Blood, Smoke and Mirrors (2010) (4 page)

From my right-hand pocket I pulled out my compact and opened it, setting it down on the ground in front of me with the mirror facing up. I frowned down at my hand, wondering how I was going to cut it open without my ritual dagger, and I glanced up at the dragon who watched me with much curiosity.

"May I borrow the use of one of your teeth, please?"

It blinked, and then chuckled, the noise a deep rumbling that made the ground beneath my boots vibrate. "Of course," it answered with equal civility.

Images of rednecks getting their hands bitten off after putting them in the mouths of alligators filled my head as I approached the dragon. The beast could swallow me in a few tasty bites if it had a mind to, and I felt a trickle of nervous sweat slip down my spine. It opened its mouth wide as I stepped near, and I stared in amazement at the sharp, dagger-like teeth. Terrifying to behold, but just what I needed. To my credit my arm only shook a little as I reached into the dragon's mouth and drew my palm across one of its incisors. I whipped my palm over to prevent any blood from dripping into the dragon's mouth--just in case--and then trotted back to my compact. Squeezing my hand into a fist, I let several drops of blood fall onto the surface of the tiny mirror and then placed the tip of my index finger against the glass.

"Winter's bite and moonlit snow,

To the land of frost let us go.

Castle Silverleaf let me see,

As I will, so mote it be."

Closing my eyes, I formed an image in my mind. A castle surrounded by light gray stone walls, slender towers that stretched toward a pale blue sky dotted with thin white clouds, dark blue banners that snapped in the stinging wind. Familiar strains of music carried on that wind, as well as the sounds of voices lifted in song, laughter and conversation. A forest of barren, snow-dusted trees stretched to the north of the walls, and a frozen river ringed the castle like a moat. I opened my eyes and saw the image in the mirror, each minute detail just as I pictured it.

Rubbing my hands together, I smeared them with warm, slick blood. I reached down and brushed the edges of the image with the tips of my fingers, and taking a deep breath, I tugged them outwards. A sharp crack sounded as the plastic backing shattered, but the image expanded. With painstaking care I drew the edges of the mirror farther and farther out, stretching it like a piece of uncooperative dough across a cutting board. Blood continued to flow from the wound, and I used it to refresh the coating on my hands. All magic is based in blood, and my blood is strong. This, however, required a lot more blood than I was used to.

As I worked I lost track of time, focused on the task before me until finally the mirror that had once been small enough to fit in my pocket took up a space large enough to (I hoped) fit a dragon through. Standing up straight, I wavered a bit on my feet, lightheaded, and turned to my captive audience.

"Well, what do you think?"

The dragon studied the mirror. "Impressive."

"After you," I said, sweeping my arm out in an invitation. The dragon crept over to the image, standing at its edge as though it were a pond the beast was deciding to dive into. Its muscles bunched, and with a graceful leap the dragon sailed into the mirror and through it. Before the magic could fade I leapt through and found myself standing in a snowbank up to my knees, staring at the castle in the distance.

A shadow passed over me as the dragon flew away, a black silhouette against the afternoon sky. "Thank you!" it called out as it whooshed toward the horizon.

"You're welcome," I shouted after it. I held my hand above my eyes to block out the sun and suddenly remembered the cut I'd left open and bleeding all this time. "Uh-oh."

Frantic, I tried to direct the cut to close itself, something I'm normally quite good at, but it stubbornly refused. I realized there was something wrong with my legs as well as they wobbled beneath me. My traitorous body was not letting me enjoy my victory, and a queasy lightheadedness washed over me before the world went black for the second time that day.

Chapter Four

I awoke by degrees, lost in a sea of hazy dreams and nightmares that vanished as quickly as they appeared. I saw myself as a girl running through a forest and giggling madly as I chased after the white, winged figure that darted between the bare trees in front of me. I heard the cool crunch of snow beneath my boots and felt the occasional glimpse of faint winter sunlight on my face as it peeked through the gray clouds above.
You can't catch me, Kitty-kitty!

