Magic City

by Paula Guran

  “Stand aside,” Kit said, and took Edie by the wrist to pull her onto the sidewalk, amid the shelter of trees and light poles. Matthew stood firmly in the middle of the street, his back to traffic, his velvet coat catching winey highlights off the streetlamps. Edie pulled against Kit’s grip; Lily was suddenly there beside her, restraining her as well.

  “He’s the Archmage,” Kit said. “If he doesn’t know what he’s doing, it’s his own fool fault.”

  The Faerie steed bore down on him, and Matthew drew himself up tall. At the corner of a red brick building whose ground floor façade was comprised of grilled Roman arches, the horse reached him. She was going to run him down, Edie saw. She reached out a futile hand—

  The horse gathered itself to leap, and as it did, Matthew threw out his arms. “Hold!” he cried, in a voice that shook the windows and rattled the fire escapes against the brick faces of the buildings. “In the names of the City that Never Sleeps—New York, New Orange, New Amsterdam, Gotham, the Big Apple, and the Island of Manhattan—I bid you stand fast!”

  Edie would have expected flares of light, shivers of energy running across the pavement—something from a movie or a comic book. But it wasn’t there: all she saw was the man in the tatterdemalion dark red coat, his hands upraised.

  And the lather-dripping mare planting her heels and stopping short before him. Her head hung low, her throat and barrel swelling with each great heaving gasp of air. She swayed, and for a moment, Edie thought she would collapse.

  The girl on her back, all snarled pale hair and twig-limbs, raised her head painfully from where it had rested, face pressed into the mare’s mane. Edie gasped.

  Here was no elf-child, moving as stiffly as an old woman: just a human girl of eleven years, or twelve.

  The hounds rounded the corner in full cry, surging like a sea around the knees of the running horses. Matthew sprinted forward, arms still outstretched, and put himself between the hunt and the girl. Edie shook off Kit’s hand and ran to stand beside him, aware that Kit and Lily were only a step or two back—and that only because Edie’s legs were longer. When she drew up, Matthew snaked out a hand and clasped hers, and then she was grabbing Lily’s hand on the other side while Lily linked arms with Kit. They stood so, four abreast, and Matthew again raised his voice and shouted, “Hold!”

  Edie felt the power through her fingertips, this time, like a static charge. She imagined a barrier sweeping across West 10th from building to building, towering high overhead. She imagined it thick and strong, and hoped somehow she was helping.

  Whether she had any effect on it or not, the hounds quit running. They circled back into the pack, their belling turned to whining, a churn of black bodies and white ones dotted with red. The horses drew up among them, harness-bells shivering and hooves a-clatter. At the forefront, on a tall gelding, sat an elf-lord who smelled of primroses and prickles. He had cropped hair as red as his white horse’s ears, shot through with streaks of black where a mortal man would show graying. He wore a blousy silken shirt, heavily embroidered, and a pair of skinny black jeans stuffed into cowboy boots.

  “Matthew Magus,” he said, casting a green-gray eye that seemed to gather light across Edie, Kit, and Lily. His harness did not creak as he shifted his weight, but the bells tinkled faintly—rain against a glass wind-chime. “And companions.”

  “I do not know you,” Matthew said. “How are you styled?”

  “I am a lord of the Unseelie Court, and I would not extend my calling to one so ill-met.”

  Matthew sighed. “Must we be ill-met?”

  “Aye,” said the anonymous lord, “if you would keep a thief from me.”

  Now police cars were filling the intersection, and both ends of the block. Edie looked nervously one way and another, waiting for men and women with guns to start piling out of the vehicles and charging forward, but for now they seemed content to wait.

  New York’s Finest knew better than to get between a magician and an elf-lord.

  “A thief?” Matthew asked, with an elaborate glance over his shoulder. Edie could still hear the heaving breaths of the horse, smell the sweat and fear of the girl. “I see someone who has sought sanctuary in my city. And as you owe fealty to King Ian, you are bound by my treaty with him. What is she accused of stealing . . . Sir Knight?”

  “What’s there before your eyes,” the Faerie answered, as his companions of the hunt—men and women both—ranged themselves around him. “That common brat has stolen the great mare Embarr from my stables, and I will have her back. And the thief punished.”

