”

  My heart leapt. “Where?”

  “Right beside you,” he said quietly, and pointed to Toula.

  She stared at him for a moment, caught off guard, then laughed uncertainly. “Seriously, do you have someone? The sooner we can get across—”

  “You. Toula, honey, I was hoping to avoid this . . .”

  She stood and held up her palms as if warding him off, but the couch blocked her retreat. “No. Unh-uh, no, stop it. I’m a Pavli, I’ve been carrying that curse long enough. You’re not going to put another one on me . . .”

  Greg sighed and closed his eyes as Toula continued her rant of denial, then held up one hand until she wound down. “You are a Pavli,” he said softly. “That’s no lie—and I knew Apollonios well enough to see him in your face.” He paused, but kept his eyes fixed on Toula. “Your mother—”

  “You said she worked for him,” she interrupted, her voice shaking as her finger shot toward him. “You said—”

  “I said what I did to protect you, girl. Your mother—”

  Before he could finish, Toula marched across the room and beckoned to Joey. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid his blade out and handed it to her, and she patted the naked steel against her palm. “I believe you’re mistaken, Grand Magus,” she said with a smug little smile. “If I were . . . fae . . .”

  Greg watched her as he might have stared down a toddler in a tantrum. “You know as well as I do that witch-bloods usually aren’t susceptible.”

  “And they usually can’t do spellwork, either,” she retorted, thrusting the sword back into Joey’s arms as she pulled her wand from its hiding place. “So explain this.”

  He stood and took the wand from her, then snapped it over his knee before she could cry out. “A decoy, child,” he said over her yelps, and showed her the hollow cross-section. “Pine, not rowan. Do you see?”

  Toula took the pieces from him and stared at what the break had revealed: a layer of stain atop a lighter wood. “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “And that’s not dragonscale,” he continued, nodding to the pile of brown debris on his rug. “Taste it if you don’t believe me.”

  “Or don’t,” I interjected before Toula could sample it. “It’s mostly sawdust. Slim told me.”

  She whipped on me, eyes blazing. “What the hell did Rick—”

  “Rick doesn’t know the full truth,” Greg said, stepping between us in placation. “Toula . . .”

  But she was having none of it. “Rick said he made them for me! Rowan and dragonscale! I have to have something that powerful to work with the little magic you let me use!”

  “I don’t let you use anything,” Greg murmured, and Toula fell back into flushed silence. “I tried for three weeks to bind you,” he continued. “It took the Inner Council twenty minutes of work to render your father powerless. The best we cou
ld do on you was imperfect, and child, you have no idea how hard we tried.” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “I lied, Toula. The fact that you’ve been able to use spellcraft to this point is proof of your own power. Don’t you see?” he asked, resting his hands on her tight shoulders. “You’re stronger than the best the Council could throw at you. I firmly believe that the only reason the bind didn’t fail years ago is because you never tried to throw it off.”

  Toula’s eyes had begun to fill. “I thought . . . you know, if I was good . . . if I didn’t give you any reason . . .” She sniffed and swiped at her face furiously. “I’m not my father, you know that . . .”

  “I know, I know,” he soothed. “Toula, the bind was never about your father. Evil isn’t hereditary.” Greg stooped slightly to look her in the eye. “We bound you because you were the most terrifying little bundle to ever land on our doorstep.”

  Her voice hitched when she tried to speak. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Honey,” he said, pressing on in spite of her tears, “you are the one in a million. The perfect witch-blood.”

  “That’s not . . . that’s just a theory . . .”

  “It’s more than a theory—it’s a simple matter of numbers.” Greg released her and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. “No two witch-bloods are exactly alike in terms of power. It was only a matter of time before the right combination happened.” He handed Toula the handkerchief, and she dabbed her mascara into black tracks. “To hear your father tell it, your mother had been trying for a long time before she had you. I’ve got the tape if you want to hear the interview,” he offered. “It’s a little grainy, but he—”

  “Wait, I’m confused.” I pointed my glass at Toula. “You’re telling me she’s a mongrel? I saw her do some incredibly technical spellwork—that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Most of the witch-bloods”—Greg gave me a stern look for my slip—“that we’ve known are the result of a minor wizard and a weaker faerie. Neither parent was particularly strong to begin with, and in combination, their strains of magic cancel each other out. But there’s variation. We’ve recorded instances of outliers through the years—witch-blooded fae with metal sensitivity, with varying degrees of longevity, and with skill in spellcraft or enchantment. Occasionally both.” He folded his arms. “Toula’s father wasn’t some minor wizard—Apollonios was incredibly gifted. And her mother—”

  I held up a finger to pause the explanation and studied Toula’s makeup-streaked face. “How old are you?” I asked her.

  “Whatever happened to never asking a lady her age?” she muttered. I gave her a look, and she rolled her eyes. “Thirty-five. Why?”

  “You’re thirty-five?” Joey repeated incredulously.

  Toula rubbed at her eyes again. “Good genes. Use lots of moisturizer. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Joey cocked an eyebrow. “Wow. Ever heard of denial?”

  I exchanged a look with Greg, who nodded. “All this time, I thought you were Joey’s age,” I said. “You don’t look thirty-five. Hell, you don’t look any older than Robin and me.”

  She began to tense again. “That doesn’t mean anything . . .”

  We stood in silence for a long moment as Toula wrestled with the information Greg had thrust upon her. Finally, arms folded and brows lowered, she whispered, “My mother?”

  Greg took a deep breath. “Mab.”

  The video was indeed grainy, but the image was clear enough to show Apollonios Pavli’s scarred left cheek and broken nose beyond doubt. The video also showed two black eyes, an arm in a sling, and half his hair burned away, silent testament to the struggle it had taken to bring him down. I hadn’t appreciated just how much he resembled an oft-beaten pugilist until I saw him shackled, bound, and wearing the Arcanum’s prison yellow.

