The Untangled Cassie Black

by Tammie Painter

  A faint amount of light trickled in from whatever was beyond the room. I glanced around. Yep. There was the wood-beamed ceiling. Looking around a bit more as I gathered my nerve, I noticed the walls were brick, not stone as Tobey had described. However, the floor was hard-packed dirt, and the only exit from the room, other than going back through the portal, was an arched doorway.

  And it was that archway that struck a memory. I’d seen this place. In my picture book of Portland history, the very book I’d been flipping through only a few nights previous, had been the archway I now faced.

  The portal had taken me to the Shanghai Tunnels, located in Portland’s downtown barely a few miles from my apartment. Not having extra cash to play tourist in my own hometown, I’d never visited the Tunnels. They’d been used during the late 1800s and even into the early 1900s for illegally moving newly (and often unwittingly) recruited men to waiting ships. Taken most often from taverns where the men had been knocked out thanks to a little something extra in their beers, the men would then be tricked into signing on to become the lowest of the low on board a ship. By the time they came to, they were far out to sea. Portland once had the worst reputation in the world for this naval trickery.

  I tiptoed toward the arch, my fingers tingling with pulses of magic ready to zap out and wallop whatever might be beyond it.

  Peering around the edge, the room led out onto a long tunnel, rough-hewn as if it had been carved out of the bedrock. Doors were set at regular intervals, giving the impression I was loitering in the corridor of a hotel of horrors.

  Which, come to think of it, I might very well be.

  Unlike the dark room where I’d come out at, this tunnel was faintly lit by a string of white Christmas lights whose tiny bulbs were as faded as a pair of designer jeans from the 1980s. But one room at the end of the hallway glowed with the unnatural brightness of a flood light.

  As I crept closer, I began to make out the sound of men’s voices and a chill of deja vu ran up my spine. One voice, haughty and cocksure, belonged to the Mauvais. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tone was enough for me to know he was gloating about something.

  I reached the doorway, halted, and caught my breath. My heart raced in my chest like that of a high-strung Chihuahua who’s just been given a syringe full of pure adrenaline.

  Alastair had spoken.

  Alastair was alive.

  "She’ll never fall for it," he said. He sounded awful. Tired, in pain, and as if he could use a large glass of water. Or maybe gin. Still, the voice carried a sense of defiance, a sense that he still had some fight in him. My first instinct was to run in, throw my arms around him, and tell him I’d been an absolute idiot for ever doubting him.

  My legs twitched. They were ready. They wanted to go in and do some rescuing. But Sergeant Brain was in command and ordered my limbs to take only the smallest, most cautious steps. My legs, although itching for the signal to charge, obeyed and moved only far enough to allow me to peek into the room.

  The Mauvais’s back was to me. Hey, a girl’s got to have some luck now and then, right? Alastair, facing the direction of the doorway, was bound to a slim concrete post that didn’t look sturdy enough to hold up a starved kitten, let alone provide support for the wood-beamed ceiling and all the ground above us. Perhaps feeling my heavy stare, Alastair glanced up and met my eye. He immediately looked away.

  But not quickly enough.

  "So she’s here, is she?" the Mauvais purred.

  The second the taunting words came out of the Mauvais’s mouth, I knew I shouldn’t have hesitated. I should have come in with spells a’blazing and taken him out. Stupid caution.

  From down the tunnel, I picked up a crackling sound. My distraction was just enough for the Mauvais to have his chance. A Binding Spell tighter than any of the ones Alastair had ever used on me slapped my arms to my sides. The invisible rope then jerked me forward. I struggled back, not because I thought I could escape, but because it was the only way to maintain my balance.

  Just as my feet figured out how to follow along with the demanding tug, something like a cold, sweaty hand pressed over my mouth. There was nothing there. There was no true pressure against my skin, but I couldn’t move my lips. Clever that. Magics can use arm or hand motions to perform a spell, or we can speak the name of the charm. I was now unable to do either.

  With my arms and mouth stifled, a sense of powerlessness washed over me. Magics can of course, mentally conjure a spell, but there’s nothing like fearing for your life to really mess with your focus in that regard. Somewhere deep inside I knew if I could just concentrate, I could work up a hex. But the binding shook my confidence and eroded away my magical dexterity.

  The Mauvais — pretending he was reeling in an imaginary leash as he strode up to me — wore a casual air, as if we were two friends and this was just a chance encounter on the city street.

  "So good to see you again, Miss Black. I was told you’d come today. I said, ‘She won’t fall for it’, but you did."

  And there it was. Realization hit me like an elephant’s trunk smacking me across the head.

  "The portal wasn’t from Morelli, was it?" I asked, just to confirm what a fool I was.

  Devin Kilbride laughed as if truly amused by my stupidity.

  "Hardly. Oh, he can make one, but not that quick. Takes real magic for such speedy work. I suppose you’ve come to fulfill that prophecy." I hadn’t. Not really. I’d come for Alastair. I’d hoped to get him, get out, and send in the troops. "How charming of you."

