Convergence (Winter Solstice Book 1)

by J. R. Rain

  My suspicion that Andre did something magical dims a bit when the recording starts to lift me off into a daydream of a forest. Something about those metal hand drums evokes a sensation of existing out of time, transported back to another age.

  I am transcendent.

  At least until my cell phone rings.

  Sigh.

  I try to ignore it, but the caller is persistent. The third time it goes off, I pause the music, growl, and storm into the bedroom hunting for my phone, easy enough to find by ear. It’s still in the camera bag.

  Shit. That reminds me. I need to order a new memory card.

  I swipe it on and snap, “What?”

  “Solstice!” shouts Ethan, my ghost-hunting pal. “You gotta get over to my building like right now! Your career is literally on my roof. Bring your camera. Hurry!”

  He hangs up.

  Well, that sounded urgent. I nab my old Nikon B500 I used to use for everything off my shelf, and run out. I’m about halfway to the stairs before I realize I don’t have anything on. Shit. I’ve locked myself out of my apartment naked with a camera in one hand and an iPhone in the other. How am I going to explain―?

  Duh. Calm down.

  Open gets me back inside before anyone sees me.

  Hopefully, whatever’s sitting on Ethan’s roof isn’t in any hurry.

  look like a reject from a pothead sorority with lax acceptance standards. Sky blue LuLaRoes with a white miniskirt over them, black Uggs, a Bob Marley tee shirt that leaves a few inches of my stomach showing, and my ear-hiding hat. Chaser 1 was nice enough to recover it from the park. On the hunt for a cab, I get the oddest feeling I’m being tailed. A few surreptitious glances over my shoulder confirms a nondescript silver-grey BMW is lurking a constant distance behind. The driver noses in and out of parking spaces or open areas by hydrants as needed to keep pace with someone on foot.

  Sigh. Stupid government agents.

  The Beemer continues trailing me after I get in a taxi and send the cabbie to 66 Rockwell Place in Brooklyn. Every time I glance back, the car is there. Traffic grates on my nerves. Not only is it keeping me away from whatever Ethan found, it’s making it impossible for the cabbie to lose our tail. It has to be a MIB. I wonder if it’s one of the guys from Central Park trying to make sure I’m not up to any elfy mischief. Oh great. I can never bake cookies for the office again. Bring on the Keebler jokes.

  When the cab lets me off at Ethan’s place, I sprint across the sidewalk and into the lobby. He’s waiting for me, quaking like he’s won a 400-million Powerball jackpot. Without a word, he clamps his hand around my wrist and drags me into the elevator, mashing the button for the roof. Wait… doesn’t that need a special key or something?

  “Okay, so what’s the big event?”

  He grabs my shoulder, shaking my whole body. “You’re not gonna believe this, Sol. It’s… it’s… I…”

  “Right. Calm down. Tell me what’s going on.” He’s been struck stupid. No magic on him, so I’m guessing it’s that brain of his struggling to come up with a rational explanation for the irrational.

  By the time the elevator stops all the way up, he’s stopped shivering like an over-caffeinated chihuahua.

  “Stay quiet or you’ll spook it,” he says.

  “Spook what?”

  He points out at the roof once the doors slide open and puts a finger to his lips in the universal sign for ‘shh.’

  Fine. Whatever. I check the camera, something I should’ve done before leaving. Fortunately, it’s got enough battery to get a couple of shots and there’s room on its memory card. We creep out of the elevator, Ethan in the lead, and head across a short open area to a ladder that leads up to a raised section in the center of the roof. He climbs until he can peer over the edge, waits a second, and pulls himself up. I follow. We’re behind a large bit of ductwork that makes for a good hiding place. Something shuffles and makes a deep coo. The sound conjures an image of a pigeon the size of a black bear in my head. Even if it is a mere pigeon as big as a Prius, that’s still worth the trip.

  He tiptoes to the end of the duct and peers around before ducking back to nod at me and mouth “still there” without lending it even a whisper.

