Chapter 64
I dreamt.
An old man, his hands wrinkled and knobbed, weaves signs in the air which illuminate, briefly, like the strobe of a neon sign. A woman’s body, draped in a white shawl like a burial shroud, hovers above the ground. A garbled prayer echoes behind me in a language I do not know. A mantra, repeated again and again by inhuman lips. A soul rises, pure white, like crystal wrapped in starlight.
But it isn’t enough. The orb isn’t completely full. There’s an instant of hesitation. The old man weaves another sign, and a shadow fills the void, shoved into the corner where it won’t make as much noise, where it might not even be noticed. The old man doesn’t know I can see what he’s doing, that I can guess where he found that shadow lurking. Still, I don’t interrupt as he replaces the soul, shoving it deep within the stomach of a body lying still upon the ground.
Jimmy’s eyes flare open, and the irises are pale blue, like the eyes of an arctic fox.
I dreamt.
The fire is so hot I shy away from it instinctively, inching away from the heat towards the back of the room. This time, I don’t find the paperweight on his desk, shatter the window, and leap to safety. This time, I burn beside him, clutching his corpse, whispering, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” over and over again.
I dreamt.
I hold my mother’s hand. I hold my daughter’s hand. Generations of mothers and daughters hold tight in an unbroken procession in either direction. Our features change, sometimes drastically, sometimes incrementally—an identical nose followed by a softer chin, brown hair that gives way to red, a gap-toothed smile and a thin-lipped frown. I glance down the line, both ways, until the women are indistinguishable, like lines of traffic fading into the horizon. They look back at me, expectantly, as if waiting for someone, anyone, to let go and break the chain.
I dreamt.
A man and a woman, their features distinctly Japanese, stare down at me from either side. The woman’s gaze is soft, the man’s hard. They are a study in contrasts, although I can tell they once shared the same womb. That’s the way it is with siblings, I think to myself; each a different note, but on the same scale.
In this dream, I am not an only child.
Chapter 65
I woke to the steady beep of an EKG machine.
My eyelids fluttered. The light was dim, but oddly harsh, and tinted neon orange. It cast a sinister glow over the tubes attached to my arms and the bag of saline that dangled overhead. I fought the urge to pry the tubes out as I struggled to make sense of where I was and how I’d gotten there.
I remembered the fight outside my aunt’s house. Blacking out. Odd dreams, some little more than memories, others too surreal to be believed. Some had felt real. I stretched out my senses, gauging my body, flexing my fingers and toes—good, at least I wasn’t paralyzed. I did feel odd, however. Medicated. Opiates, judging from the floating, euphoric sensation that swaddled me like a childhood blanket made out of rainbows and Christmas cheer.
I turned my head, slowly, so as not to draw attention. Figures darted here and there nearby, setting up tables and chairs as if preparing for a banquet of some sort. I was on a cot in what seemed like a very large bunker, but which was likely an underground tunnel that had either been abandoned or was still under construction. Either way, no one seemed concerned about me one way or the other, which was comforting. Maybe if I stayed very still, they’d leave me alone. I felt like I could very easily drift off again.
“So, you’re finally conscious. Good.”
Damnit.
A woman I hadn’t noticed sat at a table several feet away, partially obscured by shadow. She leaned forward, studying a clipboard. She flipped a few pages. “I’m not exactly licensed, but for the record I would advise that you seek out legitimate medical attention once we’re through here. Your injuries aren’t life threatening, but from what I could tell after examining you, you may have some permanent damage to contend with. Your knee, especially.”
I smiled. “I keep hopin’ they’ll give me a bionic replacement, but doctors are stingy.”
The woman nodded as if that were perfectly logical, her face a mask of professionalism. She had blonde hair pulled back in a pony-tail that left two strands of hair dangling, tucked behind her ears on either side. Her glasses were red and thick-rimmed, her eyes a moody blue. She wore a white lab coat over a red cardigan and dark denim jeans. I couldn’t see her shoes, but something told me they’d be expensive, multi-colored sneakers—functional, but stylish.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Depends,” I said, “were ye sayin’ somethin’ about bein’ beautiful?”
