Faery Dust (Wildcat Wizard Book 2) Page 13

  Nobody reached to pick it up, not even Vicky, and when the oven chimed telling me the hash browns were ready it was a real relief. I puttered about, fixing us a large plateful each, and served it up.

  George and I tucked in with relish, but Vicky just prodded at her food, taking tiny bites if someone glanced at her. I exchanged a worried look with George, and she shook her head, telling me not to say anything. She was a smart girl, so I kept my mouth shut. Vicky struggled with eating disorders her whole life, freaking about weight gain, getting dangerously thin, then binging and hating herself if she put on a few ounces. It was a sensitive issue, and I knew how difficult it was for her, but now wasn't the time. Shooting people in the face can put some people off their food, so I've been told.

  I left the girls to chat while I cleaned up the kitchen, the familiar routine a relief after the madness of the night and morning, not to mention the previous day. I decided to wash up by hand, rather than use the dishwasher, just to prolong the sense of family and calm, and took my time arranging knives, forks, spoons, and spatulas in the compartments properly, shuddering at the state of Vicky's idea of a tidy cutlery drawer. Once everything was stashed away and I'd wiped, sprayed, and dried the sink, cleaned the counters and the table, I sank into my chair and asked George, "Got any plans for today?"

  "Thought I'd get some more practice in with the new wand. I'm still getting used to it."

  "Sounds like a good idea. No lessons today?"

  "Nope, teacher is away." George looked pleased yet annoyed at the same time.

  She was learning, and fast, but she had a long way to go and a lot more lessons before she could truly call herself a witch. We'd tried me helping her, but if I thought driving lessons were bad then teaching magic to your daughter was on a whole other level. So she was taken under the wing of a true pro, and so far so good. You learned the basics that way, got to grips with what suited your personality, if you survived, but it was only once you were out in the big bad world that you mastered wielding magic in any meaningful sense. Still, everyone needed to learn this stuff first, just not from me.

  "Hey," I said breezily, "fancy a tour of the panic room. The bunker?" I asked Vicky, mouthing something silent to George as Vicky was lost to her thoughts.

  George said a quiet, "What?" back but I shook my head. I'd tell her later.

  My words finally filtered through to Vicky and she lifted her head and smiled wearily. "Sure, that would be great. Then what's next? How do we get paid? Any other plans?" I knew she wanted to see this through to the end, but Elion could turn up any time, and so could any number of undesirables. I got the feeling this little incident was far from over.

  "Later, let's do something normal like go check out our bunker in case men come trying to kill us," I said brightly. "It's got a shower. You can use it."

  "A shower sounds amazing." Vicky was coming back to us. Her cheeky smile was spreading, and her skin began to shine with that strange, ethereal mom glow she usually had. She'd be all right.

  Through a side door under the stairs, I pulled a cord and lit the narrow staircase that descended. At the bottom I removed my hat, took the small charm that hung beside the feather, and pressed it to a tiny hole on the door. There were no locks, this was a door made of the same stuff as bank vaults, immovable by a person, and most supernatural creatures. To ensure it was utterly safe it was heavily guarded with wards I took a long time to put into place, then further strengthened with an artifact I will never talk about to be confident absolutely nothing or nobody could get in unless George or I opened the door. She had the same charm, knew the spell to open the door, and it allowed me to be sure she was protected if she came in here.

  The door slid into deep recesses and we went inside. It closed behind us and I sighed in dismay. Our safe-haven, the one place I could be sure George was protected, had been violated. Someone had been in here and torn the place to shreds.

  "Shit."

  Don't Panic

  "I, er, forgot to clean it up," said George, scarlet from her neck to the tips of her ears.

  "What! I thought someone had got in. You did this?" How was it possible? Surely one teeny-weeny youngster couldn't cause devastation on such a scale? Then I remembered, it was what teenagers were programmed to do. It was in their genes or something.

