by J. R. Rain
“That’s not the worst part,” says Jade.
“Do I want to know?”
“Heh. It’s not gory; it’s strange. We’ve got her on a slab here in New York, but she’s also still at CERN. There’s a bunch of interest in that experiment they ran last week, and the woman―the dead woman―was on a televised interview a few hours ago from France. Except the coroner puts the time of death around 11 p.m. the Friday before everything went crazy.”
“Whoa. That’s twisted.” I scratch absentmindedly at the pillow in my lap.
“Our ME has full confidence that the remains belong to Dr. Kumar. So, who’s in France, and why would anyone want to replace her? We even found flight records of her returning to Europe, confirmed with airport security cameras. Someone who looks identical to Dr. Kumar got on a plane to Geneva after the woman died, and doing her thing as her so perfectly, no one’s the wiser.”
My eyebrows furrow as I tap my foot on air. Who indeed? Whatever happened at the LHC caused the Convergence, I’d wager my ear tips. No, the more I think about it, the more sure I am that it’s less of an accident and more a plan, and my suspect list is pretty short: one person. “I think I have an idea of who… but not why.” Or it could be some other group of mages. How many are there?
“So, let’s hear it,” says Jade.
I tell her about Bertrand and the meeting on the roof, the not-right feeling I got from the guy, and my theory that a sect of mages would have a strong motivation to cause The Echo to drift closer to our world, increasing the potency of magic. I can’t say I really mind the magic part so much, but killing Dr. Kumar to do it is going too far.
We reach the same unsettling conclusion. I need to meet Bertrand and company in West Kill.
And Jade is going to provide backup.
y interview with CNN lasted about twenty-five minutes, six of which went toward the griffon. The rest… well. Let’s just say I don’t need to write that ‘hi world, I’m an elf’ story anymore. I told them what I knew (the watered-down version: I went to bed human and woke up an elf. I kept to the basics; after all, pointy ears are hard enough for people to digest without getting into being a creature from an alternate dimension. Maybe someday, if ever magic becomes routine in our world, I’ll explain more. But, for now, I gave them enough to chew on.
One good thing: I don’t need to bend over backward trying to keep my elfyness a secret.
Bad thing: I had to turn my phone off on Sunday when Andre showed up. People want me in commercials, magazines, I’ve had six offers from tiny TV news stations, and of course, three smut peddlers want me to pose for their websites. Uhh, no thanks.
We spent almost the whole day together. Walked in Central Park, grabbed lunch at a sidewalk café, sat in the grass with a hang drum in my lap and Andre behind me. Maybe I’m going full tree-hugging elf hippie, but I can’t remember the last time I felt so contented and happy. His arms circling me from behind guiding my hands around the drum blocked out the rest of the world, an impenetrable barrier that nothing could breach to hurt me.
So, as it turned out, I do have music inside me, and he’s opening the door. We spent the rest of the night at my place messing around with the drum, burning incense, and talking about destiny and magic. After he left, I went to bed by myself, feeling far from alone in the world.
Although Monday passed in a blur, the office madhouse didn’t stop. We had reporters from everywhere, even some foreign ones, showing up looking for me. I wound up basically giving a press conference without revealing much that couldn’t be assumed by anyone with a half-working brain. Hits on The Spiritualist’s website surged. E-subscriptions leapt to six digits from about 2,900. Poor Jim. The traffic killed our web host six times, and he spent all day on the phone arguing with the provider. And speaking of phones, poor Tracee didn’t know what hit her. I think she took more calls in one day than she’d had since she started.
Jade, Agent Prince, and a handful of other FBI people crashed my place Tuesday morning before I could leave for work. They again ‘encouraged’ me to help them look into the Ordo Sanguinem Aeternam (or OSA, as I’m beginning to think of them as). She wanted to go with me, but when I mentioned they had a man infiltrating the MIBs, she dragged me back to Federal Plaza. Once I verified her boss hadn’t been replaced by an OSA guy in a glamour, we got the nod to go on a ‘tour’ of the FBI building to sniff around for spies.
