A Dozen Secrets: Twelve Tales of Hidden Magic Read online

  “That inheriting talents is a dumb idea,” he shrugged, as if it was some kind of joke, “You should pass it on to someone you’re not related to. It’s made it way too easy to find you.”

  As he pulled the trigger and she twitched in shock, there were a few more clues that Lisette wished she’d spotted sooner. Like the oil lamp, an antiquated object but looking nearly new. The sound of people bustling around further down the corridor as their shift started. Or the miners’ names scratched into the wall, now spattered with her blood just like they were in the newspaper photographs she’d seen so long ago.

  * * *

  The Chain

  It was a delicate chain, so thin you’d have to be only a few feet away to see the links. Not at all like the kind of thing Trez would wear. On the other hand, it was exactly the kind of thing his girlfriend Charlayne would love. She’d been drooling over one just like it for weeks in the window of Montagues; a little piece of silver that would have cost a month of anyone’s wages. Trez didn’t have anything as proper as wages, though, no matter what his princess thought, because his job wasn’t exactly steady, or legal.

  He’d wanted to get her that necklace for her birthday, because then she’d do whatever he wanted. And, whatever some people might think of him, he’d do what it took to be with that girl. She was amazing, and she made him feel like he could do anything. The problem was, he didn’t deal with that kind of money, and that store didn’t deal with his kind of people. Montagues had the kind of security that meant cameras, guards built like a wall, and steel shutters that slammed down in an instant.

  This girl, though, she had the look of someone who was certainly in the wrong part of town. White-blonde hair drifted lazily around her bare shoulders like a halo, and the dress crammed a whole closet full of fancy into a pretty small area. It wasn’t indecent at all, it covered everything between her nipples and mid-thigh, but that was about all. Her boots almost had more area, blue leather decorated with crystals and sapphires. If those stones were real, she’d be sporting enough bling to buy the whole city block. But right now she wasn’t just in the wrong part of town, she was walking out of the wrong alleyway. Trez knew it was a dead end, so there was nowhere for this rich kid to run to. He stepped out from the doorway, where he’d just paused to try and get a fag lit, and pulled a knife from his pocket.

  “A’right,” he grinned, and flicked the blade out and gave her a nod. This was where he’d find out if she was going to be smart, or trouble. Between the Dumpsters at the back of Malone’s, there were less than six feet of space to get past him. Her only place to run was just turning round and heading back into an alley that she must already know had every door boarded up. And those heels weren’t made for running anyway.

  “I do so hate this place,” she shrugged. The accent was as rich as her dress, a slow drawl with the twang of some country Trez didn’t know. “I mean, Daddy says I’ve got to live like an ordinary person, and why in Hel’s name should I want to do that? I’ve only been here two minutes, and some uncultured ape is waving a weapon at me. It boggles the mind just how moronic humans can be.”

  Trez narrowed his eyes, and didn’t even bother to wait for her to finish speaking. He would have preferred her to run, if she wasn’t just going to hand over the necklace, because he didn’t like hitting a woman where someone passing at the corner could see. But those words drove him into a rage, and he leapt at her in a two-fisted assault. He didn’t even think about the knife jutting from his hand, but as luck would have it the blade didn’t catch his target. That was good really; he might spend most of his life taking things from people who could afford to lose them, but that didn’t mean he was a bad guy. He didn’t want to kill anyone, not really. He didn’t even get particular pleasure from it when he had to hurt someone, and would never take his boot to a woman unless she’d done something to deserve it.

  This one had no respect, and that was bad enough. He didn’t want to kill her, certainly not by accident, but he couldn’t stand by while she said things like that about him. He couldn’t even understand all of it. She hit the ground hard, and Trez quickly looked around for witnesses before grabbing her by the hair and dragging her out of sight behind the nearest Dumpster. She was amazingly light, and her hair was soft as silk in his hands. He didn’t care how much he hurt her now, the rich bitch had earned it.

