Note to self. Random mental comments like that in the wake of scary dream visions in the wee hours of the night are seldom good ideas.
It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to go out into the store. The displays threw menacing shadows across the floor that my imagination immediately turned into a lurking wicked witch.
My first impulse was to run upstairs and dive under the covers, but the calm part of my mind said, “You know you won’t sleep anyway.” Bowing to the wisdom of that inner voice, I decided to have another look at Grandma Kathleen’s grimoire instead.
When I came down the stairs into the lair, I found Greer reading by the fire. “Hey,” I said. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” she replied, closing the book in her hands. “Please do.”
Claiming the chair across from her, I asked, “What are you reading?”
“A biography of Catherine de' Medici,” Greer replied. “I’m afraid the human author does not do her justice. Catherine faced no easy task keeping the Valois dynasty intact in France.”
It would have made me sound cool if I could have jumped right in with a pithy historical comment, but I had to admit I had no idea what Greer was talking about.
“A small matter,” Greer said, smiling. “Incorrect or not, I find human histories fascinating. The authors’ capacity to miss the true nature of events seems bottomless.”
“Did you know Catherine de' Medici personally?” I asked.
Greer nodded. “I did,” she said, “and I admired her.”
Tucking my legs under my body in the chair, I said, “That must be so weird, reading about people you knew from so long ago. When did she die?”
“Fifteen fifty-nine,” Greer answered.
Frowning, I struggled with the math in my head, “That was . . . ”
“Four hundred and fifty-six years ago,” the baobhan sith supplied helpfully, “give or take a few months.”
She delivered the last words with a droll smile that made me laugh. The oldest Fae measure their lives in such vast stretches of time, a month must seem like half an hour to them.
“You were in France in 1559?” I asked.
“There,” Greer said, “and in England as well.”
She got up and crossed to the liquor cabinet. “Elizabeth Tudor ascended the throne that year,” she said, “and Good Queen Bess was the match of any man walking.”
Pausing to hold up two bottles, Greer asked, “Scotch or brandy?”
“Brandy,” I replied, watching as she poured three fingers of whisky for herself in a tumbler and a generous serving of Hennessey in a snifter for me.
When she came back to the hearthside, I accepted the glass she held out.
“What is that Gaelic thing I’m supposed to say?” I asked.
“Slàinte,” Greer said.
I repeated the word awkwardly and then asked, “What does that mean, anyway?”
“To your health,” Greer replied, taking her seat again.
“And the thing Chase says back when Festus says slàinte?”
“Do dheagh shlàinte,” she replied, “which means basically the same thing.”
We sipped our liquor in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire. The brandy felt warm in my throat, and I liked the way it seemed to move out along the nerves in my body. I knew Greer was watching me, but I waited for her to re-start the conversation.
It wasn’t a long wait, just enough time for the brandy to start to loosen the tension in my body, something I’m sure Greer, with her vampiric powers, could sense.
“What has you wandering down here at this time of night, Jinx?” she asked after a few minutes. “You’re troubled. Does this have anything to do with the visit Festus and I paid to Raleigh?”
I opened my mouth to answer, and without meaning to, I told her everything — Grandma Kathleen’s grimoire, the Casket of Morpheus, Tori’s green powder, and all of the dreams — in detail.
When I got to the part about Brenna Sinclair, Greer’s eyes took on an odd glow. “Well, well, well,” she said, with something in her voice that might have been admiration. “I thought Brenna went down just a bit too easily.”
The way she spoke those words kicked the connection center of my brain into high gear. “No way,” I gasped. “You know Brenna Sinclair?”
“Oh yes,” Greer said. “I have known Brenna for centuries. I assure you that it takes one red-haired Scotswoman to get the best of another. Brenna and I have crossed paths and swords — literally — on more than one occasion.”
“Did you know her before she became a Creavit witch?”
“I did,” Greer said. “Brenna’s father, Henri de St. Clair was if you do not mind my saying so, a thoroughgoing bastard. His cruelties were largely responsible for Brenna’s decision to deal with the darkness. You see, Brenna, like Irenaeus Chesterfield, was born into an Hereditarium family but her powers failed to develop.”
You think keeping up with the twists and turns in a soap opera is hard? Try sorting out the intricate lives and associations of the Fae. I am talking centuries worth of plot twists.
“Do you think it’s possible Brenna has something to do with the theft of the Amulet of Caorunn?” I asked.
“With Brenna,” Greer replied, “almost anything is possible, but from the setting you describe, she must currently reside in the In Between. There is no other realm where imps can be found.”
That confused me.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “aren’t we sitting in the In Between right now?”
Greer shook her head. “No,” she said, “we are sitting in a fairy mound that resides in the In Between. The Fae are forsworn not to interfere in the affairs of the Middle Realm. There are places like the fairy mound that exist within that realm, but only as a submersible might exist in the ocean.”
I’d always thought nothing but . . well . . . dirt surrounded the fairy mound. The idea that beyond the walls of the archive lay a forbidden dimension was going to take some getting used to.