  "Sorry. But you sent me down here and I hate staying here. Sometimes, anyway." George glanced over to the bed, the sheets rumpled, indents on the two pillows. I didn't ask.

  "Yeah, I can see you absolutely can't stand it. Never mind," I said graciously, "you can clean it tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? You mean you aren't going to make me do it now?" George turned to me, puzzled. Normally I was cool about mess, to a degree, as long as it wasn't in the kitchen, but she knew this was too much for me to let alone.

  "Haha, of course not, my dear child." I pulled her tight and put my arm around her shoulders. She looked at me funny—couldn't pull the wool over my super-smart kid's eyes.

  "Looks, er, roomy," said Vicky, taking in the bunker.

  I went to great pains, and considerable expense, to have it built once George was on the scene, the disruption a major headache but worth it in the end. After I came up with the plans, and found the right people for the job, the only way it could be implemented was by tunneling directly under the building to get the massive steel sheets, the supports, the door and everything else inside without ripping down the entire house.

  Once finished, and the tunnel filled in with more concrete and rubble than sat comfortably when the environment was on my mind, we had a fortress impregnated with magic and special wards that nobody, including me, could penetrate. Permanent and deadly if you tried to break through the walls, and a nice safe room for when the monsters came.

  It contained a living space with kitchen, a bed, and a lot of shelves with enough canned goods, water, even a freezer full of food, although mostly ice cream, to allow George, or me if it came to that, to survive for months. The small bathroom was on its own system from a well and it was basically a cramped studio but without the funky smell.

  "Why don't you take a shower down here?" I said to Vicky. "I'll be a while in my bathroom and you know I hate people using it."

  "What about the main bathroom?" asked Vicky.

  "Oh, shower's broke," I said.

  "I used it earlier," said George, giving me another odd look and ducking under my arm to get away. She began picking things up and folding them.

  "It's intermittent," I said, hoping Vicky didn't realize how lame that sounded.

  "Fine. You're being weird, Arthur."

  "No, I'm not! You are."

  "Ugh." Vicky checked out the bathroom and then I heard the water running.

  "Okay, love, I'm gonna lock Vicky in here. Will you let her out later this afternoon?"

  "Dad, you can't do that. That's mean."

  "It's for her own good. She needs to sleep, to rest, and she won't do that if she thinks there's more fun to be had. She shot someone, twice, in the face so is in shock. Let her alone, she might even eat something. Write her a note, it's better coming from you. Say she is to sleep, there's nothing to worry about, and she'll be out later. Okay?"

  "If you're sure?" George understood the risks of the life I led, we all led, and she knew the effects violence had on people. Vicky had seen her share, but getting involved in it, up close and personal like that, it changed you, made you wonky inside for a while as your mind assimilated the information and accepted that what it thought it was, what you were capable of, was a lie.

  "I am. Thanks. Right, I'm gonna get cleaned up then go to the attic for a while. I'll see you upstairs. Be quick, write the note then lock the sad sidekick in our bunker."

  "That sounds so wrong on so many levels."

  "I know. But I still want you to do it."

  I went to freshen up, whistling while I walked. I felt lighter already, like a talkative burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

  Some Me Time


  I showered away what felt like days' worth of grime and sweat, but wasn't. It wasn't pretty, though. However calm I may have appeared on the outside, fighting guys, breaking into houses, staring at naked boobies, it always made me sweat. Once clean, and noting it was still only mid-morning, I felt at a bit of a loss. What now? George had taken care of the animals that morning, Elion would turn up when he felt like it, and I had no pressing engagements.

  Something was drawing me back to the city, though, and I knew better than to ignore such a call. But there was no hurry, so I drew the drapes, lay naked and warm on the bed, and drifted off to sleep like a baby after a feed.

  This was how I slept, how I settled into oblivion for a while and snatched away insanity's claws before they sank too deep. I did dangerous stuff, exhausted myself to a ridiculous degree. Went wild in the magical realm and stole things, did ingenious things with magic and with the skills I'd perfected, and usually got beaten about the head quite a lot for my troubles.

