Museum of Magic, page 2
But he wasn’t here to fuss at her now.
Despite telling herself that she was getting online only to check her socials and email, Emmi knew she was really looking for a message from him. Grandfather had left for a trip to Europe almost a month ago in an attempt to track down some artifacts that were potentially linked to Elspeth Castor from before she’d left England. His emails had been daily at first; he hadn’t been abroad in more than two decades, and he’d combined business with pleasure, visiting museums and cathedrals, wandering the streets of London and more.
Grandfather had flown out on a one-way ticket, intending to take his time. Emmi had known that there was a definite possibility that he would not return until it was time for school to start back up for the fall semester. And he was often scattered, the epitome of the absent-minded professor, as his history students at the local community college attested.
Still…it bothered her, the silence.
“Where is he?” Emmi asked Sabrina.
Sabrina stood up, arched her back in a stretch, and hopped down off the counter, padding over the thin carpet down the hallway. “Don’t get lost!” Emmi called after the cat. Sabrina was a dearheart, but also dumb. She was well known for wandering around the house, getting into one of the rooms she usually ignored, realizing she wasn’t where she’d intended to go, and simply screaming until Emmi found her and carried her back to the main hall.
Emmi frowned at the computer as she deleted the spam and then had nothing left in her inbox. Just to be sure, she checked the trash folder. Then she looked up Grandfather’s socials to see if he’d posted something—a status, a picture, anything.
Nothing.
Emmi turned the screen off and stretched; the stool in front of the desk computer wasn’t that comfortable. The pad Thai upstairs was calling her name—
Crash!
Emmi jumped up, so startled that the stool clattered to the floor behind her. What had that been?! It sounded like glass shattering, and more concerning, it had definitely come from inside the house. Had someone smashed a window? Sabrina wasn’t the brightest, but she was actually pretty careful and hadn’t broken anything before. Other cats may knock knickknacks off shelves, but Sabrina never did, navigating the house with more care than most tourists.
Emmi started down the hallway to investigate, her heart racing, when another sound burst from the other side of the house—someone was knocking on the front door so hard that it shook in its frame.
Emmi froze, unsure which direction to go first. The pounding on the door intensified, and a cold chill raced up her spine. It was irrational, but dread filled her stomach—she absolutely did not want to answer the door. She couldn’t explain the instinct, just…
She turned and headed down the hall, toward the sound of the crash. “Sabrina?” she called, hoping this was just a case of her cat knocking into something.
It didn’t take long to discover the source. It hadn’t been a window that had broken. It had been a large clay stoppered bottle on display by the fireplace.
The chimney was the straight spine of the house, a wide hearth on the bottom floor with bricks that cut through the second floor and the attic, warmed by the wooden logs burned in winter. The hearth was cold now, pieces of a broken pottery scattered in the remnants of ashes. Sabrina stood nearby, licking her paws and sitting primly.
Also there was a boy.
“What the—” Emmi muttered, staring.
The boy looked up.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”
“You’re naked,” Emmi said.
“I am not!” the boy protested, and he straightened from his position on the floor at the hearth, ash streaking his bare knees. Once he was up, Emmi could see that he was…somewhat…clothed.
“You’re wearing leaves.”
The boy looked down at himself. “How observant you are.” His British accent dripped with sarcasm.
The leaves clothing him were old, dried, and looked as if they’d fall off him at any moment. But even as the boy stretched, the plant detritus somehow stayed around his waist. “Who are you, Peter Pan?” Emmi asked, still reeling from the impossibility of his presence.
“Pan?” The boy laughed, the sound deep. He wasn’t a boy. He was a young man, maybe a year or two older than Emmi—but he was slender-built and lithe, giving him a youthful appearance. As he stepped closer, Emmi realized he was at least a head taller than her, although her estimation of his height was thrown off by his chaotically floofy chestnut hair.
The pounding on the door grew louder. Emmi turned her head toward the sound. When she turned back to the boy, he was frowning.