She arced an eyebrow. “I was saying my name is Lisandra Novak. I’m with the Academy’s medical branch.”
“Wizards have medics?” I asked.
“Ah, so you know who we are.” She snapped her finger and two of the figures stopped what they were doing and approached.
“I know ye,” I said, waving with the arm not attached to an IV. “You’re the twins.”
The two figures looked at each other. They looked much better without their masks. The Japanese man had stunningly sharp features, his cheekbones prominent, his skin smooth. His twin sister, by contrast, had a rounder, but more pleasant, face. She smiled at me; he scowled.
“It seems she knows about the Academy,” Lisandra said.
“I told you!” The brother hissed.
“Wait,” I interrupted, “Lizzie, do ye mind if I call ye Lizzie?” I continued before she could respond, “Why am I hooked up to this t’ing?” I asked, pointing a thumb at the EKG machine.
“While medical magic is practiced by many of us here, we’ve discovered the scientific apparatus employed by Regulars have remarkable utility,” Lisandra explained, her tone clinical, at best. “Using magic to constantly monitor your heartrate would be exhausting. Plugging in the machine, on the other hand, costs us nothing. If you exclude the electricity bill, of course.”
“That,” the Japanese woman said, “and Lisandra and her people weren’t able to heal you using magic. In fact, no one here wants to get near you. We had a few wizards meet us here, including Lisandra, once we realized we wouldn’t be able to travel using our preferred method. One or two of our people happened to make incidental contact with you in the process. Do you know what happened then?”
I giggled, then frowned. I never giggled. How much morphine had they given me? I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Lost their magic, probably,” I responded, finally.
Lisandra and the twins exchanged glances.
“Stop doin’ that,” I said.
“Doing what?” Lisandra asked.
“Readin’ each other’s minds. It’s rude.”
Lisandra blinked. “We weren’t reading each other’s minds. Telepathy is not a common practice, and hard to master.”
“Hmph. Well, I’ve had two gods,” I held up two fingers for emphasis and grinned, “in me head today who could do it. Wait…what’s today?”
“She’s insane,” the Japanese man said.
“She’s heavily medicated,” Lisandra amended.
“It’s only been a few hours,” his sister replied, ignoring them both.
I nodded as if that made all the sense in the world.
“So,” Lisandra asked, “do you know why they ‘lost their magic?’”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t talk to me like I’m five.” I gathered my thoughts. “Me guess is they encountered me anti-magic field. That’s what I call it, anyway. I thought it was me, ye know, innate-like, but then I used it to fight a wizard and to scare a wee boy and now I know it’s something else, like a…” I sought out the word. “A nullifier. A magical no-fly zone. A—”
“So that’s how you managed to punch me, huh?” the man interrupted.
I snorted. “No. I punched you like this.” I shoved my fist towards the ceiling.
“Why did you attack us?” his sister asked.
“Why
did ye attack the mutt?” I asked.
She and her brother looked puzzled.
“Serge,” I clarified. “The gamma-radiated pooch. The skinwalker.”
“You were defending the skinwalker?” the man asked, outraged.
“Technically,” I said, “I was defendin’ his right to a fair trial. This is America, ye know. Electrocution by twin wizard executioners is cruel and unusual. Double-stuffed.”
Lisandra fiddled with another bag hiding behind the saline. “I think that’s enough morphine. It’s hard to gauge tolerance. I’ve never had to use some of this equipment before.”
“So why did you try to stop him from hurting me?” the Japanese woman asked, self-consciously rubbing her forearm, which looked surprisingly unblemished.
“I didn’t want any of ye fightin’,” I admitted. “Especially not on a public street in the wee hours of the mornin’.” I didn’t mention that they’d been duking it out outside my aunt’s place minutes after I’d promised her to be more careful—the fewer who knew where she lived, the better, as far as I was concerned.
