Cat Hellisen's Blog, page 8

The Bastards’ Paradise – Not a Review

Again, not a review, because I am not a reviewer. More of a flailing-about-madly-squee-er.

The Bastards’ Paradise is set some time after the events of The Mercury Waltz, (which I did not-review here) and again, if you pick up this book without prior knowledge of Under the Poppy or TMW you will be utterly lost. It is the final act in a grand epic, a smash of masks and puppetry even when the deep lines must be hidden with grease paint and Kohl, the cough stifled with gin and laudanum. Where under the prayers and the Church pageantry and the stern mask of rectitude lie war and hashish and cocaine and grinning thieves. Where everything is a lie. (If you think I’m harping on a bit about this, no, it really is a theme that runs strongly through all three books)

Koja is a phenomenal writer, and my favourite kind – the one that doesn’t give a shit about Gentle Reader. The story leaps and twists back on itself like a hare chased by hounds (a lord of hares, perhaps?), and the words play tag among themselves. Gentle Reader has no place here, only us fools and dreamers.

UM SPOILERS BECAUSE THIS IS BOOK 3

We’re back with Istvan and Rupert—Rupert who is meant to be a dead man in hiding after the final play of the Mercury. Holed up in garrets and attic rooms and rented bedsits and under starlight coughing himself to death while Istvan of the thousand names pretends to play it alone, puppets and wit still his to swindle and entertain.

But while the Poppy books have always been about lies and artifice and plays and players, the dark swirl beneath the city’s tarnished reflection, now the rot and the ache have truly set in. Istvan and Rupert are old and injured, no longer the bright young kits who found in each other the only true things, who understood that the whole world was theirs to fuck over, because it was that or be fucked over first.

These are men on the edge of dying. These are men who put newspaper in their boots, who lie to everyone, (including, and most painfully, each other) and who see themselves echoed in their sometime proteges Frédéric and Haden. Indeed, the stories of the two couples mimic each other, the pairs shinning the tale between them, ghosting and feinting.

Istvan, the eternal wanderer, knows that Rupert needs to settle down somewhere—a safe place, where he can stop being “the dead M Bok” and can regain his health, and he sets in motion a great swindle; a piece of artistry and vice to part the pretty gems from the fat fingers of the rich.

While Rupert stays alone in his room secretly (or so he believes) penning all the tales of their time together. There are plans made, old alliances gently pinned together in the hopes of a future. Piece by piece the two and their compatriots put their respective plays in motion, each wanting to save the other.

Through this main thread twists a million more—the women who form the net of the story. And their stories are, in their own ways, just as important. They are none of them written as throwaway characters—they can be just as selfish and petty and broken and obsessed and wonderful as our main characters. Women who are sisters, enemies, friends, fortune tellers, those who want to own Istvan and Rupert as though they were puppets themselves, those who want Istvan and Rupert as lovers or fathers, and sometimes lovers and fathers. All these threads twine together to build a story that grows richer and richer, crimson and emerald and blue black, until the final thumb to the nose, the tragedy and the closing curtain.

The story hops from place to place, giving hints and scenes that the reader puts together like a huge puzzle without a cover. All three of the Poppy books are meant to be savoured, to be taken slow. They reward careful reading—little witticisms and sleights of tongue are thrown out casually, carelessly, easily missed in a fast read.

You need to indulge in these stories the way you eat a 95% cocoa Lindt, and take your time, let the bittersweetness melt. Koja’s writing style can be vexing if you’re used to authors who follow more conventional rules, and if you’re not familiar with her work it can seem like a rough-grown thicket, impenetrable with brambly italicy undergrowth. But take your time and you begin to find the hollows and curves that lead you through the darkness, the hare trails and fox’s tunnels. She leaps from character to character – often in mid line—and it’s easy, if you skim, to find yourself completely lost.

But that is also part of what makes her work stand out. That and the utter heartbreaking gorgeousness of the story, which I sadly feel I’m not doing any justice.

I loved this book. It broke my heart and gutted me and made me cry, but it also made me grin, and shake my head, and turn the pages faster.

And when I walked blinking out into the light, it stayed in my head. And that, not-so-fucking-gentle-reader, is what makes a story.

New Paperback Cover for Beastkeeper

Beastkeeper is getting its paperback release in February 2016 and I am very happy with the new cover direction.

As much as I love the hardcover illustration, and holy hell is Béatrice Coron a great artist, the new cover has a stronger Middle Grade feel to it which I really hope will get it put in the right place in bookstores.

The more I look at it, the more I like it.

New Short Stories!

With Charm having finally run its course, I am going to concentrate on short stories for a while.

As a kick off, I am posting Oma Zoli’s Mirror on Patreon today. It’s a glimpse into the world of Mundus – magic and nightmare and madness –  where angels and murderers wear the same faces.

If you’d like to read – click on the picture.

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And if you’re moved to become a patron, remember you can support my work as a writer and artist from as little as $1 a month. I’ll be updating with short stories monthly or weekly depending on length, and looking into some more serialised novels.

 

Enjoy the read.

Charm 22/22

(start here)

Glazing

I never do go on to art college. Instead, I paint everything I remember from that time – even the parts that hurt me. Well, especially the parts that hurt me.

A year later and it’s my first exhibition and I’m trying to stand around looking nonchalant while strangers sift through my work, faces frowning. Dale is trying to be encouraging in his best idiot-brother way. “They don’t hate you, Irene, it’s still early. This is the fashionably late crowd we’re talking about.” He shoves a glass of red wine into my hands. “When have you ever known anyone in Joburg to come to anything when it opens?”

“There are two people here.” I swallow down the wine, it’s bitter and smoky and hits my jittery stomach with a fire cracker punch. “And they look like they’ve wandered in by mistake.”

“They’re here for the wine,” he says.

“I hate you.” A small group of people are pushing in out of the drizzle, rain like stars. Memory is with them, and my heart does a little double-jump as he waves at me. At least we’re still friends, even if he’s busy with his band all the time. I sometimes make it to their gigs, and pretend to be a groupie and tell random strangers to buy their CD. Guess it’s kinda sweet that he’s brought his crew round to look at my paintings.

The pictures look different up here, somehow. Maybe being up on a wall is what turns them from just paintings I made to the art of I. Kerry. Caleb’s portrait is up there, even thought there’s a sign next to it stating that it’s not for sale. My dad convinced me to put it up, but no amount of arguing would get me to agree to putting Rain’s portrait up too.

More people are coming in now, shaking raindrops from their hair, laughing, talking. No one is going to buy anything. Dale heads straight for the wine table. I roll my eyes, and a few minutes later he bounds back, drink in hand. “Neat,” he says. “Though I still can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Your faith in me is astounding, brother dearest.” Dale and I start getting into a typical Kerry argument about the usual Kerry crap, when I catch a flash of pale hair at the door, and my heart feels like it skids off track, hits the barriers and flips.

Dale catches my look, follows my gaze over to where Rain has just walked in, a dark shadow behind him.

He doesn’t see me in the crowd, and I shift so that I’m hidden, so I can watch him without being noticed. I haven’t seen him for most of this year. At least he’s easy to follow, his pale hair always a beacon. He’s walking with a casual grace, and he looks different, and it takes me a moment to realise that he’s without the jersey. Although I’m relieved, a small twinge of disappointment tweaks my insides. Stupid. To feel like I’ve been discarded along with it.

I’ve barely spoken to him this year. Last I heard, he’d moved out of Lily’s house into a flat in Edenvale with some new boyfriend. After that, I tried my best not to think about him.

It’s Caleb’s picture he’s stopped in front of. The cowboy hat is tilted low, but you can still see the slow curl of his cocky sneer. Rain’s mouth twitches, then he moves on, like it was just another image.

I want a drink, and Dale, who is a veritable mind reader, grabs me another glass of red wine.

And then Rain sees me, and he smiles, wide and innocent. He weaves through the small crowd, his shadow tagging him. “Hi,” he says, when he stops in front of me. Somewhere along the line he’s snagged himself a white wine, and he holds the glass high. ”Chin chin and all that shit.”

Tell me how someone can not be in your life for a year, and you think you’re finally over him, and then when you do see him, everything just falls down. I am so weak. The glasses kiss. “Chin chin,” I echo. “Nice to see you out and about.”

“Yeah.” We shift, awkwardly, and Dale, who tends to be purposely thick, shrugs and wanders off back toward the wine table.

“Hi,” Rain says again. “Have you met Daniel?” He knows I haven’t. So now I’m forced to confront the shadow, put a face to him, a name. The boyfriend-rumour is real, it seems.

I look up. He’s not much taller than Rain, with a shaggy mop of black curls, an even tan, and a smile that’s all white teeth and easy open charm. He holds out his hand. “Hey,” he says. “Heard a fair bit about you. Nice to finally be able to put a face to the legend.” Somehow, he doesn’t make it sound mocking.

“Only good things, I hope.”

“Oh yeah. Was wondering if I shouldn’t be jealous.” He flashes that easy, comfortable-in-his-skin grin. “You’re a talented artist,” he says, and scans the room. “Rain said so, but you never know until you actually see.”

“Thanks.” I’ve learnt to accept praise with a kind of grace, difficult as it is.

“You should come see us sometime,” Rain says. And that tells me all I need to know. Us. I wonder if this means he’s forgiven me, if somehow he’s forgotten everything that happened.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Or you could come see me at work.”

“What. You have a job?” I laugh, but it’s nervous. I’m trying to think what exactly Rain could do for work.

