by Kyle Shultz
She pointed to the flower. “The source is a living thing that fuels the magic. You can’t have magic without life powering it. It can be anything - a plant, an animal, even a human being.”
“And the target,” I said, motioning to the other stick figure, “is, of course, self-explanatory.”
“Right,” she said, reaching over to draw squiggly fur and claws on the stick man.
I rolled my eyes. “Is that really necessary?”
She ignored the question, adding a frowning face with bushy eyebrows to the figure. “Here’s the thing,” she went on. “You can’t break a spell without disenchanting its source. That means a Charmblood has to carefully unravel the runes that are bound to it. Get that wrong, and bad things happen. Reality fractures, time gets out of joint—”
“The moon turns to green cheese,” I interrupted. “I get it. Spell-breaking is complicated.”
“Yes. And it inevitably destroys the source. The magic becomes intertwined with its life essence, so once you get rid of the magic, the source dies.”
“Well, if that’s the case, why not simply kill the source?” I took the chalk from her hand and drew an “X” through the flower. “Burn it, or shoot it, or something.”
She snatched the chalk back. “Because, if you do that, the spell will still be intact, and will simply seek out a new source. And in most cases, that new source ends up being the target.”
I cringed. “And if that happens, since disenchantment kills the source, then the only way to free the target from the spell—”
“—is to kill it,” she finished. “Now, with weaker, temporary spells, none of this matters very much. But with spells that won’t wear off on their own, having the target of your spell also be its source is problematic, obviously. The same goes for making the caster the source. I use myself as a source all the time when I’m just casting temporary spells, like the one I used on the carpet and the van, but with permanent ones—”
I cleared my throat loudly. “How is all this relevant to why you can’t turn me back into a human?”
She tapped on the image of the flower. “Because the source for this spell is the Rose, and we haven’t got it.”
I gazed at the diagram. “I hate magic.”
“I don’t blame you.”
I shrugged. “Fine,” I said, rising to my feet. “Let’s go get the Rose, then.”
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “You realize what that would entail, right?”
“You, going into your own house and retrieving a potted plant. I fail to see the problem.”
“I’ll give you three.” She stood up and counted off on her fingers. “One, after I betrayed him, my father is not simply going to let me in the front door. Two, spell sources often become dangerous, mutated creatures thanks to the magic that’s bonded with them. The Rose may have looked harmless enough when it was a shriveled husk, but I imagine my father brought it back to life with his blood the second he got his hands on it.”
I nodded. “He did.”
“So by now, it probably won’t even be safe to get near it, let alone try to kill it. And three, I don’t even know exactly what he’s planning to do with the wretched thing. Blundering in without any idea of what we’re facing could get us both killed.”
I examined my claws thoughtfully. “At this point, I’m pretty sure I could take your father down without much difficulty. Just so long as he doesn’t stab me behind the ear, which is apparently my one vulnerable spot.”
“Well, I’m not sure you can take him down. And I know what he’s capable of a lot better than you do.”
“I’m bulletproof!” I protested. “Literally! My brother shot me multiple times just this morning!”
She stared at me. “Your brother shot you?”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“I should hope so. In any case, you can bet my father will be using far more effective means than bullets to stop us.”
“So what are you saying? There’s nothing we can do?”
“Of course not.” She smiled. “I have a plan.”
“Is it going to be anything like your plan to turn me into a monster so I’d be convinced that magic is real and help you defeat your insane evil sorcerer father? Because that one didn’t go very well.”
“You really don’t need to keep bringing that up,” she said, balling her hands into fists. “This plan is perfectly straightforward. We don’t know enough about the Rose or what my father plans on doing with it, so we’re going to get more information.”
“From whom?”
“A reliable source.”
“And where do we find this ‘reliable source,’ exactly?”
She hesitated. “Inside a mirror.”
My jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“You might possibly have heard of her.”
“You’re not seriously suggesting that we ask for help from the Magic Mirror?”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “What’s so preposterous about that?”
I guffawed. “Compared to everything else we’ve done today, not much, I suppose. But how did we get from Beauty and the Beast to Snow White?”
“The Beast had a magic mirror too.”
“No, he—” I hesitated, remembering the finer details of the story. “You’re right. He did. But I doubt it was the same one from Snow White.”
“It might have been.”
“In any event, if you’re thinking of the Mirror in the Museum of History, it hasn’t spoken a word to anyone in all the decades it’s been on display. So I don’t see how it’s going to help us.”
Cordelia wiggled her fingers in the air. Blue light sparked between them. “It just needs some special persuasion,” she said. “From a Charmblood, that is. It won’t respond to anyone else.”
I shook my head, causing the tangled locks of my mane to fall in front of my eyes. “This seems far too easy,” I said, brushing them back.