  Greg had fast-forwarded through the early part of the interrogation, then paused a few minutes before the end of the tape as a much younger version of himself asked, “The child, Apollonios—whose is she?”

  Pavli smiled, revealing broken teeth. “Mine, of course,” he replied, his Greek accent barely noticeable.

  “And her mother?”

  His smile widened. “Wouldn’t you like to know, boy?”

  I watched young Greg’s dark fist clench at the bottom of the screen. “We know she’s fae. Who?”

  Pavli’s smile dimmed with his trump gone, but he still maintained his bravura. “Stronger than you, isn’t she? Little thing’s something else when she’s upset.”

  “Rest assured that we’ll bind her,” Greg replied. “And if that fails . . .”

  He let the thought hang, unspoken, and Pavli shook his head. “You hurt a hair on her head, and her mother will destroy you.”

  Greg paused and shuffled the papers on the table, their contents obscured by the low quality of the tape. “We’ve checked her aura,” he said quietly, “and we know she’s a mongrel.”

  Live Greg flinched at his younger self.

  “You weren’t just coerced into this . . . transaction,” young Greg continued. “So what’s in it for you? Donate sperm and get . . . what?”

  Pavli’s smile returned. “Why don’t you wait a few years and find out?”

  “How about enlightening me now before I knock your goddamn teeth down your throat?”

  Live Greg flinched again, and Joey glanced at me with a question on his face. “The Arcanum’s gotten a bit better about employing torture in interviews,” I whispered.

  “Pavli was a special case,” Greg muttered in the boy’s other ear.

  The prisoner just smiled for a few seconds, letting his inquisitor stew. Finally, he said, “You want the truth? Okay, tough guy. The brat’s Mab’s and mine. She’s going to think kindly of me when she gets her kingdom back. And I guarantee you that if anything should happen to that child, Mama is going to be unhappy.”

  “Jesus, what were you thinking, you fool?” young Greg shouted. “That’s a fully powered mongrel! The power that thing can wield . . . and Mab? You want to give that power, too?”

  “I don’t care who rules Faerie,” Pavli replied, “so long as she’s in my debt. Now, where’s my precious baby girl, hmm?”

  Greg paused the tape and stood in front of the TV, blocking Pavli’s eternal smile. “He thought that once Toula grew into her power, Mab would come and claim her, and would then spring him from our custody. But the bind held well enough,” he continued, looking apologetically at Toula, “and thank God, she never showed. He . . .” Greg hesitated, considering Toula’s expressionless face, then said, “He went to his execution screaming for her to remember their deal. Guess she didn’t hear him.”

  “Or, you know, you don’t make deals with the Three,” I muttered.

  “I could have told him that, had he the sense to listen,” Greg replied. “Toula, dear,” he continued, stiffly dropping to one knee before her and taking her limp hands, “I’m sorry. I did what I had to do. I don’t know why they created you . . .”

  “I do,” she murmured, and turned to the far end of the couch, where Robin was sitting. “She knew my father would go down eventually—the Arcanum was too strong in the end. The trap—the black box—he must have made that with her. He had the spellcraft, and she added the oomph. That must have been part of the bargain.”

  Toula turned to me. “This was never about Meg and Olive. This isn’t about you. She wants me.” She pried herself free from Greg, stood, and began to pace across the office, running her hands through her dark spikes as she thought. “She knew the Arcanum would bind me—you had to, I get it. But she had to get that bind off eventually. Cutting the magic would do it . . .”

  “So would pulling you into Faerie,” I pointed out.

  “Right, yes . . .” Toula stopped and stared back at me. “Don’t you see it?” she said, her eyes wide. “She wants Titania gone, right? She’s going to need allies who can stand against her. Robin’s an easy pick because he’s got the planning skills of a damn mayfly. You’re a g
ood pick because you hate your mother’s guts. And me, if I’m at all what she’s expecting. Get us in, create a distraction, maybe we take out Titania—and poof, one vacant throne. Shit,” she muttered, resuming her march. “She’s playing us, guys . . .”

  “We don’t know that,” Robin began, but Toula wheeled on him and vehemently shook her head.

  “Where else would she have gotten a hybrid trap like that? What wizard would be demented enough to work with her? My delusional father, apparently! And she had every contingency covered.” Toula’s face was a mask of disbelief. “We’re going to rescue them, whatever it takes. What if that means killing Titania? There’s her entry—”

  “Not quite,” I interrupted. “If Mother dies, the throne is mine.”

  Toula paused in her pacing and folded her arms. “You think you’re strong enough to hold it against Mab? Fuck.” She sighed, and headed for Greg’s bar. “If she’s really been in the Gray Lands, I don’t want to know what she’s got planned when she gets Faerie back . . .”

  Robin frowned for a moment as Toula opened a bottle of tequila, then said, “So we can legitimately call you a witch now, right?”

  She slammed her still-empty glass down against the mahogany and bared her teeth.

  A moment later, I joined Joey and Greg behind the safety of the bar as Toula sat on Robin and bloodied his face to the tune of her howled, incomprehensible curses. “You want me to break this up?” Joey muttered.

  “Nope,” I replied, helping myself to the abandoned tequila. “Just let her get it out of her system.” I cringed as something in Robin’s face crunched. “Sorry about the rug, Greg.”

  The grand magus looked at me over his glasses. “You do remember that I’m a wizard, right? Hell, I can get blood out of just about anything.” He sighed and sipped his water. “I was hoping I’d never have to be the one to tell her. She didn’t have an easy time of it here, and that was just with her name.”

  “Joey! Nail gun!” Toula bellowed from the floor.