“You definitely do not want to answer that door.”
Emmi gaped at him. Who was he to pop into her home, break her crockery, and make demands, all while wearing nothing more than leaves? “I’m answering the door,” she said, although there was a question in her voice. She shouldn’t trust this boy, and yet…there was something niggling in her mind, warning her to believe him.
“I’m telling you, don’t.”
Emmi felt her ire rising. “Who are you to tell me anything?!” she demanded. Remnant thoughts or not, she didn’t like being ordered about.
The boy swept into a capricious bow. “How impolite of me. My name is Puck. Sorry for breaking your bottle. But also, don’t answer the door.”
Emmi blinked several times, accidentally timing her eyelids to the pounding on the door. “Right,” she said finally. “Okay.” She turned and marched down the hall, toward the door.
“Where are you going?” The boy—Puck—called, chasing after her.
“To answer the door.”
“But I said—”
Emmi swung open the door.
The man who stood on the threshold towered over Emmi. He wore a dark brown cloak, his face hidden in the shadows of the raised hood, but Emmi could still see the rough strands of a steel-grey beard poking out. His fist was raised; Emmi had opened the door just as he was about to beat on it again.
“Yes?” she said impatiently.
The man ignored her. His eyes flashed—they literally seemed to reflect light—and he growled, the sound dark and rumbling in the back of his throat. “You,” he snarled, glaring at Puck.
Puck waved his hand with a flourish. “Me.”
The man—Emmi could still not clearly see his face, but she was starting to think of him as Greybeard—whirled toward her. “Give me the fae.”
“The what?” Emmi asked.
“Let me inside, and I will take care of it.”
“I’m not an ‘it,’” Puck said, somewhat sullenly.
“Let me inside!” Greybeard said, his voice raising a notch.
“No!” Emmi shouted back. Who was this man to beat on her door and demand entry? Fear washed over her, cold and sour. He was big enough to easily knock her aside and do as he liked. Emmi cast a furtive look to the front table, where the computer was—and the landline phone Grandfather insisted they keep for the museum. Where was her cell phone? Not in her pocket. She must have left it somewhere. But she was pretty sure she could get to the bright red telephone on the desk and call for help if this man—
“Girl,” Greybeard growled. “I’m asking for your safety, as well as mine. Let me come inside this house.”
Doubt filled her mind. None of this made sense.
Puck laughed. “He can’t come inside without an invitation.”
“What, like a vampire?” Emmi asked, her head bouncing between the two.
“Yes,” said Puck.
“No!” roared Greybeard.
“Okay, well, I’m not letting you in.” Emmi crossed her arms and glared at the man. He clearly meant business, and he put her on edge.
Puck laughed.
“You can go, too!” Emmi said, rounding on him. “I don’t even know how you got inside, but—”
Emmi’s voice faded as the man at the door loomed even larger. “You may deny me entry,” he snarled, “and I may not be able to enter. But my weapons are under no such laws.”
Blades blossomed at the man’s hands, the edges sharp, but the color dark black. Iron? In one swift motion, he threw his hand out, and three knives flew down the corridor. With a squeak of terror, Emmi ducked—just in time, the whistling knife slicing through her loose hair before landing in a thud against the wall.
Emmi hit the floor and rolled toward the front desk, which had both cover and the phone. She tripped on her fallen stool, throwing herself behind the relative safety of the front desk. A blade point pierced the thin, painted plywood, inches from her face, and Emmi scrambled back. Okay, so it wasn’t great cover. But it was the best she had. Emmi pulled her knees to her chest, breathing hard. What the hell was going on?
Through the sound of her rattling, shaking breath and the thudding of her heart in her ears, Emmi became aware of a different sound. Like wind. Like…
She peered around the edge of the desk.
