The Uncanny Raven Winston

by Tammie Painter

  "How?" I asked, remembering the letter from HQ mentioning the same thing.

  "Because he had placed the majority of his magic into it."

  "Why would he do that? Seems a bit risky if you know people are after it."

  "The watch contains, or used to contain, a great deal of power. And as you’ve seen," Busby flourished his hands to indicate himself, "it has some rather unique qualities. But the watch’s key feature is to amplify any magical strength put into it. By storing his magic in the timepiece and taking out only what he needed as he needed it, he was continually strengthening, enhancing his power."

  "Okay, but he didn’t have the watch when he made himself into Vivian. If he didn’t have much magic in him, how did he do the Morphing Charm?"

  Mr. T shrugged his shoulders. "He had to be getting power from another Magic. Not a great deal. Just enough to maintain the spell. It was always suspected he might be working with someone, possibly someone in HQ. That someone could have transfused him with power. But another person’s power isn’t as, I don’t know, sticky for lack of a better word. It’s like wearing someone else’s shoes. They just don’t fit right. He wants, he needs his own magic to return to full strength. Magic that is now in you. Magic that, because you have some giving qualities, could be taken from you and passed to him without your even knowing it."

  "Then why did you tell me about HQ’s request in the first place? Do you suddenly think their message is fake?"

  Worry gripped my mind. Alastair. How had he memorized such a long letter so quickly? Why did he really want me to go to London?

  "No, the letter they sent is official," Fiona said. The hand of worry eased its hold slightly. "We’ve verified it hasn’t been tampered with and it came on proper HQ stationery. But it is a danger to you, to everyone, to have you closer to the Mauvais than necessary."

  "That’s assuming he’s there. The last time I saw him, he was limping down the streets of Portland on broken stilettos."

  "He could have gone back to where he feels a connection to his past," said Fiona.

  "A couple days ago you were all keen for me to go. When I didn’t want to, you weren’t happy. Now that I do want to go, you’re acting like you don’t want me to. You guys send some serious mixed signals."

  "We do want you to go," Dr. Dunwiddle said. "And not because we’re trying to get rid of you, so lock that snappy retort inside your lips. But there are risks you should be aware of." She gave a meaningfully hard stare at Busby. He glanced away. Runa shook her head disapprovingly, then continued, "Which is why we want you to go for the right reasons: to corral your magic, to contain your power."

  "And what are the wrong reasons?" I asked.

  "To go looking for your parents," Busby said.

  "Who are meant to be dead, according to you." I tried to meet Runa’s eyes, hoping she would back me up on this, but she was busy cleaning her glasses.

  "You’ve already told us Vivian used the possibility of your parents being alive to lure you to her boutique," said Mr. T. "And, as you say, you know of the Mauvais’s connection to London. It wouldn’t be much of a leap for that sharp mind of yours to guess that if your parents are alive, they might just be in or near the last place they were known to have been."

  For someone who had recently been dead, Mr. T’s logic centers were pretty keen.

  "Why shouldn’t I try to find them? If there’s information on them, if they could be alive, then shouldn’t I try?"

  "No, you shouldn’t," Busby said.

  "Why?" I asked irritably.

  "Because you could kill us all if you did," he barked, then caught himself in a moment of bad manners. He adjusted his shoulders and smoothed down his jacket before giving an apologetic nod.

  I glanced around, goading one of them to explain.

  "You’re already a strong Magic," Runa finally said. "You then took in the watch’s, and therefore the Mauvais’s, magic. All of that power is swirling around inside your barely-trained cells and is possibly getting stronger by the second."

  "Of course," Fiona added, "we don’t believe you can do everything the watch is capable of. The watch itself is merely a catalyst for the dark magic it allows the possessor to perform. Much like having a car, but with an empty gas tank. In this case, you would be the fuel. The Mauvais has the watch, but without you he can’t rev its engine. However, if he does get a hold of you, he could use you to boost his own power for years to come."

  "Or," said Mr. T darkly, "he could simply take what he needs from you, reactivate the watch, then discard you."

  "And by discard, you mean kill."

  Mr. Tenpenny gave one nod of his steely grey-haired head.

  In theory, I knew all of this, but it was hard to accept the reality of it. After all, I’d fought the Mauvais and had come out alive. Maybe at one time the Mauvais was something to fear, but now? Not so much.

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t underestimating the Mauvais. I knew what he needed me for, I knew he was a ruthless wizard, and I knew I might not survive if he caught me. I wasn’t about to go after him on purpose. I’m not suicidal, after all.

  But I did have a primal urge to find my parents. There was no logical reason this desire should be so strong. I’d never known these people, I had no memories of them, and I hadn’t grown up with a picture of them in my back pocket that I’d mope over during fits of nostalgia. Nevertheless, something deep in my double helix of nucleotides was driving me to find them. If they were alive, I wanted to rescue them.

