The Wizard Of Dark Street Part 2

OPEN-CALL AUDITIONS FOR OSWALD DESCENDS.

Oona tutted. Oswald Descends, a play named after Oswald the Great, the most powerful of the Magicians of Old, told the story of the crucial role he played in the Great Faerie War nearly five hundred years ago. The play was put on at least once a year without fail. Oona found such old-fashioned stories of magic and history quite boring, although she had to admit that the final scene in the play-when Oswald descends the steps of Faerie, locked in battle with the terrible Queen of Faerie-was always quite spectacular. Unfortunately, you needed to sit through the entire play for one bit of excitement at the very end.

The clock read 2:36. Since the Choosing was set for seven o'clock, this left her more than enough time to reach Pendulum House on foot. Satisfied, Oona turned to go, but just then, two metallic-sounding voices emanated from deep inside the iron clockwork, half startling her.

"Knock, knock," said the first voice.

"Who's there?" asked the second.

"Kent."

"Kent who?"

"Kent remember my name, I'm so b.l.o.o.d.y drunk. Now open up!"

Oona rolled her eyes. Nowhere else but on Dark Street did the street clocks tell not only time but jokes as well ... and quite bad ones at that.

Her shadow stretched out behind her as she strolled up the street, wondering how she might solve the case of the missing dresses with so little information. Especially when she was unable to examine the crime scene itself.

Her pace quickened as she pa.s.sed in front of Oswald Park-the mile-long recreational area named after the great magician-though not solely because of the young hooligans in shady hats near the front gate. Oona had Deacon with her, and the menacing-looking raven would make most anyone think twice about approaching her. The real reason she quickened her pace was because it was at Oswald Park that she had conjured her last spell. It was there that the magic had flown out of her control.

The iron bars separating the park from the street slid quickly past as she attempted to hold her eyes dead ahead. But the pull was too strong. She stopped a little ways past the entrance, pressing her face to the fence and peering through the bars at an open, gra.s.s-covered s.p.a.ce near the center of the park.

It wasn't always an open s.p.a.ce, Oona thought grimly. Not too long ago there was a great tree there. A huge fig tree where people could sit under its branches and lean against its trunk.

"Hey, girlie," said a voice, and Oona turned to see one of the shadowy, hat-wearing young men approaching her. His voice was rough from smoke. "You got a light, girlie?"

Deacon puffed up his chest, his head rising to his full menacing height. "Back away, sir!" he half cawed.

The hoodlum quickly backed away, turning to his companions, who were all having a good laugh. Oona watched him go. In the distance she caught sight of the very top of the Black Tower. The ominous-looking tower was the tallest structure on Dark Street, and it could be seen from miles away. Also known as the Goblin Tower, the solid black, windowless structure was a relic of the past: a prison built to hold powerful faeries during the war. It was said that the Magicians of Old had placed goblins inside as keepers of the prison, and that they lived there still, to this day. Oona didn't know if she believed that, but it was true that people were so fearful of the tower that no one wished to live too close to it, and so that was where they had built the cemetery. The tower rose up out of the center of the graveyard like some enormous black tombstone.

It was there, beneath its shadow, that Oona had watched them first bury her father ... and then not long after, her mother and baby sister had joined him in the Crate family plot. Oona had not been back since.

Currently, she returned her gaze to the place where the tree had once grown near the center of the park, and a sudden wave of grief and guilt washed over her. Decorations were being put up in preparation for the masquerade the following night. Lanterns were being hung in trees, and tables were being set up around the pond. Streaming bits of shiny fabric dangled from branches, giving the park a whimsical appearance, but going to the masquerade all at once seemed like a bad idea.

How dare I think of having fun in that place, she thought. They were killed there. And it's all my fault.

The thought was cruel and biting, but Oona heard the truth in it. And then she thought: It's the magic that killed them. The Lights of Wonder did it ... Lux lucis admiratio ... it's the magic's fault. And she felt the truth in this as well. She turned away from the park with a sudden urge to run, feeling more certain than she had in weeks that she was making the right decision to give up her apprenticeship. She couldn't wait to sign the papers and have the whole business over with, to be done with magic and all of its ridiculous instability.