  The pendant bounced across the ground as he moved her. It wasn’t quite the same as the one in the store, but it was close enough. A silver symbol, some Arabic letter or something, inlaid with a dozen blue and red crystals in colours so vibrant they almost seemed to be glowing in the evening light. He’d tell Charlayne it was a Tibetan symbol that meant eternity or something; that was the kind of thing she’d go for. It was light enough that it didn’t change how the chain hung at all when the woman was wearing it, so he guessed it would be pretty comfortable too. But when he came to take it off, he noticed that instead of a clasp at the back, the chain was closed with a tiny silver padlock.

  “You are in so much trouble,” she sneered, starting to pick herself up off the ground. He mustn’t have hit her as hard as he thought, or she had one hell of a thick skull. “Maybe you’re planning to rape me? You have no idea what I’d be allowed to do to you then.” He paused for a second, his hands halfway to the back of the stranger’s neck. She still didn’t seem afraid, she wasn’t even particularly angry, and still with that superior tone. He snorted, gave her a square kick in the back of her head, and went back to taking his prize. He yanked the chain tight around her neck to get the lock against the ground, then jammed the point of his knife into it. A single thrust with his full weight was all it took.

  The knife was thrown out of his grip, and tiny silver links sprayed out across the alley with enough speed to embed several in the concrete ground and in the walls. The lock exploded, and the pendant began to glow white hot. Now it was Trez’s turn to be afraid. His victim jumped to her feet in a single motion, hair flying out around her head. For the first time he saw her show an expression other than pure disgust, a huge grin that he could only describe as predatory. One perfect heel jabbed down and shattered the pendant, and he couldn’t help noticing that she punched a half-inch hole into the concrete beneath as well. Lightning sparks leapt out from the broken metal and wrapped around her leg. They flashed and writhed like a nest of snakes, crawling up her body and jumping across every inch of clothing and pale flesh.

  The woman looked down her nose at him, and he realised that his fists hadn’t even left a mark. Hadn’t there been a bruise a few moments ago? He couldn’t remember now. One exquisitely manicured finger pointed and he felt himself lifted into the air, his whole body burning as if his blood was on fire. There was a bolt of lightning connecting her outstretched nail to his chest, flickering and strobing but never quite winking out. As she moved her hands, the electricity seemed to move him around the alley like a puppet. Trez was terrified, like he’d never been in his life before, but there was nothing he could do to escape. With barely a grunt of effort, this woman placed him on the wall of one building, six feet from the ground, and left him spreadeagled there.

  “I should probably be grateful,” she spoke just as slowly as before, “Father is getting a lot better at restraining my powers, and I can’t even ask someone to remove that cursed artifact now. On the other hand, you did try to injure me, and I think that shows a distinct lack of respect for your Queen. What do you think? Should I keep you as a slave to organise my new empire, or should I just kill you now and find a consort worthy of my attention?”

  She placed a finger to her lips, an exaggerated gesture to show she was deep in thought. But before Trez could say anything to defend himself, she looked up at him again and continued: “Though of course… it’s not your choice to make.”

  * * *

  Unorthodox Measures

  Mr Wand and Mr Traum were consummate professionals. They had attended more than a hundred incidents, though that would be hard to prove due to the
way nobody remembered them. Their companion Mr Leichen was a relative newcomer, and he knew that sooner or later he’d have to prove his colours through some kind of test.

  The desk in front of them belonged to the late Herman Proost. Not exactly late; it would be more accurate to describe the man as early if you truly understood the theory and practise of paradox nihilation. But “late” was safe to say, and avoided any confusion if it was overheard by mundane people. They hadn’t killed Proost; what they had done to him was almost the opposite, but it was still safer not to have to explain. If you really want to know what happened, then you might find yourself in a little unexpected danger. Even if you’re looking out for it, it won’t be the thing you were expecting, they could make sure of that. So for your safety, I think it’s easier just to say that the old man wouldn’t be around any more, and wouldn’t help them with their investigation even if he could.

