The Waking Magic (Winter's Blight Book 3)

by M. C. Aquila

  “What is so important to you about finding this creature?”

  “I told you!” James snapped. “I have to find my mum.”

  “And what happens then? What changes if you find her?”

  James opened and shut his mouth uselessly, stammering, no clear words coming out. He shook his head and wiped rain from his face. “Nothing— Everything. Everything will go back to how it was. Everything will be okay again.”

  Cecil made a low sound of amusement before releasing the book. James held it against his chest like it was a lifeline.

  “Have you ever heard of the Moorland Beast?” Cecil asked. “That is the information your father so lovingly tore from your book.”

  Recognition sparked in his mind. “I know this! I’ve read— No, I’ve only heard about it. It’s one of the great cats of England that prowls the moors. It’s been terrorizing the moorlands for hundreds of years. It must be a Cait Sidhe!”

  “Yes.” Cecil smiled. “It’s a great beast with claws, teeth, and golden eyes. To look upon it, they say, is to be cursed. Yet you search for it. Would you be afraid to look into his eyes?”

  James answered instantly, “No. I wouldn’t.” But then something clicked.

  The beast has golden eyes…

  James could barely hear over his heart thudding in his ears, nor could he speak around the tightening of his throat like a cruel hand around it. He felt the crystal in his palm and squeezed it until it hurt.

  “Say you do find your mother and vanquish the beast,” Cecil said, stepping to the side. Each step he took, James took another so that they were always facing each other. “Do you honestly want your life to return to how it was before? You want to go back to being invisible? That lonely boy in his room, poring over his books and studies as I did, like it was our only refuge from the dull and hateful world…”

  “How did you—?” James’s breath caught.

  “But now books are not enough for you. You desire more, as I did. One day,” Cecil continued, “your brother didn’t come to pick you up from school, and you had to walk home by yourself—something you’d never done before. You decided to forge your own path home, one that took you past Ferrier’s Town. And I cannot forget the look of pure wonderment on your face at what you saw there. Was it at the faeries, the colored lights and lanterns? No. It was magic. And I knew then that you would be such an apt pupil, a protégé, if I had the chance to teach you everything that I know.”

  When Cecil halted in front of him, James backed up until he bumped into the tree behind him.

  Cecil spread his arms in a wide, open gesture, and said, “I am Cait Sidhe.”

  Movements and the raindrops felt slow and fast at once. Before James quite realized what he was doing, he grabbed a branch off the ground and wielded it like a cricket bat, ready to swing, and snarled, “Where is my mum? What have you done with her? Bring her back!”

  Cecil eyed the branch with disdain. “You and I are both wielders of magic now, James. Do not insult the both of us by threatening me with a stick.”

  James chucked the branch and held up the crystal in his hand.

  “I taught you,” Cecil said with a sigh, “magic is about intent. You have no intention for that crystal to go off like it did before.”

  “You want to bet?” James ground out.

  “As much as I relish a gamble, I do not imagine you will blow up the only person who can give you the answers you desire. I shall freely and generously give them to you. Whatever you ask of me, I will answer honestly.”

  “Then answer me now!”

  “Fine. Your mother is safe for the moment.”

  James felt like there was a dam inside his chest that was about to burst and that letting go of it would break him. “You’re lying.”

  “We will discuss it”—Cecil held out his hand for the crystal—“if you give that to me—”

  “Don’t come any closer,” James warned, his voice straining over the sound of the rain. He held up the crystal higher, raised his arm to strike. “What do you want with me? Why did you take me as your thrall? Why?”

  “Your father was the one who sold you. I merely agreed. Anyone who would toss their child away so carelessly does not deserve him or to see how amazing he will become.”

  James wanted to strike him. He wanted the creature that stole his mother away to be a beast, to be unreasonable and cruel. It was easier to hate something if it was a simple monster.

  “James.” Cecil caught his arm. He grabbed James’s other arm, but the grip was not tight or restraining. “I will not hurt you. It is the last thing I would ever want to do. I only want the chance to tell you everything you desire to know.”

  The crystal fell from James’s hand. It thudded to the ground and did not burst or crackle with fire. The intent poured from it, the darkness of the black powder leaving it. All that was left was a blank crystal, waiting to be filled with new, unknown magic.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time Vera returned from the forest, her bow and fiddle in her hands, the rain had ceased again. When she walked up, James and Cecil had moved closer to the edge of the woods, managing to find a dryer place to stand and begin their discussion. Her face was still marked by tears, but she smiled at them when she approached.

  “Vera, darling.” Cecil walked over to her, and she embraced him, pressing her face against his chest. They whispered to each other for a minute, and when Vera pulled away, she was grinning again.

  She bounded over to James, and he did not know what to do so he just offered her a weak smile. Then he jolted when she grabbed his shoulders.

  “Come, come,” she said and began to turn him around. “You will sit, and I will play a song, and Cecil will talk and answer your questions. He loves to talk.”

  James allowed himself to be pushed and guided, and once they’d reached a clearing with a tree stump in the middle, she shoved him so that he sat down on it.

