by May Dawney
Her hand shook, her instincts screamed at her for more, more, more.
She got a little woozy—then a lot woozy.
Tempest’s arm wrapped around her waist.
She dropped her arm when it became too heavy, or when her oxygen starved brain could no longer direct it to stay up.
The storm inside her chest and head dimed.
She leaned against Tempest’s body, even when he loosened his hold and the blood flow to her brain resumed.
The woman’s arm fell by her side. She cradled it against her chest and massaged it. “Sorry, she’s not very good at it.” Tempest’s rumble was laced with amusement, but no one was laughing.
Viktoria found her footing and pushed herself away from his chest. “S-Sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to be weird.” She swallowed. “I’m just…I don’t practice much. In Switzerland, there is a very strong Inquisitio presence. We don’t know if they can track my powers, but just in case they can, I don’t use my magic much.”
“I understand.” The shopkeeper’s glare made it clear that they were never going to be friends after Viktoria’s stunt.
The shopkeeper tested the use of her arm and was able to pick up a notebook. “I will not vouch for you, because I do not like you.” She glared at Viktoria, who was too busy dealing with stray memories and magical desire to react. “But I will tell you where to go to meet people of the other kin or who have magic. Then you will buy something from my shop and you will leave.”
“We will.” Tempest smoothed his hair back over his horn stubs and put his fedora back on. “Thank you.”
She shook her head. “Do not thank me. If you do there what you did here—” Another glare aimed at Viktoria. “They will make you pay.”
Message received, Viktoria nodded. “I really am sorry.” And she was, in a way, but it had also felt really good to let go.
“Pick something from my shop.”
Still a little dazed, Viktoria reached for something on the display table and put it on the counter.
Tempest handed the shopkeeper cash.
She hummed and took both the item and the money, rung them up, then slid a note across the counter with the stone on top. “Amethyst, for tranquility. Not a bad choice for you, I think.”
* * *
Tempest drew the collar of his coat up as they exited the shop, then looked around and pulled his fedora down to hide himself even better.
The road under Viktoria’s feet felt uneven as she followed him down the street.
He slowed down so she could catch up and offered his arm to take.
She did, gratefully so, and leaned into him.
“How are you holding up, hm?”
She could feel his gaze on her from under the rim of his hat. “I’m not sure.” It was a reply that showed weakness, which she didn’t usually allow herself to show, but she couldn’t stop shaking, and her insides had turned into his namesake; a violent windstorm that seemed to shred her organs and brought the taste of acid to the back of her mouth. She was not all right, but she wasn’t ‘not right’ either.
“Can you control it?” His tone was casual, but she’d known him for twenty-odd years, and she could tell he was tense.
“For now.” It was the most honest answer she had when it felt like lightning bolts tore through her arms and her fingertips were burning with energy eager to unleash. She needed a distraction. “I’ve always wondered how mages developed the powers they developed. What about their genes—my genes—has put this exact curse on me?”
He was silent for a while. “I didn’t choose my lineage, and neither did you.”
“That’s different. You are Otherkin descendent. I’m—” She glanced around, but the street was deserted. “I’m a mage, and in my line, mesmerism has been the sole type of magic we’ve been able to access. Ever since Rudolf Wagner’s brother manifested his powers—or maybe even before, but we don’t have records that go that far back—it has popped up. What caused it? Why that magic?”
He shook his head. “I don’t like to speculate.”
“Speculate, please, because I need the distraction.” She rolled her neck and hissed when it popped. Some of the tension faded away, but her reprieve didn’t last long. The inclination to use—to abuse—returned and with it, her energy spiked. She gripped his arm.
“Some people are born caregivers, some are stubborn and hot-headed, some—like many in your family line—craved power over others. Caregivers tapped into the energy to heal, hotheads became elementalists, and those who craved power learned to tap into the energy that allowed them control over another person’s body.”
His matter-of-fact tone was the only thing that prevented her from getting angry. He was, after all, right. Power, and the means to acquire it, seemed to have been a staple amongst the Wagner line and it was certainly in her. “Isn’t that nurture over nature?”
He chuckled. “I’m not a biologist or a geneticist. I’m not even a philosopher. All I know is that humans tend to fit their magic, and that magic travels down family lines almost without change. Senna’s daughter, for example, is a reputed geomancer with a sub power in air mastery while her father is an aereomancer first and a geomancer second. He even has some control over fire. What connects them is that they are both elementalists.” He took her down one of Kraków’s broader streets.
Viktoria took in the unfamiliar scenery. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
“Well, labyrinths are my specialty.” His expression was unreadable.
She inspected him, then squinted. “You have no idea, do you?”
He shook his head. “None.”
“You…!” She couldn’t help but laugh.
Tempest patted her hand. “I made you smile, though.”
“Yes. Yes, you did.” She resisted the urge to rest her head against his bicep, just to feel the comfort of an intimate touch. As much as they would never be in a relationship, Tempest was a friend, and she needed one today.
“I think this should lead toward the city center, at least. I figured we’d walk, that it would help to get yourself under control. Was I wrong?”