Puck stood in the center of the corridor, his wrists held together and his palms open, a blast of wind erupting from his hands. Greybeard gripped the stone doorframe, his feet skidding across the stoop. His hood had flown back, and Emmi saw a man who looked too young for such an ostentatious beard, late thirties perhaps, with clear green eyes and a face marred with scars that stretched from his cheeks down to his chin, disappearing in his beard. His eyes, squinting against the blast of wind, found Emmi.
“Girl!” he shouted over the blast, “do not fall for this devil’s tricks!”
Emmi stared at Puck.
The boy had his attention focused on Greybeard, but Emmi had eyes only for his hands and the impossible wind that blasted from them with the force of a hurricane.
“What—?” Emmi whispered.
The wind faltered. Puck glanced back at her, something on his face that she couldn’t read—
And then an iron knife sliced into his arm, glancing off his bicep before thudding into the red telephone on the desk with enough force to slam it to the floor. Plastic and metal shattered. There went one means to call for help.
Puck fell to one knee, clutching his arm, as blood spurted through his fingers.
Green blood.
Panic rose in Emmi’s throat, choking her. Greybeard used the pause of Puck’s blast to pull another weapon out from beneath his cloak.
A crossbow. The bolts were jet black, all metal. Iron. He leveled the weapon at Puck.
“Just go!” Emmi screamed. She picked up the broken phone, swinging it by the plug she’d yanked from the wall, and hurtled it at Greybeard. Bits of red plastic flew off it as it slammed into Greybeard’s face with a bell-ringing thunk.
Dazed, the man blinked.
And that gave Puck just enough time to blast him one more time. The wind hit Greybeard right in the chest, and the man stumbled down the steps, tripping to the sidewalk. Emmi slammed the door shut, twisted the lock, and pulled down the heavy wooden crossbar just for good measure.
Knees wobbly, Emmi turned around.
The foyer was trashed. Black iron throwing knives peppered the wall. Papers—every brochure Nick Bottom, Massachusetts, had to offer—were scattered everywhere, falling like confetti in the aftermath of Puck’s wind blast.
And there was Puck.
Clothed in leaves.
Bleeding.
And grinning up at her like a triumphant idiot.
“Well!” he said cheerily, standing up and wincing only a little as his arm was jostled by the movement. “That was exciting!”
Two of Swords, Transposed
indecision, confusion, and information overload
“Exciting?!” Emmi gaped at the boy, who seemed completely oblivious that any of this was out of the ordinary at all.
“A bit,” Puck said. He tread over the brochures to peer at the front desk, an utter mess between the wind he’d magically made, the knife throwing, and Emmi’s grab for the telephone. He looked at the computer curiously.
“Look,” Emmi said, slamming her hands on the table and drawing his full attention. “I am absolutely going to need more information on this situation than ‘exciting.’ What is going on? Who even was that man?” She paused, a horrible thought flooding her mind. “Do you think he’s going to try to come back in?”
She looked at Puck as if he had the answers. He shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, Hunters do have the reputation of being persistent.” His British lilt belied the gravity of the situation.
“I need to call the police,” Emmi said flatly. She stared blankly at the spot where the red telephone usually was. “Cell phone.” She could barely process her thoughts, but once she said those words aloud, she focused on them. She needed to find her cell phone and use it to call the police. There was a man who had tried to kill her, or at least hurt her—no. No. Don’t think about that. Find the cell phone.
Numbly, Emmi retraced her steps. She had thought her phone was at the desk, but it wasn’t. That left the other place where the entire world had gone sideways. The hearth where she’d found Puck.
She stopped so suddenly that Puck, who’d been following on her heels, bumped right into her.
“Why have I even let you stay here? I don’t know you! And you’re dressed in leaves!”
Puck grinned at her. “You do seem very caught up by that detail.”
“Also you did magic! And bled—are currently bleeding! Green!”
Puck looked down at his arm. “You know, it sort of detracts from your observational skills if you go about announcing everything multiple times. Makes me doubt you’ve really noticed it the first time.”
“Go!” Emmi pointed to the corridor, at the end of which was the locked and bolted door. Her finger trembled. She didn’t entirely trust Puck, but she also didn’t not trust him, not after all that.
