Mordon shot him a warning glance, and Barnes defended himself, “Cantcha feel the wind about ‘er? She’s one of us.”
“And she has subtle magic, mind what you say,” whispered Mordon. I had a feeling I wasn’t supposed to be able to hear it; there were some magical creatures who could talk without others hearing, so I pretended to have not heard.
Dinner came, and we fell to eating without bothering to talk, which suited everyone very well. I hardly tasted my food between shoveling bites into my mouth, forcing myself to first cut the steak into bite-sized pieces. I noticed that Mordon had the same stiff sense of propriety that I did. Finishing my meal, I cast a glance into the restaurant and noticed that in Mordon’s reflection, vertical pupils ran through his eyes. It was gone in a second, and I dismissed myself, leaving two bills on the table and feeling eyes watch my back as I walked down the street.
CHAPTER SIX
I did not believe in coincidences. There was a reason that I had shared a meal with two of the people who were on my trail, and I was impatient to see what that reason was.
The wind tugged at my skirt, and I thought about what Barnes had said about me being one of them. About me being a sorceress. There was a time when I would have been overjoyed to be called that, but I now found it overwhelming. I had not been a part of magic for ten years, and using trinkets did not count towards the skills needed to take hold of magic.
I reached my hotel room quickly, shivers zipping up and down my back as I pulled out the key card. This time I had not tried to lose those my pursuers, the ones with the griffon. A tiny voice inside my head said that if I were to attempt to do so, I would lose my safety net. Mordon was onto me. I felt it in my bones, but for some reason the thought did not make me uncomfortable. Not comfortable enough to turn myself in, but if things were going to go wrong, I liked the thought of having those two close on my tail.
The room was up on the fifth floor, midway down the hall and facing west. The walls had abstract paintings on them which reminded me of what had happened when Mother gave me my first paper and watercolor paints, but at least the colors matched the grays and blues in the room well. One of paintings gave me goosebumps, and it had not when I was here before. I was going to ignore it, but a breeze came through the window and rattled the frame against the wall. One strange thing I was willing to forget, but two of them? I took off my shoes and climbed on the bed, removing the painting and checking the wall for any spells. It was clean.
I flipped the painting over and discovered symbols written on the canvas.
The letters seemed to blur and shift before my eyes, not letting me focus clearly. I frowned. Any caster who went through the effort to hide his work was not up to something good.
I reached into my clutch and grabbed a marker, one I had accidentally taken from the pen cup at a store. I scribbled randomly, large circles and zigzags and ‘x’s until the letters stopped moving and my goosebumps faded. The letters were too maimed for me to read now, but it looked like it might have been a sleeping spell. While I reasoned that the spell was inert in its present state, I couldn’t stand the thought of resting—much less sleeping—while it was still here. I picked it up and opened the balcony door.
To my relief, the balcony deck had only slim gaps in it, and the railing was strong and fairly tall, coming up to my chest. I decided I would burn the painting, but something caught my eye. Three people and a great dane talked with each other across the street, gone when a car passed them. Frowning, I went about my business. I was tired suddenly, so very, very tired.
I sat in a patio chair, hung the painting on the railing, and took my trusty lighter to it. I watched the flames curl, consuming the ink and spells in an amusing rainbow of colors. If the hotel wanted to charge me for it, fine. It was a small price to pay for whoever had gone through this work to set me up.
Once I finished burning the painting, I searched the room up, down and sideways for any remaining spells. There was one on a slip of paper behind the bathroom mirror, another written in soap in the tub, and one above the balcony door. I burned the paper, scrubbed the tub, and scratched out the one above the door using a nail. The one behind the mirror was a disguise spell, the one on the tub was another relaxing spell, and the one over the door was an entrance spell so creatures could come in without an invitation. For good measure, I drew a line on the inside and outside of the doors and windows using salt—I was religious about keep baggies of salt and garlic on me—hung up the garlic using nails that had held up the paintings. I also checked under the bed and stripped the sheets, looking for more paper. I didn’t find any. Then I searched the cushions of the loveseat, tipped it over, and scoured the fabric. I didn’t find any more spells, not even on the curtains.
My lack of discovery didn’t reassure me, and I would have just left if I didn’t have a hunch that there was something in the growing shadows waiting for me to let down my guard.
I contemplated keeping the windows opened or closed, then decided I liked the breeze. It was comforting. Something scurried in the kitchenette, and I squinted, at first assuming a mouse had come and went. This was hardly the sort of place mice would like, though it was exactly the habitat for a brownie. I rubbed my face, scolding myself for seeing trouble every place I looked.
Nevertheless, I went to check it out, and discovered a letter on the microwave. Had I missed it before? No, it was new. Even with my eyes half-closed, I would not miss something like this. It appeared to be a survey for the hotel, but it felt wrong in a way I couldn’t decide.