  And if the Mauvais happened to get in my way—

  "I have no intention of seeking out the Mauvais," I said, speaking with the confidence of someone telling the truth, if only the truth by omission. "I need to control my power and make myself less of a danger to my fellow Magics. And their walls," I said to Fiona, but the expected grin didn’t appear. "And I plan to take my studies seriously." This did earn a smile, but it was Runa smiling with relief, while Fiona twisted her hands in her lap.

  "Yes, you will," Runa said when Fiona remained silent, "which is another reason why Busby is going with you."

  "So he’s my babysitter?"

  "Him and Tobey."

  I may have groaned at this point. And rolled my eyes. And slumped dejectedly in my seat.

  Was it too late to change my mind? I didn’t mind Busby going with me; he had definitely been my port in the storm through all this — even if he is the one who dragged me out to sea in the first place. But Tobey? I couldn’t begin to explain our relationship. One minute he despised me, the next minute I was insulting him, the following day we’re sort of friends, and now it seemed like we’d gone back to verbal jabs like a couple of feuding siblings.

  "Why would Tobey even want to go?" I asked.

  "He volunteered," Busby said. He then added with pure British pride, "It’s a rare person, Magic or Norm, who passes up a trip to London."

  I wasn’t thrilled, but from foster parents to teachers, I’d dodged the watchful eye of many a guardian in my day. How hard could it be to slip away from a zombie and an Untrained?

  "So," I said brightly, "when do we leave?"

  12 - NO PASSPORT REQUIRED

  TOBEY STOOD WAITING in the pharmacy/shop portion of Runa’s clinic. When he saw me, he gave a forced smile that didn’t touch his eyes. So, it was one of those days.

  And yes, my ridiculously confused heart leapt when Alastair walked into the clinic soon after I gave Tobey my own stiff greeting.

  "Have you got the tickets booked?" Busby asked his grandson who responded by holding up four sheets of paper with flight information and bar codes printed on them. "And Cassie, I hope Alastair reminded you to bring your passport."

  What the hell was this about? Tickets? Passports? I’d assumed we’d be traveling through a portal. I mean, what’s the point of being Magic if you have to fly coach for ten hours to get to Heathrow?

  "I don’t have
a passport."

  "What do you mean you don’t have a passport?" Tobey asked.

  "It’s not like I’ve had a lot of extra room in my budget for travel."

  "But everyone has a passport," he said.

  "Clearly not," I growled at his snide disbelief. I looked around at the others. "Does someone have one I can borrow? I can just," I waggled my fingers, "over it and change the info."

  "Won’t work," Mr. T said. He looked very smart in a crisp suit that was too well-fitted not to be tailor made. He’d also draped an expensive trench coat over his arm, and his shoes were shined to the point they might blind you if the sun reflected off them at the right angle. People just didn’t dress like that to travel these days.

  "Why not? I’m quite good at it."

  "Yes," Dr. Dunwiddle said, "why am I not surprised that one of your specialities is somewhat criminal in nature."

  "I can throw things really well, too."

  "You must be so proud," said Tobey. I gave him my watch-it-or-I’ll-twist-you-into-a-human-balloon-animal look, and then wondered if there was a spell for that. If magic was primarily about rearranging molecules, it might just be possible.

  "Immigration control agents are Magics who’ve been specially trained in forgery detection," Fiona said, interrupting my daydreams of spell crafting. "They’d smell the fake before you even got to the desk."

  I leaned against the cashier counter and crossed my arms over my chest. "So, is that it? No magic door. No—"

  "Don’t say it," Mr. Tenpenny warned. Tense muscles trembled across his jawline. "If you dare say flue powder—"

  "The thought never crossed my mind." It so had. "But unless you want to wait a couple months for my passport to appear in the mail, you’re going to need to come up with another option."

  "Corrine," Alastair said. "She could get permission to use her international portal if HQ knows what it’s for."

  Corrine Corrigan was my former boss during my brief stint as a bike messenger. Had she managed to keep her business doors open one more hour, had I been able to leave with her the last package I’d been unable to deliver, I would have never known a thing about Magics. I’m still undecided if that might not have been for the best.

  "I saw her at Spellbound on my way here," said Fiona.

  "Good." Mr. Tenpenny picked up his small, leather suitcase. "Runa, please contact Olivia and let her know there’s been a change in plans and to temporarily reactivate Corrine’s London portal."

  Runa, the stolid, no-nonsense woman who seemed to take everything in unwavering stride, hesitated. Her cheeks blushed and her tongue seemed to trip over itself when she said, "Olivia. Yes, of course."

  I recognized that reaction. I’d experienced it myself more than once around Alastair. Did our little Runa have a crush on this Olivia? Then again she might just be balking over the expense of an international phone call.

  "Shall we, then?" Mr. Tenpenny said. As the bell jingled us out of Runa’s clinic, I glanced over my shoulder to see Runa mouthing words as if practicing for her call. I hoped I’d be back to tease her about it.