She simply couldn't wait for the Choosing to be finished.

Pendulum House sat squarely in the middle of Dark Street, where the broad avenue split apart in a wide circle around the extensive grounds. An old, rusty ironwork fence surrounded the yard, and the house seemed as ancient and foreboding as the powerful magic held within its walls. Yet the style of the house was that of a modern Victorian manor. It stood four stories tall, its numerous interlocking sections and slanted roofs giving the impression that it was several homes pieced together by some eccentric, yet brilliant architect.

Sticking out of the second floor, like a bizarre sea wreck, was the prow of a ship. The carved image of a wide-eyed mermaid had been mounted on the front, where she stared out at the drifting crowds of Dark Street, looking both beautiful and disastrously out of place. A crooked and rather unsafe-looking tower protruded from the uppermost story of the manor, at the very top of which an ironwork weathervane slowly rocked in the breeze.

Oona's bedroom resided on the third floor, her window overlooking the tangled mess of the front gardens, which clearly had not been tended in a very long time. Twisting snakelike vines and tall, p.r.i.c.kly weeds crisscrossed through the spa.r.s.e trees, all of which were in need of a good pruning.

Yet sitting in her room, in front of her dressing table mirror, Oona was not concerned with the deplorable condition of the front yard; instead, she was applying all of her skills to the taming of her hair. She ran a hairbrush across the top of her head, feeling the situation was simply hopeless. Deacon stood atop a nearby bedpost.

Oona dropped the brush on the tabletop. "How on earth did someone break into that showroom, Deacon? Inspector White was correct when he pointed out that there were no windows to climb in or out of."

She closed her eyes, once again attempting to re-create the crime scene in her mind-the naked mannequins, the crystal chandelier, the platform.

"The candle on the floor," she said, opening her eyes and staring at her reflection. Large green eyes stared back, the skin above her small nose dimpling.

"The candle?" Deacon said. "What about it?"

"Something ... but what?" She let out a little groan. "Oh, it is useless, Deacon. I need to examine that showroom closer! Perhaps tomorrow Madame Iree will let me in."

"Perhaps," Deacon said doubtfully.

Oona gave him a shrewd look before turning her attention to her dressing table. An a.s.sortment of gla.s.s vials and laboratory beakers littered the tabletop, along with her discarded hairbrush. She picked up a yellowed folder containing a thick stack of edge-worn paper. Printed on the cover, in her late father's blocky handwriting, was the name RED MARTIN.

Oona thumbed the file open to the middle before musing aloud: "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if Red Martin was behind this crime."

Deacon shuddered at the mention of the name, and Oona couldn't help thinking to herself how it was not a very original name. The history books were full of one ambitious scoundrel or another who would start calling himself Red Martin in order to strike fear into the hearts of the people of Dark Street. Some people even believed that they were all the same person, and that Red Martin was hundreds of years old. But that, of course, was only silly gossip, and Oona put little stock in such rumors. She preferred hard facts.

"The current Red Martin is the worst criminal of them all, as far as I'm concerned," she said. "So bad that he never shows his face in public."

"But why would he have anything to do with this particular crime?" Deacon asked. "You said it yourself. Why would a deadly criminal want to steal a bunch of dresses?"

Oona nodded thoughtfully. "Only because, according to my father's files, Red Martin is the driving force behind nearly every crime on the street. Three-quarters of the unlawful activities on Dark Street can be traced directly to Red Martin's Nightshade Corporation. Somehow he always manages to keep his own hands clean. He is as greedy as they get."

"Indeed," said Deacon. "But where is the proof?"

"You mean proof that he is a villainous crook?" Oona closed the file and tossed it on the bed. "There is enough evidence in that file to prove that most of the criminals my father ever captured had at least some connection to Red Martin's Nightshade Corporation. But the man himself is an enigma. A shroud of mystery. In his ten years as head inspector, my father never once came face-to-face with the man. Red Martin hides up there in that moneymaking temple of his, the Nightshade Hotel and Casino. Some people even question his existence at all. Others say he's as old as the Gla.s.s Gates. There is also a rumor that he has plans to build an even bigger, more grand casino than the one at the Nightshade Hotel."

