Hexes and Handcuffs: A Limited Edition Collection of Supernatural Prison Stories

by Margo Bond Collins

  Godsdamnit, he's overstepping his boundaries by taking the conversation in this direction in group therapy. This belongs in our one-on-one, not in front of all the residents. He’s also hitting a little too close to home with the line of questioning, voicing concerns that may have been on Tiras’s mind. Ire surges inside me, but I need to stay calm. I lower my head, letting my dark hair fall in front of my face. “You're probably right, Dr. Palmore. It's more than just missing Tiras.”

  He nods. “That's a good first step, Siren: admitting that you have a deeper problem.” To my surprise, he drops the subject and moves on to his next victim—er, patient.

  The session lasts longer than usual today. Dr. Palmore addresses each of our personal “issues” in front of the group. Some days he fixates on one or two patients, and the rest are spared, but not today. He airs everyone's dirty laundry, leaving it hanging on the line for all to see.

  I’m not paying any attention, to be honest. I’m thinking about what Dr. Palmore said, about my true motives behind conjuring Tiras. Do I really only conjure him for sex? Granted, it’s amazing sex, but I do love him—don’t I?

  When group therapy comes to an end, it's almost dinner time. I'm so anxious that the mere thought of meat loaf makes me nauseous. I make excuses and get permission to eat a turkey sandwich in my room. I'm overjoyed when the orderly's key turns in the lock, sealing me in.

  I take a deep breath, sit down on the bed, and wait at least twenty minutes before I try to conjure Tiras.

  My hands don’t light up. He doesn’t come.

  I scowl and try again. Still nothing.

  “Tiras? Baby, are you there?” No response. No magic. No Tiras.

  Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong.

  I stand up and start pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, just like Tiras did earlier…only I'm here, and he's not. Why is he not here?

  I reach down inside myself, to my core, to where my magic sits, but nothing feels wrong in me. Whatever the problem is, it’s not with my magic.

  Hours pass with no Tiras. I try meditation techniques I learned in therapy, I try straining, I try everything. I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m scared.

  I don’t sleep. When Ettie comes with breakfast, my eyes hurt from crying all night, and my throat is raw. I’ve never been so lost, so afraid, and I’m starting to think he’s never coming back.

  I move through the next week in a haze, unable to function. The words “fugue state” drift in one ear and out the other, and they shove more pills at me. I take them without question. What does it matter whether they affect my magic or not? Tiras isn’t coming back. He’s gone. I did something wrong. I took advantage of him, I didn’t appreciate what I had, and now he’s gone forever.

  Of course, this doesn’t stop me from trying every night after lockdown to conjure him back.

  It doesn’t stop me from failing, either.

  On the sixth night—or is it the seventh?—I finally break.

  I'm about to call for an orderly or a nurse or hell, I'll even take Dr. Palmore at this point, just get me someone who can help me get Tiras back. I'm shaking like a junkie, but it's not for lack of sex. It's for lack of his presence, his essence, his strength.

  Just as I've reached the height of panic, as I'm about to scream for help from whoever will listen, a commotion outside grabs my attention.

  A chorus of sirens—ambulance sirens, not the kind I'm named after—assaults my ears through the closed window. My room overlooks the front of the building, and despite my anxiety over Tiras's disappearance, or rather lack of appearance, my curiosity is piqued. It's odd timing, that's for sure. What mage has gotten him- or herself into enough trouble at this time of night to warrant an emergency ride here in an ambulance? Usually unstable mages like myself are admitted to a hospital wing for a proper diagnosis before they're brought here, and even then, the sirens aren't used.

  The sound draws me in. I creep over to the window and peer through the bars at the scene in the driveway below.

  My stomach drops below the floorboards, and my heart stops beating.

  The crazy mage who's gotten himself committed to Palmore's Home for Wayward Mages in the middle of the night, the one that four orderlies are wrestling out of the ambulance, the one in handcuffs…is Tiras.

