Bloomsbury, London
Seated in a crowded Starbucks, a gargantuan cup of tea balanced precariously on the worn chair’s upholstered arm, Cormac blinked eyes bleary from lack of sleep and tried to focus on his smartphone’s miniaturized search page. With a few more errors than usual, thanks to tiredness and haste, he typed: “Eclectica,” “fine gifts,” and—recalling the name of the city Leticia had set up in—“Granite Springs.”
In a matter of seconds, Google offered up a link to the store’s website. That was new. He clicked the link and found himself at a simplistic but elegant page showing a more recent view of the store whose photo he’d...borrowed. The exact address was given, along with driving instructions and a link to several small maps of the local area. Most of the former referenced the location of the town’s Shakespeare festival.
“Another damned tourist trap in your honor, Will,” he muttered and took a drink of bitter tea, overpriced and inferior stuff no amount of honey and milk could improve.
The website’s administrator was identified as one Thia McDaniel. He felt a moment of triumph, hid it behind his tea as he took a long drink.
He went on to browse the online catalogue, not sure what to make of it. Even with Leticia at the helm, he’d expected the usual sort of decorative nonsense: pretty yet powerless crystals to dangle in one’s window or from a car’s rear-view mirror; candles of all sizes and shapes and scents; sachets of herbs and what-not that made ridiculous promises for things like lottery winnings and true love. He found all that and more of their ilk...along with a surprising—and troubling—amount of the real deal.
Exactly how involved was the lovely Thia? Was she aware of every aspect of Leticia’s business—in the broader sense of the word—or was she simply an employee? And even if she were “simply” the latter, the store’s catalog suggested its customers held more than a passing familiarity with the magical arts. He had to figure at least some of its employees did as well. Was she one of them?
His relief at finding he was indeed on the right track faded in the midst of so many unanswerable questions. So many unknowns, with the most potentially dangerous being Thia McDaniel herself. He hadn’t sensed much power during the phone call, but those who possessed the most were often the best at masking it. There was no telling how formidable a foe she might be.
It was a risk he had to take, however. He clicked on the map provided and swore—softly but viciously enough to earn a wary look from the Goth-garbed youth slouched in the next armchair. Cormac had looked up Granite Springs when he’d first learned Leticia had opened a shop there. Since it was nothing to him, he’d then promptly forgotten exactly how far away it was.
Airline travel would allow him time to rest, albeit fitfully. Stuck in what amounted to a aluminum can, far from the familiar energies of the earth and closer to the energies of the moon and sun. Surrounded by nervous people and breathing in recirculated air. Consuming bizarre concoctions purported to be food, or at least edible, which clearly were neither. He muttered another curse, swallowed more tea. Why couldn’t Leticia have set her store somewhere closer—like, say, Hampstead Heath? Dammit, even New York would’ve been a good sight better than this Oregon.
In the end, after exploring his options on a travel-booking site, he was forced to rule airplanes out altogether. With the multiple connections and layovers required, it would take almost two days to get to the out-of-the-way town. He didn’t have that kind of time.
His heavy sigh caught the attention of both the Goth and the purple-mouthed girl now seated on his lap, but whatever they read in his expression caused them to look quickly away. He was aware of their leaving as he opened the app for Holpnick’s Charts. If there was a worse way to travel than by plane, this was it.
Ley line.
His gut turned leaden as he plotted his route. But, sickening as the prospect of going such a long distance was, he had to admit it was amusing to think modern technology was helping him do it. Technology and the obsession of one pseudo-scholar named Cyrus Pickersgill Holpnick.
Not that the poor fool had any idea what he’d really done. In a misguided attempt to prove how places of mysterious ship and airplane disappearances were portals to alien galaxies, Holpnick had managed to compile the most detailed and accurate map of global ley lines—and made it accessible to everyone first via the world wide web, and more recently through a somewhat clunky iPhone app. It was amazing, really, that he hadn’t been shut down by one of the Otherworldly consortia that worked the lines. Then again, with so much shipping and travel business being lost to real-world methods, maybe such publicity was welcomed these days as free advertising.
It wasn’t as if the average person could use them, in any case. Though Cormac likened the process to throwing things—namely, himself—into a rushing river, that was a vast oversimplification. To get into a line took great effort. To leave took even more. Being swept past the intended destination was quite common, as was getting pulled into the wrong line at major intersections. Some travelers, the ones with too much knowledge but little skill, could easily become trapped, their chances of rescue slim to none.
He’d never used the lines much himself, and never for such a length as this, but at least it looked to be an easy route. Granite Springs was situated only a few miles from a convergence of several strong lines.
Frowning, he studied the map again. The town, given its seclusion and ease of access from a number of places on the globe, had all the makings of a major depot. Particularly if its primary industry was indeed tourism.
He sat forward. If Granite Springs were a depot—or worse, being used by smugglers…Ah, ifrinn. He should’ve given more credit to Leticia’s choice of location. She could have made all sorts of acquaintances through her store. People who would be willing to help her for a price.
What if she’d merely been a broker for the relic? He couldn’t imagine she’d betray the Brigantium like that, but he wasn’t exactly doing well on that score. He wouldn’t rule anything out.
He sprang to his feet, heedless of the half-full cup on the arm of the chair. The cup which, to go by the angry shouts that followed as he wove quickly through the crowd, must have spilled.
If Leticia had sent the relic to Granite Springs—and it was becoming more and more clear that she had—already, any number of insurmountable things might have occurred.
Once outside, he slipped through the crowds of pub-crawlers, ducked into the first deserted passageway he found, and pulled out his Ronson lighter. He needed to inform Idris of his plans. To leave the country, particularly by such means, could (and no doubt would) be interpreted as another escape attempt. It didn’t matter that over a century had passed since he’d tried. Since he’d even dreamt of it.
With the blood connection, his father could summon him at any time. And, unless he was within the protective charms of his home—a temporary sanctuary at best—acceptance wasn’t optional. The only place Idris couldn’t get to him was the Otherworld, but Cormac wasn’t liable to go there again, not after the hell of the first time, his one and only escape attempt. The physical scars, the result of punishment both from his mother’s family for daring to contact them, and from Idris upon his forced return, had taken years to heal. The other scars…well, he liked to think he’d become adept at ignoring them.
He was an aberration, his cousins had been all too happy to inform him when he’d begged to be allowed to stay. A thing bred for Idris and Idris alone, his piece of a deal made with Cormac’s mother. She got what she needed to pay the debts preventing her from joining the rest of her family in the Otherworld, while Idris got the means to prolong his unnatural life. The blood of his blood that, although diluted by half, carried the power of the Sidhe.
They’d worked for a time, the blood rituals…until, gradually, they didn’t. When it had become clear Idris was continuing to age and Cormac’s blood on the athame no longer provided Idris with enough power, the search for new methods—new tools—had begun.
He