Robyn Bachar: Blood, Smoke and Mirrors

“Kitty, you just have to be the new Titania!” There was a childish whine in her voice I knew she couldn’t help. A faerie’s vocal range goes both above and below a human’s ability to hear, which is why we can’t speak their language, no matter how much a magician studies it. Still, even knowing that fact it was difficult to avoid the instant headache that formed behind my eyes.

“Portia, that’s really a lot more responsibility than I’m interested in.” I opened my refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of vanilla-flavored creamer.

“But you’re good at it.”

“Yeah, right, I’m a regular candidate for governor. Hey maybe I’ll run for mayor and unseat Daley.”

After adding a healthy helping to my coffee I replaced the bottle in the fridge. Turning around, I leaned against the counter and watched Portia as she tried to figure out who this mysterious Daley person was from her perch on the corner of my kitchen table. Faeries don’t sit, they perch, and though they look as solid as a human they are far lighter, so I had no worry that my cheap, rickety table might snap under her weight. Hell, it’d be more likely to snap under the weight of one of my fat cats than Portia.

“I’m not a people person,” I explained, but she was unconvinced.

“You don’t need to be a people person, you need to be a faerie person.” She jabbed a slender finger at me for emphasis. “You’re perfect for that, your blood’s strong. The Silverleafs all love you.”

“My blood’s not as strong as Maureen’s was, not by a long shot.”

“Few people are anymore. She was half-blood.”

Choking, I nearly spat a mouthful of coffee across the room. Maureen being half faerie would explain a great deal about why she was so powerful, but it did bring up another question.

“Why didn’t any of her children inherit it then?”

“Oh, they did.”

“Why the hell didn’t one of them get named as her heir?”

“Never got trained, might as well have been born straights.” Portia sighed, her wings drooping in disappointment.

My mouth opened as I almost asked another question, but I swallowed my curiosity. If Maureen hadn’t trained her children, there was a reason for it, a personal reason that was none of my business to know. I’d been to her home a few times, but never met any of her family. It made more sense now-she probably didn’t want to explain to them how she knew me.

“She’d want you to do it.”

I nodded in silent agreement. Maureen would want me to do it, she’d always believed in me. She supported me when no one else would, she looked after me after my mother died and made sure I went to a witch’s foster home, instead of being dumped into the straights’ system. I owed her a lot. I owed her this much…

“What time is this meeting?”

“Soon! Drink faster!” she urged, and I took a gulp of coffee.

“All right, all right.”

Portia barked orders at me as I hurried to get ready-though I had no idea how to prepare for this sort of thing. I was glad I’d showered when I got home from the café, because there was no time for it now. After shedding my pajamas I stood in front of my closet in only my underwear, wondering what to wear. My wardrobe consists mostly of casual, comfortable clothing: jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts, that sort of thing. I don’t own very many things that fall into the “nice” or “formal” category, as I seldom have the opportunity to wear them.

This trip was just plain difficult to plan for-the first and most important lesson I’d learned about the faerie realm is you must expect the unexpected, and that’s nigh impossible to dress for. The rules and laws that apply here don’t necessarily extend there. Faerie is a world of pure magic, and that makes it far more fluid than our world. Locations and landscapes shift on a whim. Even time runs differently-remember those old stories about people being snatched up into a faerie mound for a night and when they return home the next morning they discover a hundred years has passed, and everyone they loved has died? All true. Magicians eventually learned that taking a piece of time from our world, first as an hourglass and later as a pocket watch or wristwatch, keeps us grounded in our own timeline when we return home.

“Portia?” I said, waving a helpless hand at the selection.

“Dress for battle. Do you have armor?”

“Yeah, they give you a Kevlar vest when you move into the neighborhood,” I joked, rolling my eyes.

“What’s Kevlar? Is it shiny? I like shiny.”

“Never mind.”

“How about something with lots of pockets? For spell components.”

Well, at least I knew I’d need to be prepared to do magic. The knowledge was not very reassuring, and likely meant my abilities were going to be put to the test. Spellcasting is one of my many strong points, always has been, but like any witch I have an automatic handicap where it’s concerned. Witches require tools to cast spells. We need words, ritual and physical components like wands, daggers, herbs, candles and crystals, to name a few. And we need lots of ’em. A sorcerer can conjure up fire with a thought, but a witch needs to speak an incantation and have a symbol of it on hand, like a match or a lighter. That split-second difference has cost many witches their lives.

I settled on wearing my many-pocketed cargo pants, an army surplus button-down shirt over a black tank top, and my black combat boots. Rifling through the drawers of my dresser, I started pulling out nearly every amulet, talisman and holy symbol I own, stuffing them into my pockets and hanging them around my neck. Next my gaze settled upon my ritual dagger and sword. They both serve the same purpose, performing the same tasks and symbolizing the same things, but each would send a different message to my observers. The sword was a more aggressive symbol than the small dagger.

“Bring both,” Portia suggested.

“Both?”

“Yup. Just in case.”

“Of what? Barbarian invasion?” I joked. Grabbing the belt out of my closet, I affixed the sword’s scabbard and the dagger’s sheath to it.

I loaded my fingers with rings, my wrists and arms with bracelets and watches, and then earrings for my double-pierced ears. Next I brushed out my hair and let it fall long and loose down my back. The final touch was my favorite: my top hat. It’s a detail that is my trademark, and Portia in particular loves it-she probably wouldn’t let me leave without it. It’s black, of course, and Two Tarot cards-Justice and The Moon-are tucked into the satin band.

“You look good!” Portia assured me when I was finished.

“I look like a gypsy going to war.” Turning toward my bed, I nodded to the two cats that had been overseeing my progress. “Well, what do you boys think?” Pippin expressed his opinion by rolling over and demanding a belly rub, which I indulged him with, and Merri just yawned. “Gee, thanks.”

“Good, let’s go!”

Fluttering into the air, she zipped across the room and through the dressing mirror. The glass rippled like water in her wake, and normally I would’ve expected it to display an image of the place in Faerie she’d traveled to, but instead my reflection stared back at me. Guess I’d have to create my own gateway this time.

“Okay, everybody out,” I ordered. Pippin hesitated, wanting more attention, but in a stunning display of actual obedience, both cats hopped down from the bed and hightailed it from the room.

After shutting the door to my closet and to my bedroom, I crossed to the antique mirror. The old dressing mirror stretched taller than me and just slightly wider, and my reflection stared back at me, resigned to our fate. Taking a deep breath, I drew the dagger from my belt and sliced a long, shallow cut across my right palm. The blood welled red, bright and painful against my pale skin, and I placed the palm against the center of the mirror.