Deacon scoffed. "Where would he build it? Dark Street is already so packed with buildings."

Oona considered this. "There is Witch Hill."

"But the hill is too small," said Deacon. "It's no bigger than a storefront, really."

Oona nodded. "True. If Red Martin is planning on building an even larger casino than the one he already has, then he would need a much larger spot of land."

"The question is, why would he need a larger casino at all?" Deacon asked. "I would not believe that there are enough gamblers on Dark Street to support two casinos."

Oona had scarcely begun to consider the question when there came a knock at her bedroom door.

"Who is it?" Oona called.

"It is I." The voice drifted through the door, its tone sly and cool, like a whisper from the back of the throat. "The applicants are arriving, and your uncle wishes to see you."

Oona rolled her eyes. "Tell him I'll be down shortly." She paused, an idea reoccurring to her. "Samuligan, are you still there?"

"I am."

"Please come in. I have a question."

The door fell open and the click of boots echoed about the room. Samuligan's gaunt body and long hooked nose gave the impression that he might be half bird. A knee-length, black coat hung ill-fitting from bony limbs, and his thin, dark eyes peered out from beneath a broad-brimmed cowboy hat.

Deacon cawed loudly before flying from the bedpost to the top of the mirror, where he peered uneasily at the bizarre-looking, pointy-eared figure.

"How may I be of service?" Samuligan asked. He hooked his long thumbs into his belt.

Oona stood, nervously smoothing out her dress. She had been considering whether or not to ask a certain favor since the previous night, and it was only now, with the memory of Isadora Iree's cruel j.a.pes and Adler's handsome stare still so fresh in her mind, that she decided to go through with the request, regardless of how completely at odds it was with her feelings toward magic. She said: "Well ... it's my hair, you see, Samuligan."

Samuligan smiled. It was a horrible smile, filled with too many teeth. "Or rather," he said, "it is your hair that I do not see."

Oona nodded, her cheeks slightly flushed. "Well, that's just the problem. It got sort of ... chopped off. An unfortunate incident with a scary man and a guillotine."

"Yes, I know," Samuligan said dryly. "And you did not think to use magic to escape?"

"Of course I did," Oona replied. "But that's as far as I got ... thinking about it. Anyway, as you can imagine, it's a little unseemly for a young lady to go about looking like"-she pointed to the top of her head-"well, like this. And I was wondering ... if ..." She trailed off.

"If I could grow it back for you?" Samuligan finished for her.

Deacon cawed at Oona. "You hypocrite!" He flew around her head before landing on the dressing table. "One moment you are bashing magic, and the next you're asking your uncle's faerie servant to grow your hair back for you."

Oona turned to Deacon, eyebrows raised. "There's a distinct difference between Faerie Magic and human magic, Deacon. Two very different methods. You know that."

Deacon made a throat-clearing sound: a sound that meant he was about to impart some extended bit of encyclopedic knowledge. "There are four types of magic, actually. First there is Faerie Magic, which is any magic performed by a faerie. Then there is Natural Magic. A human such as yourself, born with faerielike powers, but without the faerie's natural-born instincts to control it, uses Natural Magic, and it is considered the rarest form. Learned Magic, also known as *forced magic,' is performed by Learned Magicians, such as your uncle, and must be acquired through decades of dedication and scholarship-mental exercises, potion making, et cetera, et cetera. And lastly, there is Pedestrian Magic, perhaps the most dangerous of them all, which is any magic conjured by a nonmagician through use of an enchanted object."

Oona rolled her eyes. "Thank you for that little lesson, Deacon, but as I was saying, human magic-Natural or Learned-is temperamental at best. Faerie Magic, on the other hand, can at least be trusted to work."

"Trusted?" Deacon said. He flew into the air and circled Samuligan, eyeing him skeptically. "That remains to be seen."

Samuligan's grin only widened.

