The Untangled Cassie Black

by Tammie Painter

  At my slightly (okay, very) mopey question, Runa changed to a more gentle tone that, in all honesty, was more awkward and more difficult to accept than her usual gruff, berating one. "I know it's hard, but it's for the best. And you did good, girl. Going and getting them like that. Not many would. Or did," she added critically.

  "Why didn’t they? I mean, it only took me a few days to figure out where my parents were, and that was in addition to taking classes, being tested, and befriending a dead Beefeater," I said irritably.

  Ever since finding out they might be alive, it had irked me to no end that no one had actively sought out my parents. Just as they hadn’t scrambled to uncover Busby’s murderer or to do a simple background check on Vivian. Magics certainly weren’t crime-solving go-getters. If I ran the magical zoo, the first change would be making the police investigators a bit more proactive.

  "Maybe you're more talented than you give yourself credit for." When I said nothing to this half-compliment, she continued. "I know it’s a lame reason, but I think it was easier for many in the community to assume your parents were dead. Keep in mind, the rumors that they might be alive only recently began circulating. They’d probably have acted on those rumors more readily if not for the watch hunt and the Mauvais popping back into action. You can't really blame Oliv—" Runa’s cheeks flushed redder than a cinnamon candy as she bit back the name. "That is, you can’t blame HQ for making priorities."

  "What's with you and Olivia?" I teased. "You two act like goofy teenagers around each other."

  "And you think you're any better around Alastair?"

  "At least I don't flip my hair around and risk bursting into flames from the heat in my cheeks." Runa laughed. More of a scoffing laugh than a you-should-become-a-comedian laugh. "What?"

  "Yes, you do."

  "Well, I certainly don't go around in frilly pink tops," I said, glancing down at the rosy frills exploding from the opening of Runa’s lab coat.

  Before Dr. D could reply, a storm of activity crashed into the hospital area like a rogue wave. Doors slammed open, Magics called out orders, someone shouted for a stretcher, while someone else ordered anyone within earshot to find a troll.

  Runa and I traded uneasy looks. Then, as if reaching a silent consensus, we both dashed after a pair of magic medics who’d started a race down the stairs with a stretcher hovering along behind them.

  6 - UNEXPECTED RETURNS

  "IN THERE, NOW!" Rafi was pacing near the stairwell, his magic’s sandalwood scent streaming off of him as he ushered the stretcher down the hall. His hair was dripping wet and he wore no shirt but did have a towel wrapped around his slim waist. "Get to the armory," he ordered the two medics. "We’ll levitate the stretcher back up, just get in there."

  "What the hell happened?" Runa asked. I could only imagine a magical practice session having gone wrong — not that I’d know anything about that.

  The medics whipped open the door to the armory and I immediately covered my nose. A stench like someone had smoked a cigar made of sewage hit me, but the others ignored it and rushed in.

  "He— I don’t exactly know," Rafi stammered as we rushed by the row of life-sized wooden horses where Chester joined us in our haste. "I’d just come out of the pool and Chester— Chester, you tell them."

  Chester, sporting a tweed jacket over, oddly enough, a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, wore a confused expression. "I came and got you."

  "No, tell them why you came and got me."

  "Oh, that. I was in here and heard a crackling noise. My nose hairs tickled like when there’s an electrical storm on the way. I rushed over to the noise. I was worried one of the cleaning pixies had jammed his finger in a light socket. They do that, you know. But no one was here. Then all the sudden he was here, and that’s when I got Rafi."

  "He's alive," called out one of the medics, "but he's not moving."

  "Who?" I demanded, no easy feat given how much I wanted to keep the room’s strange smell out of my mouth.

  "Tobey Tenpenny," Rafi said.

  I stumbled over my own feet. Tobey? He wasn't dead? Surprisingly, that filled me with a sense of relief. You know, for Mr. T's sake. Not because I was in any way concerned for the likes of Tobey Tenpenny. But if Tobey was back—

  "Alastair?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  Rafi shook his head. "Not when I left, but maybe by now."

  Runa, unexpectedly fit for her stout appearance, wasn’t showing any sign of exertion as we hurried along the collection of weaponry and the oddly-placed wooden execution block. We rounded a display of swords and my heart plunged down into Olivia's office. Or possibly up. One could never tell in the White Tower.

  I should never have let Rafi’s optimism influence me. Pessimism. Cynicism. It’s the only way to go.

  Through the pair of medics and the first-aid team, I caught a glimpse of a single body. Not the lithe frame of Alastair Zeller, but the broad build of Tobey Tenpenny. And despite the medics tugging him to shift him onto the stretcher, he wasn’t reacting.

  "Did he—?" I started to ask, but the door to the armory banged against the wall as Mr. Tenpenny rushed in.

  "Dear heavens. Tobey!" He started to run forward, but Dr. Dunwiddle blocked him. "Let me by, Runa."

  She remained firm, her no-nonsense stare working better than a Binding Spell. "He's alive and in good hands. Let them do their work and you can see him in the ward soon enough."