“No, thank you,” Puck said simply.
“I—but—”
Puck stared at her with an amused quirk in his lips and very firmly did not head to the door.
With a growl of frustration, Emmi turned on her heel and marched to the giant fireplace. There in the ash were the remains of the bottle that had been on the table by the hearth. And on that table was her phone.
Emmi snatched it up, unlocking it. Puck watched a picture of Emmi and her grandfather light up on the home screen before Emmi switched over to the call feature. “Police,” she muttered, suddenly realizing why there were so many drills for children to learn how to dial 911. When the time came in a real emergency, Emmi was so shocked she could barely register what to do next, much less how to do it.
“Yes, police,” Puck said. “They’re absolutely not going to help in any way, but by all means, feel free to ‘call’ them.”
Emmi flicked her eyes to him.
“I mean, I’m sure they know how to deal with a Hunter. And they’ll be very prepared to negotiate witch handling. You can definitely trust the authorities when it comes to witches.”
The screen went blank again as Emmi forgot to punch in the numbers. “Witch—what?”
Sabrina padded over. She’d tracked ashy footprints all over the seventeenth century rug and looked rather pleased with herself. Puck ignored the cat as she wound her way through his bare legs.
“Are…” Emmi recalled the way Puck had made the wind blow, the way he bled green. “Are you a witch?”
“No, of course not,” Puck said. “You are.”
Sabrina mewed in indignation at being ignored. Emmi didn’t spare a thought for the cat. “I’m a witch.” She had meant it more as a question than a statement, but her voice was flat.
Puck bent down and scratched Sabrina. “Obviously.” Sabrina went limp with bliss at the attention, plopping on the floor immediately.
“No,” Emmi said. “I’m not.”
“No point arguing about it, but feel free if you’d like.” Puck didn’t hesitate to rub Sabrina’s belly, which meant he either didn’t have much experience with cats or he just understood Sabrina’s innate desire for attention more than most people.
“No, it’s just—I’m not a witch. No one is. Witches aren’t real.”
Puck raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. A portrait of Elspeth in the tradition of John Singer Sargent but painted a century before he had been born hung over the mantel. A broomstick leaned against the stone hearth; it not only looked old, but it was old. Emmi had seen that exact same crooked broomstick in photographs of her mother when she was a child, and it had looked ancient then. On the opposite wall, a display case showed the medieval hennin hat—the traditional pointy hat that was used by merchants to stand out in crowds and then got ascribed as being a “witch’s hat.” Beside it was the actual huge cast iron cauldron Elsepth had used in the 1600s—for cooking food, as many people did then. Hanging above it was Elspeth’s scrying mirror, spotted with age but still reflective.
“Okay, look,” Emmi said. She was about to break the one rule she and her grandfather had—never, ever cast doubt on what Elspeth was. They wouldn’t be very good museum curators if they didn’t believe in the thing they were showcasing. “Magic and witchcraft and all that? It’s just not real.”
“Sure it’s not,” Puck said. He straightened, much to Sabrina’s chagrin, and twirled his fingers over his body. The leaves he’d been wearing melted and shifted, turning into a regular pair of blue jeans and a gray sweater layered over a black t-shirt. Emmi’s shock was replaced by confusion; the outfit was the exact same design as one of the people on the brochures scattered around the foyer wore. A young man with a Starbucks cup in one hand and a Tanner Outlet bag in the other, enticing people to shop for Kate Spade purses and GAP jeans at the strip mall up the interstate. Emmi had stared at that rack of brochures long enough to both recognize the outfit immediately and sort of hate it, despite the fact that it was just a sweater and jeans. And that it looked pretty darn good on Puck.
“What?” Puck asked at her look, his tone purposefully innocent but his eyes wicked. “It’s just leaves.”
Emmi blinked, and the leaves were back. Blink again—sweater and jeans.
“Okay. Okay,” Emmi said, tossing her hands up. “You’re magic. Magic is real. Now get out.”
