The Untangled Cassie Black

by Tammie Painter

  Nigel disappeared once more. Surprisingly, he hadn’t been wrong and I did find the pool behind the maintenance door. And down a long set of stairs.

  Rather than being dungeon-themed (slightly disappointing), the pool’s low-lit windowless, underground room had a Roman vibe going on. The side walls were painted with trompe l’oeil columns, and the far wall featured Roman mosaics depicting Neptune hanging out with dolphins and mermaids. The pool itself, lit with underwater lights that made the water sparkle, was large enough to have held Kensington Palace with room to spare.

  I was relieved to see no one else was bobbing around, leaving me the chance to ponder in peace about what Tobey had suggested. Could I build a portal? Obviously, I’d never tried, but why shouldn’t I be able to? If a feather could be moved by imagining its atoms drifting apart, couldn’t you just imagine your own atoms drifting away from each other and ending up somewhere else?

  And if all the atoms don’t make it? a voice warned in my head.

  A shiver ran through me. Loosening a feather’s atoms briefly enough to shift them from one end of a table to the other was nowhere near the same as hurtling a human from one country to another, or even one building to another. No, regrouping an entire human in the proper arrangement wasn’t something to go experimenting with.

  But if others knew how, then it had to be something you could learn. Which meant there must be information on building a portal somewhere. And where do people go who need information? Well, people who need information that can’t be found with a well-worded Internet search.

  "Is there a library here?" I called. Nigel gives off a certain presence. It’s a slight chill, but not a miserable, wintry one, more like the refreshing coolness of a summer breeze. I knew he’d followed me to the pool area. I suppose that should be creepy, but with traitors and evil wizards in the world, it did provide a sense of calm knowing someone was watching out for me. Although, if push came to shove, I did worry if Nigel might not get confused as to who he was meant to protect and who he was meant to fight.

  "Yes, there is," Nigel said enthusiastically just before he popped into view in the pool’s water about twenty feet away from me. His grey hair was tucked up in a rubbery swim cap, and instead of his typical Beefeaters’ uniform, he had on a striped tank top tucked into high-waisted swim trunks that reminded me of something from a Sears catalog circa 1932. He dog paddled up to me. "It’s in the part where they keep the crown jewels."

  "Seriously? Are you sure that’s right, Nigel?" It was a fair question. I mean, the guy had recently been certain Druids built the White Tower, and had marveled that Henry the Eighth was more than just a song that got easily stuck in your head.

  "You really think all that security is for jewelry? Fake jewelry at that."

  "It’s fake?" I asked doubtfully, swimming a lazy breaststroke to the side of the pool as Nigel paddled alongside me. Being a ghost, his movements never stirred the water; his upper torso and head just sort of floated through, which I have to say looked really disturbing.

  "Mostly. And before you start doubting old Nigel, this information is correct because I heard it from the other Yeoman Warders. There are a few real pieces and the metal is actually gold and silver, but most of the stones are nothing more than colored glass given an extra little—" he waggled his fingers, "—sparkle."

  "You know we don’t waggle our fingers like that, right?" He shrugged. "So why the security if they’re fake."

  "Well, it does give people the sense that they’re seeing something extraordinary, doesn’t it? But the security’s really in place to watch over the library located behind the display. Some of the books are far more valuable than those silly crowns."

  "Can I go in?"

  "Certainly, you’re a Magic. It’s only off limits to Norms. Are you looking for something in particular?"

  "I need to research something," I said as I pulled myself out of the pool then used a Drying Spell to evaporate the water from my suit and hair. "Speaking of libraries, I’ve got a book to show you, if you’re interested. Later, though."

  "Yes, later, it’s a nice overcast day and I’ll be needed."

  "What’s the weather have to do with it?"

  Nigel floated out of the pool. As he did, the swim cap, top, and trunks morphed back into his Yeoman Warder regalia. At least he wouldn’t be wandering around in wet clothes, I thought as I pulled my skirt up over my now-dry swimsuit.

  "My haunting tasks with the other Yeoman Warders, of course. Sunny days are never scary, but the dark clouds lend a certain atmosphere to the rooms that’s just perfect for a spot of fun with the tourists. In fact, Thomas still owes me a beer for that group of Japanese tourists who—"

  "Wait," I said, stopping in mid-stroke as I brushed my hair. "You can drink beer?"

  "Thank goodness, yes."

  28 - IN THE LBRARY

  THE WATERLOO BARRACKS, where the Crown Jewels are housed, are situated almost directly across from where the Magics’ door into the White Tower stands. Despite my time in the Tower of London, I’d yet to take a peek at the sparkly royal wonders. I suppose getting tricked by an evil wizard and rescuing a pair of parental units really does eat into your time.