  On the final words the Mauvais’s face changed from that of someone doling out pleasantries to a hyena about ready to dip his muzzle into a fallen antelope. Without any warning, he yanked me to him. I staggered, not only from the sudden motion, but because of the odd slope to the floor. My captor then gave a snap of his fingers and his Binding Spell wrapped around my legs. The only thing that kept me from toppling over was the Mauvais snatching his hand out and grabbing me by the hair.

  With my legs hobbled, I couldn’t kick out, I couldn’t find purchase with my feet which scraped across the dirt floor of the uneven, unfinished underground space as he dragged me across the room.

  On my unwilling journey, during which my scalp felt like every strand of hair might snap, I passed Alastair. I could barely move my head, but out of the corner of my eye I caught a brief glimpse of him, feebly fighting against his own bonds and shouting my name in his hoarse, in-need-of-a-drink voice.

  I don’t know what I expected. Death? Torture? My mind was running a marathon race of possible scenarios. With my head restrained by the Mauvais’s grip on my hair and the position he’d thrown me in, I could see little of where I’d landed myself.

  What I can tell you is the room was bigger than the one I’d entered. If these tunnels held storage spaces, this must have been the main loading area. It was vast, and once past the main area where Alastair was still grinding my name through his throat, the ceiling arched up like an airplane hangar. Not that big, of course, but tall enough that if the Mauvais, a big man who was at least ten inches taller than me, stretched his arms up, his fingers would only just scrape the ceiling.

  Finally, the Mauvais threw me out of his grasp. My follicles screamed with joy at the sudden release, and my hair felt six inches longer from his pulling on it. My eyes had teared up from the sheer agony, but with my arms still bound I could only wipe the moisture away by tucking my face into my shoulder and scrubbing my cheeks against my shirt.

  The sense of relief abruptly halted when the Mauvais called off his Binding Spell. Normally, that would have been a good thing, but before I could register my release, before I could whip up a Stunning Spell, before the blood could fully return to my fingertips, the Mauvais jerked me to my feet and spun me around.

  It was only then I realized I wasn’t fully free of his Binding Spell. He’d only loosened it. It had been so tight, even a slight easing had
seemed like freedom.

  But I didn’t have time to dwell on whether or not I could punch with my arms or kick with my legs. My entire core had filled with ice because I knew the object he’d turned me toward was meant for me.

  40 - THE CONTRAPTION

  THE CONTRAPTION — FOR lack of a better term — looked like something straight out of an old sci-fi comic in which the mad scientist plans to employ various evil experiments to alter his victim’s brain.

  It was a sort of chair, like a cross between an electric chair and the dentist’s chair Tobey had mentioned. Above it dangled a metal skull cap with electrodes poking out. At the arm rests and at the front legs, from which metal foot plates stuck out, were thick leather cuffs with heavy buckles.

  From the cuffs, which were positioned to fit around the wrist, sprouted a twisting tangle of electrodes. These wires and the wires from the skull cap snaked up to two coils behind the chair that twined a double-helix around one another. One of the coils was black, the other bright red. The black one had a minus symbol on it. The red bore a plus symbol. And, bizarrely innocent, next to and attached to the machine with a thick cord was what looked like a gumball dispenser complete with a round, glass top and red metal base.

  With the Binding Spell eased, the Mauvais grabbed me by the upper arm and threw me into the chair. My spine slammed against the stiff back rest, sending jolts of pain into my already sensitive scalp.

  I squirmed like a lizard. I fought against his magic. I kicked, landing a good blow somewhere to the Mauvais’s body. The Mauvais cried out, then glowered at me. With a flick of his fingers, the leather straps slapped over my wrists and ankles, and the buckles cinched those damn cuffs down so tight that any amount of struggle — or water retention — risked cutting off my circulation.

  "Let her go," Alastair protested. He was breathing hard with the effort of speech.

  "Or what?" the Mauvais asked Alastair, then turned back to me. "Don’t expect any help from your knight in dirt-stained armor over there. He’s been a wonderful partner in all this." The Mauvais flicked his fingers, creating a few sparks that he sent flying at my face. They smelled of chocolate. Of raspberries.

  So Devin had taken some of Alastair’s power. What had he done with it? Simply given the contraption a jump start? Or worse?

  "Did you use his magic for those attacks?" I seethed. The very idea that Alastair’s magic had been the power behind the destruction of any of those cities stoked the fire of fury within me.

  "Of course not," the Mauvais scoffed, as if offended. "That was all thanks to the packets of your power my colleague has brought me. But you know how good Allie is at tinkering. He’s been instrumental in the creation of this beauty." He swept his arm out toward the chair like someone presenting a prize package on a game show.

  "And what exactly does this thing do?"

  "Draining the conventional way requires too much cooperation. This," he said, tapping the skull cap so it rang, "is so much more efficient. And it works well for extractions too." He glanced over and grinned at Alastair. Had the Mauvais extracted Alastair? That would explain why he hadn’t attempted a single spell since I’d arrived. But no, Alastair recognized me. He’d spoken in complete sentences.

  "You didn’t extract him. If you had, he’d be a magical moron."