“Don’t mock, you bitch,” he says it mildly, laughing with me. “Friday nights, I do the turn-table thing at Macrovision.”

It takes me a moment to process that. “Wait, you DJ?”

“Kinda.” He shrugs. Daniel steps a little closer to him, so that their hands just touch. “I do retro nights, so they quite like seeing me with my ancient equipment on two crates. I’m also probably the only person under twenty-five who actually owns any Velvet Underground on vinyl.”

“Someone just bought that picture of the woman with the doe’s head,” Dale says as he walks towards us.

My heart stops. My first sale. “The white queen.”

“Yep.” He points surreptitiously to an elderly woman in a grey jacket suit, with her white hair cropped short, her blunt, knotted hands making harsh jerking movements as she talks to my dad. “That one.”

As he says it, she turns and stares at me with her habitual sour face. Zelda Sachs.

“I need another drink.” She’s gone, disappeared behind a group of chattering people I don’t recognise.

“So you’ll come?” Rain asks.

What? Oh, the DJ thing. “Oh yeah, definitely.” As I’m watching, their fingers meet, curl. “This Friday?”

Rain nods, smiling. His face is relaxed. “Cool, Daniel hates the noise.” He gives his boyfriend a rueful grin.

“But I go anyway,” he admits.

I want to be snarky and sarcastic, and then I remember how much I hated Caleb for taking Rain away from me. I can be all grown up this time. I can even like Daniel. At the very least, I won’t have to kill him, which always helps when it comes to friendships.

Daniel goes off, and I stare at Rain’s mouth.

“Caleb,” he says, when Daniel is out of earshot. “I think I forgot about him until I saw that painting.”

“Really?” I can’t quite keep the sarcastic disbelief out of my voice that time.

He ducks his head, knowing he’s been caught in a lie. “Do you remember him?”

I nod.

“I mean, really remember him. He was real, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh good.” He leans back. “Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t flip out again.” He’s looking up at the crowd rather than me. “Or if Lily magicked all the memories out of my head.”

Not that I’d put that past Lily. “He was real. You’re as sane as I am.” There’s a moment between us where neither says a word, and yet it contains whole bibles full of apologies, of all the things we never said to each other. “We were none of us mad,” I say, “but we were probably all of us stupid.”

Rain snorts in bitter amusement.

“I made a decision,” I tell him. He’s the first one to know, though I’ve been thinking about this for months. “I applied for my visa. I’m going.” All those fragile little glass prisons, filled with magic. It’s time they went home.

And Rain doesn’t even need to ask where or why, he just looks at me thoughtfully, then nods. “Good,” he says. “Caleb would have liked that.”

#

On my desk is a thin book of fairy tales and a cooler box full of magic. Lying next to them is a print-out of my ticket. An SAA flight direct to Heathrow from Joburg international. I’m leaving tonight. My dad and Dale have already thrown my rucksack in the boot and made me double-check that I have my passport with its single entry visa stamped in, and my traveller’s cheques.

“Unless you’re planning on swimming to London,” Dale yells from the front door, “you might wanna think about leaving.”

I look up at the portraits on the wall. Rain, still asleep, still dreaming. And watching over him with that half-sneer, half-frown, Caleb Dunning.

“Cheers,” I say and gather my mother’s book, stuff it into my shoulder bag and close my bedroom door. The evil eye pendant hanging from a brass hook rattles against the wood.

We drive to the airport while thunderclouds gather behind me. The last of the summer storms, half-hearted and drizzly.

Rain and Daniel are standing in the crowd and they both hug me good bye before I have to cross the barriers into the passenger-only area. In my arms is the cooler box, which I finally managed to convince security is perfectly safe, that the little balls inside are artworks and not tiny, rather odd bombs. They’ve made me seal it with plastic tape though.

Inside, I can feel the golden art waking. They know they’re going back to their hosts. I raise one hand and wave at my family, at the two boys standing next to them. They wave back, and I hope I’m doing the right thing, leaving.

Lily’s been calling, asking me about the last balls of trapped magic, about what I’m going to do with them. I can hear the greed in her voice and every time she calls, the golden art gets restless. It wants to be used, it’s tired of waiting for me to decide what to do. I’ve been learning to work with the little parasite that’s now a part of me. We work in harmony, and I’ve made a kind of peace with it.

The people who Heinrich stole magic from are spread out across the world, but two of the still-living magi are in England. There’s one witch in Israel. One in America. A magician in New Zealand. Of the other three, I have only names. Hopefully one of the others will point me in the right direction. All I know is that there are people out there with a hole where their magic used to be.

And that Caleb isn’t going to have died for nothing.

—fin—

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previous

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Thanks for joining me in my Charm serial book experiment.

* You can buy the complete book at smashwords, amazon.com, amazon.co.uk, or kobo. *

Story-tending as the end looms

A bit of a round-up of Stuff Done This Year, or Stuff Still To Come.

It’s been a pretty good year (OH DAMN EARWORMED MYSELF) for shorts. I set myself a task to write one short story a month, and…welp, kinda failed but we shall see if I can catch up.

Shorts written so far this year:

Golden Wing, Silver Eye

I’m Only Going Over

Squid Ink

Serein

(Title left out for reasons)

A Green Silk Dress and a Wedding Death

This is How We Burn

In progress:

Oshaketri in the House of Owls

Oma Zoli’s Mirror

Sold so far this year:

The Face of Jarry – Dreams from the Witch House

The Girls Who Go Below (reprint, originally published in F&SF in 2014) – Best of Weird Fiction II

I’m Only Going Over – DSF (still to be published)

Serein – Shimmer #26

Golden Wing, Silver Eye – Ghost in the Cogs

(Title left out for reasons) – Water, Short Story Day Africa

So as you can see, I’m not quite at my goal for short-story writing, but I’m doing better than I used to (which was write one story a year and then cry because no-one wanted it  :P)

Novels this year have been a pain. I’ve been struggling with having faith in myself as a writer (never read reviews, kids…) and I keep starting novels and then telling myself no one will ever read them and I’m useless and wasting my time. So good times, yeah.

I’m sitting with a handful of books at about the 20k-30k range (and yes I know this is where most writers give up, I am a statistic.)

WiPs (some of these have been WiPs since 2012 so don’t think I’m that productive hahaha)

Mundus – my fish-dream novel, and the one I keep writing short stories for (The Face of Jarry, Dreaming Monsters, Oma Zoli’s Mirror)

Empty Monsters – Hobverse novel I am currently rewriting into 3rd past.

The Silver Bowl – my take on Snow White (with tenuous links to Mundus, actually, everything I write has tenuous links to Mundus. Mundus is where the worlds meet.)

Cat & Fiddle – I was trying to write something light, but it’s turned into bone diseases and bloody revolutions and betrayal so…I guess not.

Paper Teeth – when Edward Lear met Lovecraft in a shower of madness-inducing spore and boys turned into moths and girls into birds. Linked to my short Jack of Spades. Reversed in Something Wicked.

Troll Maiden – what it says in the tin. A book about trolls.

Shadowskin – kind of a sequel to Three Dog Dreaming, linked to Oshaketri in the House of Owls.

I really need to pick one to actually finish, and it needs to stand alone, and vaguely appealing to readers who are not called Cat Hellisen.

There are also three novels more or less on sub, so there it’s just a case of waiting to see if any of the hooks look pretty.

Charm 21/22

(start here)

How We Burn

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Caleb sold my brother out to Heinrich, did all this—manipulated me, manipulated Rain—so that he could get back his stolen magic. My brother could already be some drooling half-human monster, a slave for Heinrich until his death. I picture my brother’s face deformed by those long fangs, his back bowed under the useless wings. The golden art whispers in my blood, hungry and awake. It shudders in anticipation, feeding on my anger, throbbing and rising. The room goes cold. Then white hot.

“No, no, no, no.” Rain lashes out from under me. “Don’t listen to him, Irene. He’s fucking lying.”

It’s too late. Magic is pouring through my skin. It doesn’t feel dirty any more, just pure and hot and angry.

Burn.

The blast knocks me back. It’s a solid wall of pulsing fire, and in the centre, Caleb goes up like a twist of magnesium ribbon in a flare of white light so bright that it burns after-images on my retinas.

From the stairs, Heinrich shrieks.

I turn my head, the heat from the fire beating against my skin, in time to see the shock on his face, just before Heinrich begin to smoke. A second later, he erupts into a solid pillar of flame.

The binding charm.

Oh god.

I grab hold of Rain, certain that any minute he’s going to go supernova, and that somehow I can stop it if I absorb the last of Caleb’s magic or something.

Nothing happens.

Rain stares wide-eyed at the black smear where Caleb stood. There’s not even a bone or a tooth left to say there was once a person in that spot. I smell burnt hair, a peculiar roast pork sweetness of human flesh. Bile rises in my throat and I make myself swallow it down. I glance up at the stairs, but Heinrich is gone. Like Caleb, he might as well never existed. I can’t even feel the faintest lingering trace of either of their magic. “Rain?” My lungs are full of smoke, dry and burnt. “Why?” I stop, I can’t ask him why he didn’t just fry up like the others.

“He broke the charm weeks ago,” Rain says in a dry, choked voice. He stands, movements jerky and precise.

I struggle to my feet. The shakes are starting to hit but I have nothing to stop them, not even a months out-of-date chocolate. My legs can’t take my weight, and I’m shivering so badly now that it’s just easier to curl into a ball on the ground and give myself over to the cold. Something soft lands on my face. It smells of wool and boy-sweat and cigarette smoke and deodorant and incense.