Oona smiled, looking at the faerie servant. Samuligan the Fay: how extraordinary he was. So absolutely different from anyone she had ever met. For five hundred years he had served the occupants of Pendulum House, ever since the great Magicians of Old had enchanted him into a lifetime of servitude. Being that faeries were immortal, that was a long time, to say the least. If he held any resentment with regard to his fate, Samuligan never showed it. Her uncle had once told her that Samuligan had been a powerful general in the Faerie Royal Army during the Great Faerie War, fighting under the banners of the Queen of Faerie against the likes of Oswald the Great. And looking at him now, as he stood near the doorway in his attire of boots, and coat, and cowboy hat-a fashion that Samuligan a.s.sured her had originated in Faerie hundreds of years before it became the fashion of the American West-Oona could undoubtedly see how this tall, shadowy figure would indeed inspire fear in the hearts of his enemies.

The faerie did not frighten her, however. Not like he did nearly every other inhabitant on Dark Street. Yet Oona felt that she could never be entirely sure how he would react to any one particular situation.

Once she had witnessed Samuligan howl with laughter when a beautiful woman stumbled while crossing the street, and yet on another occasion, a similar situation occurred when a young lady, dressed all in white, had been splattered from head to toe by a pa.s.sing carriage. Samuligan had rushed to the distraught young lady's aid as if it were the most important thing in the world. He took hold of her dress in his unnaturally long fingers and began to utter something in a low grumble of a voice. Oona had thought perhaps he was going to tear the young lady's dress in two. But he did nothing of the sort: indeed, the mud that had bespeckled the dress abruptly winked out of existence, not a spot to be found.

Samuligan had then stepped away from the young lady, gifting her with his best attempt at a gentlemanly smile. In response, the young lady merely whimpered before running away as fast as her feet could carry her.

In short, Samuligan was an enigma, which was surely due to the fact that he was the only faerie Oona had ever met-indeed, the only faerie any living human had met. And as far as Oona knew, the faerie servant was the only creature of his kind this side of the Gla.s.s Gates, which made him all the more curious.

"Don't mind Deacon," Oona told Samuligan. He tipped his hat back on his head, carefully eyeing the flying bird as it circled him. "He's always suspicious of tall, dark figures," she said.

Samuligan's hand shot out without the slightest hesitation-brilliant, keen. He s.n.a.t.c.hed Deacon out of the air with a snakelike deftness and smiled as the bird twitched in his gangly fingers. "As well he should be," Samuligan said.

"Free me this instant," Deacon squawked.

Oona watched the two of them, shaking her head. The funny thing was that she had always harbored a sneaking suspicion that it had truly been Samuligan, and not her uncle after all, who had enchanted Deacon with the gift of speech and invested in him such vast quant.i.ties of reference materials. Even almost two years ago, when she had received the bird as an eleventh birthday present, Oona had been aware of what a highly impressive magical achievement Deacon was, and though she loved her uncle very much, she didn't think he was truly capable of such a powerful creation. At least not on his own. Surely Samuligan had had a hand in it. She would never have told Deacon of her suspicions, however. Not with the bird's presently justifiable mistrust of the faerie servant.

"Now, Samuligan, that's not funny," she chided. "Let Deacon go."

Samuligan nodded, but instead of simply releasing the bird, the faerie servant glanced toward Oona's dressing table and nodded. Simultaneously, he stamped his foot and said: "Switch!"

Half a second later he no longer held the bird, but instead his fingers were wrapped around the handle of Oona's hairbrush. Deacon appeared just as suddenly on the spot where the brush had been on the table. His legs wobbled and his head jerked around, as if trying to understand what had just happened.

"I've never seen that trick before," Oona said, quite impressed, while at the same time feeling a twinge of guilt at having had enjoyed the magic.

Samuligan ran his thumb over the bristles of the brush. "I just made it up," he said.

"I never!" Deacon said. "What utter savagery!"

Samuligan reached into his pocket and produced a dead mouse. He tossed it upward and Deacon dove for it, s.n.a.t.c.hing it out of the air as deftly as Samuligan had s.n.a.t.c.hed Deacon himself. The faerie rubbed his fingers together. "Savage indeed," he said.

Deacon landed on the floor, biting the mouse in two and devouring it with unrestrained vigor.

"Oh, I wish you hadn't given him that," Oona told Samuligan. "I don't like it when he takes his meals in here."

"I apologize," Samuligan replied. "Now about your hair."

He ran the brush across the top of Oona's head.

