Live and Let Fly

by Karina Fabian

  "You know, I can't get over how elegant your writing is, especially when you're so fast."

  "Seventy-five years in a scriptorium translating and copying. You should see my gilt work."

  "Vern," Calloway asked, "what's this about destroyed animatronics?"

  I looked up in surprise. "Oh, come on. You didn't see the chaos of the Munchy, Munchy Moles room? Which was not our fault, by the way. I didn't invite those mechanical beasts to come after us."

  "What are you talking about? Those rooms were fine."

  "What?"

  Calloway shrugged. "All the displays were where they belonged. The game room was clean. No sign of any kind of attack or vandalism."

  "What about Grace's backpack? It ripped, and everything spilled out." I remembered the salt and the Ping. I didn't know whether to chuckle or sigh. "You got a form 8R-0WN-135?" I asked.

  * * * *

  Nix had announced they were taking Skyhopper east to the Great Basin, then down to Casper, Wyoming, then east again past the Front Range before turning south to Pueblo, and west again to home. We'd been in the air about forty-five minutes when he came back over the speaker.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain. Looks like we've got a storm front coming at us from the west. We're going to put on some speed and make a slight course correction to see if we can get the Wind River Mountain Range between it and us. We might be in for a bumpy ride, but if the weather clears, I can promise you a terrific view. In the meantime, please secure your belongings and make yourselves comfortable."

  Rak scrambled to gather up all the papers and dump them into his briefcase before shoving it under his seat and buckling himself in with a yank on his belt that would have forced the breath out of most people. If he'd had a shoulder harness, I'm sure he'd have used it. Of course, what made it funny was the, "I'm–cool-I'm-cool," look he'd plastered onto his face. I put the lid on my ink bottle, stuck it in my bag, stowed it, and lowered the table so I could mosey over to my spot. I did have a harness, but we'd have to have some real bumps before I gave up my freedom to move around. I figured I'd wait until the ride got really wild.

  Grace came in with Charlie and Heather in tow. Rak nodded to everyone; then apologized to Heather as Randy Stapleton. "Miss Dakota, my behavior was boorish earlier. I hope you'll forgive me?"

  She gave him a small, tired smile from where she leaned against Charlie.

  "Perhaps later, once you've truly recovered, if you want to share the story of your brave knight..." He reached with difficulty into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took a card out and, straining against the seatbelt, leaned forward to pass it to her.

  As she reached for it, the ship gave a violent lurch.

  Almost immediately after came the sound of thunder, which nearly covered Rak's manly shriek. "Was that lightning?"

  I thought about making a sarcastic comment concerning the basic laws of meteorology, but the ship bobbed, making everyone but Rak bounce. Rak gripped the arms of his seat tightly.

  "That felt like we were in the center of the thunderclap. The lightning couldn't have been far away." His voice managed to sound strong, modulated, and panic-stricken all at once.

  "Easy, Randy, you're scaring the others," Calloway chided.

  "Everyone, this is Captain Nix. That storm came on us faster than expected; a lot faster.

  Support crew, please follow Flight Protocol One-Three—"

  Rak's eyes widened like a spooked horse's. "One-Three? Thirteen! There are eight crew

  …and seven of us! Thirteen! It's the thirteenth! Friday the Thirteenth!"

  "It's Tuesday," I reminded him.

  "Heidi, our sweet little receptionist, warned me not to fly. Airships! 'Remember the Hindenburg,' she said. No, I brushed her off. She's always been silly in a superstitious way, like so many wo—" He caught Heather's arched eyebrow and Grace's guileless gaze and quickly cut himself off. He gave a nervous laugh. "Never fails. Storm always hits when I fly."

  I glanced at Grace. Yep, even in the Mundane, some clichés are followed.

  Grace patted his knee. "We'll be fine."

  "Will we? Perhaps we won't return victorious to Los Lagos after all. Perhaps this is my last assignment—"

  "Oh, shut up, you nithing," Charlie said. He rolled his eyes then kissed Heather's head.

  "Don't mind him. You should have seen him carrying on, on the way here."