“Wear it,” says Rain. I uncurl enough to look at him. He’s stripped off the jersey I gave him and his arms are pale and bare. I can just see the long ragged line that marks his inside left wrist all the way to his elbow. “We need to see if your brother’s here.”

I put on his jersey on with trembling fingers. If Rain of all people can cope, so can I. Pull yourself together, Irene. Warmed by the faded black wool, I follow Rain up the flight of stairs. Each step feels like it’s going to be my last, but I keep pushing.

If Caleb wasn’t lying then my brother is somewhere in this house.

And so is all the stolen magic.

#

We find Dale first. He’s in an unlocked room surrounded by four corpses. “Oh my god, Reen,” he says. His words come out so fast they blur together. “Where the fuck are we? What are you doing here? There was this crazy ancient guy and I couldn’t leave the damn room because it was full of these things.” He points at a desiccated mound of bones. “Jesus, Reen, they had wings, and teeth, and then the next minute they were all dead.” He pauses to take a breath, and notices Rain. “Oh hi, Rain,” he says. “You look like shit.”

My brother, it seems, is perfectly fine.

“There’s a car,” Rain says, his voice still emotionless. “A red Citi Golf, about a block away.”

Dale nods as he listens. He’s taken a pouch and a packet of blue Rizlas out of his pocket. He’s rolling himself a spliff. Only my brother.

“Take that and go, before the cops get here,” I say through chattering teeth.

“Whoa.” Dale pauses with his half-rolled joint. “What kind of crazy shit are you guys in? Anyone got a light?”

I start laughing hysterically. “It’s a stolen car,” I add. “Have fun. Tell Dad I kinda lost the Beetle but since I found you, could he please not kill me.”

My brother eyeballs me. “Irene,” he says slowly. “You’re a headcase, you do know that.” He shakes his head so his lion’s mane of matted curls swings in front of his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you,” I say. “Please, just go. Dad’s going crazy.”

Dale looks at Rain, who is focused on the ground, saying nothing. I think the shock is over, and soon Rain is going to crack, big time. The thought makes me shudder harder, like I can barely hold myself together. I need to keep it together long enough to get Rain home, to get him safe.

Something about how serious I am finally gets through to Dale. He pockets his joint and steps over the remains of—I guess—one of the Hunters. There’s no identifying the smear of ash and dust now. My brother pauses at the door. “I dunno what you’re doing, Irene,” he says. “But I remember Mom too.” He doesn’t have to say anything else, because Dale’s just let me know that he knows. I also trust him to keep his mouth shut. You have to be able to trust siblings with the big stuff. If you can’t, then you’re not really family, no matter what.

I nod, and I can hear my teeth chattering. We understand each other, Dale and I. And maybe I’m not the only person in this family affected by Mom’s blood.

When he’s gone Rain glances sidelong at me, like he can’t really bear to actually look at my face. “Can you find the rest of the magic?”

I suppose I could, even though I’m feeling like I just got hit by a truck. Then again, like calls to like, so maybe it won’t be too much of a strain. I trigger the waiting magic, and I can feel it purr as it eats at my energy. There’s a distinct pricking at my senses; the uneasy electric feel of other people’s magic. I let the golden art lead me through the rooms in Heinrich’s house to a small study littered with ancient books. Complex symbols are on the walls, and I see the same squiggles on the open pages of one of the books. Caleb said Heinrich wanted to gain access to wild magic, and I know without understanding, that this is connected. The walls thrum, the sigils vibrate and swirl, moving like mercury. The whole room is thick with a warped feeling of wild magic, but gone strange and dark. I’ve no idea what to do about any of this, and the person I could have asked is currently being deader than dead. I turn away from the strange pulsation of trapped wild magic, and focus on something I can do instead.

On the far side of the room is a glass-fronted display case filled with seven rows of glittering baubles on tiny metal stands, like a host of ugly Easter eggs. Most of the baubles are clear and empty, but there’s a row of six, and another four above that, that are still clouded and dark. The stolen magic. This is how Heinrich stayed alive for so long, stayed powerful. He just collected other people’s power and ate it, like it was some kind of delicacy.

Outside the sparrows and the Indian mynahs are babbling at each other. The first light seeping in through the leaded windows makes the shifting coiling magic inside the glass look like oily clouds filled with dirty rainbows. I move to open the glass case, then stop. “I can’t touch them,” I say. “My hands are shaking, I’ll break them.”

Rain grabs a folded newspaper off the study desk and carefully takes the first full egg to wrap it. “There’s a name on the bottom,” he says. He holds it out. Clearly inscribed into the glass in the same elegant copperplate as Zelda’s destroyed letters, is the name Caitlin Ormond. Paper rustles as he wraps it.

“Here’s Lily’s.” He folds that one slowly into a ball of newsprint. “Zelda’s.” We go through all ten like that, Rain carefully wrapping them and placing them in my canvas army shoulder bag. Not one belongs to Caleb.

I don’t want to tell him to look at the empty ones, and I don’t have to.

Rain checks each one, until on the fourth row from the bottom, he stops. He stares at the empty glass ball for a long time. “He knew,” Rain says. “He knew Heinrich had used it all.” He sits down on the plush carpet, cross-legged and holds onto the ball tightly.

There’s nothing I can say that will make this better. Not after what I’ve done.

The glass breaks under his fingers, and Rain just holds it tighter, crushing the ball to powder and shards in his fist. I don’t stop him. Blood trickles down the creases of his hand.

Finally, I swallow past the frog in my throat. “I didn’t know the binding charm was broken.” As an apology, it stinks. I struggle to find a better way to say it, but everything I can think of just sounds trite. Dumb.

Rain stares at his fist, at the blood. He opens his hand, uncurls it like a flower. His palm is a bloody mess and fine white splinters catch the light as he raises his hand. “He broke it a few days after he first cast it. Told me not to tell you.”

“What about the generator? Using you as bait?”

He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “My idea. He knew it was one way of getting you to agree.”

“What—” I pause, scrunch my hands. “What if he hadn’t come back for you?”

“He did. He doesn’t—didn’t—break his word.”

I want to yell, hit someone, to do anything but sit here on my knees with a bagful of magic, and two deaths on my conscience. I want to scream at Rain, tell him he could have trusted me, that he could have told me. Instead, I get up slowly so that the glass baubles in my bag don’t bash against each other. “We need to go.” I want to get away from this place, from the magic I don’t understand, and from the smell of burned skin and hair.

Rain smears his hand on the side of his jeans. It probably just grinds those splinters in deeper, but I don’t think he cares.

Using the golden art has pretty much eaten the last of my reserves. My legs are quivering, and I hang on to the desk for support. Rain hitches one arm around me and we make our way down the corridor and the long flight of stairs, and out into the garden.

The sun has risen above the tree tops, burning so bright that I have to shade my eyes. It all seems so normal, the mynahs scuffling in the rubbish and fighting over scraps, the gardeners walking to work, the Mercs and Beemers sliding down the streets. Together we hobble to a main road, and Rain flags down a minibus taxi.

The sound of Joburg coming to life, full of hoots and shouts and loud laughter, buzzes around me. So much noise, so much light, and all I can do is sit squashed up in the taxi and shiver. Wrapped up in Rain’s crappy old jersey, I feel a bit like a glass ball myself, with the magic dirty and spoiled inside me. I’m going to pass out right there in the taxi.

I stay awake long enough to realise that Rain’s taking me to his house, and not mine, before I finally sink into the black.

#

I wake in a room full of incense and dust and cigarette smoke. The light is dull, late-afternoon. Music is playing on the battered old tape-deck.

The world’s biggest retro freak is the only person I know who even knows what a mix tape is.

I’m cocooned under a layer of winter duvets that still reek faintly of mothballs. Someone coughs and I sit up blearily, careful not to move my head too much.

Rain is sitting curled up on the crash-couch, one leg bent under him. He’s smoking, and watching me expressionlessly through his dirty blond hair. “You’re awake.” A plume of smoke coils up from his nose and mouth, drifts to the ceiling.

“So it seems.”

He takes another deep drag, and ashes into an Altoids tin. “I called your dad.” He leans to pick up something small and black and tosses it onto the duvet, next to me. “Just to let him know you were okay.”

“Oh.” I fumble for the cell. It seems to be dead, the battery finally given out. “Thanks. What did you say?”

“That you were drunk and you crashed at my place.”

Believable, I guess. And I certainly have a headache bad enough that I might as well have spent last night downing shots of vodka instead of setting people on fire.

Oh.

“Um.” I scrunch up a little so I’m sitting properly. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

The tape groans into the next track.

There are bruises on his throat, but I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about. Rain stretches out his legs and stubs out the cigarette. “Lily’s made you breakfast. Or lunch. Whatever.” He picks up my bag, swinging it from his hand, holding it out. “I haven’t given her the—thing,” he says. “I thought it would be better if you did.” He’s not looking at me.

Well, at least one person will get something out of this mess. I take the bag gingerly, both of us careful not to touch each other. It’s horrible, like we’re two complete strangers forced to share a small space.

Lily is standing at the bead curtain that separates the kitchen from the dining room. Her face is drawn, the wrinkles deeper. “I felt it,” she says. “I felt him die.”

Guilt hits me, makes me sick to my stomach and I catch the look of white shock on Rain’s face.

“You have my magic?” She walks through the clattering curtain, beads brushing her face and arms. She means Heinrich, I realise. Not Caleb. Probably no-one gives a shit that Caleb died except for Rain. And possibly me.