  The mare snorted behind them, her harness jangling fiercely as she shook out her mane. “He lies!”

  At first, Edie thought the child had spoken, and admired her spunk. But when she turned, she realized that the high, clear voice had come from the horse, who pricked her ears and continued speaking. “If anything, t’was I stole the child Alicia. And my reasons I had, mortal Magus.”

  “The mare,” said the elf-lord, “is mine.”

  Matthew did not lower his hands. “Be that as it may,” he said. “I cannot have you tearing my city apart—and it is my city, and in it I decree that no one can own another. The girl and the horse are under my protection, and if you wish to have King Ian seek their extradition, he is welcome to do so through official channels. Which do not—” Matthew waved his hands wide “—include a hunt through Greenwich Village.”

  The Faerie Lord sniffed. “I have come here, where iron abounds, and where your mortal poisons burn inside my breast with every breath, to reclaim what is rightfully mine. By what authority do you deny me?”

  He stood up in his stirrups. His gelding took a prancing, curveting step or two, crowding the horses and hounds on his right. They danced out of the way, but not before Edie had time to wrinkle her nose in the human answer to a snarl. “This is going to come to a fight,” she whispered, too low for anyone but Lily and Matthew to hear. The whisk of metal on leather told her that Kit had drawn his sword.

  “Why doesn’t the girl speak for herself?” Matthew asked.

  “Because,” the mare answered, “His Grace had her caned and stole her voice from her when one of his mares miscarried. But it wasn’t the girl’s fault. And I’ll not see my stablehands mistreated.”

  Lily squeezed Edie’s hand and leaned close to whisper. “Edith? Shift to wolf form.”

  Edie shook her head. “I told you, it’s been—”

  “Do it,” she said, and gave her a little push forward from the elbow.

  Edie toed out of her boots and stood in stocking-feet on the icy pavement. She ripped her blouse off over her head and kicked down the stockings and the sequined skirt.

  Everyone was staring, most especially the Faerie lord. Lily, though, stepped forward to help Edie with her corselet and gaff. She handled the confining underclothes with the professionalism of a seasoned performer, folding them over her arm before stepping back. Edie stood there for a moment, naked skin prickling out everywhere, and raised her eyes to the Faerie lord.

  “Well, I’ll be a codfish,” he said callously. He looked not at Edie, but at Matthew. “The bitch has a prick. Is that meant to upset me?”

  “The bitch has teeth, too,” Edie said, and let the transformation take her.

  She’d thought it would be hard. So many years, so many years of enduring the pain, of resisting, of petulant self-denial. Of telling herself that if she wasn’t good enough for the Pack to see her as a wolf, then she didn’t want to be one.

  Once she managed to release her death-grip on the self-denial, though, her human form just fell away, sheeting from the purity of the wolf like filth from ice. Edie’s hands dropped toward the pavement and were hard, furred paws before they touched. Her muzzle lengthened; what had been freezing cold became cool comfort as the warmth of her pelt enfolded her. The migraine fell away as if somebody had removed a clamp from her temples, and the rich smells of the city—and the horse manure and dog piss of the hunt—flooded her sinuses.
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  She snarled, stalking forward, and saw the Faerie hounds whine and mill and cringe back among the legs of the horses. She knew the light rippled in her coat, red as rust and tipped smoke-black, and she knew the light glared in her yellow eyes. She knew from the look the Faerie lord shot her—fear masked with scorn—that the threat was working.

  “So you have a wolf,” the Faerie lord said, though his horse lowered his head to protect his neck and backed several steps.

  “And your high king is a wolf,” Matthew said. “You know how the pack sticks together.”

  This time, the gelding backed and circled because the Faerie lord reined him around. When he faced Edie and the others again, he was ten feet further back, and his pack had fallen back with him.

  “I don’t understand why the horse didn’t kill you,” he called to the girl, over Matthew’s head. “They don’t let slaves ride.”

  He yanked his horse’s mouth so Edie could smell the blood that sprang up, wheeling away.

  “Oh,” said the mare, “is that why you never dared get up on me?”