  Tiras? He's here—as a patient? How? Did I conjure him in the wrong place somehow? Is that why he didn't show up here? But no; that makes no sense. If he'd appeared elsewhere, the authorities would have detained him and called Dr. Palmore to give me a dose of the serum. That's the easiest way to subdue a conjured being: incapacitate its mage.

  Tiras bleeds from a head wound, and the orderlies don’t seem to care if they injure him further in their struggles. I try to dismiss him back to the Ether to heal. My hand won't glow, and he stays in the driveway. By this time, they've removed the handcuffs and wrangled him into a straitjacket. My heart breaks at the sight of my lover in restraints.

  It's not supposed to be this way. Tiras isn’t human, but he's by no means an animal, and he shouldn't be treated like one. I pound on the glass between the bars and scream until I'm hoarse, but I know it's futile. No one down there can hear me, and even if they could, they wouldn't listen. I’d just get another dose.

  But wait! Maybe that's the answer! Maybe if I cause enough of a fuss up here, cause a distraction, I can get them to set Tiras free. I mean, I'll have to subject myself to a serum injection, but if I can’t consciously dismiss him, maybe—just maybe—I can make Dr. Palmore dismiss him for me. He’ll be sent to the Ether, his body will heal, and he'll be okay.

  Unfortunately, the only sure way to get the orderlies and nurses to swarm my room in the middle of the night is to get caught having sex. Even if they can’t hear me outside the window, the pyro twins are certain to report me if they think I’m making love. Without Tiras here, I can’t do that, though—

  —But I can try to fake it.

  I go to my door, get close to it, and start moaning and screaming louder than I ever have before. I don’t know how good of an actress I am, but it sounds convincing enough to my ears. Thomas and Tessa are laughing so hard down the hall that I can hear them, but I don’t care. This is about getting Tiras to safety, not maintaining my own dignity.

  I can't see the front drive to know if my ploy is working, but within minutes I hear thundering footsteps echo down the hall. The night nurses are making their way to my room, and I know Dr. Palmore won't be far behind. He'll bring the serum, and Tiras will go back to the Ether to heal.

  I get the serum, as expected, but as it starts to take hold—before my consciousness fades, before the nurses leave, and while my door is still open—I see two orderlies drag Tiras's bound, unconscious form down the hall to one of the empty rooms.

  He should have dismissed by now. Why is he still here?

  When I wake the next morning, my first act is to try to conjure Tiras. My hand doesn't glow; he doesn't come.

  Was last night a dream? Am I still under the influence of the serum? I don’t feel sluggish or numb, so I doubt it’s the serum.

  Ettie brings breakfast a few minutes after I wake up, and she’s even more short and curt than usual, bordering on rude. Her lips are pursed, and she turns up her nose at me when I try to ask if she knows of any new admissions that came during the night. I give up on trying to get answers from her. She probably heard about my “performance” to save Tiras, and it upset her sensibilities.

  It's Friday, so that means “nature therapy,” which is really just where they herd all the patients to the inner courtyard and tell us to play nice with each other. Everyone sits at the periphery, and aside from the pyro twins everyone sits alone.

  My inability to conjure Tiras consumes my thoughts, so I’m not paying attention to who’s in attendance at nature therapy. I walk in circles, wringing my hands, hoping against hope that the light will return to them and Tiras will appear.

  Nature therapy ends, and an orderly escorts me back t
o my room. As he leads me down the hall, I see that the room they deposited Tiras in last night is open. With more strength than I knew myself capable of, I wrench free of the orderly’s grip and rush to the doorway.

  Inside the room, restrained in the bed, eyes glazed over, is Tiras. A bandage covers the gash on his head, so I don’t know if it has started to heal, but from the look of the bruising on his face and wrists I doubt anything on him is healing. He looks like hell warmed over, and I want to go to him. The orderly catches me, however, and drags me back to my own room screaming Tiras’s name.

  He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if it’s because he can’t, or because he won’t. His eyes indicate a recent dose of serum, but maybe he doesn’t want to reply—or does he? I’m more confused than ever now.