Using one of Father’s old tricks, I held up the letter to the mirror. An ordinary piece of paper would look the same, only mirrored, but this one was now a brand-new letter. Gone was the rating from 1-5 and twenty questions, and now present was a spell. The writing was heavily slanted, pointed, and with flourishes like I would expect to see on iron furniture, not on paper. I recognized the handwriting from mail at the Cole’s house, and the symbols were the same ones Railey pointed out to me...
This was a second Unwritten spell. I needed to destroy it, and fast.
It occurred to me the disguise spell was supposed to shield me from seeing the true handwriting should I think to test it on the mirror.
Whoever put these spells in place must be a worker in the hotel...or, I considered, it could all be put in place by a bogart. They were crafty things, most suited for setting traps and doing general dirty work. Usually, they weren’t this crafty, but if someone had caught it as an infant and trained it, all this would be well within its capacity. I searched the suite for the bogart, and found only trails and traces, the thing itself completely gone. At least by following its tracks I confirmed that the spell I held was the last spell in the room. I set about destroying it.
I tried to burn it, but the paper refused to light. Next I tried to scrub it with soap and water, but that did no more than make the ink bleed a little. I put it in the microwave and slammed the door, punching in three minutes and hitting “Start”.
For the first thirty seconds, the only thing that happened was the tray turned and the water formed soap bubbles. Then, a single spark flew out to the wall of the microwave. Then another, and another, then the soap with traces of ink started bursting like popcorn, each bubble making louder and louder pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow noises until the neighbor above me stomped on his floor and yelled at me to be quiet. I shrunk away from the microwave as black smoke billowed from the seal around the door, puffing into the room, much too much smoke even for an entire burning book, filling the entry way with bilious mushroom clouds. Beneath noise of the explosions in the microwave, I heard it ding and shut off.
The cloud kept growing, encroaching on the bedroom now, a wall of shifting darkness racing toward me. I cowered next to the window and glanced outside.
Three figures stood in the courtyard next to the pool, cloaked and forming a circle, black mists rising around them, highlighted by the lights from the under the pool’s water washing over them in glistening w
aves. I sensed—I felt—that another waited out my main door, should I try to dart through the cloud to escape.
Only the breeze from the window kept the darkness at bay, the lights behind the cloud having been snuffed out with the pop of a burnt-out light bulb. The cloud covered my bed, swept underneath it, reached with a misty claw for my leg. I shied away, pinned against the wall, curled into as tight of a ball as I could. The thing reached again, but the wind whistled through the screens and pushed the smoke back. A light sprinkle of rain came with it, pattering on my ears and hair.
The smoke creature reached for me again, this time its hand was more solid and it fought against the wailing wind gusting through the room, pelting the smoke creature with salt. It withdrew past the bed, then stayed still, out of reach of the brunt force of the wind.
The smoke was concentrating now, even more solid, hiding in the darkness, away from the light dumping in through the windows, descending upon me when the wind died down, retreating again when it picked up. The thing was more clear now: vaguely man-shaped with twig-like antlers, the hint of scales, glowing red eyes. It was stronger against the wind now, crawling, stalking over the floor, its shoulders brushing against the bed to guard it against the squall. It bent its reptilian head around the edge of the bed, smiled with its glowing red eyes, and flashed its tongue over its lips.
My hands shook as I reached through my shirt for the compass trinket, thinking of returning to my workshop. Nothing happened.
“Trinketsss,” the thing said, “don’t work around me.”
And neither, it seemed, did my brain. I was held in the grasp of panic that was not mine, but I could not push it away; all I could think to do was scream at the monster. It stretched out a claw, salty rain drops pelting his arm, burning pits into his scales. He spoke without pain, “Choose to come with me. It will make your trip much more pleasing than if I seize you.”
I reached behind my back and grabbed a clump of salt that I’d dumped on the floor in my haste, flinging it into his eyes with a vicious, “No!”
He flung back, screeching and clawing at his eyes. I snatched my clutch and fumbled with the salt, managing to open it and toss a few streams of salt on his back before he could react. He shrieked, writhed in pain, then snarled and sent one arm my way, his hand stretching to slap me.
I fell hard against the wall.
Breathing hurt, stinging pain stemming from my ribs.
I tried to stall for time. “What do you want from me?”
He finished his twisting and contorting, sucking in the pain staunchly. A smile came back to his mouth. “I want notttthing from you.”
I squirmed over to the windows again. “Then what do you want?”
His eyes shone with fire, he laughed that cold, reptilian laugh. “I want you.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw the three sorcerers reconsidering their strategy. Before I could think to find a way to prop the windows open, they slammed and locked. The wind beat on them, ramming as though trying to break the glass. Panic swept over me. I grabbed a wooden chair, raised it over my head, and was prepared to either shatter the glass or break the chair when searing claws dug into my back. I was lifted suspended in air, held frigid with pain, my wind howling outside the windows.