Despite telling herself that she was getting online only to check her socials and email, Emmi knew she was really looking for a message from him. Grandfather had left for a trip to Europe almost a month ago in an attempt to track down some artifacts that were potentially linked to Elspeth Castor from before she’d left England. His emails had been daily at first; he hadn’t been abroad in more than two decades, and he’d combined business with pleasure, visiting museums and cathedrals, wandering the streets of London and more.
Grandfather had flown out on a one-way ticket, intending to take his time. Emmi had known that there was a definite possibility that he would not return until it was time for school to start back up for the fall semester. And he was often scattered, the epitome of the absent-minded professor, as his history students at the local community college attested.
Still…it bothered her, the silence.
“Where is he?” Emmi asked Sabrina.
Sabrina stood up, arched her back in a stretch, and hopped down off the counter, padding over the thin carpet down the hallway. “Don’t get lost!” Emmi called after the cat. Sabrina was a dearheart, but also dumb. She was well known for wandering around the house, getting into one of the rooms she usually ignored, realizing she wasn’t where she’d intended to go, and simply screaming until Emmi found her and carried her back to the main hall.
Emmi frowned at the computer as she deleted the spam and then had nothing left in her inbox. Just to be sure, she checked the trash folder. Then she looked up Grandfather’s socials to see if he’d posted something—a status, a picture, anything.
Nothing.
Emmi turned the screen off and stretched; the stool in front of the desk computer wasn’t that comfortable. The pad Thai upstairs was calling her name—
Crash!
Emmi jumped up, so startled that the stool clattered to the floor behind her. What had that been?! It sounded like glass shattering, and more concerning, it had definitely come from inside the house. Had someone smashed a window? Sabrina wasn’t the brightest, but she was actually pretty careful and hadn’t broken anything before. Other cats may knock knickknacks off shelves, but Sabrina never did, navigating the house with more care than most tourists.
Emmi started down the hallway to investigate, her heart racing, when another sound burst from the other side of the house—someone was knocking on the front door so hard that it shook in its frame.
Emmi froze, unsure which direction to go first. The pounding on the door intensified, and a cold chill raced up her spine. It was irrational, but dread filled her stomach—she absolutely did not want to answer the door. She couldn’t explain the instinct, just…
She turned and headed down the hall, toward the sound of the crash. “Sabrina?” she called, hoping this was just a case of her cat knocking into something.
It didn’t take long to discover the source. It hadn’t been a window that had broken. It had been a large clay stoppered bottle on display by the fireplace.
The chimney was the straight spine of the house, a wide hearth on the bottom floor with bricks that cut through the second floor and the attic, warmed by the wooden logs burned in winter. The hearth was cold now, pieces of a broken pottery scattered in the remnants of ashes. Sabrina stood nearby, licking her paws and sitting primly.
Also there was a boy.
“What the—” Emmi muttered, staring.
The boy looked up.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”
“You’re naked,” Emmi said.
“I am not!” the boy protested, and he straightened from his position on the floor at the hearth, ash streaking his bare knees. Once he was up, Emmi could see that he was…somewhat…clothed.
“You’re wearing leaves.”
The boy looked down at himself. “How observant you are.” His British accent dripped with sarcasm.
The leaves clothing him were old, dried, and looked as if they’d fall off him at any moment. But even as the boy stretched, the plant detritus somehow stayed around his waist. “Who are you, Peter Pan?” Emmi asked, still reeling from the impossibility of his presence.
“Pan?” The boy laughed, the sound deep. He wasn’t a boy. He was a young man, maybe a year or two older than Emmi—but he was slender-built and lithe, giving him a youthful appearance. As he stepped closer, Emmi realized he was at least a head taller than her, although her estimation of his height was thrown off by his chaotically floofy chestnut hair.
The pounding on the door grew louder. Emmi turned her head toward the sound. When she turned back to the boy, he was frowning.
“You definitely do not want to answer that door.”
