by Sara Hanover
I didn’t tell him what Goldie had said to me because I couldn’t bear to see him torn between duty and me. It wasn’t something I could ask of him, not now, and I didn’t want to add to his worry.
To break my silence, I muttered into his body that the Society had ordered me in for an appearance. His answer, when it came, tickled my ear as his breath grazed me.
“You’ll do fine. Just don’t go in spoiling for a fight.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“Of course you would. I know you. But don’t. Try and stay open to what they might have to say and ask of you. They’re going to be curious about the stone, but you know that already. Don’t tell them you’re a sorceress. Let them figure that out. You might have other abilities we haven’t thought of, and they’re a good way to find out the depth of your power.”
“So I can’t set their asses on fire if I get angry?”
“Wouldn’t advise it.” He muffled a chortle against the side of my head. “Look, the professor has spent months trying to turn you away from the Society but he wasn’t always right on everything. You know that.”
“He did have his faults.”
“Keep an open mind. But not so open they can crack you like an egg.”
I pulled back with a “Hey!”
Carter started laughing. “Just checking to see if you’re listening.”
I thumped him lightly. “I will always listen to you!”
“I know.” His eyes glistened a little. “I’ll be around before you know it.”
I told him, “I take that as a solemn promise. And if you’re not, I’m coming to get you.”
He put his hand up. “Pinky swear?”
And so we did.
* * *
• • •
I admit it took some nerve for me to open Morty’s journal when I retired to bed. I wanted to chase away my worry for Carter, but as I sank into the first few pages, I realized that reading the inside and detailed workings of a culture I’d no idea existed most of my life wasn’t the way to do it. I paged ahead, my mind filled with secrets and pacts and cautions . . . what a precipitous life the Iron Dwarves and their other clans lived. One slip off a tightrope of existence and their whole world would fall, crashing. The modern world would rush to crush them, no matter what good intentions existed, and common sense told me the intentions would more likely be those of greed. I counted myself lucky any of them would bend enough to call me friend. Me, a disaster without any help at all. They trusted me. I’d never promised any of them I’d keep silent although the necessity to do so seemed obvious. Now.
So how was it he had faith in me? Did I keep it? Morty had failed himself and all of us in our intrepid little troop, but he had redeemed himself. Who would tell me to find redemption if I slipped? Would the others even be able to let me know what I’d done?
I closed his journal on my finger, keeping a placeholder. “Morty, wherever you are, and I refuse to believe such a strong and true soul went nowhere, had just simply ceased, and so—wherever you are, I promise to do my best to keep your secrets.” My words fell on air that reacted in no way whatsoever, as if nothing listened to me. What had I expected? That his profoundly bass voice would rumble in my ear, verifying my vow? Yeah, seriously, a little. I had hoped for some response.
And getting none, I fervently hoped that I hadn’t already broken that vow.
Reopening the journal, I read a little more, than I came across a name I knew: Potion Polly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NAMES AND OTHER PORTENTS
I SAT UP straight in my bed, for I had been slouching lower and lower, about to drift off.
That had been . . . what had Aunt April told me a few months ago? . . . her grandmother? Great grandmother? Someone in the Andrews family line, with magic in her. She’d made homeopathic medicines, folk medicines, back in the day when everyone took them, and her cures had been true and helpful. She’d had a reputation for being a nurse one could rely upon, in that century of chancy medicine of the late 1800s. I dove into the page a little more intensely and found that Aunt April’s recollections were absolutely correct. Even the Iron Dwarves came to buy Polly’s elixirs. Morty’s clan had marked her as someone to value . . . and to keep an eye upon.
Humans with magic, it seemed, could occasionally pierce the veil the others had drawn about themselves for safety. They had to be watched with caution.
I stopped reading again, wondering when the Dark Arts book came into the Andrews family line, and from where? That book had taken its toll from the family, taken far more than it had ever given, although Aunt April and my father both had treated it like a lucky talisman. I’d seen the family tree, though. Early deaths, some of them horrible. A life for luck. If they’d known, would they have thought it worth it? Although Morty had penned this diary, he hadn’t lived through all of it. He’d taken it upon himself to relate his clan’s history, from memory that could be verified. I’d read one tall tale so far, but he’d marked it as such, and I hadn’t put much stock into it, something about unicorns and Europe, and although I wouldn’t mind meeting one, I doubted they’d ever truly existed. I hadn’t forgotten being laughed at by the dwarves when I’d mentioned one.
Vampires, now—Morty had warned they did exist. Those words sent a chill down my spine. Rare but powerful and intensely dark, he said. I closed the journal on that, not wanting any more nightmares than I usually had, although mine were normally filled with a three-tailed Kitsune who carried a katana and aimed for my neck. Restless, I got up.
I stood at my bedroom window, looking down at the moonlight-dappled backyard. Something tickled at the hairs at the back of my neck. I wanted to look out on the street. Well, I didn’t want to, but a nagging feeling came over me that I had to. So I padded barefoot into the hall, checked on my vase of tell-tales and discovered that they all faced the back of the niche, as though something on the other side of the wall drew their attention streetside. Their little rose petal faces didn’t seem terribly alarmed but definitely alert.