“Oh, believe me, it won’t be. For one thing, we’ll need to get into the Museum at night, when we won’t have to worry about anyone panicking upon seeing a talking mirror. Or you.”
“You’re right. Not easy at all. Rather dangerous, in fact.”
“That won’t be the dangerous part.” Her expression became grim. “It’s the Mirror itself we really have to worry about.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think the Mirror is in a museum, instead of my father’s collection room?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“Because my father is scared to death of it.”
“Ah.” I swallowed hard. “Knowing him, that’s not a good sign.”
It was getting dark by the time we finally managed to make our way across the city to the Museum of History. By then, I was growing very tired of smelly back alleys and side streets.
“Why don’t you just cast that flying spell on the carpet again?” I suggested to Cordelia at one point.
“You can’t cast the same spell on the same object twice.”
“Figures,” I growled. “I’d love to get my claws on whoever came up with all these rules.”
On the bright side, Cordelia had found a coat large enough to fit me in a pile of garbage. It smelled a bit rank, but at least it looked less ridiculous than the dressing gown. That was what I thought, anyway. Cordelia voiced the opinion that all clothes looked silly on me now.
Fortunately, the alley across from the Museum where we settled down to wait was somewhat less cramped and dirty than most of the others we’d been through. We sat across from each other, our backs to the walls. From where I sat, I could hear the strains of a popular swing tune coming from a radio somewhere in the area. Given how acute my hearing was now, it could have been several blocks away.
“Haven’t they turned the blasted lights out in there yet?” I demanded, drumming my claws impatiently on the pavement. From where I sat, I didn’t have a good view of the front of the Museum.
“Don’t be so grumpy,” said C
ordelia, craning her neck for a better look. “They’re open until nine o’clock, and it’s only a little after eight-thirty.” Earlier, she had insisted on dashing out into the street to buy some roasted almonds from a food stall. She popped a few into her mouth as she crouched in the shadow of a rubbish bin. “Want some?” she asked, holding out the bag.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I could go for some raw meat, if you have any.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”
“Only half-joking.” I tried unsuccessfully to shift into a more comfortable position. My tail wasn’t helping matters. Giving up, I leaned against the bricks and tried to ignore the discomfort. “I hope Crispin is all right.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. I can’t imagine what he’s gone through; they probably brought him in for questioning about what happened. I should have tried to find him.”
“No offense, but I think your finding him would only have gotten him into more trouble, given - you know.”
“Right. Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’m sorry. I was trying to make you feel better.”
“Well, you’re terrible at it. Stop trying.”
I turned away from her and folded my arms, glaring into the growing darkness. In time, however, I found my gaze wandering back to her. She was looking out into the street, a pensive expression on her face. Her fine clothes were in a lamentable state by now, and her hair was disarranged, but she didn’t seem to care. Occasionally, blue light would spark at her fingertips, seemingly without any conscious effort on her part.
“Who are you?” I asked her, on a whim.
She looked at me, puzzled. “Are you being philosophical?”
“I just don’t understand you. Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Working against your father. Abandoning your home, running around in the streets. What’s in it for you?”
“Does there have to be something ‘in it’ for me?”
I shrugged. “I see the world as it is. There’s selfishness at the root of everything people do, to one degree or another. Even when they think they’re being unselfish.”
She gave me a wry smile. “No fairy tales for you, I see.”
“Exactly.”
“But if you did something sacrificial for a person you loved, wouldn’t you call that unselfish?”
“There’s only one person in the world that I love - or even like, for that matter. My brother. And I think even that love is selfish, at some level. He’s the only person who puts up with me; I need him to be there. Otherwise I’d be alone.”
She looked searchingly at me. “How did you get this way?”
“I asked you first.”
She fell silent, and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t answer my question. Then, to my surprise, she spoke again.
“I used to see the world the way my father does. Perhaps if my mother had lived, she’d have taught me differently; but she died when I was a little girl. All children in my father’s family have been brought up the same way for generations. As soon as they’re old enough to harness the runes, the training begins. I learned to do a lot of…unpleasant things.” She glanced down at the pavement, tracing a crack in the concrete with her finger.
“I’m sorry.” The words sounded hollow and meaningless in my ears.
“The worst part of it is, I can’t really say I didn’t enjoy being cruel, back then. I was going to be Lady Whitlock someday, and that was all that mattered to me at the time. I wanted to be respected, feared…”
Her voice trailed off. She seemed to be lost in regretful memories.
“What changed?” I asked.
“I met someone when I was sixteen years old. He was a Charmblood too; from one of the less powerful families, but he was an incredibly powerful enchanter. Much better at magic than I was. Which is why I was so furious when my father took him on as an apprentice.”
I chuckled. “I can imagine.”
“I spied on him, hoping to discover something I could embarrass him with. I ended up finding more than I had bargained for. He was a spy, working for the Resistance.”