Emmi gaped at him. Who was he to pop into her home, break her crockery, and make demands, all while wearing nothing more than leaves? “I’m answering the door,” she said, although there was a question in her voice. She shouldn’t trust this boy, and yet…there was something niggling in her mind, warning her to believe him.
“I’m telling you, don’t.”
Emmi felt her ire rising. “Who are you to tell me anything?!” she demanded. Remnant thoughts or not, she didn’t like being ordered about.
The boy swept into a capricious bow. “How impolite of me. My name is Puck. Sorry for breaking your bottle. But also, don’t answer the door.”
Emmi blinked several times, accidentally timing her eyelids to the pounding on the door. “Right,” she said finally. “Okay.” She turned and marched down the hall, toward the door.
“Where are you going?” The boy—Puck—called, chasing after her.
“To answer the door.”
“But I said—”
Emmi swung open the door.
The man who stood on the threshold towered over Emmi. He wore a dark brown cloak, his face hidden in the shadows of the raised hood, but Emmi could still see the rough strands of a steel-grey beard poking out. His fist was raised; Emmi had opened the door just as he was about to beat on it again.
“Yes?” she said impatiently.
The man ignored her. His eyes flashed—they literally seemed to reflect light—and he growled, the sound dark and rumbling in the back of his throat. “You,” he snarled, glaring at Puck.
Puck waved his hand with a flourish. “Me.”
The man—Emmi could still not clearly see his face, but she was starting to think of him as Greybeard—whirled toward her. “Give me the fae.”
“The what?” Emmi asked.
“Let me inside, and I will take care of it.”
“I’m not an ‘it,’” Puck said, somewhat sullenly.
“Let me inside!” Greybeard said, his voice raising a notch.
“No!” Emmi shouted back. Who was this man to beat on her door and demand entry? Fear washed over her, cold and sour. He was big enough to easily knock her aside and do as he liked. Emmi cast a furtive look to the front table, where the computer was—and the landline phone Grandfather insisted they keep for the museum. Where was her cell phone? Not in her pocket. She must have left it somewhere. But she was pretty sure she could get to the bright red telephone on the desk and call for help if this man—
“Girl,” Greybeard growled. “I’m asking for your safety, as well as mine. Let me come inside this house.”
Doubt filled her mind. None of this made sense.
Puck laughed. “He can’t come inside without an invitation.”
“What, like a vampire?” Emmi asked, her head bouncing between the two.
“Yes,” said Puck.
“No!” roared Greybeard.
“Okay, well, I’m not letting you in.” Emmi crossed her arms and glared at the man. He clearly meant business, and he put her on edge.
Puck laughed.
“You can go, too!” Emmi said, rounding on him. “I don’t even know how you got inside, but—”
Emmi’s voice faded as the man at the door loomed even larger. “You may deny me entry,” he snarled, “and I may not be able to enter. But my weapons are under no such laws.”
Blades blossomed at the man’s hands, the edges sharp, but the color dark black. Iron? In one swift motion, he threw his hand out, and three knives flew down the corridor. With a squeak of terror, Emmi ducked—just in time, the whistling knife slicing through her loose hair before landing in a thud against the wall.
Emmi hit the floor and rolled toward the front desk, which had both cover and the phone. She tripped on her fallen stool, throwing herself behind the relative safety of the front desk. A blade point pierced the thin, painted plywood, inches from her face, and Emmi scrambled back. Okay, so it wasn’t great cover. But it was the best she had. Emmi pulled her knees to her chest, breathing hard. What the hell was going on?
Through the sound of her rattling, shaking breath and the thudding of her heart in her ears, Emmi became aware of a different sound. Like wind. Like…
She peered around the edge of the desk.
Puck stood in the center of the corridor, his wrists held together and his palms open, a blast of wind erupting from his hands. Greybeard gripped the stone doorframe, his feet skidding across the stoop. His hood had flown back, and Emmi saw a man who looked too young for such an ostentatious beard, late thirties perhaps, with clear green eyes and a face marred with scars that stretched from his cheeks down to his chin, disappearing in his beard. His eyes, squinting against the blast of wind, found Emmi.