I went into the professor’s room again, never changed or altered, with only the bed made, just in case he made his way back from wherever the blast of power and phoenix fire had carried him. We knew he lived. That was about all, except that Steptoe felt certain he’d find out more to the story. I ran my hand down the cane, wondering if he’d feel the touch wherever he was. “Come home,” I whispered. “We miss you.”
At the window, I couldn’t discern anything except that the shadows once again jumped and stabbed in riotous discord. Something watched us. Probably not all night, but I’d caught it twice now. I backed away carefully.
I’d tell Simon in the morning. And Goldie.
I decided not to worry Carter.
I wanted the professor then, more than anything. He’d lived a number of lives, accumulating knowledge as well as ability, and he’d know what to do and what not to do. He would hand out sketchy information here and there, in his grumpy old way as usual, but I’d always known I could count on him.
I couldn’t now, wherever he was.
I thought of the Society then, and if they’d have answers. Maybe, but I’d have to be extremely careful with my questions. It might be one of them who watched because I knew firsthand that not all of the Societas Obscura were as good or even neutral as they professed to be. I’d faced a judge from the Society who had been neither honest nor honorable. Part of magic’s terrible price, I presumed.
I wanted to look at the street again, just to confirm I’d really seen a shadow move, or perhaps it had gone on, done with its surveillance, but I couldn’t get up the nerve to do it.
The tell-tales ruffled at me as I crossed the hallway again while they settled back into their neutral bouquet. I sincerely hoped that meant that whatever stood sentry had left. To quote both Shakespeare and Ray Bradbury, “something wicked this way comes.” Gone or not, I wouldn�
��t forget it.
When I got back to bed, Scout was curled up in the middle of it and didn’t want to shove over to let me in. We tussled a bit and my hands lost a chill I hadn’t realized I’d picked up, and when we finally went to sleep, all I could hear was big puppy snoring.
When I woke, I realized I’d had a good, sound sleep without even one magical battle in my dreams. In fact, I couldn’t remember any dreams at all, rare for me. I always had dreams, scattered and nonsensical as such things could be, but I dreamed in color, flew sometimes, and could even read a book in them. Scout tugged the cuff of my jeans, urging me to take him downstairs and out, and I realized we’d slept in late.
As I stood on the back stoop and watched him take his patrol, I rubbed a small crust of sleep from the corner of my eye. Warily, I looked at it before flicking it away. Had I slept too solidly last night? And if I had, what had I missed?
Scout galloped up and snorted at me.
“Yeah, I know, this whole thing is making me a little paranoid.”
He wound around me and whined a little.
“Hungry?”
He darted to the kitchen side door and danced eagerly, waiting for me to open it. I did, looking down at his wriggling golden body. The mudroom door was at the back, off the yard, and I entertained the idea, for a moment, of letting the dog in there, to dance all over Steptoe’s sleeping form. From the slant of the sun, however, I doubted Simon would still be there.
Scout bounded in ahead of me and pushed his stainless-steel bowl across the floor so I could reach it easier and fill it. He liked being helpful like that.
I did my part and leaned against the counter as he dug in. He’d grown, his Labrador retriever form staying slimmer than most, confirming what Carter had first told me when bringing him to my door. He had other blood in him. I didn’t think it was elven hound, but it might be. I’d found stranger things in the world than that recently. If it was, it only contributed to his personality, not detracted. I waited until the crunch level had dropped in decibels before saying, “So . . . hear or sniff anything unusual last night?”
He licked his bowl three times to ensure no crumb remained before sitting down and eying me.
“Nothing?”
He seemed secure in his assessment.
“Not in the backyard, anyway, huh?”
Scout sneezed. I took that as a “no way.”
“I saw something out front again. Want to go inspect?”
He shook his head, rattling his collar, which I decided meant an affirmative. What dog doesn’t want to explore his neighborhood? Every pup likes to check his pee mail.
I picked up his harness and lead, just in case, but Scout raced out the door before me, so I just carried them to make it look like I could be in control.
Down the driveway past the two cars, my little red Corolla and my mom’s older, sedate sedan, we went. Scout raced, I jogged after. The sky looked leaden and the ground covered in hoarfrost which the sun had only begun to melt. Grasses had already gone brown, trees leafless except for the evergreens, and the wind bit at me. The earthy scents of autumn were long gone, and the whole area held the signs of being shut down and hunched over for winter. I should have grabbed my hoodie, too, even for a few minutes out. It looked like it might snow in earnest later in the afternoon. My ears chilled.
We passed a telephone pole with a note rippling in the air, and I slowed to look at it. Someone a few blocks away seemed to be missing a long-haired cat, a family pet greatly loved. As I stood reading all the particulars, a man walked up, his shoulders hunched against the weather, reached up, and tore the poster down.
“Oh! You found her?”