  Calloway also chided Rak, but I was only half listening. Something about this storm called to my other senses. If I had hair, it'd be standing up; as it was, my skin itched under my scales. Like a reaction to static, but not the physical kind.

  Magic.

  Rak, meanwhile muttered a little self-talk to calm down. "In the center of my mind, there is a room, like the tornado room in the basement of a house. A cell secure and strong, where the family retires when storm threatens to destroy the house and where they remain safe until danger has passed."

  "Hey, Grace," I said in a quiet but playful voice. I didn't want to scare Heather, or Rak now that he was in his Tornado Room of Solitude. "Want to go see the storm from the cockpit?"

  The others looked at me like I'd gone mad, but Grace unhooked her belt and headed to the door. She'd spent a lot of time on Faerie sailing ships, so she moved easily despite the unsteady rocking of Skyhopper.

  Charlie jerked his head at Rak, now breathing calmly in a half-meditative state, and said in Faerie Gaelic, "Hey, Vern. Ask Nix to shake the ship."

  Heather, who'd learned a good amount of Gaelic by now, smacked his arm.

  We headed down the hall in silence until we'd rounded the first corner. Suddenly, hail started pounding against the ship, filling the hall with so much noise I had to shout. "What have you got for magic?"

  "Whatever God gives me."

  I bit back a growl of anxiety, but it didn't stop my tail from twitching. I know most Mundanes—most any creature, for that matter—would expect me to be reassured. Grace was a nun and a mage of holy magic. God was on our side, right?

  Truth is, God didn't spit out answers to prayers like some kind of ATM. He took into account everything from Free Will to the Butterfly Effect in a complex system only He could fathom. Grace might be able to casually pray for our safe passage, but more likely, this would be more of the sweating blood variety of entreaty. Even then, God most likely would not just banish the storm, especially if a demigod had created it as I suspected. He would give her the means to work the spell, but what she did with that power and what it might cost her—

  We'd probably survive. Probably.

  I thought about the dragon stone in my stomach. She could use it to channel the power.

  The ship dipped unexpectedly, and Grace stumbled into me, bumping my broken wing. I gave a startled roar.

  "Vern!"

  "I'm all right." I lied. My vision cleared along with the realization that Heather's ring was all that was keeping me from a long healing nap—like decades of long. We were out of our league. I hope God accounted for that in His ineffable calculations. I started toward the bridge as fast as my sore and shaky legs would take me. "Get ready to pray your heart out."

  A crack of thunder drowned out half my words. Fortunately, over a decade of working together meant Grace didn't need me to voice my thoughts.

  "This isn't a natural storm." She crossed herself.

  A gust of wind spanked Skyhopper, pitching it thirty degrees on its nose. Naturally, Grace had just opened the door, so she went flailing into the bridge, slamming into the back of a chair. I skidded in behind her and took her out at the knees. She clutched the chair to keep from falling back on me.

  Hardly anyone noticed. That's the kind of trouble we were in.

  "Nix!" I shouted. "Change course! Port!"

  "Vern? What are you doing here?"

  "Navigating! Go port and rise!" I pushed myself away from Grace. She dropped to her knees and started to pray.

  "You nuts? We have to land! I'm heading into the eye."
<
br />   "It's a magical trap! We're being herded into it! If we land, I can guarantee someone is waiting for us; and it's not the Triple-A of Airships!"

  "You're a jinx, Vern! The Albatross of Airships!" But he turned port and rose.

  I didn't think the hail could get heavier, but it did. The chief engineer shouted something about the outer skin tearing. Then abruptly, it slowed.

  We could hear Grace singing.

  Nix's grip on the stick eased.

  I felt a surge of magic, heard a distant roar gaining.

  "Down!" I yelled.

  He shoved the stick forward. Skyhopper dipped then rocked as the gust of wind that would have tumbled her on her side brushed against the top.

  So it continued for a tense half hour: up and down, port and starboard, dodging wind and lightning, Nix following my commands as the crawling sensations on my skin told me of buildups in magic or electricity. Through it all, Grace sang, Latin at first, then the Gaelic she'd spoken as a child, then something else, deep, eerie and compelling. The song of her Siren heritage, pulling at the storm, calling the sailors. Only this time, the song was enveloping the ship like a shroud, holding it safe as she subtly guided Nix's hand. Her voice grew stronger and clearer, but each time I turned my attention to her, I saw her body was growing weaker, her skin paler. Sweat beaded on her face and hands.