  As the lord rode off, spine stiff, the rest of the hunt fell in behind him. Edie was warm and at ease, and with the slow ebb of adrenaline, swept up in a rush of fellow-feeling for those with whom she had just withstood a threat.

  A veil opened in the night as before, shimmering across the pavement before the phalanx of squad cars. Edie and her new allies stood waiting warily until the Faerie lord and his entourage vanished back behind it. The mare eyed Matthew quite cunningly. She planned this, the wolf thought. But the mare said nothing, and Edie would have had to come back to human form to say it—and what good would it do at this point, anyway?

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” Matthew said, when they were gone.

  He made a hand-dusting gesture and turned away, leaving Kit to handle the girl and the mare who had stolen each other while he walked, whistling, up the road to speak with the assembled police. Edie went and sat beside Lily, tail thumping the road. Lily reached down and scruffled her ruff and ears with gloved fingers.

  “Good wolf,” she cooed. “Good girl.”

  In New York City’s storied Greenwich Village, on the Island of Manhattan, there is a tavern called the Slaughtered Lamb. A wolf howls on its signboard. In one corner lurks a framed photo of Lon Chaney as the Wolf Man. The tavern is cramped and dark and the mailbox-sized bathroom—beside the grilled-off stair with a sign proclaiming the route to The Dungeon closed for daily tortures—is not particularly clean.

  The Slaughtered Lamb (of course) is the favored hangout of Lower Manhattan’s more ironic werewolves. Edie hadn’t been there even once since she came to New York City. She’d been an outcast even then.

  Now she strode west on 4th Street from Washington Square, her high-heeled boots clicking on the preternaturally level sidewalks of Manhattan. Her feet still hurt across the pads, but the worst was healed. She wore trousers to hide her unshaven legs. A cold wind curled the edges of damp leaves, not strong enough to lift them from the pavement.

  Fourth was wider and less tree-shaded than most of the streets in the famously labyrinthine Village, but still quiet—by Manhattan standards—as she made her way past the sex shops, crossing Jones in a hurry. An FDL Express truck waited impatiently behind the stop sign, rolling gently forward as if stretching an invisible barrier when the driver feathered the clutch.

  She hopped lightly up one of the better curb cuts in the Village and crossed the sidewalk to the Slaughtered Lamb’s black-and-white faux-Tudor exterior. Horns blared as she let herself inside. A reflexive glance at her watch showed 4:59.

  Rush hour.

  “And so it begins,” she muttered to no one in particular, and let the heavy brown nine-panel door fall between her and the noise.

  There was noise inside, too, but it was of a more welcoming quality. Speakers mounted over the door blared Chumbawamba; two silent televisions shimmered with the sports highlights of the day. A gas fire roared in the unscreened hearth behind the only open table. Edie picked her way through the darkness to claim it quickly, sighing in relief. It might roast her on one side, but at least it would be a place to sit.

  She slung her damp leather coat over the high back of a bar stool and jumped up. She was barely settled, a cider before her, when the door opened again, revealing Matthew Magus and a tall, slender young man with pale skin and black hair that touched his collar in easy curls.

  They sat down across from Edie. She shifted a little further away from the fire. “Edith Moorcock,” Matthew said, “His Majesty Ian MacNeill, Sire of the Pack and High King of Faerie.”

  “Charmed,” Edie said, offering the king a glove. To her surprise, he took it.

  “Edie is a New World wolf,” Matthew said. “Apparently, your grandfather did not find her . . . acceptable . . . to the Pack.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ian said tiredly. “It’s about time the Pack got itself out of the twelfth century.” He steepled his fingers as the server came over, and both he and Matthew ordered what Edie had. “I can’t imagine what you would want with us at this point, though—”

  Edie’s heart fluttered with nervousness. “An end to exile?”

  “Consider it done. Do you plan to remain in New York?”

  Edie nodded.

  “Good. The Mage here needs somebody to look after him. Somebody with some teeth.” Ian paused as his cider arrived, then sipped it thoughtfully. Matthew coughed into the cupped palm of his glove. “The better to eat you with, my dear,” he muttered.

  The king regarded him, eyebrows rising as he tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, your Majesty.”