  The entrance, above which was a large clock, was flanked by a pair of crenellated towers and watched over by two Tower Guards complete with red jackets and tall, black, furry hats. The line to get in was predictably long, but as it was already past midday and the clouds were rolling in, the line wasn’t as thick as I’d seen it at other times. Most visitors had likely already "done" the Tower and were now cramming in five more must-see London sights before the day was through.

  When I finally stepped up to the entrance, both guards — without breaking their rigid stance — pulled a quick intake of breath through their nostrils. They looked at me, turning their heads less than a millimeter to do so. The one on the left gave the smallest nod.

  "The library?" I asked.

  "Behind the coronation robe. You’ll see a door," he said through tight lips that barely moved. Wondering if the guard might find future work as a ventriloquist, I entered into a darkened display room where I moved with the group ahead of me past a glassed-in, strategically-lit exhibit of crowns and necklaces and loads of shiny objects I’d bet the ravens would love to get their talons on.

  Once past the main bit of bling, I headed toward a tall display case that held a bulky, goldenrod, cloak-like garment that was elaborately embroidered with gold thread. I walked around to the back of the glass display case as if taking in the coronation robe from all angles. Then, instead of looping back around to the front, I dragged my fingers along the wall, feeling for a knob or a latch. My hand discovered a small indentation similar to a handhold for a sliding closet door.

  I gave a little tug and discovered it was a pocket door that slid into a recess in the wall. I ducked in before anyone else came along. Closing the door behind me, I found myself in a cavernous room lined with books on shelves that stretched at least, I’m not kidding, seven stories high. As there were no ladders to slide along the stacks, I wondered if this was where I’d finally discover that, yes, Magics do use broomsticks to get about.

  "Holy hell," I muttered, taking it all in.

  "Shhh," hissed a voice. I glanced down to see a very round, very lumpy person (and I use the term person in the loosest manner possible). It was staring up at me. Dwarf was the first thing that came to mind. Tricksy hobbit was the second. "They can hear you in here even if they can’t see you," it whispered sharply. "Are you looking for something?"

  "A book," I said, because I simply can’t resist a bit of sarcasm.

  "Oh good, American wit."

  It watched me impatiently.

  "I’m supposed to do a paper on portals. Got anything about them?"

  "Of course I do," it said as if these books were the creature’s own possessions. "But are you studying portal geography, a history of portals, p
ortals in magic literature? You can’t just say you need a book on portals and expect me to know what you’re after."

  "Is there a card catalog?" I asked because clearly I’d disturbed this being who probably didn’t know the words customer service existed.

  "I am the card catalog," it said haughtily.

  "Maybe the physics of portals? The nitty gritty of how portals function."

  "Yes, you’ll want the technical section. One moment."

  And then the tricksy hobbit/dwarf thing stretched out and wriggled a long, segmented body up and along one of the support posts to a spot on the third level where it snatched five books. Then, moving head first, it slithered back down, squished itself into its original squat and lumpy form, and waddled up to me, clutching the books like newly discovered treasure.

  I couldn’t help it. I gaped at the thing.

  "Are you a—"

  "A bookworm, yes. From a very long line."

  The creature prodding me with the books was the only thing that kept me from snorting with laughter at the unintended pun.

  "You may take these to the tables there." It pointed to an open area where a single long table with green-shaded reading lamps stood.

  "I can’t check them out?"

  "Were you granted a special card to do so?"

  "Can I apply for one?"

  It gave a long, exasperated sigh.

  "The tables. Bring the books to my desk when you’re done. And no eating or drinking in this room."

  I know I should have been jumping right into my research, but for at least the first ten minutes I was too distracted by the bookworm’s movements to look at a single page. When it wasn’t getting books, the thing walked on two very stubby legs, dragging a stumpy tail behind it. When it was retrieving and shelving books, its body stretched and lengthened as it wriggled upward and downward amongst the stacks. It was an off-putting sight and I could see why bookworms might have been kept behind locked magical doors.

  I studied the books for a couple hours, jotting down notes, occasionally being disturbed (mentally) by the whispering sound of the bookworm’s actions, and getting a general idea of how portals were made. A very general idea. Like reading a recipe for bread that included the ingredients but no instructions.

  Unable to focus, my thoughts drifted to the Mauvais. And for some reason to the cities he’d targeted. On my notepad, I kept writing the names of the cities.

  Pisa.

  Tacoma.

  Were those the places he’d gone? It didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t be so obvious, would he? But they couldn’t just be random. There had to be meaning behind what he was doing. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  Pisa.

  Tacoma.

  And then the world from the pyramids to the tower. Which was annoyingly vague.

  As I flipped through a book on the history of the physics of portals (written in academically-dull language), I scribbled the letters P and T. Pisa. Tacoma. Did P and T mean anything?

  P.T.

  Barnum? Was Devin Kilbride going to strike a circus?

  T.P.

  Toilet paper? Were all port-a-potties in danger?