  I felt the charge of lightning, shouted directions to Nix barely in time. Turned back to Grace.

  The navigator, now without a job, was kneeling beside her, half supporting her weight.

  Her eyes were focused yet unseeing, but his were filled with fear as he reached out and wiped the pink tear from her cheek. "Nix, put on some speed," he said, his voice high and tight.

  I prayed even as I called a hard to port.

  My nerves were frayed—or our opponent was getting smarter. I began calling out false alarms. Grace was actually leaning against the navigator now, though I didn't think she realized it. As stress burned off the last effects of the ethanol, and the magic of the dragon stone faded, I grew more aware of the broken bones, torn muscles, and oh, yeah, iron poisoning that I'd managed to ignore the past couple of hours. I didn't think I could take much more.

  Then the storm faded. The roar of the rain became a trickle, the rocking slowed to a gentle sway and steadied. Grace's song filled the room, the promise of safety, thanksgiving to God. She collapsed against the navigator, eyes closed. When she opened them, he was still holding her. She smiled. "Thank you, my Simon," she murmured.

  My legs didn't want to support me anymore, and I gave them a break and sank to the floor.

  * * * *

  I don't remember much about getting home. Rak drove us in our car. I slept most of the way. We managed to walk into our lair on our own power, but Grace looked at the wood staircase to her room and whimpered. I shoved off a mattress pad from my nest, and she was asleep almost before her head hit the foam. At least, I think so. Could have been me.

  * * * *

  I awoke to the alternating sensations of sharp pain and healing warmth and found Brother Gustav of the Order of St. Luke healing my wing with a combination of magic, medicine, and physical manipulation. He hummed something tuneless and happy as he worked.

  I felt stronger but drained in an odd way. I spent a moment trying to identify it—not hunger, not illness… I decided it was too much effort. It also didn't seem worth my energy to engage Gustav in conversation, either, so I let my eyes shut and tried not to flinch too much as he snapped another bone back into place.

  "There we are!" he said in that satisfied “that-wasn't-so-bad-was-it?” voice doctors used after putting their patients through hell for health. "A simple fracture in the radius, two in the metacarpals of the second and fourth right digits, and a compound on the phalanx of left digit two. And two fractures of the ribs. That, of course was the easy stuff. I sewed up the tears in your wings, but the bullet wound to the shoulder…had to scrape that clean. Count your blessings you were still out for that one."

  I didn't want to think how far out of it I had been to not have noticed. "Where's Grace?"

  "Move over here, please. I'd like to wash all this filth off your scales, and we don't want to soak your bedding." Once I hobbled to stand over the drain in the center of the floor, Gustav turned to inspecting my hide, checking each scale, cleaning the iron and blood and dirt out with pick and water, settling scales back into place, and smearing more balm on any areas that had swelled.

  He answered. "Faerie. She called me for you, but I took one look at her and ordered her back to her motherhouse. Told the Bishop to arrange a portal for her. I've never seen so advanced a case of ieiunitas magnas."

  I nodded, but I couldn't quite make out what he was saying. I couldn't make myself bother with figuring it out, either. Grace was gone, but she'd be back. I was comfortable. Gustav knew what he was doing. I felt better. It felt good to have moved, especially closer to Grace's workshop; maybe when Gustav was done, I'd go curl myself in there and nap.

  "I shall work on you another hour or so; then we'll head to the Gap as well. You need to breathe the Faerie air, nap in the Faerie grass, and recharge in the Faerie ether. I don't know what the two of you did to exhaust your magical reserves, but I haven't seen any Magical so sick since Corranda the Unicorn tried to do that international goodwill tour to promote abstinence."

  I blinked slowly. Ieiunitas magnas. Deficiency of magic. Yeah, that made sense.

  Gustav laughed, though I wasn't sure why. "Go back to sleep, Vern. I'll wake you when the taxi comes."

  Sleep sounded good.

  Chapter Twelve: The Reporter Who Loved Me

  "It's good to be home," Grace said as she unlocked the door to our office and lair and walked in.