I found no magical oddities―in particular, glamours―so she relaxed. She figured since the MIBs chased numina, the OSA had a keen interest in them, hence Scar trying to infiltrate. So far, the FBI hadn’t gotten involved in anything non-mundane. The discovery of Dr. Kumar’s remains had not been made public. Oh, Jade did get yelled at for telling me that, but after we presented the theory we came up with about the woman being replaced to serve the ends of a secret magical society, I got a pass, but also ordered to keep quiet. Remember that whole ‘chained to a bench’ thing? Yeah. That’ll happen again if I leak anything about them finding the body before they declassify it.
Not that I want to.
Apparently, West Kill, NY is remote. An FBI presence there would stand out like a roach in Diego’s apartment. Jade and Agent Prince are heading up there Tuesday as a ‘married couple’ pretending to be moving into a house that’s been on the market for a while. Not sure how much they’re paying the owner for rent, but hey. Under the radar, right? A couple other agents plan to filter into town looking like civilians. No influx of black sedans and suits.
I take Wednesday, and the rest of the week off. I’m far too anxious about the meeting to even think about work or to keep running into my new fans. Apparently, I’m trending on Deviantart too. Everyone and their kid sister is drawing or painting my portrait. I haven’t looked. I’m sure quite a few of them aren’t anything I’d ever want my parents seeing.
Late in the afternoon on Wednesday, I head to the Starbucks in the hopes that being around Andre will calm my nerves. I’m half-tempted to ask him to sleep with me tonight. Actual sleep. Maybe his positive energy will shield me from spending hours staring at the ceiling wondering if my two-thousand-year possible lifespan is going to expire in two days. I did not like the way Bertrand felt. Not in the least.
Starbucks is crowded more than usual, but then again, I usually always show up an hour or so before they close. Blue is at the register, absorbing the disdain of a fortyish woman who feels the time of everyone else behind her in line is less valuable than her opinion of the teen barista’s ‘poor life choices’ and how anime-blue hair will ruin her future permanently.
Bitch.
The kid glances at me, and we share a moment of camaraderie over wild hair color. I can’t tell if she wants to punch this bitch, quit and storm out, or hide in the back room and cry. Her expression is… something dark, but vague. I wink at her and flick a little magic at the obnoxious woman. A tiny sparkle dances around her head and bright fuchsia spreads out of her roots over the rest of her hair. Looks like I even got her eyebrows… and probably also parts unknown.
Blue can’t take it anymore and cracks up laughing.
A man, next in line, startles as if in a daze. “You got some nerve, lady.”
Heh. I love the way most brains handle magic. Her hair didn’t change color a second ago, he merely didn’t notice it until now.
They get into an argument before the guy points at a strip of silver trim on the counter where her reflection is clear. The woman screams, digs a compact from her purse to use its mirror, and screams again. Blue clings to the counter to keep from falling over, she’s laughing so hard. Andre runs out of the back room to see what’s going on. I guess he’s the manager. The obnoxious woman closes her compact and hurls it into her purse. She looks around like a wounded puppy, but the walls have no explanation for what’s happened to her. Her gaze fixes on me and turns accusatory. Obviously, since I look strange, I must be the cause of her misfortune.
I give her a challenging ‘say something’ stare, hoping she gives me a
n excuse to vent my still-buried emotions over Diego on her. Sadly, she chickens out and shuffles to the left, where one of the teen boys has set the drink she ordered. Without another word, she collects it and walks out.
“Whoa, groovy color,” says a passing white guy out on the sidewalk with dreads and a Jamaican hat. “That’s rad.”
The woman shivers, and rushes off to the left out of sight.
Andre raises his eyebrow at me.
Hmm. I’m not sure if I did a ‘dye job’ or effected a permanent change. Oops. The line moves on.
“That was awesome,” whispers Blue when I finally get to her.
I shrug. “What I wanted to do would’ve gotten me arrested. People like that annoy me.” Not that I’ve ever been ‘wild’ or anything other than ‘Miss Totally Normal.’ Okay, well I was abnormal, but it didn’t feel like it. “I’m in an adventurous mood today. How about a gingerbread latte?”
Blue cringes. “Sorry. We only have that around the holidays.”