“Girl!” he shouted over the blast, “do not fall for this devil’s tricks!”
Emmi stared at Puck.
The boy had his attention focused on Greybeard, but Emmi had eyes only for his hands and the impossible wind that blasted from them with the force of a hurricane.
“What—?” Emmi whispered.
The wind faltered. Puck glanced back at her, something on his face that she couldn’t read—
And then an iron knife sliced into his arm, glancing off his bicep before thudding into the red telephone on the desk with enough force to slam it to the floor. Plastic and metal shattered. There went one means to call for help.
Puck fell to one knee, clutching his arm, as blood spurted through his fingers.
Green blood.
Panic rose in Emmi’s throat, choking her. Greybeard used the pause of Puck’s blast to pull another weapon out from beneath his cloak.
A crossbow. The bolts were jet black, all metal. Iron. He leveled the weapon at Puck.
“Just go!” Emmi screamed. She picked up the broken phone, swinging it by the plug she’d yanked from the wall, and hurtled it at Greybeard. Bits of red plastic flew off it as it slammed into Greybeard’s face with a bell-ringing thunk.
Dazed, the man blinked.
And that gave Puck just enough time to blast him one more time. The wind hit Greybeard right in the chest, and the man stumbled down the steps, tripping to the sidewalk. Emmi slammed the door shut, twisted the lock, and pulled down the heavy wooden crossbar just for good measure.
Knees wobbly, Emmi turned around.
The foyer was trashed. Black iron throwing knives peppered the wall. Papers—every brochure Nick Bottom, Massachusetts, had to offer—were scattered everywhere, falling like confetti in the aftermath of Puck’s wind blast.
And there was Puck.
Clothed in leaves.
Bleeding.
And grinning up at her like a triumphant idiot.
“Well!” he said cheerily, standing up and wincing only a little as his arm was jostled by the movement. “That was exciting!”
Two of Swords, Transposed
indecision, confusion, and information overload
“Exciting?!” Emmi gaped at the boy, who seemed completely oblivious that any of this was out of the ordinary at all.
“A bit,” Puck said. He tread over the brochures to peer at the front desk, an utter mess between the wind he’d magically made, the knife throwing, and Emmi’s grab for the telephone. He looked at the computer curiously.
“Look,” Emmi said, slamming her hands on the table and drawing his full attention. “I am absolutely going to need more information on this situation than ‘exciting.’ What is going on? Who even was that man?” She paused, a horrible thought flooding her mind. “Do you think he’s going to try to come back in?”
She looked at Puck as if he had the answers. He shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, Hunters do have the reputation of being persistent.” His British lilt belied the gravity of the situation.
“I need to call the police,” Emmi said flatly. She stared blankly at the spot where the red telephone usually was. “Cell phone.” She could barely process her thoughts, but once she said those words aloud, she focused on them. She needed to find her cell phone and use it to call the police. There was a man who had tried to kill her, or at least hurt her—no. No. Don’t think about that. Find the cell phone.
Numbly, Emmi retraced her steps. She had thought her phone was at the desk, but it wasn’t. That left the other place where the entire world had gone sideways. The hearth where she’d found Puck.
She stopped so suddenly that Puck, who’d been following on her heels, bumped right into her.
“Why have I even let you stay here? I don’t know you! And you’re dressed in leaves!”
Puck grinned at her. “You do seem very caught up by that detail.”
“Also you did magic! And bled—are currently bleeding! Green!”
Puck looked down at his arm. “You know, it sort of detracts from your observational skills if you go about announcing everything multiple times. Makes me doubt you’ve really noticed it the first time.”
“Go!” Emmi pointed to the corridor, at the end of which was the locked and bolted door. Her finger trembled. She didn’t entirely trust Puck, but she also didn’t not trust him, not after all that.