Then I saw the front door of my childhood home. I reached to open it, my hand small and smudged with dirt, and the knob turned easily in my grasp. As the door swung open I heard shouting, strange angry words, and it frightened me down to my core. I crept through the house back to the kitchen, everything around me now seeming sinister in the late-afternoon light. I paused as I passed the bedrooms, surprised to see two suitcases on the floor in front of my parents' room. I hid behind the open basement door, sitting on the top step and making myself as small as possible as I listened to the voices. My father was yelling, my mother was weeping, begging him not to leave.

The dream changed, twisted. I was older. I opened the door of my home and found quiet, an awful silence. I stepped inside and turned to my left, looking into the living room. The smell hit me, the pungent, poignant stench of death. My mother's body lay on the floor, tiny pools of her blood staining the carpet, her face pale like I'd never seen it before and twisted into a mask of terror and agony. Those lifeless eyes stared at me, pleading, warning. Home was no longer safe--her killers had been invited in. Invited by my father, to tear my mother apart and feast on the strong magic in her blood.

Fleeing the dream, my eyes blinked open to stare at the ceiling of my bedroom. I lay crumpled on the floor in front of my mirror, the scent of dried blood and faded cinnamon filling my nostrils. I pushed myself into a sitting position and surveyed my surroundings. My top hat had rolled off and was tipped on its side just out of reach. My unbound hair hung in dirty strings, and I absently pushed it out of the way. As my hand passed in front of my face I was startled by the dark, crispy coating of dried blood that stained it, and then I remembered how I'd stretched the mirror in the earthen room beneath the faerie mound.

"Out, out, damned spot," I muttered, my voice dry and raspy in my throat. Shaking my head, I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand and was surprised that it read a little after four. I really hoped it was the following morning and I hadn't missed any days during my misadventure in Faerie. It was entirely possible, considering I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. Stumbling to my feet, I wobbled over to the door and opened it. Spots danced in front of my eyes as a warning that I needed to consume mass quantities of coffee and pancakes, and soon. First I wanted to check the date, so I continued on into my living room and flopped down into my desk chair. I slapped my mouse to wake up my computer, raining flakes of dried blood onto the mouse pad in the process, and waited as the screen took its own sweet time to wake up.

At long last I was able to confirm the date: June 29
^th
, and a refreshing 4:36 a.m. Lovely. At least I hadn't lost any days, just hours. For a few moments I sat in the chair and debated the pluses and minuses of showering first versus eating first. The shower sounded very appealing--I felt like hell, gritty and grungy like I'd been dragged through the mud. Eventually I settled on the shower in order to save myself the time and effort it would take to clean the blood trail I'd leave behind in the kitchen. I only caught myself losing my balance twice and managed to hold onto consciousness the entire time.

Go me.

Dressed in my fuzzy purple bathrobe and matching slippers, I puttered about in the kitchen, fixing my "Huzzah for survival" feast. Instead of coffee I forced myself to brew a strong herbal tea, one I knew had healing properties in it. As usual I decided to comfort myself through the cunning use of fattening food--cheesy scrambled eggs, sausage links and chocolate chip pancakes. And, most importantly, nothing that included cinnamon, which was how I realized I was no longer alone in my apartment when the scent of it wafted down the hallway halfway through my meal. I stared down at my eggs, and decided I was too tired to get up and go to her.

"Portia, it's still too early for the game show," I called out.

A cry of childish disappointment answered me, followed by the pitter-patter of little combat-booted feet. I was vaguely surprised to see Tybalt following behind his sister, as he rarely made an effort to travel to the human realm.

"She said it isn't on," he reminded her.

"It is too on, there's an entire channel of the game show, the guide says so!" Portia waved a copy of this week's
TV Guide
in Tybalt's face to punctuate her point.

"There's more than one kind of game show, hon." Scooping up a forkful of pancakes, I watched her mull that development over while I chewed. Rolling his eyes, Tybalt walked farther into the kitchen and plunked my sword and dagger down on the counter. A wave of relief washed over me at the sight of them--it would have been a serious pain in the ass to buy new ones. Good swords are hard to find, and run damn expensive.