“It’s in here.” I put my bag on the table and there’s the faintest muffled chink from inside. I hand her the one I remember Rain wrapping and she reveals it with a frantic nervous flicker of her fingers. The bauble looks smaller, almost mundane. The only thing that saves it from looking like some cheap trinket is the churning magic inside. So small. I wonder if that’s all I have too, or if that’s all that Lily had left when Heinrich stole it from her.

She hums softly to it, like it’s a baby she’s crooning to. I can’t really see what’s happening but it looks like she’s calling the art out of the ball, the glass thinning and turning gauzy. The oily smoke drips out like egg yolk, into Lily’s hand. It shifts for a moment, and I swear the thing is alive, sentient. There’s a sticky feeling to the air like the moment before a storm breaks, and then the smoke slides into her skin.

“Oh,” she says, and shivers. The faint charcoal smudge that shadows her softens and pales, until it’s replaced by a momentary halo. She puts the empty glass bauble onto the table.

The after-image dies, and Lily looks normal again. Only more there, like for the first time since I’ve known her Lily is real.

“Oh,” she breathes the word, like a sigh of contentment and stretches her arms up, then looks down at the remaining balls. “Who do the others belong to?” She says it in a sly way that makes my skin crawl. I remind myself that Zelda said only Heinrich had the ability to use other people’s magic.

“Dunno. I’ll find out.” I pack the others back in my bag. The thought of food seems too much now, but I need to eat, if my light-headedness is anything to go by. I smear toast with jam and make myself chew and swallow. Chew and swallow. Afterwards I call my dad to come fetch me. I don’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Rain when I go. He’s locked himself in his room, and all I can hear is the faint bass rumble of Joy Division through the blank wooden door.

My heart is tearing itself into scraps.

#

My dad takes it in stride when I tell him I lost my job. He doesn’t even baulk when I ask him if I can move back home. He is however, more than a little peeved that I took the Beetle to Hillbrow and managed to get it stolen.

To be honest, I don’t even want to go back to my flat and fetch my stuff, but Dale comes and helps me, which makes it not so bad.

Caleb glares at me from the canvas. I try not to look at the picture, working around it like it’s not really there. Until Dale heads downstairs to go buy us some crisps and Coke, and then I sit down cross-legged in front of the portrait.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry.”

Naturally enough, Caleb says nothing back.

The room echoes now that most of my stuff is packed up, and outside the faint drone of traffic competes with birdsong. “I never trusted you,” I say into the empty room. “And I still think you’re a stupid manipulative bastard, but I’m sorry that I killed you, and I’m sorrier still that Rain had to suffer.” I pull my knees up close to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. “You could have just told me what you wanted me to do,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to drag Rain into it.”

He’s never going to forgive me, I don’t say.

Next to Caleb’s portrait is Rain’s, eyes closed, like he’s asleep, dreaming. Caleb’s looking down at him, with that faint sneering frown. It looks almost fond.

“Idiot,” I say out loud. I don’t even know which of them I’m talking to any more.

Behind me the door slams open against the wall.

“Munchies,” Dale says as he kicks the door closed. “You have a choice of Fritos or Nik Naks.”

I cover Caleb’s face with cheap brown paper, tying him away so that I don’t have to see his expression. Dale does the same next to me, wrapping Rain up and knotting the twine with his stubby fingers.

It takes us half a day to pack. “This Mom’s stuff?” Dale points at the small boxes still sitting half-unpacked on the floor.

“Ja.”

He looks at them quietly, then glances at me, opens his mouth.

“Don’t say anything.”

“If you ever want to talk to me,” Dale says.

“Yeah, I know.”

When everything is packed and moved, I catch a number 13 bus in to town, and make my way to Ponte.

The place is even more deserted, there’s hardly even any sign that people used to live here. Some construction rubble and equipment is lying around though, so I guess they’re finally getting rid of the last of the tenants so they can do their grand make-over.

Zelda doesn’t look particularly pleased to see me when I ring her doorbell.

“What do you want?” She makes no effort to invite me in, so I dig through my bag and haul out the small wrapped parcel I’ve been carrying.

“Here,” I say, “this is yours.”

She eyes me, then snakes out one hand and grabs my tee shirt, and hauls me into her apartment. The door slams behind me, and Zelda bolts all the locks. “Now,” she says. “Why have you brought that here? I told you I didn’t want it.”

I shrug. I’m still holding the bauble out. “I didn’t know what else to do.” And there’s something almost sentimental about how Heinrich still hadn’t eaten Zelda’s magic. Maybe I wanted her to know that.

With a snatch she swipes it from my open hand, and ushers me into the dining room. Zelda unwraps the layers of newspaper quickly. “So Caleb went through with his sacrifice,” she says, as she uncovers the last layer. “And obviously, it worked.”

“You knew what he was going to do?”

“Not exactly, but he had the look of a man resigned to death. I put two and two together.”

I wonder how Zelda and Rain saw a different Caleb to what I did. Were we even looking at the same person? Maybe I’m blind.

The ball rolls out of its final wrapping, across to the centre of the table, where it spins slowly then stills. The magic inside is writhing, battering at the sides of its glass prison.

“It knows I’m here,” Zelda says. She has her hands folded over something, and she doesn’t move to touch the glass.

“Are you going to take it back?”

She shakes her head. “You open it,” she says.

I take the ball. The glass feels warm under my fingers, almost soft, and through the thin barrier I can feel the faint prickling against my fingers and palm. Unlike Lily, I can’t call the magic free. I look up at her, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Just break it,” she says.

One quick tap against the edge of the table, and the glass shatters like an egg. Magic pours over my hands, gloving them with a peculiar electric oily feel. It probes at my skin, digging at me, then as if it realises I’m not its host, turns and begins to flow toward Zelda.

“Away,” she says. I realise that she’s taken the hamsa from her wall, and she’s placed it between her and the magic. The magic pauses, twists and coils, and then, turns soft as smoke and blows away.

“Well,” says Zelda, after a few minutes. “That hurt less than I thought it would.” But she sounds empty. Sad.

“I have to go, before it gets dark.” Last thing I want to do is wander around Joburg in the dark. Though I suppose I could turn any potential rapist or mugger into a cinder. Imagine explaining that to the police. “I need to catch the last bus.”

Zelda nods, and leads me to her door. She clamps one hand on my shoulder before I leave. “I should probably give you some pithy warning about the golden art and the toll it takes on people,” she says.

“Yeah. I think I have a pretty good idea where that would go.” I manage a weak grin.

“Get on with you then,” she says. The door closes in my face. Bolts chink and scrape.

I shake my head.

#

In my old room at Dad’s house, the baubles are packed in a small Styrofoam cooler. I’ve written down the nine names left. Eight if I don’t count Zelda. One of the names is already crossed out. Caitlin Ormond. I found her in a park in Gresswold, curled up asleep against that wolf-dog of hers. She didn’t thank me when I gave her back her magic. I’ve googled the others. Two are dead, the rest live overseas. Right now, I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m going to do. I’ll think about it after I’ve finished college and put the decision off for a few more years.

I phone Lily’s house for the hundredth time, though I’ve learned to accept the click of the phone placed back in its cradle. My heart jolts when I hear his voice.

“Irene?”

“Uh,” I say. “Hi. Did I wake you?”

He’s quiet, but I can hear the faint sound of him breathing. I huddle into my jacket. The season has started to change.

“I wanted to see how you were.”

“Fine.”

It’s like pulling teeth, I can hear he doesn’t want to talk to me. “Maybe I can come round tomorrow, we can go grab a beer?”

There’s another pause, and I know he’s not thinking about it, instead he’s wondering how to say no, as kindly as possible. “Irene… I just need a break for a bit.” His voice sounds even fainter, but there’s determination there too.

“Oh. Yeah. Okay.” I fiddle with the zip on my hoodie. “Um. Some other time then.”

“Yeah.” But he doesn’t mean it.

I snap my phone shut and stare at it for a moment. Damn. I’ve basically been dumped by someone I wasn’t even dating.

—

previous/next

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Till Wednesday!

* You can buy the complete book at smashwords, amazon.com, amazon.co.uk, or kobo. *

 

S.A. Partridge’s YA Worldbuilding Masterclass at Open Book 2015

S.A. Partridge, who writes contemporary YA invited Zimkhitha Mlanzeli and myself to join her in a YA Worldbuilding Masterclass and mini-workshop at Open Book Cape Town this year.

We looked at world-building from both the real-world position of contemporary and historical YA, where you are not “building” a world as such, but realistically incorporating a recognisable setting into your narrative, and from the aspect of fantasy world building, that is:  “from the ground up.” On many points we overlapped and agreed, despite our different approaches to genres.

I took some notes from the initial talky-talk section, so here’s my attempt at a write up.

S.A. Partridge started us off by tackling it from a research perspective, likening the world in which your characters exist as similar to the model town in the attic in Beetlejuice – how it’s a world in miniature that creates a place for your characters to move through.

She works mainly in modern real world Young Adult, so for her, she tries to start off with research, asking herself every conceivable question that sets the time and place and “storyspace” in her head.

Some questions she mentioned:

-where does the story take place?

-what era

-what season

-what’s the area like where MC lives ad what sort if technologies inform their “story life”

– what social media platforms do they use – Myspace is going to date a novel to a particular time

-how do they travel

-currency

-scenery, flora, fauna of place

-where do they hang out, what do they eat

-what events/holidays are part of the story – Sally said having these cultural activities in mind (a spring ball, Hallowe’en, etc) can provide a kind of goal for the narrative to work towards, building tension.