  The orderly locks the door but doesn’t call Dr. Palmore for a sedative. I guess with Tiras bound to his bed down the hall, they don’t think I need any serum. Or maybe I don’t need it. I mean, if my magic is gone, then the serum is pointless. Maybe everything is pointless now.

  I can see Tiras's door from the barred window in my own door. They've locked him in, so I don’t know how he's doing. I stay at the tiny window, staring at his room, until I'm too tired to stand. My body slides to the floor, and I drift off to sleep with my forehead pressed against the cold metal.

  Ettie wakes me with her key in the lock, and I scramble to avoid getting smashed by the door when it opens. The night spent sleeping on the floor has made me groggy, but not so groggy that I’m too stupid to see the opportunity in front of me. While Ettie is backing the breakfast cart in, I snatch her keyring, shove her against the door, upturn the cart, and bolt for Tiras’s room.

  It takes a few precious seconds to find the right key, but I get the door open before Ettie recovers.

  Tiras is still tied to the bed, but his eyes are clear. Whatever they had him on, it's worn off. Those gorgeous amber orbs are wide with shock. I don’t know if he remembers that I tried to come in last night. I don’t know if he was even aware enough to know I was there. I freeze, and for a moment I forget to breathe.

  “Siren?” His voice is hoarse, like the orderlies had strangled him in their attempts to subdue him. “They let you out of your room?”

  He doesn't sound angry; that's a good thing. I think.

  “I'm out of my room. The permission for me to be out may be debatable.”

  I don’t know why I'm cracking wise. I cringe as I realize that jokes are not what Tiras needs right now.

  Tiras shifts in the bed, but his restraints prevent him from getting into a sitting position. “You shouldn't be here. They’ll punish you for coming here without permission.”

  I glance back down the hall. Ettie is heading for the internal phone system. I've probably got a few minutes before the orderlies descend. “What happened to you? You've been gone for so long, and I couldn't conjure you back.”

  Ettie's voice drifts to my ears. “—in his room right now! Get someone up here before she gets his restraints off!”

  A few seconds, then.

  “Siren, please, I'll explain everything as soon as I can, but right now you need to get back to your room. Don't make me watch them take you, not when I'm powerless to stop them from hurting you.”

  My heart surges at the concern in his voice. My jaw sets as I nod and leave, passing a flustered Ettie in the hallway as I make a beeline for my room.

  By the time the orderlies get there, I'm back in bed, sitting on the edge, hands folded in my lap. Ettie’s waving her arms, gesturing to Tiras’s room and back to mine, but the orderlies just shrug at her. The taller one, Simon, interrupts her.

  “I get it, Ettie, but we can’t call Dr. Palmore to sedate her if she’s not doing anything wrong.”

  “But she stole my keys! She was practically in his room! Don’t tell me you’re not going to do anything about that.”

  Simon shrugs again. “She was in her room when I got here. I'm sorry, Ett, but my hands are tied.”

  “His door is wide open! You know I didn’t do that.” Ettie puts her hands on her hips. The whole scene is almost comical.

  After a few more minutes of back and forth, Ettie gives up, and the orderlies leave, scolding me and warning me to stay put until it's time for therapy.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. The orderlies' words are lost on me, because there is something more important on my mind: Tiras still cares. I don’t know what else is going on, but that one fact is enough to warm my heart and give me hope.

  I know from experience that new admissions don’t get any privileges until they've proven their willingness to cooperate with the program, and even for well-behaved patients that takes a week or more to accomplish. That means I will have to behave and cooperate for a week or more as well. If either one of us acts out or breaks the rules, we’ll both be punished.

  A week without Tiras—another whole week—is torture, but it’s endurable…mainly because I know that Tiras is safe. He may be locked up in this asylum, but he's safe.

  I take my pills on schedule. I go to my therapies. I toe the line, and after two grueling weeks of faking it, Dr. Palmore rewards me with permission to send notes to Tiras. I have to pass them to him via nurse or orderly, but it's a step in the right direction. The first note from Tiras is short, but it’s probably because he has to use mediators too, so he doesn’t want to reveal anything private that could be read.