  Wincing, he asked, “What kind of song will you play? Are you going to use magic?”

  “I shall play for atmosphere!” Vera exclaimed. After positioning her instrument under her chin and raising her bow to the strings, she played as Cecil walked up and stood in front of James. The song seemed to match the weather—gloomy and dark—the notes low and long and somber.

  James retrieved his notebook from his pack and held his pen at the ready.

  “Well, James,” Cecil said, lifting his hands. “Would you like me to start when I first met your father or when he decided to make an agreement with me with the price of your life?”

  James’s mouth parted. He gripped the notebook in his hand. “You mean you knew him before?”

  “He was quite young when our paths first crossed at the Winter Court. He was a soldier in the Iron Guard, and he was on a little mission to find the faery who had caused the Cataclysm. His search led him to the throne of the Winter King himself.”

  This time his jaw fell open. “Dad—he went to the Winter Court by himself? I’ve never heard of any human ever returning. There’s not much even written about the Unseelie Court because so few have even seen it.”

  “I’ve been there quite a few times.”

  Immediately James listed off questions in a nervous jumble: “What kind of plants grow there? Is it always snowing? And how does life survive there? Which animals live there? What kind of magic—?”

  Cecil laughed. “We will have plenty of time to go over all my notes and research on the Winter Court at a later date. We have time for one of your bigger questions today. Choose wisely, based on what you need to know now.”

  James clenched his fists, then exhaled sharply. “Okay. Tell me why he gave me up and what he got in return. It was the machine, right? The one that can supposedly bring the barrier down—”

  At once Vera stopped playing and gasped. “Oh, this is my favorite story about my favorite creature! I must be involved in this. We can all play parts!”

  “Creature?” James asked.

  Ceci
l shot Vera a withering look. “That is simply my sister’s special name for your father.”

  He wanted to ask why that was, but he could not get the words out. James shuddered, and he wrapped his arms around his middle like he could warm the numb coldness that had spread into his chest. He was chilled from more than just the wind and rain.

  After setting her instrument down, Vera waltzed over to stand in front of James. “I shall play the role of your father,” she said and slipped on a stern and grim expression and raised a finger at him like she might scold him. “And Cecil will play himself.”

  Cecil snorted. “It’s the role I was born for.”

  “Yes, brother, but you must take this seriously,” Vera chided.

  Straightening, Cecil said, “Of course, darling. Of course.” When Vera’s attention was focused elsewhere, Cecil offered James a sympathetic look, but it did nothing to ease the discomfort he felt.

  “Um, can’t you just tell me?” James asked. “I just want to know the important details.”

  Vera pointed her slender index finger around the clearing, jabbing to trees and stumps and rocks, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Cecil, this shall be the interior of the manor. Those trees shall be the walls, that rock is your favorite chair, and where James sits shall be the hearth.”

  Darkness fell over the area like the roof of a dome appeared overhead. Stone walls built themselves up around them. In an instant the forest vanished, replaced with the inside of an old-fashioned manor. James let out a yelp and shielded his eyes as flames rushed up around him. He lost his balance and nearly fell off the stump but caught himself on his elbow.

  “What—?” James could still feel the seat under him, and when his feet brushed across the ground, he heard the rustling of leaves even though all he saw was a wood floor.

  Hesitantly he reached his hand out and touched the flickering orange flames in the hearth. They were not even warm; his hand went right through them. He looked up to see Cecil standing in the middle of the room, his hands behind his back and an amused smile stretched wide on his face.

  “You have got to tell me how you did that,” James said. A raindrop fell from the sky and landed on his hand, and an anxious, shaky laugh bubbled from his mouth. “What kind of distance does a spell like this have? And what space can it span…?”

  Any questions James had died in his throat as he saw the figure of his father shimmer into view like a shadow, like a ghost.

  “Cecil—!” James shot up and stepped back.

  “He’s just an illusion, James. That is all. Vera will play her part well.” Cecil’s silvery voice echoed oddly through the space, and he walked toward him, stopping between the hearth where James stood and the armchair in front of the fire.

  His pulse thudding, James forced himself to look at the illusion of his father. He was younger, his face less gaunt and lined, yet he had somehow never looked wearier. His tall stature usually accented his confident posture, but now it only served to make him look warped, his shoulders slumped like a tree grown crooked under a barrage of wind.

  “Alan Callaghan.” Cecil strode toward him. “What brings you here? Last I heard from you, you had decided you weren’t fit to be the savior of humankind and enact your vengeance on the Summer Court. You cut ties with the Winter King.”

  “Yes.” Alan let out a ragged breath. “And in return, he unleashed his monsters.”

  Cecil shook his head, his long hair falling forward and shadowing his face. “And is that the reason you are here? There is nothing I can do to sway the mad Unseelie king. I am but an intermediary.”

  “I know.” Dragging his fingers across his face, Alan said, “If I do nothing, justice will never be done. I’ve taken the steps needed, but I’m faltering. I’m only human, and what I have to do, what I have done… My family, my sanity, my life—I’ll lose everything.”

  “Again I ask, why are you here to see me?”