  I grunted a noncommittal reply as I followed. I'd spent the last week and a half as a guest on the Duke's lands, hunting, eating, and napping under the sun in a flower-strewn meadow, or in the thick mulch of the forest where light filtered through the trees and made patterns to dream by.

  Only one thing could have made it more perfect, but I couldn't talk Seneschal into opening up the vaults and letting me roll in the family treasure.

  "Home" was a leaky warehouse with haphazard add-ons surrounded by a six-foot chain link fence, a concrete-and-dirt yard with a small garden and an empty dog run. Someone must have taken the dogs for us. I didn't remember eating them, at any rate. Inside, I expected to find messages from BILE with more demands, someone calling about hiring us—probably to find their missing cat—and a pile of papers with McGrue's byline. I'd lay money she's somehow implied that the damage to Skyhopper was my fault, but no one would take that bet.

  In all, I could have stayed in Faerie another week. Month. Years would have been nice.

  Grace went into the kitchen and started unpacking some of the things she'd picked up while on the other side of the Gap. I decided to get the worst over with and went into the office to play back messages while I pulled out the computer to check email: This is Calloway. Hope you're recovering well. The package Grace delivered wasn't what we'd hoped for. Call when you return to Los Lagos.

  Vern, Grace? It's Rosa. Gracias de Dios, you brought Heather home and everyone is alive. Mira, Gustav told us he sent you to Faerie, so we took the dogs. We were going to clean up, but someone beat us to it, so we took any food that might spoil. Call when you get back. I'll make you chili.

  Like, hey, guys! It's Natura. You saved Heather! We're so proud, you know? So, that Nix pilot was like, here, and it sounds like you had some seriously bad karma coming home. He was like, "Dragons on airships are bad luck." It's so unfair! Totally speciest. So, like, if you want me to write a letter or something? Anyway, call when you get back, and we'll deliver some food from the restaurant, 'k?

  I grinned. Okay, maybe it was good to be home.

  Vern, it's Jerry. I could get into big trouble for this, but Kitty's in over her head—

  "Vern! Look!"

  I pressed PAUSE and looked at Gra
ce. She held up the backpack she'd lost at the McThing Museum of Maniacal Toys, repaired and cleaned.

  I grinned. "Calloway had said the Munching Mole and Man-Eating Animatronics rooms were in perfect shape. He also called. I don’t think they got anything off that thumb drive."

  Still smiling, she set the backpack down beside her desk and started up her computer. "I didn't think it had. I don't know a lot about computers, but the virus didn't seem to take nearly long enough to have downloaded a master plan."

  "Computer probably wasn't on the network."

  She grunted agreement. "Which is why I set up a back-up of my own. Open. Documents.

  DragonEye. Case Files. Evil Overlord Plans. McThing! Oh, they zipped the files, too. Wasn't that sweet?"

  "You told the brownies to steal computer files?"

  She tried to look insulted, but she was grinning too hard. "On the contrary. I merely suggested that a copy of those files really belonged here. A place for everything, and everything in its place. And backups are so important."

  I guffawed. "Well, let's download them and go visit Mordash. I'm seeing good karma in our future."

  Yeah. It was good to be home.

  I searched for the car keys while Grace downloaded the files. Brownies had sent us the information, but it was a more personal delivery, and, as long as they were here, they had taken the opportunity to clean our lair. Everything was spotless, gleaming, and in its place.

  Unfortunately, brownie definitions of "its place" often differed from the actual owner's. Grace's

  "spot" was in a chicken-shaped pitcher on the refrigerator, convenient yet out of sight from clients or the occasional baddie who made it through her wards and into our turf. Of course, she had the pitcher protected. Also "of course," that told the brownies this was a valuable item worth protecting. Once I figured out their logic, I discovered her keys and the pitcher in the safe.

  Grace called to let BILE know we were back and coming to visit; I hollered over her shoulder a suggestion for donuts. We arrived at BILE HQ (BILEHaq? HaqBILE?) just as Rak was entering the building, a double-dozen box of Los Lagos' own donut heaven balanced in one hand and a drink carrier of lattes in the other.