  Siren, my love,

  Thank you for listening to me. I promise it will all be worth it. We just have to be patient.

  With all my heart,

  Tiras the Deserter

  Tiras the Deserter? His choice of signature is strange, but his words are encouraging. I hold the note to my chest and sigh.

  “Siren, my love.” “With all my heart.” Those two phrases are enough to hold me for now. I hope he receives my note with the same enthusiasm.

  Tiras,

  My heart soars to see you alive and well. I long for the day when the locks no longer keep us apart.

  Siren

  Okay, so I'm not as good with words as Tiras. I got my point across, right?

  Two more weeks pass before Dr. Palmore allows us to sit in the same group therapy sessions. The pyro twins snort and giggle and sneer, but Tiras takes the seat next to me anyway. The heat emanating from his body stirs a fire in my loins, but I keep my hands to myself. I don’t want to jeopardize our fragile accord with Dr. Palmore and his staff. They're letting us be close to each other, and that's more than they ever allowed when Tiras was conjured. It's killing me not to touch him, though.

  We walk to the dining hall side by side, and he sits next to me at the table. A dozen-plus pairs of eyes bore into us, watching our every move. The pyro twins point and whisper. Tiras shuts them down with a glare that would have been terrifying had it been aimed at me. I grin into my mashed potatoes and touch my knee to his under the table. He nudges my arm with his elbow, and when I glance over at his plate, I see the words “jealous brats” spelled out in peas. I giggle and place my hand over his, risking retribution if the orderlies see us.

  “I'm sorry I had to leave you,” he says, squeezing my hand. His voice is so soft I have to strain to hear him. “I still don’t think it's safe to explain, but I promise I will soon.”

  I squeeze back. “It's okay. As long as you’re here now, and you’re here for good, I don’t care about any explanation.”

  “I'm here for good. For you. Forever.”

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away with the back of my free hand.

  An orderly escorts the two of us back to our rooms, and they allow us a supervised hug in the hallway before locking us away for the night.

  Dr. Palmore surprises me the next day by delivering my breakfast and morning pills himself. Dr. Palmore never does grunt work.

  “Good morning, Miss Smith. How are you this fine day?”

  Something is fishy. What does he want?

  “Good morning, Dr. Palmo
re.” I'm not sure what else to say.

  He sits on the chair across the room and crosses his legs. I wait for him to speak.

  “So,” he uncrosses his legs and re-crosses them the other way, “you and Mr. Williams have given me a lot to think about this past month.”

  Uh oh. This could either be really good or really bad. “And what conclusion did you come to?”

  He sits forward and stares at me, his beady black eyes boring into me. “We did tests on Tiras, and yourself.”

  “Okay…”

  “You’re a mage, no question about that.”

  He’s stating the obvious, and I wish he'd just get to the point.

  “And?”

  “And so, it appears, is Tiras.”

  Tiras—a mage? I didn’t think mages like myself could conjure real, live people, let alone other mages. Conjurers pull people out of the Ether…that's how it works, isn't it? So how can Tiras be a mage?

  I'm too stunned to speak. I just sit there with my jaw hanging wide, and I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting to breathe again.

  “That presents us with a dilemma of sorts. After all, you were committed here all those years ago because of what you were caught doing with an Etherkin.” Dr. Palmore sighs. “Or rather, what we thought was an Etherkin. Since the man you were with has proven to be a man, the reason for keeping you here is no longer a valid reason.”

  I'm not sure what this means. Is he going to discharge me and keep Tiras? That might be worse than our previous arrangement.

  “And it seems that Mr. Williams has recovered from his temporary ailment.”

  Wait…Is he saying what I think he is?

  Dr. Palmore stands and strides over to the bed, handing me an envelope.

  I tear it open and pull out the folded papers inside. When I read them, tears fill my eyes. I look up at the doctor, and for the first time in ten years the detachment in his eyes is replaced with kindness.