  Chester, squatted down next to Tobey and was gently patting his hands over Tobey's body. Trolls, even half-trolls, despite their clunky appearance have the ability to heal physical wounds. Chester himself had fixed my hand after the Mauvais crushed it to bits; and as he mentioned, Morelli was currently moving Mr. Wood’s healing process along at a slightly accelerated pace.

  I was just wondering if Norms couldn't be repaired as quickly as Magics, or if Morelli was taking a slow approach to avoid suspicion, when Chester's hands paused over Tobey's ribs. After a moment Chester nodded and stood. The two medics from the hospital ward then lifted the stretcher — magically of course, why use muscles when you've got magic?

  "We’ll get this up to the ward," said one of them, a woman with high cheekbones and straight, so-blonde-it-was-white hair. "Outside protocol, now. Someone will be there to receive the patient?" she asked, looking around. Runa said there would be.

  It was twilight out. The tourists were gone, but wouldn’t the resident Yeoman Warders and their families be awestruck by a floating stretcher, let alone an occupied one? I didn’t have a chance to ask the medics, but I'm sure they had training for that sort of thing. Unless of course, placing BrainSweeping Charms on the Tower’s inhabitants was common practice.

  The question must have been written across my face because Rafi explained, "They use a Concealing Charm to blur the stretcher from view."

  "I should go assist," Dr. Dunwiddle said. "In the meantime, seal this area off, I’ll need to come back and inspect it to see if I can detect any sign of the portal Tobey was sent through." Then, with a forced smile straining her lips, she told Busby, "I’ve no doubt Tobey will be up and eager for visitors within the hour."

  7 - DEMANDS & ANNES

  LET ME JUST be clear, Runa’s chipper tone did not instill confidence in me or in Mr. Tenpenny. Before I could ask if Mr. T wanted to grab some tea, or perhaps an entire cake, Chester bumbled up to us.

  "His ribs?" Rafi asked.

  "He has all of them. Humans have thirty-nine, right?"

  "Twenty-four, I believe," said Rafi. Mr. T now looked painfully worried.

  "Ah well, I'm sure he has all of those."

  "But were any of those ribs broken?" demanded Busby. "Was he injured?"

  "No, a few bruises and knocked out, but he's all in one piece. Inside and out."

  Busby’s shoulders drained of tension.

  "Then what were you doing?" asked Rafi. "Your hands, his ribs. Were you pract
icing the xylophone?"

  "Just checking. I—" Chester abruptly cut himself off and smacked his palm to his forehead so hard I expected to see a dent in his brow.

  "I was supposed to give you a note." He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt cuff. "Should I give it to Mr. Olivia?"

  Rafi’s face tensed. He looked to Mr. Tenpenny who was eyeing Chester warily.

  "No, hand it over. We'll take care of it. Good work, Chester."

  "Thanks, Mr. Rafi." Chester made his goodbyes, and once he’d left, Rafi glanced between me and Mr. T.

  "Read it. What are you waiting for?" I said.

  "Someone's become demanding," Rafi said churlishly as he unfolded the note. He then read aloud:

  To HQ, I'm returning this pointless pile of flesh—

  "Bit rude that." I suppose it might seem so, but clearly Rafi hadn't spent much time with Tobey.

  "Rafi, please," Mr. Tenpenny pleaded. "This is most unusual. Where did Chester get this note from? I don’t like that he said he was supposed to give it to us. But I would like to hear what it contains. Without commentary," he added.

  Rafi began again:

  I'm returning this pointless piece of flesh in a show of good faith. In exchange, I ask you to hand over Cassie Black. I know you can barely stand her, but to me she's quite valuable.

  I want her. You don't. It should be a simple deal but I'm sure you'll find some excuse to make it difficult.

  So, to help you in your decision making, as a sort of catalyst, shall we say, I will bring destruction on one major city every second day until you hand her over. You have two days before the first tower tumbles.

  —Yours truly, Devin Kilbride

  "Tower? Does he mean the Tower?" I asked.

  "No, he wouldn't strike HQ without getting possession of you first. But this is concerning," said Mr. Tenpenny.

  "Understatement of the century," Rafi said, exactly what I’d been thinking. Despite Morelli’s sarcasm, I wondered if we might not have been separated at birth.

  "Enough with the jokes," Mr. T said irritably. "Were you not listening to what Olivia and I just told you? The death of the Mauvais will only take back thirteen D-spells. And here we have him stating quite clearly he intends to perform D.E.A.D. Magic. And to likely perform it more than once. If he makes good on this threat, if he performs more than just a few destructive spells, it pushes Simon and Chloe out of range."

  "And it’s also concerning because you don't want to hand me over to him?" I prodded questioningly.

  "Yes, of course," he said, a bit too dismissively for my comfort level. "Look, I need to take this to Olivia. At least it will occupy me until I can check in on Tobey."

  "If he's physically well, I'm sure he'll be back on his feet soon," said Rafi. "It's lucky for him he’s a Norm. Makes him useless to the Mauvais."