She took stock of her condition and shook her head. “No, I suppose you weren’t.” She let her gaze slide along the store fronts and house windows without really seeing what lay beyond.
“Your ancestor, Rudolf Wagner, wrote one of the witch hunting bibles that fueled the medieval Inquisition.” His tone was back to casual, which must appear brooding to anyone else.
Viktoria rolled her eyes upon hearing his statement. Of course, she knew that. She’d been forced to read it and recite it so many times that she could probably write it out word for word if pressed. “Your point?”
“Power comes in many forms, and so does jealousy. Your father had the desire to control and rule, but not the magic to feel what you feel now.”
“Lucky man.” She swallowed down the disgust that rose up her esophagus in the form of acid reflux. “There is nothing desirable about the urge to crush and contort another living being into a ball of anguish.”
He shook his head. “Your urges haven’t always been that destructive. You’re meant to practice magic. Refusing your mind and body to do what they were designed to do…” He shook his head. “It’s an almost insurmountable task for anyone, let alone for someone with mesmerism. When I met you, it was easier.”
“When you met me, I’d been practicing. I didn’t feel this…” She waved her free hand, at a loss for the perfect word to describe the murderous pressure to unleash. “Wound up.”
He hummed. “Exactly. Mages are meant to practice.”
She grinned, because crying would be embarrassing. She was forty years old, dammit, not eighteen. Not anymore. “Careful, I could report you to the Inquisitio for heresy.” She would never, and their frankness about his resistance to Inquisitio methodology was what had brought this level of trust to their friendship.
“I’ll tell them about that poor woman in the shop if you do.”
He nudged her, which felt like a solid shove, coming from him.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, even though she laughed to fight her discomfort. “You wouldn’t dare. The last thing you want is to see me in is the Penitentiary, locked away in some coma tube for all time. You’d be bored in days.”
He nodded. “That is correct. Then I suppose our secrets are safe with each other, hm?” He allowed the barest hint of a playful tug on his lips.
“I suppose they are.” After a pause, she glanced up at him. “What did you mean by jealousy?”
“We’ve talked about it before, that I believe Rudolph was jealous about his brother’s supernatural way to gain power and retaliated by reporting him to the Inquistio. Through that act, he cemented his loyalty, and it eventually allowed him to climb the ranks to a Counsil seat. Your family has held that seat, even when one of you manifested the ‘family curse’, so to speak, for centuries.”
“Right.” She brought her hand up and examined it. “A curse, indeed.”
“I am trying to tell you that power is what your family thrives on best. It’s what you thrive on best as well. If you were to practice, you would be happier. It would be easier.” He patted her hand.
Any other day, she would have called him out and shut him down, but with the taste of magic fresh in her veins and a new, shameful memory to deal with, she finally allowed her head to rest against his bicep. “I wouldn’t be happier alone, Tempest. Even if you came with me to wherever I’d be forced to flee to, knowing I would never find refuge with mages, not Inquisitio, I’d be alone. I don’t think it’s power I crave, not like my father, not like Rudolph. I crave…a home.”
Memories rushed up, of a warm body wrapped around her back and tea with milk enjoyed in the relative warmth of a winter coat, just because there were a few rays of sunlight to catch. There had been days when that had been her home—short, fragile days.
She sniffed. “The Inquisitio is all I have. It’s in my blood.” She straightened again and forced herself to let go of his arm. “We’ll find the wild mage, drag her to Swiss if we have to, and make sure we find out what makes her tick. That’s all that matters now.”
He hummed and stuffed his hand into his coat pocket. “Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Witches never come alone. They come in pairs at the very least, but they prefer covens. They share their befoulment of the Earth amongst each other and cover for each other’s crimes.
If you kill a witch, look around. Within a stone’s throw will be another one, and they will strike you dead if you do not kill them first.
– Rudolf Wagner, ‘A Guide for the Death of Witches’
THE BREWERY WAS nowhere near where Tempest had led her, so they’d found another taxi to take them. She stared up at the factory now. Even at this early hour, she could see plenty of people through the high windows.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” She checked on Tempest as he checked Google Maps on his phone—something she knew he hated to do because his fingers were too big to navigate the screen well.
He wore a deep scowl and was silent until he managed to wrestle the device into behaving. “This should be it.”
Viktoria looked around. The brewery was located on an industrial lot, but near another one of Kraków’s many squares. Tourists milled about, but they didn’t seem eager to flock onto the dreary stretch. She couldn’t blame them. “Let’s go in.”
“What will our cover story be? Are they all mages? Regular folk?” He walked with her to the entrance.
“We’ll see what happens.” She pulled the door open. If there was anything that she had in proper supply, it was guts.
The door fell shut behind them with a bang, but the noise was drowned out by people bellowing with laughter and some sort of folksong coming from the speakers.
Viktoria marched straight through the throng and pushed her way between two empty barstools. She tapped the bar top and tried to catch the eye of one of the two bartenders, a bald man in his forties, probably a slave to his gym equipment.
“Good day.”
She recognized the words and repeated them. “English? German?”
He pursed his lips and shrugged. “English, I think.”