“No, thank you,” Puck said simply.
“I—but—”
Puck stared at her with an amused quirk in his lips and very firmly did not head to the door.
With a growl of frustration, Emmi turned on her heel and marched to the giant fireplace. There in the ash were the remains of the bottle that had been on the table by the hearth. And on that table was her phone.
Emmi snatched it up, unlocking it. Puck watched a picture of Emmi and her grandfather light up on the home screen before Emmi switched over to the call feature. “Police,” she muttered, suddenly realizing why there were so many drills for children to learn how to dial 911. When the time came in a real emergency, Emmi was so shocked she could barely register what to do next, much less how to do it.
“Yes, police,” Puck said. “They’re absolutely not going to help in any way, but by all means, feel free to ‘call’ them.”
Emmi flicked her eyes to him.
“I mean, I’m sure they know how to deal with a Hunter. And they’ll be very prepared to negotiate witch handling. You can definitely trust the authorities when it comes to witches.”
The screen went blank again as Emmi forgot to punch in the numbers. “Witch—what?”
Sabrina padded over. She’d tracked ashy footprints all over the seventeenth century rug and looked rather pleased with herself. Puck ignored the cat as she wound her way through his bare legs.
“Are…” Emmi recalled the way Puck had made the wind blow, the way he bled green. “Are you a witch?”
“No, of course not,” Puck said. “You are.”
Sabrina mewed in indignation at being ignored. Emmi didn’t spare a thought for the cat. “I’m a witch.” She had meant it more as a question than a statement, but her voice was flat.
Puck bent down and scratched Sabrina. “Obviously.” Sabrina went limp with bliss at the attention, plopping on the floor immediately.
“No,” Emmi said. “I’m not.”
“No point arguing about it, but feel free if you’d like.” Puck didn’t hesitate to rub Sabrina’s belly, which meant he either didn’t have much experience with cats or he just understood Sabrina’s innate desire for attention more than most people.
“No, it’s just—I’m not a witch. No one is. Witches aren’t real.”
Puck raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. A portrait of Elspeth in the tradition of John Singer Sargent but painted a century before he had been born hung over the mantel. A broomstick leaned against the stone hearth; it not only looked old, but it was old. Emmi had seen that exact same crooked broomstick in photographs of her mother when she was a child, and it had looked ancient then. On the opposite wall, a display case showed the medieval hennin hat—the traditional pointy hat that was used by merchants to stand out in crowds and then got ascribed as being a “witch’s hat.” Beside it was the actual huge cast iron cauldron Elsepth had used in the 1600s—for cooking food, as many people did then. Hanging above it was Elspeth’s scrying mirror, spotted with age but still reflective.
“Okay, look,” Emmi said. She was about to break the one rule she and her grandfather had—never, ever cast doubt on what Elspeth was. They wouldn’t be very good museum curators if they didn’t believe in the thing they were showcasing. “Magic and witchcraft and all that? It’s just not real.”
“Sure it’s not,” Puck said. He straightened, much to Sabrina’s chagrin, and twirled his fingers over his body. The leaves he’d been wearing melted and shifted, turning into a regular pair of blue jeans and a gray sweater layered over a black t-shirt. Emmi’s shock was replaced by confusion; the outfit was the exact same design as one of the people on the brochures scattered around the foyer wore. A young man with a Starbucks cup in one hand and a Tanner Outlet bag in the other, enticing people to shop for Kate Spade purses and GAP jeans at the strip mall up the interstate. Emmi had stared at that rack of brochures long enough to both recognize the outfit immediately and sort of hate it, despite the fact that it was just a sweater and jeans. And that it looked pretty darn good on Puck.
“What?” Puck asked at her look, his tone purposefully innocent but his eyes wicked. “It’s just leaves.”
Emmi blinked, and the leaves were back. Blink again—sweater and jeans.
“Okay. Okay,” Emmi said, tossing her hands up. “You’re magic. Magic is real. Now get out.”