  "Have either of you forgotten Tobey isn't the only missing person?" I pointed to the note. "Is there any hint in there about Alastair?"

  Rafi shook his head and my heart felt like it had been freeze-dried then pulverized into dust, leaving behind a hollow space in my chest.

  Mr. T took the note from Rafi and strode wordlessly from the room. Rafi arched an eyebrow at me.

  "So you decided you do care about him despite what I saw in your head?"

  "I'm still uncertain, but that doesn't mean I want the Mauvais tormenting him."

  "But why would the Mauvais torment someone who’s supposedly on his side?" Rafi teased.

  "Don't annoy me with your logic, or I'll conjure another unicorn and sic it on you."

  "Fair enough." He glanced down at himself. "I suppose I can’t run around like this all day. I best get dressed." Leaving him to it, I headed toward the armory’s entry. I’d barely gone three steps before Rafi called after me, "Still, I think you like him deep down in that icy little heart of yours."

  I flung a Spark Spell at him, but he was already racing away, clutching his towel as he ran.

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke with my mind swimming in a list of chores that needed tackled: tame my magic, save Alastair, save the world, have breakfast.

  Since eating was a task I could complete without any trouble, and since the waffles topped with strawberries that appeared while I was getting dressed sent my stomach growling with anticipation, I decided breakfast was the day’s first order of business. Once I’d eaten all but a small crumb of waffle, I headed down to wander the grounds of the Tower of London just as the tourists started marching through the entry gates.

  Less than a minute after stepping outside, my phone pinged its incoming messages. The first few were from Mr. Wood. While I was thrilled to see his leg had already been freed of its cast, I was not thrilled to read about Daisy taking readily to her job duties. A quick learner, hard worker, and unable to accidentally wake the dead? How soon would it be before I received a text from Mr. Wood telling me to find a new job? Then again, by next week I might be brain-drained and wouldn’t have to worry about unemployment. Or anything, for that matter. Look at me finding the bright side of things!

  I sent Mr. Wood a quick note reminding him not to push his recovery too quickly, to pay attention to his physical therapist, and not to eat too much bacon. All advice I was sure would be ignored. I didn’t comment on the Daisy situation.

  The next texts were from Lola. One expressing in all caps and plenty of celebratory emojis her utter joy over me finding my parents. The next was in all lowercase letters with an array of frowny-face and storm cloud emojis over the loss of Alastair and Tobey. Seeing it written out cast a new layer of angst over me.

  But, before I could get too morose, I scrolled down to see Pablo with the caption: I could use a vacation. Somehow, Lola had wrangled him into a Carmen Miranda-style fruit hat and a grass skirt. He was sitting next to a margarita (a catnip margarita? I wondered) and the background was something straight out of a tropical islands wall calendar.

  I texted back that it looked like he already was on vacation. I didn’t have the heart to respond to her other two texts.

  I strode away to get out of the shadow of the White Tower and into the morning sunshine — yes, London does have sunshine…occasionally. I’d just gotten my phone back into my pocket when Winston swooped down to the ground to hop alongside me.

  This sort of behavior would normally have sent tourists flocking so they could prove to their Facebook friends that Tower ravens were perfectly tame. But Winston was a ghost raven. In my nervous chatter on the way to fetch my parents, I’d asked Mr. T about him. Apparently, the bird is visible only to the dead such as Busby and Nigel, a select few of the Yeomen Warders, and yours truly. It would be interesting to learn why that is. Maybe I could add it to my lesson plans. You know, as soon as I figured out how to thwart an evil wizard and avoid getting extracted.

  Not long after Winston showed up, a chill tickled along my arms just before Nigel appeared beside me. Winston immediately crouched down and, with a burst from his spindly bird legs and a single flap of his sleek wings, leapt to perch on Nigel’s shoulder. Since Nigel was also not visible to the Norm observer, I got out my phone and put it to my ear so I wouldn’t look like I was talking to myself.

  "Is it true?" Nigel asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet with glee. "Did you find them?"

  I momentarily wondered who Nigel heard his gossip from. The gnomes? Other Magics? Ghostly intuition? I then chided myself. He’d been friends with my mom when she’d come to London to hunt down the Mauvais. I should have told him the news about my parents straight away.

  "I did. They’re not doing very well, but maybe Runa will let you in to see them."

  "Oh, that would be delightful. Do you think she’ll recognize me?"

  "Nigel, I don’t think she recognizes herself right now. She’s been through a lot," I said, my throat catching on the final words.

  "Well, I’m sure she will recover nicely. And you,
I hear you got in a bit of a scrape."

  "That's putting it mildly. I lost two people."

  "But one’s back now. That’s good." I gave him a sidelong look. "Isn’t it?"

  "When we’re talking about people, a fifty percent reduction in how many are still lost isn't seen as a real improvement."

  "No, when you put it that way, I suppose not. But," he continued, his voice changing from empathy to tour guide positivity, "speaking of missing people, did you know Anne Frank hid here during World War II?"

  "She didn’t," I corrected as Winston shook his gleaming black head.