  Here goes nothing. Camera up, I edge up to the HVAC unit at the end of the duct and lean around. The sight before me leaves me frozen in disbelief. There, on the roof of an apartment tower in Brooklyn, perches a griffon. Head of an eagle, body of a lion, giant effing wings, and… it’s like twenty feet in front of me, working on a nest.

  My brain re-engages. Five pictures later, it hears the shutter clicking, and swivels its massive beak around to stare at me. I don’t know thing one about griffons, aside from that they’re called griffons. The idea that it might find me appetizing hadn’t occurred to me until the moment our stares lock. It’s magnificent and beautiful, and speaking of Priuses, it could probably carry one off into the sunset. Those talons would also do quite a number on my little elf self.

  “Hi there,” I whisper. “Only taking your picture, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  As if.

  I flip to video mode and start recording. Ethan peers out behind me. The griffon’s beak opens and it makes this (relatively) quiet sound like two pieces of slate scraping across each other. I can’t tell if it’s a greeting, a warning, or a threat display. Neither of us move closer. Its giant head swings the other way when a distant helicopter gets its attention, but the aircraft is too far off to be chasing mythical creatures. Probably a traffic chopper or something.

  “That thing is real, right?” whispers Ethan. “I’m not imagining this?”

  “It’s here. It’s real.”

  He threads his arms around me from behind and squeezes like a little boy hoping his mama protects him from the thing in the closet. Or maybe he’s got so much excited energy, he can’t help himself. Which is probably why he hadn’t noticed my hair, or eyes, or everything else new about me. Either way, it’s Ethan, and innocent, so I don’t mind.

  “Can you give me credit for spotting it in your article?” he asks.

  “You got it.”

  I stop recording video and snap a couple more stills.

  The griffon looks at us again, opening and closing its beak with a repetitive clack. That thing could take my head off in one bite. I never imagined a creature like that would be so docile. Maybe it’s tired, or maybe it’s some mutual trust between magical beings. How should I know? I’m not sure what to do. Getting closer could be dangerous, but I can’t simply walk away from such a glorious sight after only a few minutes. Can I warn it about the MIBs? Eva’s game has talking griffons, but this one doesn’t seem anywhere near that smart. It’s an animal, albeit an unusual one. A gust of wind ruffles its feathers and throws my hair in my face… and Ethan’s. He sputters and backs up.

  “Hey… you dyed your hair.”

  “It’s a long story,” I mutter. At least he recognized my face when I walked in the lobby.

  The griffon makes that slate-scraping noise again, beak hanging wide open.

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me,” I say, a little louder than a whisper and trying to sound as sweet and nurturing as possible.

  It leaps to its feet―the front pair eagle talons, the rear, massive lion’s paws. It’s feline enough that I recognize the hard-swishing tail as annoyance or alarm. A second later, it flares its wings out.

  “Uh oh. We should back away. It’s either pissed or scared.” I sneak a few more photos, unable to resist that pose.

  The griffon thrusts its head toward us, emitting a deafening cry. I cringe back, dropping my camera on its neck strap to cover my ears. A reek like seawater and fish threatens to send mead flying out my nose. Before I can form the intent to run like hell for the elevator, our unusual visitor spins a 180 and dives off the building.

  “Aww,” mutters Ethan. “It left.”

  “I―” I pause. Behind us, the soft crunch of shoes pressing down on the roof tickles my ear
s. I lower my voice and add, “I think it will be back… and we’re not alone. Something else spooked it, not us.”

  “Wha?” Ethan tilts his head at me.

  “It’s either a maintenance worker about to scream at us for being on the roof, a cop, or some friends of mine.”

  “Umm. It’s―wait, what happened to your eyes?”

  “As I said, long story.”

  Ethan twists to peer at the HVAC machine two seconds before another man walks into view. The guy’s thirty-something with short, black hair and a Brooks Brothers coat. By looks, he could be one of Diego’s coworkers. Definitely not a MIB, but he’s got similar sunglasses. No earpiece though.

  He does, however, have a funny air about him. Magical.

  “Good evening,” says the man. “You must be Miss Winters.”

  Ethan fluffs up his chest in a protective older brother way. It’s cute. I might look twenty, but he is twenty, still a pup.

  “I guess I’m hard to miss these days. Who are you?”

