Street Magic Part 19

"Just Mosswood," he said, blowing a lazy smoke ring.

"Lament for who?" Pete said. "Or what?"

"You've heard of Nero, surely, and the music he played while the empire burned," said Mosswood. "This is the same music. The music that played when Cain slew Abel and the sound that will be at the end of the world."

Even though a fire was roaring in the pub's wide grate, Pete shivered. Mosswood indicated the chair opposite him. "You are obviously troubled a great deal to come here without an escort, Miss Caldecott. Please. Sit down."

"I don't need an escort," said Pete reflexively.

"I suppose you don't." Mosswood knocked out his pipe against the edge of the table and took his leather tobacco pouch out of his coat. "You wouldn't have been able to find your way here again if you were not touched by the Black."

A cup of tea appeared on the edge of the table, a tiny hand sliding back below eye level, and Pete started.

"Thank you, Nora," said Mosswood. "And another of the same for Miss Caldecott. Sugar?"

"No sugar," Pete said, regarding the small earthy-colored creature with an arched eyebrow.

"Brownies," said Mosswood when Nora had scuttled away. "Not very intelligent, but love menial tasks. Useful for housework, if you need someone to come in."

"I'm here about Jack," Pete said, putting her palms flat on the table.

"Oh, I doubt that." Mosswood blew on his pipe and smoke sprouted as the tobacco lit of its own volition. "You are here about what's happening to you, my dear. Jack is merely a side effect of all this."

"I don't" Pete started.

"How much has Jack told you about this? The Black? The magic that he works?"

Pete sighed. "Not much, and before tonight I didn't want to know. I'd convinced myself a long time ago that all this" this"-and here she gestured at the pub, the music, and brownies scuttling under tables"wasn't real. But tonight&"

"Tonight was different," Mosswood said, examining her with a penetrating gaze. For all of his well-groomed shab-biness, the patched coat and sleek beard, Mosswood's eyes were inhuman, black and flat like stones. "Tell me."

"I& Jack and I were trying to get rid of a demon-that's a long story, entirely separateand I touched him, really touched him because I was scared, and all this power just& appeared appeared."

Mosswood scratched his beard and sucked on his pipe. "More power than the irredeemable Mr. Winter usually commands. Impressive."

"What's so impressive about that?" Pete said.

"Mages, in the great order of the Black, are candle dames," Mosswood said. "Jack Winter is an acetylene torch turned on full. Do you see?"

"I just want to know what happened when I touched him," said Pete.

"Afraid of it, are you?" Mosswood nodded. "Bright girl."

"I'm not afraid afraid of anything," Pete snapped. "If it was just my life, I wouldn't be here. There's an innocent child at stake and I need to know that Jack is telling me the truth, when he decides to tell me anything. Whatever happened could affect my ability to help her. Or anyone." of anything," Pete snapped. "If it was just my life, I wouldn't be here. There's an innocent child at stake and I need to know that Jack is telling me the truth, when he decides to tell me anything. Whatever happened could affect my ability to help her. Or anyone."

"Jack Winter telling the truth," Mosswood mused. "There's something I'd like to see."

"Listen," Pete said. "I'm not stupid. I know know something happened that wasn't meant to the first time Jack and I tried magic together. I don't think mages make a habit of working rituals that leave them on Death's doorstep. And now, the something happened that wasn't meant to the first time Jack and I tried magic together. I don't think mages make a habit of working rituals that leave them on Death's doorstep. And now, the same thing same thing almost blew his flat to smithereens earlier tonight." almost blew his flat to smithereens earlier tonight."

"It is not a thing," said Mosswood. "Magic is not an object."

Pete dropped her eyes at the rebuke, wishing she'd never come. Being in the Black made her feel as if she were half in and half out of icy water, displaced and distracted.

Mosswood finally sighed. "I can only venture a guess, you understand&"

"Anything," said Pete with relief. "Wild speculation, baseless rumor& I've already spent over a decade thinking I'm crazy for believing any of this."

"Many thousands of years ago," said Mosswood, "there was a cla.s.s of magicians, used by the old G.o.ds to speak for them& druids, priestesses of the Morrigan, a cla.s.s of the Celt's battle shamans& you see?"

Pete nodded. The brownie set a cup of strong hot tea at her elbow, and she sipped reflexively. The way Mosswood spoke, it was easy to imagine sitting at the foot of the great standing stones, watching hooded figures dance in the starlight.

"The term 'magician' is a fallacy, really," said Mosswood. "They were called 'Weirs,' in the old tongues. Shapers of magic."