“Okay, um, we just came from Madam Fortuna’s Vision Emporium. We’re looking for kin.” She held his gaze as if this was a perfectly ordinary request to make and her heart wasn’t rabbiting inside her chest.
He flung the dishtowel he’d been using to dry a glass with over his shoulder and put the glass down. “How about a beer?”
That was a clear enough hint. “A beer sounds good. We’ll both have one.” She sat on the stool and patted the other so Tempest would sit instead of hover around her like the bodyguard he was, shielding her from glances and any potential harm.
He sat, but with great reluctance, and kept his back to the bar. His gaze never rested on anyone for long. She let him; he stood out like a sore thumb anyway, with his fedora in what was obviously a blue collar, working class bar.
The barkeep put a pint of something light and fizzy in front of her and something dark and frothy in front of him, hers in a tall glass, his in a glass chalice of sorts. “Drink up.”
“Any poison?” She sniffed her beer and took a sip. It was fruity, not at all like she’d expected it to be.
“You’ll find out, won’t you?” He smirked and turned away to serve another customer.
Tempest twisted to pick his up, then sipped as well. He licked the foam moustache off his lip. “Hm. Good.” When he put the glass down, she took it and sipped. It was sweeter than it looked, as if the barkeep had stirred a spoonful of brown sugar through the beer. She nodded and put the glass back. “Yes, good.”
He did that thing with his mouth that was supposed to be a smile and she smiled in return. “So, now what?”
She glanced around and shrugged. “Now we wait. We drink our beer.”
“Hm.” Tempest didn’t seem to like the plan, but he picked up his glass and drank.
Viktoria wondered if they were going to be forced to pay for the beer—and then some, probably—and leave, or if they were being made to wait for someone to come get them, perhaps? Obviously, the suggestion of Otherkin hadn’t thrown the bartender. She took another sip and tried to place the flavors. Lychee maybe? The idea of it would have put her off if she hadn’t tasted the brew.
No one bothered them as they sat and drank. Regular conversation had resumed, and rapid-fire Polish chatter filled the large hall with its ornamental brewing kettles and collection of every beer logo in the world. It seemed that way, at least; she knew very little about beer and preferred wine. As far as beer went, this was good enough to finish in five or six minutes, which was also enough time for her to settle quite comfortably at the bar. There was something about a jolly environment, a silent companion, and alcohol, that was steadying for the nerves.
Her magic settled back where it belonged, buried deep. The alcohol clouded her mind a little, but only enough to take the sharp edge off her thoughts.
Tempest put his glass down and pushed it out.
Viktoria finished her last sip, then put the glass down on the coaster it had been delivered on. She glanced at Tempest, then the barkeep. “Perhaps we should call him over?”
There was no need. As if sensing her gaze on him, the barkeep turned around, walked over and collected their glasses. He put them in the sink, then wiped his hands on the rag still over his shoulder. “Come on, then.” He called something out to the other bartender, who nodded. Their barkeep walked along the bar and met them at the end of it. “I’ll take you to the back.”
Tempest arched a brow, but he followed along when she went after their guide.
They pushed through double doors that dampened the noise drifting from the bar considerably when they fell shut.
“You drank a…what is word? A potion? No magic, not possible. Don’t try.” The barkeep waved his hand as if to dismiss the en
tire notion of the attempt. “You will not succeed. You, big man. Strong man. Otherkin?” He glanced over his shoulder.
Tempest nodded once.
“Don’t be a stupid man. Not everyone has no magic. Some do, some could harm you. Loyal customers, you see?” They passed the kitchen.
The chef didn’t look up.
“Understood.” Viktoria rubbed her hands on her pants. Nerves sent her heart and mind racing. A potion that could calm magic—her magic? Had the barkeep brewed it? Had he bought it? Most importantly, could she get her hands on it, and if there were components that could dampen magic, could they sever magic entirely? Hope caused a shudder in her breathing, but they had to be thoughts for another day.
For now, she had to focus on her surroundings. She dipped her head to hide her face. What if there were people here who did recognize her? Without her magic, she’d be defenseless.
Tempest seemed to stay extra close to her as they walked along another corridor and toward the sound of more laughter.
Maybe she wasn’t without defenses. Even if there were elementalists or mesmers behind the doors that came into view once they rounded a corner, a man as strong as Tempest could do a lot of damage.
“Did you make that potion yourself?” Tempest’s voice was slightly strained, but she doubted the barkeep would notice.
It was good to know he was on the same page as her.
The barkeep shrugged. “Group effort. I brew it, yes. The recipe is secret. Family recipe.”
A warning fluttered up her spine. “Family? Are you a mage as well?”
He hummed. “My family are mostly healers and alchemists.”
Alchemists, of course. That made sense. Not a mage then, but associated with the lifestyle, so to speak. Not punishable, according to Inquisitio law, but perhaps, if his brews were this potent, the Inquisitio would like to get their hands on him. She filed the thought away for later. Someone who could produce drafts that stole a mage’s power? A very valuable tool—and bargaining chip, should push ever come to shove.
