Robyn Bachar: Blood, Smoke and Mirrors

“Power, probably.” It was my best guess, and I slipped my glasses off to rub at my eyes with my free hand. “Maureen was always fair, even when being fair wasn’t the popular choice. There are people who’d prefer someone more easily corrupted.”

Witches follow a strict rule of harming none with our magic. The other breeds of magician don’t come with those kinds of ideals though. Most of the major forms don’t dabble in the dark stuff-it’s the sorcerers and the necromancers you have to worry about, and thankfully there’s never been a necromancer as an Oberon or Titania. Necromancy is the first step to becoming a vampire, and vampires can’t interact with the Faerie realm. Pretty silly to appoint a representative who’s counting the days until they’ll be forced to resign.

“I don’t want it, Mac. Besides, the witches would never stand for it. They’d refuse to work with me, and the faeries won’t want a Titania who comes with that kind of baggage.”

“No, the witches would have to listen to you if you became Titania, and it would prove that they were wrong about you.”

“Yeah, right.” I snorted at the idea, and then inhaled deeply. “That’ll never happen. They prefer martyrs to fighters. As far as they’re concerned, I should’ve let the guy kill me.” My crime, the unforgivable act that had gotten me cast out from the ranks of witch-kind, had been to fight back against the man who attacked me. I’d thought using his bad acts against him would keep me free from punishment by the witches’ council.

I was wrong.

Mac shook his head. “Then forget about the witches. Think of all the other magicians you could help if you become Titania. You can’t hide here forever, Cat.”

There must have been an audible thump as my jaw hit the floor. “I’m not hiding from anything. What the hell kind of statement is that?” I sputtered. “You own this place, what are you hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding from a thing. I’m a librarian, this place fits me right down to the ground. I host a neutral gathering place which gives me plenty of information from our more unique customers. Outcast or not, you’re a witch, you’re meant to use your power to help others. Refilling their coffee doesn’t count.”

“I can’t do it, Mac, I just can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And don’t tell me you don’t care, because I know you do.”

My smoke had burned down to the filter, and I dropped it into the ashtray. I didn’t light another one-there weren’t enough cigarettes in Chicago to make me feel better.

“I believe in you, Catherine. You should try believing in yourself for a change.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.” He nodded.

“Right… When are the candidates meeting again?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Tomorrow.”

“Too bad, I work tomorrow.” Shrugging with feigned nonchalance, I stood up.

“Not anymore, you’re taking the rest of the week off.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was going to-”

“Just in case. Think of it as a vacation.”

“I can’t afford a vacation. I’ll take the day off though, if you’re insisting.”

Rising to his feet, he rounded the desk and gave me another much-needed hug. Sometimes I wish that Mac was younger, heterosexual and that we found each other attractive. It’d be nice to have a lover who was as good a friend as Mac, someone I could trust implicitly.

“Thanks,” I said. Pulling away, I gave him a weak smile.

“You may want to consider some ice cream when you get home. For medicinal purposes.”

“Good idea. A lot of ice cream.”

Tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

The familiar sensation of a cat biting my toes woke me. It’s almost as reliable as an alarm clock with the bonus of being far more annoying. Cats are unclear on the concepts of shift changes, weekends and days off. Swearing, I untangled myself from the sheets and sat up in my bed. My little angels, Merri and Pippin, were staring up at me from the floor, waiting to be fed. I used to feed them at night, trying to preserve the sanctity of my mornings, but they took to gobbling down their food and waking me up to demand more anyway. Thusly I was outsmarted by my cats.

“Fine, fine, I’m up,” I assured them. Placated, they trotted out into the kitchen to await their breakfast. Glancing at the clock, I swore again-it was a little past nine in the morning. I don’t function well before the crack of noon under the best circumstances, and with only four hours of fitful sleep I wasn’t at my best and brightest. Coffee, I needed coffee, and lots of it.

I stumbled into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffeemaker. A furry missile attempted to trip me about halfway through the room, but I managed to avoid it. Coffee first, cat food second. Believe me, the little ginger butterballs weren’t about to starve to death. Once I managed to start the coffee brewing I scooped food into the monsters’ dishes and got out of their way. While the coffeemaker hissed and spat on the counter I padded toward the living room, intent on checking my email.

The scent of cinnamon hit me a split second before I heard the distinct rustle of wings. One of my unusual gifts is that I can smell magic. I’ve never heard of another magician who can do it. Strange though it sounds, it’s a rather useful gift, especially considering no one knows I have it. Faerie magic smells like cinnamon to me, and it gets stronger as the magic gets more powerful.

I paused in the doorway and blinked at the faerie perched on the arm of my sofa. Enormous silvery white wings glistened and glimmered in the sunlight shining through my front windows. Thick waves of hair the color of newly fallen snow fell forward as Portia bent over the television remote held in her hands. I envy her those hands. Her fingers are slender and delicate, and her pale skin is flawless. Though small in stature, she does not have the willowy, almost anorexic angles many artists seem to favor when painting faeries and pixies, but instead her form is rounded, curvaceous. Aspiring artists also have faerie fashion all wrong-they don’t usually go for flowers or diaphanous gowns. Portia likes ripped jeans in a bleached 1980s style, white fishnet stockings, combat boots and torn sweatshirts. I keep waiting for her to update her style, but she must be waiting for it to come back.

The mysteries of the remote have always eluded Portia, probably because there aren’t many electronics in her world. “Kitty, make it work!” She held the remote out to me with a petulant frown. “I want to watch the game show.”

“It’s not on ’til ten,” I replied, taking it and setting it down on my end table. Portia has a love of The Price is Right . She gets excited every time the announcer yells “Come on down!” and her wings shower the room in ice faerie dust, which is damn hard to vacuum up I might add, in addition to leaving a layer of damp when the frost melts. “It’s early, Portia, what’s up?”

“Stuff. I’m going to escort you to the big meeting. I’m your sponsor now. You’d better hurry up and get ready.”

“Whoa, whoa, I never actually agreed to be in the running. I just told Mac I’d think about it, and I thought I’d just drop by and see who turned out for it.”

“Oh, you talked to Big Mac about this too? Big Mac is very wise, you should listen to him.”

From the kitchen I heard the soft beeping that alerted me that my coffee was ready, and I turned around and fled the room. The strong smell of cinnamon followed me, signaling that Portia was not far behind. When I entered the kitchen I discovered the cats had vanished, off to work on whatever important feline business was next on their schedule. Reaching into the cupboard over the counter, I grabbed my largest mug and filled it with the beautiful, steamy nectar of life.