"Weir." Pete tasted the word, swallowed it down with her next swig of tea. "And what did the Weirs do, Mr. Mosswood?"

"Just Mosswood," he said again. "Weirs are odd and frightening, Miss Caldecott, because&" He sighed and sucked his pipe. "I fear I am doing you a disservice by saying this, but& Weirs escape cla.s.sification. They do not tend toward magic the same way mages and sorcerers do. They are transformers, amplifiers, able to perceive the truth in dreaming, and if they are connected to a mage or sorcerer, terrible, terrible things have happened."

"What sort of things?" Pete drained her mug to the bottom, bitter tea leaves touching her tongue.

"Well," said Mosswood, "you don't think the Hinden-burg Hinden-burg explosion was really an accident, do you? Or Three Mile Island? Or the Tunguska meteor?" explosion was really an accident, do you? Or Three Mile Island? Or the Tunguska meteor?"

Pete sat back, rubbing her arms. The cozy pub had become freezing cold. "So if I am& a Weir, and I've connected with Jack&"

Mosswood blew a ring of smoke, his eyes murky. "Then may whatever G.o.d you believe in watch over you both. Someone of Jack's abilities, amplified by a Weir, would be like a storm sweeping from the netherworld to flatten everything outside the Black."

"Weirs amplify mage's talents?" Pete felt her heartbeat slow in numb antic.i.p.ation.

"Of course," said Mosswood mildly. "Why do you think virgin girls were so popular with magicians in the old times? It wasn't for their conversation."

A low shudder started in Pete's stomach and worked its way toward becoming a clear thought. She saw Jack, in his torn T-shirt and black jeans, jackboots and metal bracelets gleaming in the candlelight. Standing across the circle from her, inside the dark still tomb. Reaching out, to take her by the hand.

Afraid, luv? Don't be. I'm here, after all.

Pete stood up, knocking her chair away with a clatter. "II have to go. I'm sorry, Mosswood. Thank you&" She turned and managed to navigate out of the pub and back down the alley, fingers closing around the cold lumpy metal of the gate and pushing it aside. A black border closed around her vision and finally the street in front of her disappeared completely and all Pete saw as she spiraled down was Jack, Jack and his devil's grin.

PART THREE The Graveyard When they kick at your front door How you gonna come? With your hands on your head Or on the trigger of your gun?

The Clash

Chapter Thirty-four

Pete shoved open the door to Jack's flat so that it hit the wall with a crack. She jumped at the same time as he did, startled to actually find him slouched on his sofa. A haze of pungent blue-green smoke drifted around him.

"Who the f.u.c.k is that?" demanded the woman on the other end of the sofa. She was rail skinny, a thatch of grown-out blond hair that still held purple dye in the tips sticking out wildly around her narrow pixie face.

"Hattie, this is Pete," Jack said. His posture instantly drew tight as he caught Pete's expression.

" 'S a b.l.o.o.d.y odd name, ain't it?" Hattie said, taking another draw on her Thai stick.

For Pete's part, she drew in a breath, letting the pot-smoke smell wash over her, and then said, very softly, "Jack, I need to speak with you."

He stood, and Hattie made an unsteady move to follow. "Alone." Pete pinned Hattie with a glare, and the spindly girl sank back down into her seat.

"What's wrong, luv?" Jack said when Pete pulled him into the hallway and slammed the flat's door.

"How long have you known?" Pete said. Jack blinked once. His eyes were clearhe wasn't stoned, had just been playing at it. Pete found herself startled again at how quickly Jack could shuck and don different skins.

"Known what, Pete?" he asked in a credible display of innocence, but Pete knew better.

"I've been trying to figure it out, the whole walk home-did you know before that day in the tomb, or did you only figure it out when that thing thing came out at us and went straight for my heart instead of doing what you wanted?" came out at us and went straight for my heart instead of doing what you wanted?"

Jack's eyes iced over, the deep glacial blue stealing around the iris, but Pete pressed on. "And that convenient tip to the police, and you sticking around me right up until now. For your reputation reputation." She lowered her voice. "Did you really think I wouldn't realize what you're doing, Jack?"

Jack spread his hands, and smiled at her. It was a warm smile, charming and guileless. "I don't know what you're talking about, luv"

Pete slapped him, hard enough to leave a crack at the corner of his mouth that dribbled blood. "Don't lie to me again, Jack Winter," she hissed. "And lie to me again, Jack Winter," she hissed. "And don't don't call me 'luv' any longer. You lost that right the day you decided to use me like a f.u.c.king telly antenna, a dozen b.l.o.o.d.y years ago." call me 'luv' any longer. You lost that right the day you decided to use me like a f.u.c.king telly antenna, a dozen b.l.o.o.d.y years ago."