She took in a sharp breath, her eyes falling shut as she rose onto her tiptoes. She could feel it. The charge. The energy. The magic. The shock of it sent her tumbling back into her chair. It was like an old friend, or an enemy. She could not have said which was more accurate. The image of hundreds of sparkling lights swirling around an enormous fig tree filled her vision like a terrible dream. She wanted to cry out, to tell Samuligan to stop ... that she had made a mistake ... but before she could do so, the image dropped away. The magic withdrew, and that oh-so-familiar feeling of fear and wonderment dissolved away almost completely-almost, but not quite.

She became acutely aware of the soft carpet under her feet, and the wood beneath the carpet. She looked into Samuligan's long face. Her midnight-black hair cascaded down her shoulders, full, and straight, and shining as if it had been freshly washed. She ran her fingers through the familiar strands and nodded.

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling.

"Your uncle awaits you in his study," Samuligan said before handing her the brush and then striding out of the room, the dark folds of his coat billowing behind him like a curtain of night.

Deacon peered up at Oona, the b.l.o.o.d.y remains of the dead mouse now nothing but a thin stain on the carpet. The mouse's tail hung limp from his dull, black beak like a dead worm.

"Really, Deacon. Bones and all!" Oona said. "You must learn to control yourself."

He flew to her shoulder. She winced as the tail slapped against her newly grown hair and then disappeared down Deacon's gullet. She stood, and the two of them followed the faerie servant to the bottom floor, where she found her uncle waiting for her in his study, along with the lawyer.

Imust admit," said the Wizard. "I did expect somewhat of a larger response from New York."

His long beard hung from his face as gray as a winter storm. He leaned forward in his chair, picking up the single resume on his desk. He frowned, deepening the lines about his eyes. With the hood of his dark purple robe thrown back over his shoulders, the Wizard's bald head glinted in the ever-burning magical lamplight. A large nose and generous mouth gave him a gentle appearance, while his green eyes seemed somehow older than his sixty years. He studied the resume. The paper was creased in the middle and charred black around the edges.

"I warned you," said the lawyer, Mr. Ravensmith. "Times are not what they once were. There is no more interest in magic these days than there is in cave painting. It has now been over six months since your original post in the New York Times, and if you ask for my counsel, the advertis.e.m.e.nt was wrongly worded."

Oona stood beside her uncle, who sat slumped forward in a high-backed, wooden Wizard's seat, his elbows resting on the ornately carved desk. The desk-an ancient relic, purportedly carved from the bones of a dragon-gave the appearance of slowly breathing in and out, as if the dragon from which it had been carved were merely sleeping, its breath as faint as a mouse's footsteps.

Her uncle's study was a solitary place, filled with shelves of books. A stone fireplace was set into the corner of the room, in front of which sat a cozy chair and side table. A lone tea saucer floated aimlessly above the table, moving in figure eights, as if in search of its missing cup. It was a testament to the eccentric magic that the Magicians of Old had long ago placed into the house itself. The house was, in many ways, like a living thing, filled with peculiar pockets of energy that manifested in often strange ways. The first lesson that any new apprentice learned was that, should the Gla.s.s Gates ever fall, it was the current Wizard's responsibility to access the magic stored in the walls of Pendulum House in order to protect the World of Man from faerie attack.

Deacon stood wraithlike upon Oona's shoulder, and Samuligan had disappeared into the shadows of the grandfather clock near the door. The room smelled of incense, and books, and dust.

The gentleman seated across from the Wizard wore the finest of modern clothing. His beautifully tailored jacket showed off his broad, well-built figure, and his hair was groomed in the cleanest, most stylishly neat fashion. Mr. Ravensmith's most striking characteristic, however, was his face. Much like young Adler Iree, the lawyer's face was covered in tattoos of odd shapes and symbols of varying colors, except that Mr. Ravensmith's tattoos numbered far more than Adler's. So plentiful were Ravensmith's markings that the skin around his cheeks and eyes appeared to be a mask of solid silver and gold, with intricate veins of purple and blue crisscrossing like cracks in weatherworn paint.

Ravensmith brushed away a nearly invisible bit of dust from the sleeve of his black jacket. "The advertis.e.m.e.nt should have mentioned a large sum of money. That would have gotten their attention."