The three of them looked at each other once more, but I didn’t feel like commenting on it. The euphoric sensation had begun to fade, incrementally, and I felt a familiar twinge in my knee that made sweat break out across my forehead. I glanced down at myself but couldn’t see my condition beneath the BPD-issued sweats—at least they hadn’t removed my clothes.
I was willing to bet it wouldn’t look good, though. Feeling pain through morphine is scary as shit; it meant I was guaranteed to hurt. A lot. I almost asked Lisandra to dial it back up, but now that the mental fugue had lifted a bit, I realized I needed my wits about me; I was technically at the mercy of a group of wizards I’d never met—at least one of whom I had assaulted, and that’s if you didn’t count Gladstone, who I’d tried to kill more than once.
“This anti-magic field,” Lisandra began, “how—”
“No, first I want to know how she knows the skinwalker,” the Japanese man interrupted. He and Lisandra stared at each other. Eventually, she turned away with a dissatisfied grunt. Was he her superior, I wondered? For some reason, I didn’t think so. I was willing to bet they were simply in different departments, one of which had priority over the other; Lisandra didn’t seem like the type to take orders.
“I met him a couple days ago,” I said. “We wrestled. He ran away. So it’s honestly me fault ye had to come at all.”
A woman poked her head through the wall, the physics of which were improbable at best. “Actually, that would be my fault.”
The two Justices fell back with remarkable quickness, offsetting shades of metallic lightning surging from their fingertips, brightening the gloomy tunnel. Lisandra seemed unperturbed, busy as she was studying my charts, probably looking for some hints as to why I repelled magic. I don’t know what she expected to find; I’d checked myself over for a lightning-shaped scar years ago. No dice.
“How did you get in here?” the Japanese woman asked.
The newcomer shrugged and smiled as she stepped into the tunnel through a portal very similar to the one I’d seen the night before. “Gateways are sort of our thing.”
“Who are you? Tell me right now!” The Japanese man took a step forward, and the light from his magic illuminated an attractive woman, maybe a little older than I was, definitely shorter, dressed in various shades of black. She had a thickness to her that defied logic: a big chest, wide hips, but with a trim little waistline. The edges of her smile threatened to pop her bubbled cheeks.
“My name is Othello. And you have something that belongs to me,” she said. “Oh, hello, Quinn.” She waved.
I waved back, weakly, wishing I had some popcorn to munch on; whatever happened next was going to be entertaining, assuming we all survived.
“Hey, Lizzie,” I craned my head a bit until I could meet the woman’s eyes, “could ye turn the morphine back up? I want to enjoy this.”
Chapter 66
Lisandra reached for the morphine drip.
“Whoa!” I said. “I was only jokin’. For Christ’s sake.”
Lisandra shrugged and resumed perusing my charts.
“We don’t have anything of yours,” the Japanese man retorted, “but we can’t allow you to wander unmolested into one of our bases without taking you into custody.”
“Niisan,” his sister said, her magic fading as she lowered her hands, “I think we should listen to her.”
“But—”
His sister gave him one of those looks smart people give exceptionally obtuse people when they’re being exceptionally obtuse. “She uses Gateways. Her name is Othello. Doesn’t that sound familiar? She works for him.”
“For who?”
“Him. Nate Temple.”
Temple…wait, that asshole who commandeered my Uber?
“I don’t work for him. If anything, he works for me,” Othello said, smirking. “Though you should probably say we work together. That way he doesn’t have to face the fact that he treats me like his own personal Alexa.”
The way she said it make me think she didn’t really mind, that she might even be proud of that role. My mind was still reeling from the revelation that she worked for…with, Nate Temple. Which meant the jerk who’d forced me to high-five him was also the owner of GrimmTech, the organization responsible for Gateways to other dimensions. That also meant Temple was the man Gladstone had hoped to kill…suddenly, I was a little sorry I hadn’t let the fox spirit have her way.
One less pretentious billionaire playboy out there sounded like a win to me.
Okay, not really. But still.