  “My name is Bertrand Jessen, and I represent an organization that is quite keen on meeting with you.”

  “I think I’ve had my fill of meeting with shady government types.” I narrow my eyes.

  Bertrand chuckles, head bowed, hands in his coat pockets. He does a little heel-to-toe shift before looking back up at me. Amazing. The breeze up here, and his hair hasn’t moved at all. I get the feeling he’s wearing more money than my good camera cost. “We are not with the government.” He raises a hand, palm up, gesturing at Ethan like a game show host revealing a prize to an audience. A pulse of magic ripples in the air. “There, now we can speak freely.”

  “What?” I nudge Ethan, who doesn’t move. He stands frozen in time, the same challenging glower on his face. “What did you do?”

  Wait. I’ve seen this guy before. At the Starbucks. The man who’d lost his Sunday.

  “A momentary lapse of awareness. Quite harmless. Some things are not for the ears of those who do not possess the art. I represent the Ordo Sanguinem Aeternam, a group of practitioners with a common goal and interest in the arcane. You have a great deal of potential, but I suspect little training.”

  Something in the way this guy looks at me sets me on edge. I feel like a unicorn being snuck up on for its blood. ‘Course, maybe they think I’m some great wielder of magic and I’m going to bring glory and prestige to their order. The gnawing unease only grows as he takes a step closer. “I’m a photographer for a tabloid that only nutcases read.”

  He smiles. “We are acquainted with The Spiritualist. Most of its reader base lacks sufficient understanding to glean the truth.”

  This guy is throwing off bad vibes like a broken microwave. I bet he’s the grey Beemer that followed me. “How’d you even find out I exist?”

  “One of our associates noticed you pierce his glamour the other day. He was rather annoyed with you for exposing him, but we have other ways to monitor the government. Only someone with the gift would’ve been able to disregard his charm so easily, though I imagine you have other things going for you.”

  “If you’re working up to a comment about boobs, I’m going home.”

  He chuckles. “No, Miss Winters. I was referring to your rather unique heritage. The ruby eyes are a dead giveaway. The Val’nathiri are quite difficult to trick with illusions and charms.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “Trust me, it was no sneeze. Perhaps you are more isolated than we thought.” Bertrand advances another step closer. I’d say the hairs on the back of my arms rise, but I don’t have any. “Perhaps you are more familiar with the term ‘elf.’ Most of your kind would find that word mildly insulting.”

  Oh, I hate this. Why is the first person I run into who seems to know what’s going on also throwing off badness? My instinct is to get the hell out of here, but what kind of reporter would I be if I got spooked by a thousand-dollar haircut and a too-good-to-believe smile? Not a good one, and a secret society of actual magic users would be a hell of a story, even if I have to change names and fudge it to protect their secrecy. Clandestine orders kinda get testy when you wave their dirty laundry in public.

  “All right, I’m not going to commit to anything yet, but I’m interested in hearing more.” I hesitate. “Are there… others of my kind here?”

  For the first time since his appearance, genuine emotion shows on his face. Disappointment. “Alas. No. You’re the only one we’ve yet become aware of. I trust you know of recent hard-to-explain events, sightings, and so forth?”

  I nod.

  “The entities leaking through have so far all been either small or of animal intelligence. We are still trying to understand why. We have determined that whatever happened has increased the potency of our magic a significant degree.”

  True. Invisibility never worked before, not that I tried it. Okay, that one time I was tempted to break into the teacher’s lounge in high school doesn’t count. The guy stole my Discman. “Okay. So, what now?”

  “Meet us next Thursday at 7 p.m. There’s a little town up north called West Kill. You should rather enjoy the scenery. Plenty of trees. Where Sprucetown Road ends at a triangle with Route 42, go past the trees to the field beyond.”

  Way off in the boondocks. He’s an idiot if he thinks I’m going alone. “All right. I’ll be there.”

  Bertrand offers the slightest of smiles and gives Ethan a sidelong glance.

  “Watch this guy. He’s―” Ethan jumps back. “Whoa, how’d you do that? One second you’re back there, and then you’re right here.”