  “I want to ensure their protection—my wife and son.” Then he shook his head. “No. That’s not enough. I want to ensure that another Cataclysm never happens again.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  Alan’s voice was strained when he began to speak. “I want you to take this”—he scrabbled at his own chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt—“take all this useless remorse and desolation and weakness from me. Take it and keep it. Then I can do what needs to be done.”

  “I see; your heart is what is causing you such sorrow. But without it, are you even alive?”

  Letting out a hoarse, wry laugh, Alan said, “It’s better that I’m already dead. A dead man has nothing to lose. And what use am I alive if I can’t even look after my family? I can’t do anything for them or my country, like this, the state I’m in.”

  Then Alan tossed the bag he was holding to the ground. Items spilled from it, clanging, and the sound of it made James jolt. Gold gleamed in the false firelight, and coins skittered and rolled across the floor, their sounds tinny and faint. They looked like items he had collected from the house in a mad rush.

  “This is all I have,” Alan said, gesturing to the floor.

  Cecil sighed. “I have no use for trinkets and money. A sacrifice is required of you. You know this.”

  “Is what I am giving not sacrifice enough?” Alan asked, his voice thundering. He crossed the distance between them in a few strides. “You deal in flesh.”

  “I deal in life. A sacrifice for a sacrifice.” Cecil shook his head. “That is how magic such as this operates.”

  “Please—”

  James flinched as his father’s words broke off. He watched as the man who seemed both familiar and a stranger to him buried his face in his hands, lowering himself to his knees before Cecil, his broad shoulders trembling as he wept.

  He had never seen any vulnerability from his father before—even if it was just an illusion.

  “Stop,” James whispered.

  “Traditionally, a firstborn is offered,” Cecil suggested grimly. “I would make sure that he is taken care of, treated well.”

  “No.” Alan stood to his full height, towering over Cecil. “I would never give my son away. Not for anything. It would break Kallista. I can’t.”

  “Stop,” James said again. He emerged from his place by the hearth toward Cecil and the figure of his father. “I don’t want to see any more.”

  “But if there was another child, another life, barely formed, that I could trade…” Alan covered his face again, shaking. “Oh God… But not when I’m still like this. You’ll have to do what I ask first, and then I’ll give you the child when it’s older.”

  “That’s enough!” James shouted.

  As if his voice had shattered the illusion, the images faded, replaced once more with the damp, green forest around them.

  Vera was standing where his father had stood, in front of Cecil, and she was smiling. “Did I overdo it, brother?” she asked. “Or was that as dramatic as you remembered it? I improvised a teeny little bit.”

  “Shut up,” James snapped.

  Vera jerked back, her hands fluttering to her mouth in alarm.

  “That was my father you’re mocking,” he ground out. “That was my life he was trading. And… and you’re making light of everything about it.”

  He charged toward the stump blindly and began to gather up his belongings, shoving them into his pack.

  “And now you know the tale of the creature without a heart,” Vera said in a singsong voice.

  Cecil came up behind him. “You wanted answers, James. I never promised you would like them. I agreed to take you because I wanted to teach you. I honestly did not expect you to care so much about how your father—”

  “I don’t.”

  But he could not deny how much that image of his father had shaken him. He had never seen that side of him before—a side he hadn’t even known existed. It had been easier to face that he had been sold as a thrall when it was a monster that had done it and not someone broke
n.

  After taking a deep breath in and out, steadying himself, he asked, “How can magic… how can it take a heart like that? How is that even possible? How, um, is he still…?”

  When he trailed off, Cecil offered, “The magic I use often deals in the figurative, in the metaphorical, in symbols. So even though his physical heart still beats in his chest, your father is no longer burdened by all it represents.”

  Cecil bent his head slightly to meet James’s eyes, continuing, “It is not so uncommon a thing, James. Mortals will their hearts away for many reasons and unto many vices. They drown them in liquor or in faery water as not to care or hurt. They give their hearts to anyone who will have them. They dull and sedate them to the harshness of the world and to stave off guilt or shame or cruelty.”

  Thinking of his brother, James felt his throat tighten.

  “Your father is not so different from people like that—only, to his credit, he took it much farther than anyone before him by employing magic. He believed his reasons to be noble for the betterment of his country.”

  Before any more questions or complicated, unwanted thoughts set in, James waved it all away and finished packing his belongings.

  Then Cecil picked up the Unseelie book from the ground and handed it to James. “I’ve taken the liberty of restoring your pages for you. You’ll find everything is there. I should know. I wrote every word.”

  “You wrote Servants of the Winter Court?” James stared at the book, running his thumb over the worn blue cover. “And I found it.”

  “Like I said. Kismet.”

  “I… I think I need to leave,” James told Cecil after a pause as he shouldered his pack. “My brother will be looking for me, and I ditched my friend.”

  “Of course. No one is stopping you, James.” Cecil gestured to the line of trees and the fairgrounds peeking through. “But there is so much more for you to learn, new spells to master, new faeries to study. If you truly want to be able to fend for yourself, then you have a ways to go with magic.”

  James worked his jaw, thinking. “What about my mum?” he asked.