  The frustration with my brain’s inability to have a Eureka! moment was compounded by the lack of a portal recipe spelled out for me step by step on the pages before me. I gave up and put the books back on the worm’s desk.

  Hoping to avoid speaking to the odd librarian again, I’d waited to make my move until it had been slithering around. But the moment it saw me at the desk, its body snapped together, zipping itself back to me. After telling me to wait, it rubbed its squat, knobby hands over each book.

  "All looks in order. You may go."

  I made my way out of the building, thinking I’d never been so happy to leave a library. The Tower grounds now sat under a heavy bank of clouds as steely grey as Mr. Tenpenny’s hair. Despite the clouds, the outside world was intensely brighter than either the bookworm’s realm or the gallery that held the crown jewels. As such, I stood a moment, blinking my eyes.

  A moment later, when my eyes finally adjusted, my happiness died.

  It was the shirt. A stupid t-shirt that sent me rushing toward the White Tower.

  29 - CONNECTING THE DOTS

  SEE, WHEN MY eyes had adjusted, a tour group was being guided along by a Yeoman Warder who looked like he’d had just about enough of humans for the day. Sauntering along at the back of the herd and wearing a look of utter boredom was a teenage girl with straight, bleached-to-white hair streaked with blue. She wore a black t-shirt with a pair of dice placed strategically across her flat chest and the words Viva Las Vegas underneath.

  She must have sensed me staring because she turned her face toward me then rolled her eyes before continuing to trail along.

  Vegas.

  From tower to pyramid.

  He was going to hit Las Vegas. Specifically the Strip from the Luxor’s pyramid to the Paris! Paris! casino’s scaled down Eiffel Tower. How had we missed such an obvious clue?

  That’s when I started running toward the White Tower. I don’t know what I thought the Magics could do. Stop time? Send up an emergency evacuation order for Sin City? Actually go after the Mauvais? Oh gee, there’s an idea.

  I’d barely taken three steps when Mr. Tenpenny came rushing up to me.

  "He’s going to hit—" I blurted, but Mr. T was already talking over me.

  "Nigel told me you’d be here. It’s—" Only then did I notice how drawn and ashen his face was. "I can’t believe even he would do this. Come, get inside."

  He placed his hand in the small of my back and nudged me forward as if I wouldn’t get moving unless he gave me a boost. He then, in stuttering sentences, half of which were cut off by declarations of indignant disbelief, told me what had happened.

  I’d been right. But I’d been right too late.

  The Strip, that long line of casinos, some of which take up more real estate than an entire city block, had collapsed into what reporters were calling a sinkhole, but what Mr. T swore, from the footage he’d seen, had been a fissure created by the ground pulling apart.

  "That could be natural, couldn’t it? Earthquake territory and all that?" I asked, making stupid excuses even I didn’t believe.

  "It’s too perfect. The line of destruction is too straight and it goes exactly from the Luxor to the Paris. It’s him."

  "But that’s awfully strong magic, isn’t it? I mean, we’re talking about ripping apart the earth itself. You said he wasn’t that strong."

  "He’s not. Or at least, he shouldn’t be. It’s got to be someone here. Olivia is fuming," he said as we entered the White Tower. A chill that had nothing to do with ghosts or clouds or stony interiors crept over my skin.

  "She’s going to push for my extraction, isn’t she? I mean, she can’t possibly let this continue."

  "I don’t know, Cassie. Keep in mind, while you’re the prize, he also wants us all to submit to him. If we extract you, is that any guarantee he’ll stop, or will he keep striking out of revenge? No, we have to find him. We have to stop him for good this time. But without the portal scans— Oh, I’m not supposed to tell you that." He was speaking in the quick, choppy sentences of someone who was clearly flustered. "But what’s it matter if I tell you now? The scans may have gone missing. They’re our best clue to where he might be. If they are gone, I honestly don’t know how we’re going to find him," he said with pained irritability.

  "But the traitor? Find that person and they have to know where Kilbride is."

  "Yes, but we’re running out of time. If Kilbride casts three more D-spells, Simon and Chloe…" He trailed off, but I knew what he meant. The Mauvais had now cast eleven D-spells. Only thirteen could be reversed. Two more spells, and there’d still be a chance, but three more spells meant my parents would be out of range. There would be no easy recovery for them. And with Runa’s con
tinued setbacks, possibly no recovery at all. As we turned onto the hallway that led to Olivia’s office, he switched to a whisper. "She’s making a decision tomorrow."

  "But the tribunal."

  "She’s dug up a little-used rule that says, in an emergency situation, she has the authority to override the tribunal. I’m sorry. I have argued your case, but with Pisa, Tacoma, and now Las Vegas, if he plans to strike again in two days, she’s going to want to act before that."

  We remained silent as we continued down the hall, but my mind was racing, repeating the cities over and over again. What would be next? Had he delivered a clue with this one? Was there a pattern?