“Oh. Umm. I guess I’ll go with the usual mocha then.”
She taps it in. “How did you do that?”
“Magic,” I say.
“Serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I saw you on TV. You’re that elf.”
I nod.
“That’s so cool… Umm… can I touch your ear?” She bites her lip. “Never mind. Sorry. That’s rude.”
“No problem.” I grin. “Maybe next time.”
After scanning my phone app to pay, I shift left, collect my drink, and take a seat. As I hoped he would, Andre walks over and sits opposite me.
“Your aura is much brighter today.”
“Thanks.” I slide a hand across the table and grab his hand. Tingles. Calm. “You know you’re like a drug.”
He grins. “Careful not to overdose.”
I skip the obvious injection joke waiting to come out, and let off a nervous sigh. “I need to do something that’s scaring the hell out of me. You said the other day you’re here to protect me, and I was wondering if you’d go with me somewhere possibly dangerous.”
“What is it you are planning to do?”
He nods here and there while I explain in whispers about having to go two hours north to a tiny little town to meet some people I don’t trust. On Sunday, he’d seemed familiar with the idea of magic, though not directly knowledgeable. A lot of ‘oh, yeah, I’ve heard that’ and so on. It doesn’t surprise me that he shows little reaction to my mention of a secret magical society of unknown intent. It does surprise me when he agrees.
Andre even offers to drive.
He doesn’t spend the night. But Mr. Moody keeps me company and does a decent job of talking away my nerves so I can sleep. Bertrand wanted to meet at 7 p.m. Google Maps says it’s a two hour and twenty minute ride. I’m not sure why they picked such an out of the way place, but none of the suspicions my brain conjures up are remotely comforting.
I get dressed around two after a bit of hemming and hawing over what I should wear. Figure I’ll treat it like a ghost hunt with the guys. Black. Cargo pants, sneakers, a t-shirt, and hooded sweat jacket should do the trick. White-silver hair in a moonlit field is going to glow, so at least with this, I can hide if I have to.
Mr. Moody trots after me to the door. “Bring me along.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt or lost.” I squat and scratch his head.
He purrs despite himself, and it makes his voice sound growly. “I can feel how nervous you are. Another set of eyes and ears can help. No one pays attention to a cat.”
Hmm. He’s got a point. But I don’t want him getting run over or taken. “I don’t know… It would kill me if something happened to you.”
“I’m smarter than the average cat.”
“What if someone thinks you’re a stray and tries to grab you?”
He sits up. “Well, then I suppose I’ll yell ‘put me down’ and make my escape while they’re picking their jaws off the ground. Besides, if you want to, you can find me. We do, after all, have a magical link.”
“All right, but…”
“I’m not going to run into traffic. What kind of fool do you take me for?”
I laugh. He jumps up onto my backpack. I can’t help but bring a camera along, even if it’s the old Nikon. Shit. I still haven’t gotten a new memory card for the Canon. I pull out my iPhone to hit Amazon on the walk to the front door downstairs, and notice a missed call from Eva. She tried to call me at 2:44 a.m. last night. Huh… butt dial?
I swipe to call her back and it rings into voice mail.
“Hey, kiddo. I think you butt-dialed me last night late. What’s up? Give me a call.”
Once I’ve got a new memory card on the way, I stuff the phone in my pocket and head down to the ground floor. Andre’s parked a few car lengths from the entrance, a white Jeep Wrangler canvasback, not what I was expecting. Okay, maybe a tie-dye Volkswagen bus would’ve been a reach, but I suppose the somewhat-old Jeep fits him too.
Mr. Moody appraises the vehicle and leaps from my shoulder into the back seat.
“Nice ride.” I climb in and stash my backpack between my feet.
Andre grins as he starts the engine. “There is no greater sense of being alive than to have the sun in my face and the wind in my hair.”
“What about rain?”
“I do not mind rain as much as the upholstery does. For its sake, I use the roof.” He glances back. “You are bringing your cat?”
I pull on the seat belt. “Yeah. He insisted.”
Andre looks at me for a pointed second before making eye contact with Mr. Moody. “Ahh, yes. Perhaps he has good instincts. Mind the claws on the seats.”