  Yet with all that came a sense of satisfaction of a job well done, allowing me to feel at peace. And I was at peace as I lay on the bed, not even wishing for company, hardly thinking about the breasts of a vampire squished against cool glass at all. It's like a piece was missing until I did a job, like a nagging at the back of your mind that stops you from relaxing, feeling settled, and when it was done, when I'd had the high and felt myself a success, even if in an ultimately meaningless way, I felt whole again.

  Sad, right?

  But people worldwide would lie awake at night stressing about one thing or another, waking to a nervousness and a dread of the day to come, so I wasn't alone. Whatever gets you through, I guess.

  I closed my eyes, listening to the silence that permeated the house, hoping Vicky wasn't cursing me too much, and that George wasn't about to blow something up with her wand, and I slept. There were no dreams, no nightmares, no fear of what was to come. Let the future take care of itself. I'd be there to face it, same as always. The Hat was going nowhere.

  Two hours later, with my belly rumbling, my body cold, I woke feeling refreshed and like a new man. Wrapped in a dressing gown, I went to the Quiet Room, disrobed, and let the universe consume me for a while. I found the source of all energy with practiced ease and felt my body lighten and my spirits dance as I absorbed something ethereal that would allow me to use knowledge as much a part of me as breathing.

  Topped up, clean of mind and body, if not spirit, I rose and went to go get dirty all over again.

  If I was ever clean at all.

  Too Much Mayo

  Dressed in my favorite woolen sweater and a coat even George approved of, but having foregone a shave or much in the way of taming of the hair—always a futile task—I prepared a couple of tuna sandwiches. George could somehow smell food being made from a great distance, as it meant she got to sit about and do teenage glaring while others, meaning me, did the work.

  As my neck burned from her laser-enhanced stare and I almost cut myself with the knife, I turned and reluctantly said, "Okay, out with it."

  "You made me lock Vicky in the bunker."

  "I know."

  "And?"

  "And I love you and love Vicky, but she is driving me nuts."

  "So it wasn't so she could have some down time to recover from what happened?"

  I carried on making the sandwiches and said, "That too. Look, she needs this. I need this. We need this."

  George shifted in her chair, ready to run. "We?"

  "I wanted time alone with you. To check how you're doing. After yesterday," I added pointlessly.

  George brushed her beautiful hair from her face, her strange green eyes catching the light. She was so pretty, but she looked so frail, so like her mother when she'd managed to hold it together for a while. "I'm fine. I should be the one checking on you. You did it, dealt with that man."

  I waved it away. "You know me."

  "Yes, and that's why I'm worried."

  "How'd you mean?" I plated up the food and carried it over to the table before setting it down. I'd gone a little heavy on the mayo, but you only live once. Some people do, anyway.

  "You killed someone. I asked you to."

  "Let's not go over that again. You made the call, he sure deserved it. You know I'm no angel, that things like that happen. I'm okay."

  "Okay, Dad. Me too. I feel better, happier. I love you." George bit into her sandwich as her neck flushed. "Too much mayo."

  "I know." I didn't mean about the mayo.

  George promised to clean up and to try to be good. I slipped the belt through a pair of jeans, wand in a special pocket in my jacket. It felt weird not being against my thigh, and I almost went to change but that would just be stupid. Wearing the belt felt like the logical thing to do, but then I panicked and thought better of it and put my usual one back on. I ended up changing in the end so I could have my wand where it should be, and could use the cargo pants to stash the belt rolled up.

  George laughed at me, saying she thought men in their mid-forties didn't worry about their wardrobe, but I ignored her because she was young and I was old so I was in the right, and besides, I did worry. That I'd look like a dude carrying around a magical belt worth a million, and that someone would take it. So yeah, I got changed.