His fists curled and Pete braced herself to be hit. He probably wouldn't rattle her teeth, he was so skinny.

"You put me in danger. You knew exactly what would happen and you used used me," she kept on. "And when you found me again, you used me again. And now that little girl is probably dead and I've spent the last twelve years trying to outrun nightmares of something that wasn't even my fault in the first place. Do you know how many nights I've wished I could make up for hurting you, for letting that thing loose? Too me," she kept on. "And when you found me again, you used me again. And now that little girl is probably dead and I've spent the last twelve years trying to outrun nightmares of something that wasn't even my fault in the first place. Do you know how many nights I've wished I could make up for hurting you, for letting that thing loose? Too b.l.o.o.d.y b.l.o.o.d.y many, Jack!" Shaking, she clenched her teeth to keep her voice steady and said, "I'm going home. You can't help me, or Margaret Smythe. You can't help anyone." many, Jack!" Shaking, she clenched her teeth to keep her voice steady and said, "I'm going home. You can't help me, or Margaret Smythe. You can't help anyone."

He let her get almost to the lift before he said, "You thought it was entirely your fault?"

"Isn't it?" Pete said. "When a Weir and a mage meet, terrible things happen. Mosswood said it."

"Mosswood doesn't know b.l.o.o.d.y everything." She heard a rustle and a sizzle as Jack conjured a f.a.g, and then his breath drawing on it. "Listen, Caldecott, whatever happened between us before, right now all that matters is we've come to the attention of the wrong sort of people."

He lifted away from the wall and walked over to Pete, placing the tips of his fingers on her right shoulder. Pete shuddered as his presence crackled around her. "Don't touch me," she whispered.

Jack slid his grip to her arm and turned her to face him. The magic that rolled over Pete sucked her air away, just as it had the first time she'd stood close enough to touch him. "We're in danger, Pete," he said. "And if you don't stay with me, you're going to die. Later on, we can scream and throw crockery and shed tears over what I knew and how I used your talent and when, but right now, if you want any any chance of saving Margaret Smythe from the clutches of certain death, then luvyou're with me." chance of saving Margaret Smythe from the clutches of certain death, then luvyou're with me."

Pete glared at his hand until he removed it from her arm. "Is the Hattie trollop strictly strictly necessary?" necessary?"

"Hattie's an old friend," Jack said. "She's not bad."

"She's a f.u.c.king junkie," Pete pointed out. Jack smiled, lips thin.

"So am I, Pete." He stamped out his cigarette and walked back down the dim hallway to the flat. "Hattie's got someone for us to meet, might have a line on those demon-w.a.n.king sorcerers who are after me."

"And then we find Margaret," Pete told him. She let him know, with the thrust of her chin, that she'd break Jack's shins and drag him with her if it came to that.

He flashed her the devil-grin, not worried in the least. "Yes. If we find themthen we find Margaret. Can't do f.u.c.k-all for the kid if we're dead, can we?"

Pete conceded that he had a point. Whatever Jack was, wrong wasn't usually it. She gestured for him to lead the way back into the flat. "Don't make the mistake of thinking this is good and settled between us."

"Wouldn't dream," Jack said, turning the k.n.o.b. "You'd wake me up right quick."

Hattie jumped up when Pete came back into the flat. "Jack, what's up? Can we get out of here, already? You know being out the Black always gives me f.u.c.king hives."

"Pete is going to be joining us," Jack said, shrugging into his jacket. The screaming skull on the back leered at Pete. Hattie worried her lower lip, fingers picking idly at the hair on her opposite arm.

"Why?"

"Because I said so, Hattie." Jack stuck a Parliament between his lips but didn't light it.

Pete watched Jack, and Hattie, and the look that pa.s.sed between them. Jack had shifted again, this time into an edgy, aggressive mode that made him square his shoulders and jut his jaw. Hattie folded in on herself even more.

"She don't blend in," she finally muttered. "Like a new penny in the collection box. She'll pox up the whole thing."

"Either you two leave off talking about me like I'm deaf or I can take your skinny a.r.s.e to rot the night in jail," Pete told Hattie. She turned on Jack. "That goes for you, too."

"Except my skinny a.r.s.e is cute." Jack winked at her. Hattie glared at Pete from under bruise-colored lids.

Chapter Thirty-five