Think of all the things that build a convincing world for your character to move around in.

(here I added that different places can also be used as a kind of shorthand to evoke different emotions, and also, once lulling the reader, turn those assumptions on their head.)

Zimkhitha talked to us about how the sense are the most important thing for herm how she’ll close her eyes and try envisage every aspect of the scene – how clothes feel, what smells are on the air, the heat or cold, etc. She relates sensory perception as a way to connect to character – how the world builds the character. Surroundings affect them, can cause emotional reactions.

She talked about how characters need to be authentic to their settings. Using Mananberg as an example, she says if she reads a character from Manenberg, she wants to see them dressed in styles you’d find in Manenberg, wants to hear Manenberg in their phrasing and dialogue, their accent, their thoughts: “I want to them to walk like Manenberg, talk like Manenberg, dress like Manenberg.”

The conversation veered to research – Zimkhitha says, “don’t just make it up.” Use your own experience, be accurate in your representations of events and facts (frex, her understanding of South African judiciary system was too heavily influenced by American tv, and that scene had to be cut).

We talked about finding authentic voices for time-periods – Sally suggested going to local library – be amazed what you find – she found a ship’s log detailing events from a time period she was writing in for a short story, proved invaluable, added authenticity to story, plus gave her more ideas. Zimkhitha said to go to the places where your novel is set, make notes – see if you can spend a day in a court room, for example, ask people for feedback about authenticity.

I suggested memoirs and novels set in that time period as a way of getting voice, many of which can be downloaded free from Project Gutenberg. When it came to overviews for a particular culture or era (especially for fantasy writers who don’t want to slavishly copy history), I suggested readers get books from the kid’s non-fiction section of the library, as they give a good, simple bird’s eye view, and from there you can look at what areas you want to research more intensively. A way to really get a handle on a character voice (esp in contemporary) was to transcribe dialogue from different age groups and social types.

We all agreed that simply relying on a simple wiki search wasn’t going to cut it (except for minor details, obviously.)

I spoke a bit about how if STORY is a tree, then detailed, obsessive worldbuilding is the root system. the reader doesn’t get to see it, but it informs everything that happens in the narrative. It provides an anchor for events and strength to developing story. I call this the MACRO part of worldbuilding – research, and foundations, the myths and histories of your world, the Geopolitics, the religions, the wars, the shape of the world. All this under the surface detail sends waves through your story.

MICRO worldbuilding to me is the sensory detail that evokes a sense of place or time, that settles the reader firmly within your world. No MICRO leaves your character operating in an empty room, too much can end up purple, and a slog for readers.

I mentioned that for keeping track of many worldbuilding details (especially over a series of books), i keep all my information in Zim Wiki, which I use to cross-reference details, and build world connections.

One of the things I talked about was the four nodes of worldbuildng as I see them but this is getting long, so I’ll talk about them in anther post.

Poor Writer, Sad Writer.

Look at them with their fancy apple products and their expensive apps, look at them writing away, producing masterpieces as they sip their thirteenth latte of the day in that cute boutique coffee shop that only makes coffee from cat shit, or something. Expensive cat shit….you don’t know. It sounds gross but hey if it’s expensive it must be amazing, right?

If only you had [AMAZING NAME BRAND PRODUCT WITH AMAZING NAME BRAND PRICE TAG] you too would be producing effortless prose, nuanced story lines, witty and wonderful characters.

And of course you know that’s bullshit, but even so, that lingering want remains. It would make writing so much easier….

KAK.

SO MUCH KAK.

I can’t even with how much kak that is.

(about this much, I reckon.)

Most of us don’t make the kind of money to buy those products and live those lives, so here’s my slightly more realistic version of the writing life for humans who are not made of trust funds.

Let’s talk writer tools and freebies and cheapies. I’m not going to recommend the usual names you hear bandied about, because plenty of other people have already.

Firstly – you do need to have a place where you can write without distraction. I’m going to guess this is why people run away to coffee shops – no dishes to wash, no one is going to come tell you you need to start vacuuming now, your untended heap of dirty laundry is not gaining consciousness and asking to be fed… All you need to do is keep buying the over-priced coffee and live in the freedom you can afford.

Might be cheaper to get a desk and a screen, to be honest. However you can do it, get yourself a nook that is just yours where you will not be disturbed. I know this is not always feasible, so at the very least, if all you have is writing on your laptop on your bed, ask your fellow house-mates/family/partner(s) to not disturb you for a set period of time. (An eggtimer worlks great for this; that sound signals to other humans you are actually doing something.)

Today, most writers who aim to submit prose or poetry professionally are going to need a pc or laptop of some kind. Stephen King might write everything on a typewriter and then have each separate page delivered to his agent by carrier pigeon, but that ain’t you, I’m afraid.

You do not need the best or most expensive. For ages I wrote on a laptop I bought new for 2k (rands) without Windows, and simply installed ubuntu. (The most user-friendly of all the Linux distros, I’ve also used Mint though I found it to have too many issues with laptops tbh.)

The other thing I recommend is buying yourself a sturdy A4 (or smaller if you want to keep it in your bag) counter book (they’re usually pretty cheap – about R20 for 288 pages) for jotting down notes, ideas, or writing by hand if you’re so inclined. Also pens (especially coloured ones. There is no joy like the joy of giving a writer money in a stationery shop). And when it comes to carrying books and pens around, you want cheap. Pens grow legs.

Another manual tool I find useful – mindmapping and diagramming with white board markers on my cheap-ass melamine cupboard doors (who needs an expensive whiteboard…? Though just check first that your markers will come off

Charm 20/22

(start here)

Heinrich

Upstairs, Caleb and Rain are already awake and dressed. Rain has his head down, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jersey. He’s very carefully not looking at anyone.

“I felt that,” Caleb says. “He’ll have too.”

“Of course.” Zelda rummages in a dresser drawer and pulls out a battered-looking Kit-Kat. “Here.” she shoves it toward my face. “Eat.” She nods when I unwrap the old chocolate and start nibbling, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Now. I hope you’re ready?”

The chocolate tastes dusty, the wafer rubbery instead of crunchy.

Caleb nods. Rain finally looks up. He’s whiter than normal, his eye sockets grey with bruises and his eyes puffy and red. I swallow the last of the stale chocolate and wafer. I swear, I’m going to kill Caleb.

Rain must see the look on my face, because he shakes his head quickly and surreptitiously and gives me a not now, Irene, please look.

Fine. I can wait.

“He’s in Houghton,” she says. Good thing we still have my map book because my knowledge of Houghton can be summed up by the following: rich people live there.

Caleb bows his head and for a moment, I see what looks like fear flick across his face, but then he raises his head, and it’s the standard cold blank expression. “Good.” He says and picks his hat from the coat rack and sets it firmly on his head. “Thank you, Zelda Sachs, for your hospitality and your aid.”

I shrug out of her musty old coat and drape it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The chocolate, disgusting as it was, seems to have helped.

Zelda waves her hands. “Out. And do what it is you have to.”

In the elevator I watch Rain’s face, to see if he’ll give away anything of what went on between him and Caleb. If they had a fight, it seems they’re over it now. Rain has his hand in Caleb’s like they’re out for a god-damn stroll in the park and not about to go off and fight the big bad guy. And god, I don’t want to think about that either or I am going to be the one who starts crying or has a panic attack because I am so out of my league here. I’ve managed to set some papers on fire, and that’s my grand training for this.

We’re going to die.

I shift my attention to the lights on the numbers instead, watching us flick steadily down toward the parking garage. We walk like zombies through the shadowed garage, all of our limbs stiff with fear. It might as well be radiating off us. I can taste it on my palate, like tinfoil. We turn a corner to find our parking.

It takes me a moment to adjust from what I expected to what’s actually there. Which is nothing. “Oh no.” There’s a gaping empty space where the Beetle should be sitting like a fat yellow slice of normality. “This is not happening.” I blink, hoping that when I open my eyes the car will miraculously appear.

It doesn’t.

“We have more important things to worry about than a stolen car.” Caleb walks over to a neglected red Citi Golf.

“My father’s car.” I’m still looking at the empty spot. “He’s going to kill me.”

“Not if Heinrich gets there first,” Caleb snaps. This is actually a good point, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Strangely. The smash of breaking glass that echoes around the concrete garage makes me start. Caleb has his hand in the Citi’s broken window to open the door.

“Oh my god—are you stealing that?”

“Borrowing,” says Caleb. “We really don’t have time to waste. Not if Zelda is right. Get in.”

He pulls the wires from the ignition, and a second later, the Golf’s engine throbs to life. Caleb looks up at me where I’m still standing by the Beetle’s empty parking spot. He lifts one side of his mouth in a lopsided humourless grin. “Don’t forget the map.”

Rain’s already buckling himself into the passenger seat. Well, I guess he’s at least diligent about not breaking some laws. “Reen,” he says. “It’s not like we’re taking it for good.” His voice sounds hoarse, and now I know he’s been crying. “How is this so different from driving your dad’s car around without a licence, and without asking him?”

Point.

I get in the car and sit behind Rain. Surprisingly, he snakes his left hand backwards, out of sight of Caleb, and takes my hand. He squeezes hard and I squeeze back.

“Directions,” says Caleb.

I sigh, let go of Rain’s hand, and search for St Patrick’s Road, Houghton in the map index.