Black clouds slithered up my legs, circled my waist, constricted my searing ribs, then one smoky face formed in front of me, a giant snake, eyes glowing orange as it smiled, opened its mouth wide, fangs dripping drops of smoke, and my world went black.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Drips tumbled onto my shoulder, my shirt clinging like a layer of ice to my skin as I came to in an earthen dugout. Shovel scoops marred the wall behind me as I sat still and listened for the rustle of someone in this hovel with me. No noises came—just water falling from the rafters one slow drop at a time. I clenched my fist. It pinched where my rings had previously encircled my fingers, my hands were light and threatened to float through the darkness without the weight of my trinkets to hold them down. Even the studs in my ears were gone, replace by new jewelry snug about my wrists, locked to a ring in the nearest beam. Standing, I allowed blood to flow back into my legs, painful tingling sensation like hundreds of black ants were biting my skin. It subsided.
“Hello?” I called, my voice fading into the dirt.
Dripping was my only reply.
I called again, just a bit louder, to no response. It seemed I was alone, if only for now.
I ran my fingers over the cuffs, feeling for any magical marks or signs of enchantment. They seemed devoid of magical qualities, and I wondered why someone would capture me with so much magic and then use lamb cuffs. Either I was missing a spell, or my captors thought I would not need the more expensive cuffs. It was possible, too, that my capture was not well-planned beyond the hotel room, especially if they spent time planning for what to do if I slipped through one of the doors.
I berated myself for not doing any number of things. I hadn’t even tried the lotus ring. Why hadn’t I? Tired, the lingering effects of the spells around the room, or perhaps it was one of the secrets of the Unwrittens?
I grew determined to not dwell on what could have been, why I hadn’t done this or that. I would have time to reflect on my actions later...or so I hoped. For now, I licked one wrist and twisted my hand, helping the joints in my palm to collapse. The cuff scraped over my skin as it passed over my thumb knuckle, and I took a breath with the cuff still over the rest of my knuckles. I relaxed my hand a little more, and the cuff passed over my hand. One hand free, no alarm, no tightening of the other cuff. I hurried the other hand out of its cuff and was grateful for my double-joints.
Light came from around a bend, and I stalked to the end of my room, passing several more loops suspended from rafters. Though I had originally thought this was a new dugout, I realized as I peered into the hall supported by fatigued wood that my cell was simply a new addition to an old structure. I edged forward, not seeing any spells or wards set up. The floor slanted upward and the light became brighter. Mumbling came to me, and I tried to pick my way even more carefully. I went by several other cells, some with wards set up around the entrances.
The mumbling became voices, a man’s and a woman’s, but I could only make out random words. The tunnel dumped into a spare bedroom filled with cardboard boxes that had been labeled, scratched through, then re-labeled to until it appeared someone had given up and just riffled through the boxes to find what was needed.
The transition from potato cellar-like thing to spare bedroom struck me as bizarre. I kept from actually stepping into the house, confusion holding me in place. Something else didn’t seem right—and I soon realized it was that there was no air current between the two rooms. The air I stood in was damp, cool, and smelled of dirt. I caught no whiff of what the house smelled like. Why could I hear voices, yet not smell anything?
The voices came closer and I held still, dreading making a telltale noise by moving.
They seemed to stop outside the bedroom door.
“...not our agreed-upon rate, Eliza,” said the man.
“I think it is a fair rate after deducting services rendered,” said the woman, Eliza.
“What services rendered? I did my duty.”
“Leaving an extensive mess in your wake,” said Eliza, then began to list the clean-up spells she had done.
Fascinating though eavesdropping was, I would rather do it when I wasn’t being held prisoner. The room had a window that looked like it had been shut for years, but I did not see where it had been painted shut or otherwise rendered inescapable. I was very tempted to just bolt for it, but it was odd that a person who spent such planning in kidnapping, had holding cells, and charged rates, would ignore basic security wards.
While the man tried to discredit Eliza’s clean up—and her rates—I searched for any sign of wards or spells. The first one was much closer at hand than I expected, written in tiny symbols on the door jamb itself. I was standing in a closet, I realized now.
I exhaled slowly. Best do this while they were still debating custody over me. I spat on my thumb and reached a shaky hand to start rubbing out the spell. Wham! The door to the bedroom shuddered as the man was cast against it.
I retrieved my fist from my mouth, glad I hadn’t shrieked in surprise. I heard the two grumbling and arguing. I let out another breath, then rammed my thumb against the symbols and swished my saliva on the ink. It started coming up after a couple tries, apparently not having bound well to the oil-based paint. Not even a faint shadow of the spell remained as I wiped my thumb off on my pants a few times, leaving black streaks on my thigh.
Feral Magic Page 4