  The thing they were investigating, and the biggest problem in the universe right now, was this desk. It didn’t look so imposing, it looked just like any other schoolteacher’s desk. Well, any rich headteacher’s desk anyway, in the more traditional kind of schools. It was solid walnut, the kind of construction that required both the men moving it to be strong and healthy. And it was covered with junk.

  Not exactly junk, because nearly all of the items on the desk were worth something, being either still functional, old enough to be valuable to collectors, or both. But there were so many things that finding interested buyers for them would have been an awfully large investment of time and effort. As far as this group were concerned, though, the items were all junk with a single exception. The problem was that they didn’t know which one.

  No. The problem was that one of the desk’s cupboards was bonded to an ethereal gateway. Open it with the right key and it would connect you directly into a dreamworld, allowing physical entry to the collective unconscious. It could be heaven or it could be hell, the dream world could be so many things, but the certainty was that in the wrong hands, that access could doom the world. The task for these three right now was figuring out which of the objects on the desk was the key. There were hundreds of the things, and with a psycho-surreal key item it wouldn’t work unless you believed it was the key. If you simply tried everything, none of them would work because you didn’t have a reason to think that it was the right one. You had to know it in order to use it.

  “So which is it?” Mr Wand asked. Mr Leichen knew this was the test; ever since he’d joined the team, they had neither asked his opinion on anything, nor mentioned their former comrade Mr Todd who was now… well, it was safer not to get into that question.

  He looked across the desk, scanned the objects. They must know, or they wouldn’t have asked. Maybe it would be safer to just destroy the desk, but you never knew what kind of trouble that could lead to. It wasn’t the key, they’d tried that because so many people thought that reverse psychology would work. The key opened the cupboard, of course, but only revealed a space inside of about a cubic foot, with wooden walls. Could it be a pen, or one of the other keys, a pipe cleaner, a paperweight, a feather, an old radio aerial, a letter opener, a carved representation of a catfish, any one of a hundred medals… the list went on and on.

  “He’s a health nut, right?” The other two just nodded. “So one of these things doesn’t fit. He doesn’t smoke, so he wouldn’t have any excuse to carry this. Everything else could be absent mindedly left on the desk, but he never smoked in his life.” Mr Leichen held up a small metal instrument like a minimalist multi-tool; three different shaped blades for cleaning out a pipe, as well as a blunt-ended rod for tamping down fresh tobacco.

  “Try it and see,” Mr Traum said. If he’d been human, he might have added ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’, but he’d never need to say that because they already knew.

  Mr Leichen put the pointed end of the tool into the lock, and wiggled it around. There was a faint click; he took a deep breath, and pulled on the cupboard’s handle.

  * * *

  Buyer Beware

  The bar was called ‘Elvenhall’, I remembered that because I found it odd. It was hardly advertised from outside either, just a flight of stone stairs worn to high gloss by the passage of a thousand feet, leading down from the street between two stores. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it, if not for a proud looking young man in a chic silk waistcoat leaving as I passed, and the momentary spill of light and laughter before the door slowly drifted closed. He strode away purposefully, smiling. I was curious, so I went down a few steps and looked at a little brass plaque that was pinned to the frame over a heavy wooden door. It was old wood, well crafted and covered by a veneer of a century’s polishing. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was another hundred years or more before the dark timber needed any kind of repair.

  ‘Elvenhall’, the sign said, ‘transcendental bar and liqueurist’

  Well, that got my attention. Maybe it wasn’t such a weird name after all, I could have just misread it. In that heavy gothic script, the letters were pretty hard to make out. But what was a liqueurist? That sounded more like someone who makes drinks than sells them, and I had no idea what would make a bar transcendental without being illegal. I pulled the door open, and was surprised to discover how heavy it was. It was more than two inches thick, and must have been solid oak, and yet it had been balanced so carefully that it closed with barely a whisper.