  "Like your parents? I know girls like men who remind them of their fathers, but that’s taking it a bit far, don’t you think?" He glanced over his shoulder. "No, you’re right. He’s not extracted, but I’ve drained him to the point that it will take years for him to regain his magic. And it is a good magic." He smacked his lips like a sommelier salivating over a fine vintage.

  The Mauvais leaned over me, both hands on the arm rests. Even though the ankle straps were pressing my calves into the chair, I jerked my leg in a vain attempt to knee him in the groin. He laughed at my efforts. And on the breath carrying that laugh I caught another whiff of chocolate and raspberries underneath his smoky cinnamon aroma.

  "Why did you need his magic if you had mine?"

  "Delivery schedules were unreliable. Then Runa started having you fill all those absorbing capsules and I’ve been receiving a steady supply of power ever since." Runa? Runa was the traitor? Even if she wasn’t my best friend, I couldn’t believe it was her. But hadn’t she encouraged me to fill capsule after capsule? Capsules that soon went missing?

  Oh, hold that thought. The evil wizard is still blathering.

  "The capsules were delightful, but before that, I needed top ups, and Alastair kindly provided them. Now I hear a big hit of your magic is on the way. I wasn’t sure about an extraction, but my colleague thinks it’s the best course. Just rip it right out of you and bring it to me to play with. I wonder if she would have gift-wrapped it," he mused. "But you’ve come to me. Even better. Now, watch."

  And before I could ask, "Watch what?" the Mauvais snapped his fingers and my body went rigid. Holy hell, this is an electric chair, was my first thought. But then I recognized the buzzing, sucking sensation. The switch went off and my body relaxed. Until Kilbride turned a dial and the fluid in the coils began bubbling along. Something flowed through me, giving the feeling of being filled with warm liquid on one side of my body and cold liquid on the other as the coils began to glow.

  A tugging and pulling sensation screeched across my skin. I knew the feeling from my test with Banna. Magic was being yanked from me, through my very pores. I tried to conjure a membrane. No, not tried, I did manage a membrane, but whatever made the chair work was too strong. I could slow the flow, but I couldn’t stop it.

  Fiona, Runa, and Mr. Tenpenny would be thrilled to know their theory had been right on the mark.

  See, not long after I’d found out I was Magic they’d warned me that if the Mauvais ever caught me, he might turn me into a magic battery.

  Thanks to my ability to absorb and to give, as well as my magic’s super-charged ability to rapidly regenerate itself within my cells, I wasn’t your standard, landfill-polluting battery, but an eco-friendly, rechargeable one. Even if I did start to wear down — if you weren’t the kind of wizard who handed out cake, that is — all you would need to do to recharge me is put another Magic near me and I’d be able to suck his or her power dry and make it my own. Do that on a regular cycle and I’d become a superconductor. I suppose that would have been nice if I was being used to power a third world village, but I don’t think the Mauvais was much for humanitarian efforts.

  I don’t quite know how the chair worked or how it could be so powerful. I mean, it’s not like anyone gave me an instruction manual or schematic so I could read about the mechanical marvel that was to be my doom. What I do know is the Mauvais soon shut it off, and a moment later something plinked against the gumball machine’s metal downspout.

  The Mauvais reached over then showed me his prize. An absorbing capsule, pulsating with a purple glow. He clasped the capsule in his hand, squeezing tight, a good old, evil-villain grin on his lips, and when he next held up the capsule, the purple glow had faded to red. He’d taken in my magic. This must have been how he had taken Alastair’s magic. Alastair had been the guinea pig for the contraption.

  "You can’t keep that up. You’ll eventually drain me. To the point of no return, like you did to Alastair." I had to hope the Mauvais didn’t know just how strong my magic was and how quickly it could replenish itself.

  "Oh, I can. As soon as you start to tire, I’ve got an IV with a sugar solution ready for you. And if you resist that procedure, I will bring in any Magic who refuses to kneel to me. Maybe I’ll start with that landlord of yours. Hook him up, throw the right switch on this little treasure, and your absorbing trait will have you taking in any power within a ten-foot radius. "Want a demonstration?"

  The Mauvais took a single step toward Alastair. Alastair was already drained. If I took any more of his magic, it risked leaving him extracted.

  "No, I believe you. Why are you doing
this?" I spit out the question, hoping to buy a little time. For what, I had no idea, but if movies and books were anything to go by, evil folks just loved to talk about themselves. Devin Kilbride proved to be no exception.

  "Because I want control. I want everyone to acknowledge my importance, my destiny to lead all Magics. The best way to do that is to create chaos. Because if you churn up things, cause instability, spread fear, people turn to whoever will take charge. I," he said magnanimously, "will take that charge. I will demand respect."

  "So, all this is an ego boost?" I asked.

  "Ego fuels magic. Fear saps it. The more fear I generate in the world, the more they need me, and the stronger I become. It’s an amazing high, I’ll tell you that. You will serve to feed that high. Doesn’t that make you feel important? Useful?" he said with a rather maniacal gleam in his eye.

  "Prophecy," Alastair breathed. The word barely audible.