"Do they all give away new cars?" Portia asked.

"No. Some of them do.
Wheel of Fortune
does sometimes." I shrugged, and her eyes widened at the idea.

"There is a game show about the Wheel of Fortune?"

Aside from being associated with Pat and Vanna, the big Wheel is a member of the major arcana of the Tarot deck. Not one of the cards I particularly relate to, but still, something amusing to keep in mind next time you watch someone buy a vowel.

"Is it on now?" she asked, thrusting the
TV Guide
at me.

"Answers first, game shows second." Leaning back in my chair, I took a long gulp of tea. Tybalt took the opportunity to hop up and perch on the corner of my stove, which looked very strange considering he has no wings. He had the ability to wear wings, but I once heard him comment that wings got in the way during a fight.

If I didn't know Tybalt and Portia were related, I wouldn't have been able to figure it out by looking at them, because there's little physical resemblance between the two faeries (or at least there isn't when they're in the forms I typically see them in). The only common feature is the white hair, but Tybalt's hung wild and shaggy around his face unlike his sister's long, glossy waves. While Portia's eyes are deep blue, her brother's eyes are pale green, the color of spring leaves. His wardrobe is what one would expect of a faerie, a more traditional combination of a tunic, tough leather leggings and sturdy calf-high boots. And unlike Portia, who doesn't look like she could swat a fly, Tybalt is never without a weapon, mainly his rapier.

"Okay. First, did I pass the test? Wait, no, first, what the hell was my father doing there? He can't be Oberon, he's a damn necromancer," I spat. "And why weren't there any other candidates?"

"Cat, there's no law that says a necromancer can't do it," Tybalt explained. "It's just never happened before."

"Never? As in never, ever? In the whole history of Faerie?"

"Never. And from what we've been able to tell, the other possible candidates were...discouraged from applying."

"Discouraged, huh?" That couldn't be good. I also wasn't comfortable with the fact that this had never happened before. Never was a word with real impact when used by a race that is essentially immortal. I hesitate from saying completely immortal, because they aren't. Faeries can be killed, it's just hard to do. They do age, but at a rate that's so slow that I don't think one has ever died from old age. They're immune to all diseases, and their blood is pure magic. One hundred percent Grade A magic, not the watered-down variety we humans have, which is why vamps have no use for faeries. Though vampires need blood containing magic to survive, and the stronger the better, when a vamp feeds from a faerie the results are explosive. Literally. The overload fries the vamp's brain and
poof!
Instant death. Real death too, not the corrupted undeath they exist with. I'd pay good money to see that.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but vamps still can't travel to Faerie, right?" I asked, confused.

"Right." Tybalt nodded. "They can't travel to anyplace decent."

Nodding, I stabbed another forkful of pancakes. The doors were closed to vampires because the Higher Powers (whatever you want to call them) consider vampirism such a terrible crime against nature that they don't want it to infect any other world. Necromancers can still use the doorways--because they're technically not vampires yet--but necros really aren't welcome anywhere. Most faerie clans remove necromancers from their territory with extreme prejudice.

"Hmm. So, essentially the vamps are making a play for political power with a race who won't talk to them, and that live in a place they can't get to. That makes zero sense. And why now? Something must have changed... Hey, so did I pass? Fail? The heck kind of test was that anyway? One of those 'can you think on your feet' deals?"

I speared some eggs next. Left to her own devices, Portia began poking through my kitchen cabinets, looking for a snack.

"First, tell us what happened to you." Tybalt raised a curious brow. "There's been no official report on the results of the first test."

"Was weird. I got dropped into this room with no lights at all, and I stumbled around for a bit. Tried my glowstone, but it wasn't strong enough, so I put up my shields and conjured a bit of sunlight. When the room was lit I saw this enormous dragon behind me, just watching me. Why didn't you tell me dragons could talk, by the way?"