  Inside the bar, the sound was still muted. Everyone was busy with their own conversations, though all seemed to be having fun. The lights were low, but it seemed homely rather than gloomy. The chairs were real leather, and the bar solid wood topped with an ornately shaped sheet of brass. The man behind the bar was wearing a tuxedo, and seemed to be polishing glasses with his eyes closed. I walked closer, and realised that he was taking more than a minute over every one before lining them up neatly along their shelf. Every glass sparkled, every pump gleamed, every bottle was arranged with the name clearly visible to the people in the bar.

  Another man was being served when I got there. Another newcomer, I guessed, as his attitude was noticeably different from everyone else in the place. He was swaying, for one thing, and not making any kind of conversation with the other patrons. The bartender pulled a pint of beer slowly and carefully, then set it on the bar in front of the stranger. “That will be four ninety five, thank you,” he said in an accent so faint that he could have been from anywhere.

  “Oh, I’ve not got enough,” Flat Cap grabbed the drink anyway. He wasn’t threatening, yet, but the belligerent semi-drunk glare made it clear that this was an option if anyone dared to argue.

  “You ordered it, you pay for it,” the barman’s expression didn’t change. He still had his eyes closed, but somehow that didn’t even strike me as odd in that moment. He didn’t open them as the customer picked up his drink and turned away, but I didn’t think for a moment that he hadn’t seen.

  “Screw you,” the guy muttered, and then the bartender’s eyes flashed open. I was terrified by what I saw. He must be blind, his eyes had no pupils. They weren’t white, but a metallic silver that seemed to reflect the room with colours much more vivid than those in the real world. I didn’t know what would happen, I didn’t even try to guess. The non-paying drinker turned around as if he was standing on a turntable, and drifted back towards the bar without moving a muscle. It was so unnatural, that freaked me out more than some direct sign of violence.

  “You ordered it,” the barman spoke quietly but his accent was gone, “You will pay the price”. The words weren’t mere sounds now, but a statement of fact that seemed to ripple out to fill the entire bar. Maybe it sounds crazy, but that’s the only way I can think of to describe it. He held out his hand, and the customer’s arm jerked out to be horizontal. There was no grace in his movement, it was a gesture of pure puppetry. I almost looked for the wire attached to his hand as he dropped the coins.

  Then the barman’s eyes were closed again, and the background murmur of con
versation resumed. The stranger settled down with his drink at a table in the corner, trying to mask his fear under a hostile scowl.

  “What else can you do?” I asked the bartender, the four drinks I’d already had just winning out against natural caution.

  “I must admit,” he hazarded a smile, “That’s one of the most original questions I’ve heard someone come up with, so I think I’ll give you the straight answer. The limits and weaknesses of half-djinni magic are simple enough. Nobody rips me off, as you’ve just seen. Ask for a drink and you have to pay in full. And on the more generous side, you can order any drink you want. Anything that’s ever existed, I can get.”

  “So like, I could ask you for a bottle of the best scotch in the world? Or like the last bottle from King Arthur’s wine cellar?”

  “You could,” he smiled, “But the price might be thousands of dollars, or an antique of equal value.”

  “You could do that? What do you do if someone asks for the impossible? I mean like… like dragon’s blood, or comet ice, or the water of the Lethe, or something.”

  “Who says it’s impossible?” he grinned, I couldn’t tell if he was amused by the crazy things I’d come up with, or relishing the chance to show off. “I think I like you. I can offer you one of those mixers if you want, and because you probably need something to steady your nerves after a few minutes ago, I’ll only charge you for the spirit of your choice. Whiskey and water, Bushmills single malt, am I right?”

  I nodded, without even wondering how a guy who’d never served me before, in a bar so far from home, could know my usual.

  I put the glass down on the bar, the aftertaste fresh on my lips. The barman was standing at the other end of the bar now, counting my money into a small set of drawers. This place was so old fashioned, he didn’t even have a cash register.