  “You must be imagining things. We are quite high up. Thin air, and all that.” Bertrand sends a knowing nod my way and walks off, his coat fluttering in the wind around his legs.

  Ethan leans close. “Somethin’ ain’t right with that one.”

  “Yeah.” I fidget at the camera. “I know.”

  y furry alarm clock wakes me the next morning about fifteen minutes before six.

  Mr. Moody was difficult to ignore when he paced back and forth across my chest while meowing for food. Having him sit on the pillow by my head while jabbing his paw at my cheek and literally asking me to feed him makes it even harder. Of course, that also means he can understand me when I whine at him like a kid late for school that the alarm hadn’t gone off yet.

  Sprawled out across my bed, I poke my iPhone contact list for Fenton after a light exchange of texts with Diego. As usual, he’s crazy busy with work and it takes him a minute or so to respond each time. I avoid mentioning anything about Solstice 2.0, or my detention. He wants to make up for the other night by cooking a batch of paella from scratch. He knows I adore it. Even for that though, after the day I had yesterday, I’m not planning on setting foot outside my apartment. He understands―too fast, which makes me doubt the sincerity of his apology dinner plans. Like he was hoping I’d be unable to make it. Then again, if he’s having a nutty day, who’d want to come home and cook a major complicated dinner?

  “Sol. Good morning.” Fenton’s smiling voice makes me want to take all the screws out of his desk chair. He’s got nerve being that chipper this early. “I hope you’re not thinking of calling out today.”

  “Fenton, I got kidnapped by a three-letter-agency yesterday and chained to a bench for like six hours in a hidden underground facility. I think that at least deserves a few days of rest.”

  “We have to run that faun story today, Sol. This isn’t the kind of thing that waits. Someone will beat us to it if we don’t move, and I’m sure you don’t want to share the credit with Jazmin or Derek. Your picture, their story. Besides, they weren’t there.”

  I moan. “I’ve got plans. They involve a lot of lying around in bed, and they don’t involve pants.”

  “Come on, Sol. I know you’re tougher than that. Where’s that ambition of yours?”

  “Fenton…” I sit up, my hair draping over my chest into my lap. I like it. I can hide from the world under a blanket of snowy silver. “I woke up as an elf yester
day. I’ve got pointy ears, my boobs are gone, and the government is watching me. They’re probably listening to us right now. Hi to the men in black, if you’re there. Have a coffee and a donut for me.”

  “All your life you’ve been pursuing this break, and when it’s sitting here on a platter right in front of you, you intend to laze the day off?” Fenton sighs. “I can’t force you to come in. You’ve got plenty of time to take, but we need to chat. What do you say? I’ll even treat the Starbucks.”

  I flop back into the pillows hard enough to make Mr. Moody bounce into the air and yell, “Hey.”

  “Who’s that?” asks Fenton.

  “Long story. All right, fine. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  Fenton’s voice exudes cheer. “That’s the spirit. Text me when you’re ten minutes out so I can run for coffee.”

  “‘Kay.”

  I lay there limp for another few minutes until the alarm clock goes off. Mr. Moody leaps up onto the dresser and pushes the button to silence it.

  “Did you just turn the alarm off?”

  He springs to the bed in a graceful arc. “You’re already awake, and it hurts my ears.”

  “But you’re a cat.”

  “Why thank you for noticing the obvious. Also. I am a hungry cat.”

  “Did I turn into an elf the same time you became smart, or have I always been?”

  Mr. Moody tilts his head. “I’m a cat. Why would you ask me?”

  Sitting up is a chore, but I manage. “Because you’re talking and turning off alarms.”

  “I suppose I can see your reasoning there, but I do not know. As far as I am concerned, you went to bed looking like a human and woke up looking like”―he flicks his whiskers at me―“what you now see in the mirror.”

  “Right.”

  After dragging myself to the kitchen, feeding the cat, and taking my sweet time in the bathroom getting ready―damn I miss Diego’s shower―I head for the door. “Be back later.”

  “Have a nice day,” calls Mr. Moody from the kitchen.

  I know a lot of people talk to their cats. I feel special because mine answers.