We pull up about a block away from the address Zelda gave us. It’s still too early for the sun to be up, but there’s a quality to the sky that makes me think it won’t be long. The last of the clouds have swept away, leaving only a few dark yellowy-grey smears on the low horizon. The tar is still damp, and the roads have that just-washed smell that comes after a rainstorm. My hands are shaking. I clench them tight and pretend this is all going to be okay. This is what Kerry’s do. They fight for each other. And Heinrich has—probably has—my brother. Whatever other reasons Caleb throws at me, that’s the one that will drive me on when nothing else will. I suck in a painful gasp of thick air and trudge forward, shoulders squared.

Caleb strikes out ahead of us, walking with a determined stride, his head slightly bowed. Instead of racing after him like a house-trained puppy, Rain holds back. We walk in the darkness, watching Caleb’s coat flap about his legs as he marches ahead.

“Irene,” Rain whispers. “I’ve been speaking to Caleb. I know how he’s going to kill Heinrich.” He sounds lost.

“Yeah, so do I. He’s going to make me use the golden art.” It’s a grim thought. The only thing I’m pretty sure I can do with my magic is burn things. So I guess I’m going to be frying Heinrich. Nice thought. If he really has Dale though, believe me, I’ll relish roasting the bastard alive.

“No.” Rain keeps his voice soft, but he sounds pretty certain.

I pause, but Rain tugs at me, keeps me walking along so that Caleb doesn’t notice us. “You’re just a distraction,” he says.

Oh yeah, well, we all know that dear Caleb is very good at using other people as a distraction. I grit my teeth.

“He’s going to sacrifice himself,” says Rain. “It’s the key, he says. The only thing Heinrich won’t expect.”

“Ah yeah, and see this? This is my heart bleeding lumpy custard.”

“Fuck you, Irene. Caleb told me that he knows that Heinrich has your brother.”

“How can he be so sure?” I sneer, but I go cold inside, and I can’t stop the next words that come tumbling out. “Tell me he’s okay. Rain. What did Caleb say?”

Rain is white, his voice shaking. “He says that it’s likely that Heinrich will turn him, like he did the others.”

“What others?”

“Irene.” He shoots me an exasperated look. “What did you think happened to the children Heinrich stole from Hemel?”

“You’re kidding.” I stop dead. I think of that Hunter lying on the concrete floor, its claws turned to human hands. “No,” I say, and shake my head, willing the thought away. “Caleb told you to tell me that. He’s trying to make me want to kill Heinrich.”

Rain looks down at the ground.

I knew I was right. The fear fades, and I feel a momentary pang. I have to remind myself that Rain doesn’t see Caleb the way I do, that he’s still tangled up in that stupid spell. I swallow down all my irritation. “Sorry, Rain, really, I am. But if that’s what he thinks he has to do, then he’s probably right.” Whatever. It’s no skin off my teeth if Caleb thinks he needs to play some noble hero thing. Not that I even believe that Caleb is anything close to noble or heroic.

“He’s not right,” Rain says. It’s close to not being a whisper at all, and Caleb pauses to look back at us.

Once Caleb is walking again, Rain carries on. “I know he’s only doing this because he doesn’t trust you to use your full power against Heinrich, he says you’re a sentimentalist.”

“Ah, you see, now that just hurts,” I say, clutching my chest in mock pain.

“Can you kill someone in cold blood?”

“Sure.” If I keep telling myself that…I mean, for all I know I’m not powerful enough to kill a Parktown Prawn, so this whole thing is moot. Maybe if Heinrich looks like one, that will help. A giant insectile head, big black legs covered in spikes. I shudder. Actually, I’d prefer if Heinrich were just human. Those damn prawns never die. You can shoot one with a BB gun, and it’ll be nothing more than one eye and one leg and it will still come crawling for you. Nope. Human it better be. “Yeah, of course,” I say and swallow around the thick lump in my throat

“I don’t think you can either,” he says. “But I’m not letting Caleb die because you can’t do it.” He takes a deep breath and I hear him swallow thickly. “Irene, if you don’t kill Heinrich, I’m going to make sure that I’m the sacrifice instead, if that’s what Caleb thinks it will take.”

Oh my god. That fucking spell. I wish as much hate as I can in Caleb’s direction. “Are you a complete moron?” I shake Rain’s shoulder hard enough that I swear I hear his teeth rattle in his head. “Did Caleb set you up to this? So that he’d make sure I would do exactly what he wanted?” I shove Rain away from me, and stumble after Caleb.

After a few seconds I hear the soft squeak of his trainers as he follows. My chest is tight; part fear, part rage. I believe Rain is willing to go and jump in a lake of fire for Caleb, and that Caleb is only too happy to let him. If this was Caleb’s little plan—and I’m betting it was—he’s got me well and truly. I’ll do what ever it takes to stop Rain from getting toasted to save his ancient boyfriend-thing. My eyes burn and I can feel the slow sunburn tightness of magic on my skin.

“Will you stop that?” Caleb hisses back at me through the grey pre-dawn. “We might as well be going in with a beacon and a marching band.” He points up a few houses ahead. “That’s it.”

We sneak through the shadows of the trees until we’re in front of a stone-walled mansion half-hidden in black trees throttled by bougainvillea.

If the itch I feel around Lily or Caleb is anything to go by, this is the right place. My skin crawls. Magic as scabies. Fun fun fun.

Outside on the pavement, large black rubbish bins overflow with uncollected bags. Looks like the strikes affect the rich too. The eerie light from the street lamps and the garden lamps make silvery halos in the darkness but the light shows nothing moving. It’s a little disturbing that there are no rats. No flicker of movement around the scattered junk.

Caleb rubs his hands together, the only sign he feels it too.

The house is still, no-one’s awake. The windows are dark and the whole place is dead quiet.

“Hunters?” There’ll be time enough for me to hate Caleb after this little stunt is over. Right now, he knows more about what’s going on than I do.

Caleb shakes his head. “We must have killed the last ones he had.” I hear the triumph in his voice. “He’s spread his magic too thin with the rats to make more.”

“Speaking of which, where are the little rodenty bastards?”

Caleb shrugs. “Everywhere in Johannesburg except here, after he sent them out looking for us.”

I really hope Caleb’s right and that we’re not about to walk into a house crawling with giant rats. One or two I can handle—en masse, no thanks. Of course, that’s assuming we can get in. The gates are high and topped with spikes, and above that, the thin wires of electric fencing.

“Great,” I say. “Did you plan for us to fly over?”

Caleb presses his hands together. “No. You’re going to take us in.”

“The golden art?”

“Art and charm.” He looks like a death’s head, all grin and no humour.

“And that’s not going to alert him that we’re here?”

“Now’s as good a time as any. He’ll know soon enough.” He holds out one hand and Rain leaves my side to go stand by him. Caleb nods at me. “Do it, it’s just a small thing.”

This is a test, of course. Though I for one think it’s too bloody late to go seeing where my limitations are, when we’re right at the monster’s front door. I close my eyes and see the electric fencing wires. They ripple in my head, crackling with energy. I picture them dead, just like that.

Empty.

“Oops,” I say, when I open my eyes. All the lights in the street are out. At least any non-magical people will just blame it on Eskom’s cruddy service. My body is fluttering, like my skin is rearranging itself over my bones. I can’t help smiling. I’m good at this. Now that my mother’s charm is gone, it’s coming to me naturally. As easy as breathing.

And sometimes we drown. I push the thought away. No. I was born to do this. It’s in my blood, passed down from Hestia to me. Through god knows how many generations before that. I flex my hands, marvelling.

Caleb’s already kneeling, one hand through the gate bars, and fiddling with the motors. Guess Heinrich doesn’t know enough about the modern world not to put his faith in electricity. The gates swing open. Instead of walking in, Caleb grabs Rain and crushes him close, one hand cupping the side of Rain’s face.

Like we’ve got time for the old man to make out. “If you’re ready,” I say. “You guys can save this shit for afterwards.” I block out the idea that Caleb really believes he’s going to die. It’s all just trickery to make me do what he wants. Manipulative bastard.

They pull apart and Caleb faces the house, one hand still on Rain’s shoulder.

In an arched second-story window, a flickering tell-tale light has gone on. Seems Heinrich stocks up on candles like all good South Africans.

“Well, he sure as hell knows we’re here now.” The shivers start, just small little ripples up my spine. Not enough to put me out of action. I don’t want to know what they’re going to be like after I fricassee Heinrich. Dammit, I should have stocked up on chocolate.

I don’t even like chocolate.

The three of us draw closer together and follow the slate path picked out between the rockeries and cycads and date palms. From somewhere in the black garden comes the faint lap of water; a swimming pool or fountain. We take the low steps to the stoep, half expecting to be pounced on at any moment, but no-one pops out of the undergrowth to stop us and I’m tempted to ham it up in my best B-movie performance. Somehow, I don’t think Caleb will appreciate me going, “It’s quiet…too quiet,” quite as much as I will.

The front porch is farmhouse-wide, painted with that slick red paint that seems to be on all South African stoeps. I try the front door, and it swings open, unlocked. Heinrich is inviting us in, and that thought really scares me. This whole time I’ve been treating this like a joke but it’s real. One of us could die, and I’m hoping that it’s only going to be Heinrich. The golden art flexes under my skin like a live thing. It’s waiting, greedy and its greed makes my skin feel tight and sweaty. Already there’s a headache knotting up behind my eyes, and shivery cramps pulsing under my skin.