I jerked back to the conversation at hand, realizing I’d been too busy filling in the blanks to follow the exchange Othello had been having with the two Justices. Apparently, there seemed to be plenty to disagree about despite Othello’s credentials.
“I’m sorry,” Othello was saying, “but I’m afraid the Academy doesn’t have jurisdiction in this case.”
“Skinwalkers are a threat to everyone,” the Japanese man argued. “It’s our job as Justices to ensure their safety.”
Othello nodded reassuringly. “I appreciate your stance on the matter, but your information is outdated. Skinwalkers are a historically persecuted community of witches who turned to violence only after their shapeshifting counterparts ostracized them for what they saw as perverse practices. They became dangerous to society because they were no longer welcome, and only then because they were unable to support themselves. Eventually their legacy became less than reputable, as a result.”
“Your skinwalker attacked me, and reports suggested he caused an incident at a local park that could have exposed us to the Regular community, which is what our office is primarily assigned to address,” the Japanese woman said, though she seemed far less antagonistic than her brother. If anything, she seemed interested in debating Othello’s assertions from an intellectual perspective. “You can’t expect us to hand him over to you simply because he was victimized in the past.”
“Oh, Serge is most certainly an evil, manipulative monster. I have no interest in absolving him of anything.”
“Then what is your interest here?” the brother countered.
“Serge is an employee of GrimmTech. What he has done is a breach of contract. A contract which is both legally and magically binding.”
The Japanese woman studied Othello, then smiled. “I see. You may have him.”
Her brother whirled around. “What?”
“I’ll explain it to you later.”
“No, I—”
“Oh, shut up,” I chimed in. “Don’t ye get it? What Othello here plans to do to that bastard is probably ten times worse than anythin’ ye can do to him, ye idgit.”
Othello pretended like I hadn’t said anything. “May I have a word with Quinn here, please? In private? I’ll send someone to come and collect Serge shortly.”
“But the preparations…” the Japanese man muttered under his breath.
>
“I’m sure the Grand Master will understand,” his sister replied. “She’s had her own run-ins with Temple, after all.”
“I still have a few questions for Miss MacKenna,” Lisandra piped up, ignoring the glares from the two Justices.
“Lizzie wants to dissect me,” I whispered to Othello, although loud enough that everyone could hear.
Othello looked me up and down, frowning at the acronym plastered across my hoodie, and shrugged. “We all have our kinks.”
I sighed.
“But, I don’t think Quinn should be interrogated or dissected without her lawyer present,” Othello said.
“Her…lawyer?” Lisandra frowned.
“It’s how things work here in Boston, I’m afraid. I’ve only dealt with them a few times, but the Faerie Chancery is very particular about that sort of thing. It’s in the name, after all. Chancery.”
All three wizards took a half step back from where I lay.
The Japanese woman spoke first, her voice a hushed whisper, barely audible. “You’re a member of the Chancery?”
“I mean, they don’t exactly give ye a card,” I said, “but I do business with ‘em, every now and then.”
Another exchange of looks.
Othello raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right. I’d forgotten. I believe the Academy gave up jurisdiction here years ago, so technically you’re all trespassing right now, aren’t you?”
I chuckled, and everyone’s attention shifted to me. I held up a hand. “Sorry. I was only thinkin’ that, if ye were all readin’ each other’s minds just now, I bet there was a whole lot of ‘oh, we are so fucked’ goin’ on up there.”
They didn’t find it as funny as I did.
Chapter 67
Othello helped me onto my couch, which—considering our height differences—must have looked more than a little comical. I settled in, propping my injured leg up onto the coffee table, testing my knee’s range of motion with a grimace. Despite Lisandra’s advice, I’d opted out of seeing a doctor; I could put weight on it without passing out, which was good enough for me. On the way over, Othello had fed me a few pills from a bottle of Ibuprofen she kept in her purse, and the swelling had already gone down in the time it had taken her to escort me from the Academy’s secret underground base to my apartment.
Whiskey Ginger Page 20