  We wended our way toward Main Street, but before we stepped out from Runa’s side street, Mr. T and Fiona lingered back. I waited with them, uncertain what we were doing. Did we need to give Runa time to ring HQ? Had they forgotten the way to Spellbound Patisserie?

  "If you don’t mind," Mr. Tenpenny said and waved his hand for me to move along. I glanced to Fiona, then to her hand. Which Mr. T was holding. Ah, so that’s how it was.

  I picked up the pace to join Alastair and Tobey. We didn’t say a word to each other as we strained to eavesdrop. From behind us I caught Mr. Tenpenny telling Fiona he’d miss her, that he’d call her as soon as he was settled, and that he’d be back as quick as he could.

  I couldn’t help but smirk when Mr. T rejoined us.

  "There will be no comments from you, young lady."

  It was too much. I burst out laughing, as did Tobey and Alastair as we followed the tantalizing scent of baked goods to Gwendolyn’s bakery.

  Corrine’s bright red hair could be seen from down the block. She’d taken up residence at one of the outdoor bistro tables where she was picking at the last crumbs of something I’m sure had been delicious. We stopped at her table, hovering over it like begging pigeons. I passed a suggestive look between my travel companions, but no one seemed to take my hint that we should grab a snack before diving into any further vacation planning.

  Mr. Tenpenny explained the situation and told Corrine that Runa was making arrangements for access to her international portal. With a wistful sigh, Corrine complained that she had been looking forward to a batch of huckleberry muffins that would be coming out of the oven in a few minutes. Alastair, who was well-versed in Spellbound’s product line, assured her that if we hurried, she could probably get back before the warmth of the oven completely left the muffins’ fluffy interiors.

  On the non-magical side of Portland, Corrigan’s Courier had been a run-down hole in the wall of a place. Her shop in MagicLand, located on the Old West-themed street, had a rustic wooden façade, wood plank flooring, and a tidy interior with square cubbies from floor to ceiling.

  I didn’t have time to take much in. However, it was hard to miss that packages and letters — without any of them being touched by human hand — were popping into existence in a few of the empty cubbies several rows above head height. Then, once a row of cubbies was filled, that row moved downward to be at eye level with the clerks who took the items, slipped them into red canvas satchels, and either dashed out the door or zipped over to another part of the office to put the item into a different cubby from which it would soon vanish.

  This all struck me as amazingly efficient, but as with any post office, the customers lined up waiting to ship packages were called up one by one to be assisted by a clerk who seemed annoyed that anyone would dare to make use of the courier service during his shift.

  "Cassie, come along," Mr. T said and I hurried after the group to a back area.

  "Now, the thing to keep in mind," Corrine was saying, "is that this isn’t intended for people. Just packages. But the portal panel is wide enough for you to squeeze through. Assuming they’ve unlocked this thing." She pointed to a metal door about half the size of a card table and with a handle at the top. Corrine grabbed the handle and gave a tug. With a creak of metal hinges, the door opened. "Ah good, Runa must have got through to HQ. Alright, luggage first."

  After pulling the portal door fully open, Corrine had us drop two bags in at a time. She banged the door shut, waited a moment, then we repeated the process with two more bags. Only after seeing mine disappear did I wonder where the portal put out at. I mean, was my bag sitting in the middle of a Tube station? Had it popped out in some royal bedroom? Was Prince Charles rifling through my socks and toiletries at this very moment?

  "Alastair will go through first," said Mr. T. Alastair stepped onto a stool in front of the oversized mail slot. Before he could climb in, Busby asked, "Alastair, what are you thinking?"

  This seemed like a rude thing to ask, but he wasn’t probing Alastair’s deeper thoughts. It was a lesson. Everything was these days.

  "For me it works best if I imagine myself in an airplane seat, since that’s usually a reliable way to get to the U.K.," he added sarcastically. "Other people like to visualize a long slide, but that can add to the disorientation. I’ve also heard just picturing yourself as a package does the trick. Anything to give your mind the idea that you will be traveling. Long-distance portals aren’t like stepping through local ones. If you go in without mentally preparing, it can be uncomfortable."

  He gave me an encouraging smile, then tucked his long legs into the mail bin. When he said he was ready, Corrine closed the door. As you do, she quickly re-opened it to make sure her package had gone through. I had inched my way closer by this point, but when I peeked over her shoulder the only thing I c
ould see was that Alastair had indeed disappeared. I was hoping I might catch a glimpse of Big Ben or Buckingham Palace, but the inside of the portal was completely black.

  "Cassie, are you ready?" Mr. T asked.

  My gut gave a lurch. "Can’t you go? I think I could use another demonstration."

  "No," Tobey blurted so abruptly I flinched.

  "You’ll do fine," Mr. T assured me.

  I wasn’t sure how my tall frame was going to fold itself into the slot, but with a little guidance from Corrine (and snorts of laughter from Tobey), I managed to situate myself, protecting my wounded hand by holding it tight to my body.