For the first time, I have a really good idea of why Zelda doesn’t want her magic back. It might be power, but there’s a cost. The golden art is a parasite. A hungry parasite. We’re just the hosts.

“Caleb.” A voice soft and burred with a lisping accent coils around us.

I freeze, half-crouched. Magic is blistering under my skin. Heinrich is powerful, and his charm crawls about us, probing, scratching.

Caleb stands straighter. He’s tall, taller than I actually realised. “Come out,” he says, tiredly. “I’m not going to play games.”

“You’re very certain of yourself,” says Heinrich. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve. You know as well as I do that your magic is gone.”

“I still have a little,” Caleb says.

The voice laughs, a crackly sound, surprisingly friendly, like they were two old friends sharing a joke. “Please, it’s barely enough to do a binding spell.”

Caleb shrugs. “It’s all I need.”

“You are one for melodrama, aren’t you?” The voice has lost the echoey sound, it’s real now and coming from above us. I look up a flight of stairs to an old man standing at the very top. He’s spry, dressed in a dark crimson suit. Patterns of light dance around him. The faint sound of pipes echoes in my head, making me slow, but he’s not breaking out the big guns yet. Heinrich looks amused, like a cat being challenged by three mice armed with sewing needle swords.

Shut up, Irene. He’s one old man. I can fry one geriatric magician. Oh god. I unclench my fists and call up the magic inside me.

Heinrich’s pipes are making me slow. I feel the golden art rising, the air going gelid and thick as I try to move forward. His music hooks under my skin, tangles me up.

It’s useless to fight him. Caleb has no magic left, and I don’t know the first thing about how to use my own.

He’s stolen everyone’s magic, he’s grown fat on it and this is not going to end well.

I can’t even blink. My eyelids are pinned in place by the eerie piping that rises and falls around us.

My bones are icicles, my blood is frost.

We’re dead, and we didn’t even so much as scratch him.

Rain lurches out in front of me—the only one of us not affected by Heinrich’s spell. All I can do is watch as Rain takes the steps, two by two and shoves at Heinrich with all his pathetic strength. I want to scream, to tell him he’s an idiot. To stop.

Nothing.

Heinrich knocks Rain back like he’s a fly, but the moment has broken the old bastard’s concentration, and the music ends. Rain tumbles back down the stairs.

The idiot, if he’s hurt I’ll kill him.

Rain darts forward again, ready to throw himself in front of Caleb like a bloody romantic girl.

Not this time. Not if I can help it. I take my chance while Heinrich is distracted, shooting forward to punch Rain in the side of the head, which is the only thing I can think of that doesn’t involve wasting magic. We tumble to the ground with Rain tearing at my hair. I knee his upper thigh, feeling bone hit bone.

“What…exactly are they trying to do?” Heinrich sounds like an old woman who has just discovered her poodle has piddled on the rug.

I twist my head and pin Rain down. “Don’t move, you bloody idiot,” I say.

Caleb’s dropped to his knees next to us. “What are you fools doing?” His face is white. Fear radiates off him.

“Oh really, Caleb,” Heinrich says. “Is this the best you could manage?”

I shift to focus my attention and my coiled-up art in Heinrich’s direction.

The old magician dances his hand on one polished rail. “This is a farce. If you’re attempting to amuse me to death, it may just work.” He leans on the balustrade.

I twist my head to look back at Caleb. Rain is struggling underneath me, and he clamps his teeth on my wrist. Hard enough to break skin. “You shit,” I say. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

Caleb is twisting his hands, making patterns I remember seeing before. That night when we met him at the Red Room, Caleb was pulling Rain deep into his trap, tricking him. A low hum like a plucked string on an electric guitar fills the room. Caleb’s charm is just enough to stop Heinrich from freezing us again.

Not that it slows Heinrich. The piper’s tune starts again. It’s one I haven’t heard before. It’s a sharp song that stings across my skin, raising fine lines of blood. I twist to see what Caleb’s doing, and I realise the magic isn’t even aimed at me, that I’m picking up just the edges of the charm that Heinrich’s cast. Blood is pouring down Caleb’s face and hands, and dark patches stain his clothes. Heinrich is slicing him up like a Sunday roast. On Caleb’s right hand one cut is so deep that I can see bone.

The stairs creak as Heinrich walks towards us. I feel a tug just below my navel, at the root of where the golden art sits. Heinrich is already drawing my own magic out. Just like he did with Caleb on the train. I lash out at him, pouring fire through the air.

Burn, burn, burn, I think furiously, concentrating all my emotions into a wall of fire, feeling the heat pouring out of me.

Heinrich twists, ducking out of the way of the blast.

Damn. He’s fast. Between struggling to keep Rain pinned down, and directing lashing art I can barely control, I’m getting dizzy.

Heinrich laughs. He’s just toying with us now. “Is this what you brought?” He mocks Caleb. “A girl who doesn’t have the faintest idea how to fight?”

He moves like a dancer; fast, easy grace. Pulls a thin pipe from the pocket of his jacket, sets it to his mouth and plays.

This is no faint echo of a music charm. It’s the real thing. The air is so thick that I can’t even draw it into my lungs. My whole chest is tight and dry, and gasp raggedly. I can still move though. Caleb’s fading art is keeping us free.

For now.

Heinrich’s tune changes. My hands slide up, out of my control. My fingers slide around Rain’s throat and begin to tighten. The tunes spins, and pain lances up my side. I feel like I’ve just been kicked by a horse, and I’m sure I’ve cracked a rib. Or rather, Heinrich’s cracked my bloody rib for me.

Rain’s face is turning red, and his fingers are prising at mine, but he just can’t break my grip. And I’m crying, the tears run slick down my cheeks, stinging over the fine cuts that Heinrich’s made.

“And what are you going to waste the last of your golden art on?” Heinrich says to Caleb, as he breaks his tune to watch his handiwork.

My grip loosens as the music stops, and Rain gasps in a lungful of air.

The gold light of the binding charm wraps around Caleb’s fingers, dancing patterns in the air. I swallow hard. He’s been using the time while Heinrich’s been concentrating on me to finish the last of his charm. Blood flies in fine drops as Caleb moves. His face is twisted up in pain. “A binding.” He lurches to his feet and casts the net of magic over Heinrich.

Heinrich stalls, one foot poised above a carpeted tread. “What good exactly, is that going to do?” The threads settle over him like fine wires, shimmer and sink into his skin. “Are you planning on trying to add me to your harem?” He raises one grey and manicured brow. “A little pointless, I think.”

Caleb’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he turns to me. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite place. Triumph and fear and relief all jumbled together in a mess. His hat has dropped to the ground, and he looks naked without it. “I told Heinrich how to find your brother,” he says, his voice calm. “He’s here in this house. Heinrich might even have turned him by now.” He takes a deep breath. “And I told him I’d bring you here too, in exchange for my magic back.”

 

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Charm 19/22

(start here)

Love Letters

It turns out Zelda doesn’t quite know where Heinrich is.

“I thought you said you’d be able to pin-point him?” Caleb says.

The meal has been cleared away, and a large map of Johannesburg spread over the table. It’s not very detailed, and Zelda’s got a map-book next to her for more accurate work. Which, it appears, we won’t be needing. She’s got a pin on a thread of black cotton and she’s holding it over the outspread map.

“Stop talking,” she says. “You’re breaking my concentration.”

The pin dangles as she slowly moves her hand over the map. Basically, it behaves exactly like a pin on a thread. Nothing magical.

“Blast,” says Caleb. He leans back, tilting his body slightly so that he’s thigh to thigh against Rain.

Zelda drops the thread and the pin rolls on the map, then stills. She looks at him. “It might be that I’ve not even enough magic left to do a simple finding.” She prods the pin with one blunt-cut fingernail. “Perhaps you should try.”

He shakes his head. “It’s never been my art, findings.”

I suddenly realise that his hand is curled loosely over Rain’s fingers, and I turn my attention back to the stupid pin and map.

“Hmm. It rarely goes to men,” Zelda glances at me, “perhaps Hestia’s girl could try, although….”

“What?” I shift in my seat. They’re all looking at me now.

Zelda picks up the thread and hands it to me. “You can close you eyes, that sometimes helps.”

“What—I just have to hold it over the map, and then?”

“We see,” says Zelda.

I take the thread from her fingers and hold my hand, palm down, over the map. With my eyes closed, it’s like I can feel every nuance of the needle’s tiny weight as it twists on the end of the thread. I move my hand slowly over the map, waiting for some small change that will draw me to Heinrich.

And nothing, as it turns out.

“Shit,” says Caleb. “What good is this, this hedge witchery.”

I open my eyes and drop the pin.

Caleb’s leaning his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Next to him, Rain looks like he’s praying. Their arms are still touching though.

Zelda shrugs. “It’s not a gift that goes to many.” She sits primly in her chair and eyes Caleb thoughtfully. “Give me tonight. There’s another way for me to find him for you.”

Caleb looks up. “Why didn’t you use it earlier?”

“Because as soon as I do it, he’ll know you’re coming for him. Your element of surprise is lost.”

I can see Caleb thinking about it. “Do it,” says, eventually. “He’s looking for the girl anyway, and he’ll find it easier now that she’s come into her power. And if he does have her brother, then it won’t be long before he draws her out on his own terms.”

God, I did not need reminding about this particular aspect. I grit my teeth.

Zelda folds her hands in front of her and stares at them. “Go shower, sleep. There’s a spare room you can use.” She looks up from her hands and stares straight at me. Her hard eyes are cold iron stones, no warmth or happiness left in them. “You, you’ll have to help me.” She glances at the grandfather clock ticking away to itself. “I’ll come wake you at three, you can sleep in my room.”