I frowned. “Resistance? Against what?”
“My father, and people like him. The magical elite. The Resistance wants to stop them from using magic to bully and control people. To protect what’s left of the old stories and keep them from being corrupted.”
“So did you blow his cover? This apprentice chap, I mean?”
“I was going to. But he convinced me to keep his secret.”
“How?”
“He showed me what things were like outside my father’s world. What it was like to use magic to help, instead of harm. I met his friends, started helping him with his work. Before long, I was part of the Resistance myself.”
She smiled at the happy recollection, but I could see a familiar sadness in her eyes. “What happened to him?” I asked.
“He died.” She blinked rapidly and reached up with a grimy hand to wipe away a tear. It left a streak of dirt on her face.
“Did your father—”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not directly, anyway. But in the end, it was his fault.”
I was curious, but felt guilty about pressing her for more information. “So you kept working for the Resistance.”
“Yes. Though there aren’t many of them left. The cell in Talesend was destroyed when…” Her eyes shone with tears again, and she broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished. “Anyway,” she went on, clearing her throat, “I mostly work alone these days. I’ve found various ways to thwart his plans over the past several years, but I think he’s been getting suspicious lately. I suppose he realized he was right yesterday.” She looked up at me, forcing a smile. “Your turn. What’s your tragic past?”
“It’s not that different from yours, in some ways.” I inspected my claws absent-mindedly. “We both had fathers who tried to lead us down the wrong path. And we both lost our mothers - though mine didn’t die, she just left. And all the magic in my childhood was fake.”
She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Go on.”
“My father was a magician. A stage magician, that is.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I like watching stage magicians. It’s fun trying to figure out how they do things without real magic.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, my father took his profession too far. He was brilliant at sleight-of-hand and illusions, but he used them to set himself up as something more than a mere performer. He had credulous people all across the Afterlands thinking he could do anything from curing warts to raising the dead.”
“And he wanted you and your brother to follow in his footsteps?”
“Just me. Not Crispin, Dad couldn’t have cared less about him. Crispin’s actually my half-brother, you see. The result of a brief dalliance between my father and some fellow confidence trickster. When the woman fell ill and learned she wouldn’t survive, she sent Crispin to live with us. My father wanted to throw him out on the streets, but I wouldn’t have it.”
Cordelia tilted her head. “Why did you care so much?”
I paused. “I don’t know. I suppose I just wanted to do something good, for a change.”
“I don’t believe you’re nearly as selfish as you think you are.”
“I am, actually. That’s why everything went wrong. Years later, when I was fourteen and Crispin was twelve, my father did something particularly bad. So bad that somebody died as a result. I could have stopped it, but I didn’t. Mainly because money was involved.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not worth going into detail. You have your painful chapter, I have mine. The point is, I was so angry and remorseful afterward that I just took Crispin and left Dad behind. We’ve been living on our own ever since.”
She frowned. “But how—” She paused, fidgeting with the now-empty almond bag. “I don’t mean to sound like an aristocratic snob, but how did you go from be
ing a homeless waif to a famous detective?”
“Isn’t it about time we tried getting into that museum?”
She waved a hand in the air. “In a minute. I really want to know—”
“That’s a story for another time. Too long to tell you now.” I got to my feet, stretched, and peered around the corner, pricking my ears back and forth to check all directions for approaching footsteps. “The lights are out. Let’s get this over with.”
“I will get it out of you someday, you know,” she called after me defiantly, as I slipped through the shadows toward the museum.
I couldn’t suppress a grin. “I’m sure you will,” I murmured.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mirrordelia
At first, I thought that breaking into the museum might turn out to be easy after all. Cordelia dealt with the locked door at the back easily enough, using an enchantment that caused the entire doorknob to fall to pieces. More locks separating the rear corridors of the museum from the exhibits met with similar fates, and she was even able to thwart the alarm system by casting what she called a “silencing spell.”
Unfortunately, just as we were about to round a corner into the great hall where the Mirror was kept, I caught sight of a figure carrying an electric torch. I spun around and shooed Cordelia back into the shadows.
“What?” she whispered.
“A guard,” I explained. “I wondered when we’d run into one of those. I doubt he’s alone.”
She glanced at the arched doorway ahead of us. “If that one leaves the room, I can cast a few barrier spells. They’ll keep anyone else from seeing or hearing us, and prevent them coming into the room.”
I waited a moment, listening to the guard’s footsteps going back and forth. “I don’t think he’s going to leave,” I said. “Seems like his job is to patrol this room only.”
“I can put him to sleep,” she said. “It’ll take me a few minutes, though. I need to come up with the right runes so that he doesn’t stay asleep for too long. These enchantments are tricky; you can wind up with hundred-year comas if you’re not careful.”