He looked at me then, eyes red-rimmed, wrinkles in a face showing years of outdoor, hard labor, and he managed to answer, “What was left of her.” He shambled off, shoulders still bowed, his grief like a cloud around him.
I yelled after, “So sorry!” but knew that wouldn’t help much.
We took our exercise and when we got back home, I decided to try him out on the scent trail of whatever had been watching the house. Scout gave me a wary, brown-eyed look but ambled in the general direction.
He coursed back and forth across the front yard, but when I directed him toward the lamppost, Scout’s gait faltered. He slowed to a reluctant walk and looked up at me, several times, brown eyes under a furrowed dog brow. Finally, he just sat, a good ten feet away. I snapped on his harness and leash and pulled on it. He didn’t budge.
“That’s it?”
Scout put a paw up.
“I don’t want to shake hands. I want to know if you smell something weird around here.”
He tilted his head at me and, before putting the paw down, rubbed his nose with it.
“Here,” I told him and went to the lamppost myself, looking up at the light bulb and then winding around the pole. Scout came to me, head down and tail between his legs, either ashamed or afraid.
He shivered when I put my hand down to rub him. I could feel the vibes coming off him. Something had spooked my bouncy, happy-go-lucky dog.
“Nothing good or just too wintry for you?”
He cast his gaze up at me and rolled his lips back off his teeth in a half-hearted snarl. Not meant for me, I felt sure, but for whatever he smelled lingering in the daylight.
And I was certain because I felt it, too, smelled it a little but couldn’t quite identify it. Something dank and dark and maybe with death in its aroma. Something unsavory and unnatural. Something wicked.
I chirped at him, and he sprang away from the dreaded lamppost, galloping toward the house, towing me along behind him as if determined to rescue me. He didn’t stop until we hit the porch and he leaned against the closed door, waiting for me to open it. Thresholds, I remembered, held a magical portent, a ward even the unmagical could, and did, unknowingly utilize.
The Society might want to see me that night, but I had a feeling I needed to see them as well, for a little well-orchestrated snooping if nothing else. If I scratched their back, they sure as hell better scratch mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CELEBRATIONS AND OTHER FUN OCCURRENCES
I DIDN’T EVEN realize that my mother left later and returned. My nose was stuck off and on in the journal between loads while I caught up with the laundry. I became aware as she entered with paper bags full of great smelling containers from the best Chinese takeout in our end of town and began to decorate the kitchen table. I came out of the laundry room; my jaw dropped, and Scout began hopping around in celebration. He sneezed once or twice as the garlic and ginger and savory goodness overwhelmed his senses.
“Wow. What’s the occasion?”
“My dissertation is finished, whether they like it or not.” And my mother dropped a binder on the table next to the aromatic bags. She’d written her title in permanent marker on it: Magic Through a Broken Mirror: How Magic Avoids Discovery in Literature and Fact by Mary Andrews.
“I thought you’d said three months.”
“I did. But over half of them have submitted suggestions for reworking and I’ve done that, and I’m tired of the rest of the committee sitting on their hands. They can agree with the revisions that have been done or give me input of their own, but they need to do something.”
I knew it, had seen it many times before, but seeing it in bold and capital letters made it seem more real as my mother rustled around getting plates and utensils. Looking at it hit me in the gut. What would Morty have thought of this? All those decades—no, make that centuries—in his journal of avoiding such a close look at his clan’s existence. An uneasy knot settled in my stomach. Had we betrayed him somehow? Would this break my vow to keep their secrets?
Yet I knew what she’d written, mostly, having helped her proof it for months. If she’d betrayed him and the others at all, I hadn’t seen it. No, her observation had been more geared to
classical writings and poetry, music and the like, and the link they might have had to what might actually have happened. Her paper had been precise and thought-provoking, but she hadn’t given away any secrets. At least, not in what I’d read. That last chapter could be a real doozy. Conclusions have a reputation for that.
“What happens now?”
“I’ve given them five days to respond. It’s up to the secretaries now, I think, to schedule a pub date. Then I have to sign up for graduation, the official doctorate ceremony.”
“Wow.”
Mom dodged me to set down serving spoons and forks and pull a chair out for me to sit. “I know it’s a surprise, but I didn’t expect you to freeze in shock.”
“What? Oh, no, I just stopped to think and forgot to get started again. It’s been forever.”
“I know. At this point, I think we’re all tired of it. I know I am, but it’s finished. I’ve had it proofread and waved that last chapter under their noses. They have to accept it for print, I think. I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me.”
I took my seat and pulled a box toward me. “Dumplings! You got dumplings!”
“I certainly did, and steamed buns, too. The whole megillah.” She paused before sitting down herself. “I decided that, considering my own objectives, that I was done, and I would submit it as such.”
“But there might be more rewrites.”
“Sometimes a bit here and there. I expect an edit or two in the appendices, but those will be easy to do. The committee has to look like they’re doing some real work. But this stalling they’ve been doing, dragging their heels on one end while my department head on the other is saying, publish or quit or be fired—I won’t tolerate it anymore.”