“Somehow,” I said, “I don’t think a ‘Keep Out’ sign would mean much to Brenna.”
“Likely not,” Greer agreed, “but there are virtually no entrances to the In Between, and those that do exist are guarded by intricate security mechanisms. Opening them typically involves facing life-threatening challenges.”
“So how did Brenna get there?” I asked.
Greer considered the question. “Understand,” she said, “that I am neither a witch nor an alchemist, but if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that since Brenna ‘died’ within the fairy mound, she was, in some way transported through its boundaries and into the Middle Realm. The journey may not have been one of her choosing, which could explain the sensation you experienced of falling through a vast darkness.”
“Have you ever been to the In Between?” I asked.
“I have,” Greer said, “but long before the agreement and the safeguards were in place. The Middle Realm is a place of contradictions and illusions. Rather like Lewis Carroll’s imaginary Wonderland. Lawlessness and danger exist there side by side with incomparable beauty and mystery.”
“Sounds like the perfect place to hide a stolen amulet,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Greer replied, “but if so, then our elusive John Smyth would also have to be a creature of the In Between, and one violating the agreement to perpetrate his crimes in the human realm.”
“Could that explain why the street cats said he smelled like a deer?”
“An intriguing idea,” Greer said. “Festus told me, with no small bemusement, that you asked about ‘weredeer.’ I used the DGI network to reference the Registry computers. There are no specific shapeshifting ungulates in the literature . . .”
The look on my face must have made her rethink her word choice.
“. . . no shapeshifting animals with hooves in the literature,” she went on, “but I suppose we could be dealing with an individual who possesses hybrid transmogrification skills.”
“Meaning?”
“Typically, practitioners with transmogrification powers only alter their appearance within their given species,” Greer explained. “That is how the ability differs from genetically based shapeshifting.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about magic, it’s that every “rule” has exceptions — usually major ones.
“But does that mean it’s impossible for someone with transmogrification to make cross-species transformations?” I asked.
“No,” Greer said. “Infinite potential is the purest essence of magic. How such a creature could cross in and out of the Middle Realm at will, however, is a more complicated matter. Now, may I ask you a question?”
An alarm bell went off in my head. “Sure,” I said a little uncertainly.
“How long do you plan to keep all of this information from Barnaby, Moira, and the others?”
Not the conversation left turn I wanted.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell them what I’m doing.”
Greer gave me a penetrating look over the top of her whisky glass. “There is something you should understand about me, Jinx,” she said. “My reputation does not include being an informer. I do not work for them. I am in the employ of the Mother Trees, and by extension, you. Therefore the secrets you choose to keep are mine to keep as well.”
“Good to now,” I said, “but what if the Mother Tree asks you what I’m doing.”
“Then I will tell her she must speak to you in person,” Greer replied with sparkling eyes.
“Oh,” I said, grinning back, “I get it. You won’t rat on me to anyone else, but you’ll throw me straight under the bus with the Mother Tree.”
“In a heartbeat,” Greer affirmed solemnly.
Having been put on the spot by the Great Oak more than once myself, I couldn’t blame her. Not even a being as powerful as the baobhan sith wanted to deal with the Tree in one of her moods. Somehow knowing that only strengthened the growing sense of friendship I felt for Greer.
“Fair enough,” I said, “and thank you for the talk. I came down to look at my grandmother’s grimoire, so I think I’m going to spend some time doing that now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“By all means,” Greer said, reaching for her book. “Call me if you need anything.”
I found the grimoire on the shelf, started toward the alcove, and then stopped. “Greer?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up from the page.
“If Brenna were to get out of the In Between and into the fairy mound . . . ”
A flickering green flame instantly kindled in the depths of her eyes. “She’d have to go through me to get to any of you,” Greer said.
That was exactly what I wanted to hear.
Carrying the grimoire into the alcove, I drew the curtain behind me. To my surprise, the gentle sound of the bubbling brook began instantly accompanied by chirping crickets. My always-on enchanted sound machine could tell night from day.
Curling up in the chair, I stared contemplatively into the fire for a few minutes. There are all kinds of meditative aids, but I do some of my best thinking getting lost in the wavering light of flames. Between my dream of Brenna and my conversation with Greer, I had a lot to think about.
I can’t tell you how long I sat there lost in my musings before I fell asleep. When I woke up, my feet were up on the ottoman, which I could have sworn was longer than it had been the day before. The soft blanket covering my body seemed to emit a comforting warmth, and my head rested against a downy pillow. The alcove and its amenities were starting to grow on me.
Glancing at my watch, I had about half an hour to kill before I needed to get upstairs, fill the cats’ breakfast orders, and dress for the day. Grandma Kathleen’s grimoire sat on the table beside my chair. I opened the volume to the passage about the Casket of Morpheus and read the description again without finding anything new.
Running the tip of my index finger over the handwritten annotation about unpredictable results from the artifact, I whispered, "Guess, I should have listened to you, Grandma. Now, who do I ask for help?"
Even though I was alone in the alcove, the breath of a whisper swirled around me. I could only make out a single word — family.