  With a promise to let Vicky out only if I wasn't back by dinnertime, and me fussing over her, George finally shoved me out the door and I headed to the city.

  However this went down it was best away from home and without Vicky.

  The Hat needed space, and he needed to get away from anyone that wore a skirt. He was also feeling as nervous as Vicky at her kids' school play. Bad shit was coming. I had to draw it away, walk off my jitters, lose myself in the city.

  I should have stayed at home.

  Back to the Grime

  The city wasn't so bad, in fact the city was great. There was something about the dirty alleys and the seedy parts that drew the likes of me like a slug to a beer trap. I wasn't interested in the shiny buildings or the monstrous shopping malls where the outside was hidden and everything was pretend. I wanted to see the real world, have open skies, not fluorescent terror or whatever the latest source of puke-inducing yellow death was that the malls called "natural" lighting but was designed to make you feel nervous so you'd rush into shops and buy crap. Yes, they did that, I'm a hundred percent suspicious that they did.

  I wandered the less beaten track, the real city. Down alleys and off the main high street where you climbed steep inclines and turned corners only to find yourself presented with a small green space or a church or a tiny park with parents pushing kids on swings or little cafes with room for only a handful of people, not a Styrofoam cup or a lid with a little hole—what's that all about?—in sight.

  It was down one such alley that I turned, and climbed up a steep rise where tiny stores huddled in the shadows, praying for customers to cover the cheaper rent that still crippled the owners. I wasn't here to shop though, just to walk. To be part of the life of average citizens, although I knew I never would be.

  Nice, that's what it was. Like I was a regular Joe whiling away a few hours window shopping, maybe stopping for a drink somewhere. No booze though, I wasn't in the mood and it messed with my magic something awful. I nodded at a few familiar faces, scowled at even more. A guy had to maintain his reputation, and mine was don't mess with me and don't talk to me unless I smile at you first. So I was left alone to walk, and as I turned the corner at the top of the hill, running my hand along a freezing railing that divided the narrow path, I was surprised to find myself across the road from a disproportionately squat church.

  Stuff like this always delighted me. You could spend so many years in a place and still discover new things, or maybe I just walked around with my eyes unfocused, lost to my thoughts most of the time, rather than being centered in the now like I always thought I achieved remarkably well.

  Or, and this was the real scary thought, I'd seen it before, maybe even gone inside, and
had simply forgotten. Could that have happened? Could I have seen this place and paid it no mind? Or the memory was lost, crowded out by things my subconscious thought more important? Maybe it was at a time like this, when I knew I was running from things, just not sure what. There was no doubt events were conspiring against me, that things were closing in, and that's enough to make you forget seeing something beautiful.

  I crossed the road and, feeling rather spry and inquisitive, knowing for sure I needed spiritual healing, I went where few wizards would go voluntarily. I went inside.

  There is undoubtedly something utterly strange about the interior of a place of worship. You talk quietly, if you talk at all, and whether the architecture is wondrous or mundane, as was the case here, you still marvel at the scale and sense of something being different. It's a magic of sorts. The accumulation of the power of thought, of prayer, of worshiping something greater than yourself, seeping into the fabric of the building. People's wants and needs, their desires and their desperation, their hopes, dreams, and dread. It doesn't always make for a pleasant experience, sometimes it's downright scary, as these emotions, these strong feelings, are released in psychic waves in such sanctified places and their influence is strong.

  Year after year these powerful emotions and beliefs are soaked up, become the emptiness, fill the space with their vibrations and take on a real presence. Every church has a character, a dominant vibe depending on its history and its location, the overall health of its parishioners and their contentment or desperation. This one was no different.

  It was nice, warm and inviting in a distant way. For the most part people had come here with good intentions, to be led down a righteous path to give thanks for what they had, or to seek solace in times of need. I could feel it as I walked down the aisle between the ordered pews, and it gave me something for my willingness to open up to what it offered. It gave me a sense of peace.