"Sure they can talk, getting them to shut up again is the hard part." Portia snorted. Fluttering up to reach the top shelf, she pulled down a bag of cookies and shoved her greedy little hand inside. The faerie munched on a chocolate chip cookie, raining crumbs and dust onto my kitchen floor, as usual.

"Good to know. So yeah, it said it wouldn't eat me, and we talked a bit. I figured out it was stuck too, so I opened a portal to just outside Silverleaf and we popped right through. It thanked me and flew off, and the next thing I know I'm back here again." I did my best to sound nonchalant about the stunning display of magic I'd pulled off. Sure it was an enormous achievement for me, but faeries can manage that sort of stuff practically from the cradle, and wouldn't be nearly as impressed with myself as I was. The two faeries digested this information as I polished off my breakfast. Even with the food as fuel I still felt drained from my adventure, and figured it'd take most of the day to recharge my magical batteries at this rate.

"I guess that explains how Dorian ended up burnt," Tybalt said.

"Burnt?"

He nodded. "Aye, we have some people keeping an eye on him. When he appeared back at home he had some wicked burns--he must've decided to fight the dragon instead of helping it."

"Why would he fight it?" As I pointed out before, dragons aren't evil, they just...are. I doubted the other dragon would have found Dorian any more palatable than my dragon found me. Tybalt shrugged, and Portia continued to devour cookies as she moved to perch on the edge of my sink. "I guess he went with a 'shoot first, ask questions later' plan. So what happens next?"

"Don't know that either," Portia piped up. "More tests are planned, but so far we have no information of what and when. You did good though, we're proud of you."

I couldn't help but smile at her praise, even if it was spoken through a mouthful of half-chewed chocolate chip cookie. I wasn't entirely sure what happened, if I passed, failed or avoided whatever intended outcome the Council had. All I knew was that I was alive, and apparently still in the running for Titania. I'd better damn well win, too, 'cause there was no way I'd let my father become Oberon.

"Are you speaking to the guardian again?" Tybalt asked.

I blinked at him, surprised. "Not willingly, no. I wasn't expecting him to be there. Or to show up at the cafe last night."

"I can make sure he stays away from you, if you like." There was tension in his shoulders, and his hand drifted toward his rapier. I smiled inwardly. Tybalt was the closest thing I had to an overprotective big brother.

"Hmm, I'll keep that in mind." It was a tempting offer. I wasn't sure I could deal with the distraction of seeing Lex with the rest of the drama going on.

After my victory feast, the morning settled into a sense of normalcy, or at least it was normal for me. The faeries kept me company, entertaining me until it was time to get ready for my shift at work. Though I could take the day off, the sad truth is a few sick days begin to cut into my small savings and paying the bills gets a bit difficult. Tybalt wanted to go with me, and I decided that with a color and costume change he would fit in well enough. Tybalt's disguise made him look like the world's palest surfer, with lanky white-blond hair and enormous aviator sunglasses, but it worked. Portia, on the other hand, I wasn't about to trust in the cafe. Promising her I would do my best to be careful and watchful for danger, I convinced her to go home.

The cafe had a decent amount of customers when we arrived, despite the fact that it was the lull between breakfast and lunch. I set Tybalt up in a booth with a plate full of pancakes and a
Chicago Tribune,
and then hoped for the best. Squaring my shoulders, I pasted my friendly customer-service smile on my face and began my shift. My section kept me too busy to worry about silly details like the fate of magician/faerie relations throughout the Midwest. As closing approached, we had only three customers left in the cafe: a young newlywed couple who were regulars seated in my section, and Lex, who'd snuck in at some point and was sitting drinking a cup of coffee over in Maria's section. She'd left early, of course, and I'd been ignoring him in the hope he'd leave, but he seemed determined to stay. Annoyed, I stopped at his table, coffee carafe in hand.

"Want me to warm that up for you?" I asked politely. I couldn't tell him off while I was on duty. It'd be unprofessional.