12
After my talk with Greer and what I believed to be a ghostly, early morning visit from my grandmother, life just took over for the next couple of weeks. It will do that, even to people like us who lead magically convoluted lives and regularly confront evil wizards and scheming sorceresses.
Now, for the record, everything I just told you is what I wanted to believe at the time — maybe even what I was supposed to believe.
From a psychological perspective, when you’re staring at an impending crisis — the proverbial oncoming train — nothing seems more important than thinking you’re in control of everything, including the timetable of events.
So not true.
The Fae emphasize one underlying principle over and over again: the natural order.
In one of my more contentious talks with the Mother Tree, I angrily asked why she didn’t just step in and clean things up. At the time we were discussing getting my brother home. I had it in my head that the Grid — the Coven of the Woods comprised of the Mother Trees — possessed omnipotent powers.
I guess I thought they could just wave their branches and make stuff happen. The Oak set me straight fast.
She told me that the Trees are responsible for the coherence of time and that they serve as the wardens of magic, but they can’t interfere with the natural order. During a quiet moment in the lair, shortly after we rescued Connor, I asked Moira to explain that to me.
Fixing me with the gentle, knowing smile I’ve come to love, Moira said, “It would be so much easier if the Mother Oak could simply grant our wishes, right all our perceived wrongs, and give us our heart’s desire, would it not?”
My eyes instantly filled with tears. “It would,” I agreed. “Is that so much to ask?”
“Jinx, there is a Power beyond and above us all, including the Great Trees themselves,” Moira said. “Their place in the Natural Order is to ensure the unified, consistent progress of our existence. The roots of the Trees hold the realms in place. Their wisdom anchors our own. They are not gods, but rather guides and friends.”
She told me everything happens in the order in which it’s meant to happen, which caused my brain to dredge up the remains of some long-distant Sunday school lesson.
“Isn’t that called predestination?” I asked.
Moira raised an eyebrow. “You have read St. Augustine?”
“Uh, no,” I said, “but I did go to church camp a couple of summers.”
“Ah,” she said. “Perhaps then you have heard one of Augustine’s more memorable quotes, ‘Lord, make me chaste—but not yet.’"
“I think I like this guy,” I laughed.
“He is the Patron Saint of Brewers,” Moira said. “A great many more people are in debt to his benevolence than they may realize.”
“So am I right on the predestination thing?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” Moira said. “Matters of future salvation preoccupied the Christian thinkers sometimes to the exclusion of the life path. Do you remember our discussion about Benjamin Franklin when you first learned of the Strigoi?”
Good ole Ben Franklin, he of the kite strings and the bifocals. Franklin helped a Romanian Orthodox priest named Samuel Damien bring the first Strigoi to the area around Briar Hollow as refugees from a church determined to kill them as cursed servants of the Devil.
Together the men devised a means to feed the Strigoi, who live on life energy not blood, with electricity. Franklin went on, in time, to more or less found the Bureau of Indefinite Species.
“Yes,” I said. “I remember we talked about him.”
“Franklin was an example of a Deist,” Moira said. “He saw the Great Power as a Divine Clockmaker who set in motion the Universe a
nd then sat back to see what mankind would do with it.”
“So you’re saying that no event occurs before its time,” I said. “The Trees can’t just make something happen. I get that, but clearly, they know when to put things in motion, or stop us from doing something like the Oak stopped me from seeing Connor. How do they know what to do and when to do it?”
“That,” Moira said, “is a matter between the Trees and Mother Earth herself.”
Yes, it was a cryptic answer, but somehow it made me feel better. It did not, however, prevent me, a couple of weeks later, from sliding right into my comfortable illusion of being in charge.
Now I can tell you the truth. Nothing major happened during the last few days of November and the first couple of weeks of December because nothing was supposed to happen — not yet.
I gave in to that denial because it was easy and it felt good — and I had plenty of other things to occupy my thoughts and actions.
For instance — and it never ceases to amaze me that we pull this off — Tori and I do run a profitable business. Our espresso bar, The Witch’s Brew, has become the go-to watering hole for Briar Hollow’s caffeine addicts, a fact borne out by our increased revenues.
Once the early morning coffee drinkers come through the front door, we rarely get a minute’s peace for the rest of the day. Having a civilian like Mindy Mathis working for us as a barista limited what we could freely discuss during that time, but honestly, I don’t think Tori and I could have handled the holiday season without her.
Nothing about my state of mind changed my nightly dreams. The images came fast and furious in living Technicolor on a scale that would make big budget film directors salivate.
There wasn’t a single grain of blue kyanite powder left on the Casket of Morpheus, but that didn’t matter. The first treatment had been more than enough, and frankly, Tori and I were scared to try anything else. Even returning the Casket to its proper storage box in the archives didn’t stop my dreams.
During that time my fountain pen and I did develop a perfect working relationship, which was pretty cool. Every time I woke up the pen quivered in its leather loop, straining to get to work bringing my visions into sharp focus on the pages of the grimoire.
The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7) Page 9