“Hmph,” says Mr. Moody.
Grinning, Andre pulls away from the curb, and we’re off. I’ve never been in a convertible before, and the wind is something else. Especially once we hit the freeway and get up to about eighty. His hair lofts in the wind as does mine. Within a half hour of cruising, I resemble one of those troll pencils someone’s been spinning between their hands, but his hair flies behind his head like a banner. Unable to help myself, I reach out and touch it to make sure it’s not a glamour.
He tilts his head at me.
“Your hair’s so perfect,” I shout over the din of the fat tires. “I look like I’ve been electrocuted.”
Andre laughs.
Mr. Moody’s curled up on the back seat, possibly asleep.
The jeep rolls into West Kill a little after six―as much as one can ‘roll in’ to a town you can pass in two seconds. We’ve been driving for a long time surrounded by trees on Route 42. It’s pastoral and calming, the exact opposite of NYC. A rightward fork diverts to Spruceton Road while 42 veers slightly left. At the center of the triangular T intersection, a tiny round island sports a cute pine tree and a small bush. It looks like the town’s got an official Christmas tree, sans decoration. This is the spot where Bertrand wants me to enter the woods on the left. Andre turns off 42 into the town, which is basically a stretch of maybe 2,000 feet with buildings on both sides. Wow, talk about small. I think more people live in my building than this entire place.
We pull over and park on a scrap of pavement between Spruceton and the narrow face of a post office no larger than someone’s house. The parking lot in front of it only holds four cars, and it’s full. I stand inside the Jeep and look around in a circle, whistling to myself at the smallness of everything. If I could see through trees, I could observe the entire town from here.
Agent Prince, in a worn white t-shirt and blue jeans appears in the distance, walking toward us along Spruceton. Looks like it’s been a couple days since he’s shaved and his expression is classic country local who has no patience for city folk. His face remains sour, but he nods at us as he goes by. Something flutters out of his grip when he passes the Jeep.
Andre kills the engine. He gets out, stoops, and comes back up holding a small bubble mailer with the letters “SW” written on it. With a shru
g, he hands it over. When I open it, a folded piece of paper and a pair of clip-on earrings fall out. They’re red plastic domes painted like ladybugs, about the size of a healthy blueberry cut in half. The note reads, “Wear these for luck. –Jade.”
“Hmm. Evidently, I’m wearing a wire.”
“Huh?” Andre looks at me.
“Jade sent me earrings. Unless the FBI’s developed an arcane subdivision overnight, I’m guessing these are at least audio pickups, and one of these black dots might be a camera.” I peer past the windshield at Agent Prince wandering back the way he came. “If you guys can hear me, tell Prince to sneeze.”
A few seconds later, he does.
“Cool. We have backup.” After I put them on, I fuss with my hair trying to de-troll. “Okay, all set. Hope my hair’s not in the way if there’s cameras.”
Andre sets a cooler in the driver’s seat, opens it, and hands me a plastic tray of salad, the bottom wet from its ice water bath. “Didn’t look like this place had anywhere to grab dinner, so I brought.”
“Thanks!”
“Wasn’t expecting the cat… sorry.”
Mr. Moody gives him a look, but says nothing.
We wind up each sacrificing about a third of the chicken off our salads to the cat god, and he accepts our offering. Andre must be having an effect on me because I have no trouble eating despite being consciously scared.
“What do you expect will happen?” he asks.
I sigh out my nose. “Your guess’s as good as mine. I tell you though, that Bertrand guy, he sure creeps me out.”
“If his aura seems out of balance to you, the inside must not match the outside. Beware the serpent who smiles.”
“Something like that.”
I start to grin, but wind up staring into my tray. It never occurred to me that Andre might not be who he appears. All those feelings of calm comfort could be coming from a powerful glamour like the one that kept me looking human for thirty years. Every time I touch him, I get tingles. Arcane tingles. But… he’s been at that Starbucks for months. Long before the Convergence, and long before anyone but my parents knew what I am. Maybe. I did have that bloody handprint on my back as an infant. Whose blood had that been, and how did they get hurt?