“Um, Thanks.” The thought of sleeping in her bed kinda weirds me out, but I am damn tired. “Don’t you need it?”

“I have to prepare.” Zelda stand and leans on the table for a moment.

“Thank you,” says Caleb. He sounds like he really means it.

I go shower first, letting the hot water sluice away all the tiredness, the fear. My skin is clearing. Just like that. All those years of suffering the pain and the humiliation, and it was because of a stupid charm I thought was keeping me safe, keeping me closer to my dead mother. I want to curl up there in the shower stall and cry, just sob until I’m completely empty of emotion. But I don’t. Crying is weakness, and I’ve done far too much of it as it is. When I come out, dressed in my rather filthy clothes, Zelda shows me through to her bedroom. It’s not exactly frilly, but it’s borderline. If I ever choose décor like this, I’ll know it’s time I was hauled out and shot and turned into glue. There are roses on everything.

Not that I really care what the place looks like; I’m pretty much wiped out. It’s been a long and craptastic day, and the last time I slept was in the old maid’s quarters at Lily’s house. Seems like half a lifetime ago, and it was just this morning. Exhaustion hits me like a lead pipe to the back of the head. Right now I can’t even be bothered to resent Caleb for sharing a bed with Rain while I sleep alone in some old lady’s sheets that smell like lavender and talc. I suppose I should be glad it’s not pee.

The eider down is thick, too hot and stuffy in the middle of this humid summer, so I lie on top of it and just use a thin crocheted blanket instead. I’ve stripped out of my clothes, hoping that I’ll feel a little cooler and cleaner, but the sweat is already gathering on my skin and making me feel dirty and uncomfortable despite my shower. And it feels weird to no longer be wearing my mother’s charm. I’ve put it in my jeans pocket, wrapped in clean hankie Zelda gave me (what is it with magicians and hankies? Is it a fetish?) Now that it’s gone, I do get a little of what Caleb was saying about how the golden art will feel different to everyone. It’s almost impossible to describe, and I still have no idea how to actually use it, but if I concentrate I can just feel it, faintly, like the trail of a new sable hair brush against my fingers, over my eyelids. It’s easy to ignore. Maybe I am weak, after all. I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling. Alone, away from Caleb and Rain, with the door shut between us, I can finally let the mask drop. My stomach is twisted in knots and my eyes are burning, but I won’t let myself cry again. Instead, like a trial, I make myself go through every shitty thing—make myself face it all, all the hurt—and see how strong I can be. It’s a game I’ve played with myself since my mother died, and I’m good at it. Usually.

And I make it through all the images of Rain twisted up with Caleb. The way they kissed under the electric light and looked like two halves of a puzzle, black and white and white and black, fitting together. I make it through Rain’s casual touches, the way he always seems to have some body part touching Caleb.

When I get to what could have happened to my brother, I lose it. I turn my head and muffle my sobs in the pillow until my throat is burning, my eyes hot and puffy. I cry myself out, and then I make myself still and calm, and I fill myself up with hate. No-one fucks with the Kerry family. Well, except for the Kerry family.

I think of calling my dad just to check if Dale has somehow come home or something, but deep inside I know he hasn’t. Besides the fact that my dad would have at least called and told me, there’s an icy certainty in my core; call it the golden art, whatever. I know.

I fall asleep hoping that I’m wrong, trying to smother that cold feeling in my chest.

#

I’m woken by bright light; jerked out of whatever nightmare I was having to see Zelda standing at the switch, scowling at me.

“It’s three,” she says. “Are you ready?”

Jeez, I guess cranky must be a prerequisite for magicians or something. Crankiness and handkerchiefs. I should probably start stockpiling. I don’t remember my mother that way, but my dad did call her that little hell-cat often enough. I’m sure he meant it fondly.

A long-buried memory of my mother standing in the then tiny kitchen of the Norwood house years before it had been re-done and smashing plate after plate on the floor, makes me wince. It’s a wonder I’d forgotten that: I can’t remember what it is she’s saying, but I remember those plates so clearly. Brown glass; so ugly and yet appealing at the same time. Shards of glass like strange daggers scattered across the orange and cream linoleum. Damn, I loved those plates. Can’t remember any hankies, though. Maybe I’ll be spared that.

Zelda snaps her bony fingers under my nose. “Up,” she says. “Save your day-dreams for another time.”

I dress quickly in my grubby clothes while she waits, looking to the side and drumming her foot against the beige carpet.

The rest of the apartment is drenched in shadows. The door to the guest room is closed, and I pause outside. A sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob, comes from within. Just what I need to hear. So the two of them are shagging while I get to follow Zelda around doing whatever it is crazy old magicians do in the night. Great. Just peachy.

Before I have time to sink into a nice comfy bit of self-pity Zelda calls me in to the dining room. “Do you have to dawdle so?” she hisses through her teeth.

There’s an old shoebox on the table, with the packing tape sliced open and the contents in a jumble around it. Trinkets and letters and old birthday cards; the kind of sentimental crap you never really look at, but can’t bring yourself to throw out. Like my mother’s stuff. I pick up a small ceramic bunny with its ears flat against its head and turn it this way and that. “What’s all this then?”

“That,” says Zelda, “is a rabbit. Now put it down, it’s not important.”

I put the bunny back on the table and make my way to the other side of the table where she’s standing. Folded in a neat pile before her is a small stack of letters. The paper is old but cheap looking, onion-skin thin. The writing is in an elegant hand, the ink faded with the years.

“Love letters?” I say, joking.

“Naturally.”

Woops.

“Come.” She ignores my little faux pas and gathers the old letters and a moth-eaten fur coat.

We go out the apartment, down the empty lift and out into the orange nightmare of a lobby.

“What exactly do you need me for?” I eye the coat. Good old Zelda has obviously snapped, seeing as it’s still about thirty degrees outside.

She doesn’t tell me until we’ve walked some way from the huge building and out to a green swathe of weedy ground. Buffalo grass competes with blackjacks for space, and she leads me out into the middle of the field.

The storm has passed, and the ground is soggy, wet grass slapping at my ankles. The faint sound of a police or tracker chopper drifts through the night. Gunshots. Sirens like distant banshees.

“Here.” Zelda throws the papers to the ground and they flutter like autumn leaves. A few tumble over the tussocks and disappear into the darkness. “Raise your golden art and set them on fire.”

“Uh.” I stare at the scattered paper.

“Sometimes,” she says. “I find it hard to believe you’re from Hestia’s blood.” She steps closer to me. “Close your eyes, girl, and see, and believe what you see.”

“That simple, huh?” I snap my fingers. “Neat.” My voice is dripping sarcasm, but either Zelda is immune to my powers or she just doesn’t give a shit.

“You’re wasting time,” she says.

Fine. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I picture the papers I know are lying at my feet. They’re practically glowing, they are so white in the darkness. And I picture them smouldering, blackening, the edges curling in and crumbling. A line of fire appears, running over the words, tracing each curve of the cursive writing. The feeling of paint brushes runs over my skin, and strange wet symbols cool in their trail

There’s heat against my body—that blast that you get from standing next to a just-started braai. I open my eyes and step back. The pile of letters is a small bonfire. It’s too bright, sending smoke up into the clouded night. I look at my arms where the pale gold burn of magic is sliding from my pores, coating me in a faint glow. As I watch, it fades. My arms are inked with golden marks in a language I have never seen. Symbols from some other world, some older time. It makes my breath catch in my throat. The marks flare once, then sink away.

Zelda is standing opposite me with her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, wreathed in smoke. She seems to be pulling the smoke to her, wrapping it around her like a blanket. Only she’s not moving. Faint traces of grey, like fishing lines, snake up to the cloudy night sky. They twirl away into the distance, glinting as they go. A sudden boom and flash rocks the night, like a lightning strike. A faint rumble of thunder follows, a low growl. Zelda’s eyes flash open. “Done,” she says. “Done and done.”

“You know where he is?” I’m feeling trembly and drained. Despite the heat of the night my skin is goose-bumped. I wrap my arms around me, tucking my shaking fingers into my armpits, but it barely helps.

Zelda sniffs, and picks her way around the ashy remnants of her love letters, very carefully not looking at them. Her face is blanched, but maybe that’s just the bad light. She walks over to me and throws the coat over my shoulders. It smells of naphthalene and mould but it helps. My shivers die down a little, and I uncurl enough to push my arms into the sleeves.

“Unfortunate side effect,” she says. “The golden art, little beast that it is, has to use something for energy and generally it turns on its host. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bite to eat.”

“Wait—this is going to happen every time I use magic?” Whoa there, Irene, no using magic, once we’ve helped Caleb it’s straight back to normality and real art, the type with real paints and brushes.

Only, it seems stupid to have this and not use it. I stop arguing with myself when Zelda grabs my upper arm and drags me along after her.

She nods. “You get used to it, learn to temper how you use it. It’s a limited resource, and you use too much in one go, not only do you waste magic, you can easily knock yourself out for a day or two while your body recovers.” A faint night breeze plays against my face, soothing me as she talks. “You have a more pressing problem at the moment. Heinrich knows where you are now. You three need to leave.”

“What about you?” My teeth barely chatter. We’re back inside the lobby, waiting for the elevator.

She tosses her head like a warrior queen, and I see the woman she was in her prime, like a tracing over a decayed painting. “Let him come. I’ve nothing he wants.”

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