  Ian smiled, showing teeth. If Edie’s were anything to go by, he had very good ears. He drank another swallow of cider, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and said, “Now, about that changeling girl and the horse that stole her—”

  Elizabeth Bear was born on the same day as Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, but in a different year. When coupled with a childhood tendency to read the dictionary for fun, this led her inevitably to penury, intransigence, and the writing of speculative fiction. She is the Hugo, Sturgeon, Locus, and Campbell Award winning author of twenty-five novels (The most recent is Steles of the Sky, from Tor) and almost a hundred short stories. Her dog lives in Massachusetts; her partner, writer Scott Lynch, lives in Wisconsin. She spends a lot of time on planes.

  The City: An American city, perhaps one fairly near Philadelphia.

  The Magic: At night, nothing is quite the same as it is during the day in Mari June’s neighborhood. But even she doesn’t know just how “different” Miz Willow and her dogs are.

  THE WOMAN WHO WALKED WITH DOGS

  Mary Rosenblum

  “You be in this house by dark.”

  Mama’s words were always the same, a parting benediction as she left for her job at the nursing home. “I don’t work for no daughter of mine to be out on the street at night. I’ll call you.”

  The street at night . . . “Yes, Mama,” Mari June would say. “I got homework to do.” Sometimes she wondered if Mama really knew.

  “Good girl, you do that.” And then Mama would close the door firmly, with a bang of decision, as if by that single definite slam she could seal the door airtight against the dark seductive dangers of nighttime on the streets of their crummy city neighborhood.

  Nah, Mari June thought. Mama didn’t know. Mostly, she was afraid of boys.

  Don’t you have any boys in this house while I’m out workin’ my fingers to the bone for you, she’d say. I find out you actin’ slutty, you hav’n boys droppin’ in like you’re trash, and you’ll be out on the street so fast your ears’ll flap.

  She didn’t know about the street.

  Silly, too, because Mari June didn’t like boys. They stared at her in school, but their stares stopped short at her skin, sliding over her like sticky fingers. They looked at her breasts—those strange and uncontrollable twin magics that swelled and itched and sometimes seeme
d like alien flesh, changing the sleek way she slid through the grimy city air, making her clumsy. Sometimes her nipples hurt and when they did, a strange creature moved deep in her belly. It was dark and furry and lived between her hips and when it moved, it made her breathless, her skin cold and hot at the same time.

  Mari June let Mama’s slam keep the door tight shut against boys and did her homework because she had a 4.0 this year again, so far, and she was going to keep it. But Mama didn’t have a cell, which meant she had to wait for her breaks to call home on the pay phone in the lobby. Because of Miz Bellamy, the Supervisor from Hell, Mama called her. And her breaks came at six and eleven p.m. So there was plenty of time to do her homework and answer Mama’s six PM call. If she was careful, she could still get out and back in by eleven. Mari June locked the front door and took her English book and algebra to the dining room table to finish the stupid story problems (a snap, she had done them all in sixth grade) and work on her report on Romeo and Juliet.

  It’s not really about them falling in love and dying, like most people think, she wrote in her long narrow handwriting. It’s about families and how stupid they are, how they only see what they want to see, instead of what’s really in front of them. Then she stopped and chewed on the end of her number two pencil, thinking about that. Might not be a good thing to turn in.

  She’d already gotten in trouble with Mrs. Roberts when she had written about Columbus landing for Columbus Day. Mrs. Roberts didn’t like her title—“There Goes the Neighborhood”—to start with. “We’re celebrating our history,” she had scolded Mari June in front of the class, handing back the pages marked with a big, red C-. “We’re proud of our country and our heritage in this class.” For her next assignment . . . Thanksgiving . . . Mari June had written two pages of drivel copied straight from the newspaper about Family Turkey Values. For that, she got an A. Obviously Mrs. Roberts didn’t read the paper.

  Mari June erased those first sentences about Romeo and Juliet and changed the title to Young Love. Romeo and Juliet is a classic tale of tragic and unrequited love, she wrote. The “unrequited” alone should get her an A, she figured. Mari June bent over her notebook, looping her p’s and f’s carefully, because she only planned on writing this crap once, thank you. Timed it perfectly. The phone rang just as she finished the last syrupy sentence with a flourish, poked that final period into place.