Katie MacAlister - Playing with Fire

‘‘She’s a female American. No doubt you will soon understand the true depth of hell she can put you through.’’

Aisling laughed as she turned back to the door. I watched with interest as Jim broke down the prohibitions (a weak version of a curse, easily unmade by beings of a dark origin). Aisling muttered under her breath as she struggled with the wards, her face turning red as they fought her attempts to break them.

‘‘There,’’ she said after five minutes of intense work. She stepped back, rubbing her hands. ‘‘Got the little bastards. Jim?’’

‘‘I was done before you had the first ward down. You’re losing your touch, Ash.’’

She shot it a look. ‘‘Caribbean Battiste probably warded the vault doors. I’d like to see you take on the wards drawn by the head of the Guardians’ Guild himself.’’

‘‘Excuses, excuses.’’ It smiled at her.

‘‘The lock and arcane spells are all yours,’’ Aisling said to me.

‘‘Perfect, thanks.’’ I ignored the spells as I put both hands on the lock, closing my eyes as I mentally traveled the intricacies of its mechanisms. ‘‘It’s a time lock.’’

‘‘Is that going to be a problem?’’ Aisling asked.

‘‘No. I can persuade the inner clock to move forward. I’ve never seen a lock quite like this, though. There are locks within the locks, but I think I can convince them to open for us. Ah, yes. That’s it. Just one more tumbler… lovely.’’

The lock didn’t give me any trouble. I waited until Jim, sent to stand on the staircase, reported that the power had been cut to the upper floors before carefully opening the heavy vault door. There were no sirens or flashing lights warning that the door was being opened, but I didn’t expect them-any notice that the vault was being breeched would go out silently. I just hoped Drake and Gabriel had been successful in quelling any other alarm systems.

A light clicked on inside the vault as the door opened wide enough for me to slip in.

‘‘Here we go,’’ I told Aisling as I shadowed.

‘‘Good luck!’’ she whispered.

I entered the vault, pausing to listen for any sounds indicating security systems. There was a hum from fluorescent lights overhead, and the soft whoosh of an air system pumping air into the large vault. Ahead of me were long rows of metal cases. I touched the nearest one, but there was no lock on it. I slid the door out and rolled it back along a track. Boxes labeled ‘‘Grimoires, 1450 to 1800’’ filled the cabinet. The next one housed a collection of spell books. I closed both and moved down the line of cabinets. The vault was evidently created from the original storerooms of the cellar, separated by modern metal doors. Careful to avoid making any sound, I gently persuaded the door’s lock to bend to my will, slipping silently through the doorway and closing it with only the barest whisper of noise.

The spotlight hit me almost at the same time as the sound.

‘‘Aaaaaand… two, three, four!’’

A chorus of reedy voices began to sing to an accompaniment of tinny music. Startled by the lights and noise, I shadowed immediately, although I was sure I was visible under the bright light that filled the room. Momentarily blinded, I strained my eyes to see even as I sidled out of the way of the spotlight.

‘‘No, no, no!’’ The words were punctuated with a slapping noise. I blinked a couple of times, my vision slowly adapting to the light. What I saw left me speechless with amazement. The room held the same gray metal cabinets as the previous room, but these ones lined the walls rather than filled the floor space. That was taken up by a large wooden desk-or I assumed it normally would have been the case, the desk currently having been shoved to a far corner. Also dotted around the perimeter of the room were a couple of tall standing lights, the kind used by smaller theater companies. But it wasn’t any of that which made me gawk.

‘‘You have to listen to the beat! Move to the tempo! For the sovereign’s sake, you’re Munchkins, not lumbering baboons! It’s not… that… hard!’’ The last three words were punctuated with the slam of a ruler against the wooden desk. A man yielded the ruler- at least I thought at first it was a man, but as I watched in openmouthed amazement, I realized he was slightly translucent. A spirit, then, not a man. Which meant… I turned my gaze to the center of the room.

Six imps stood in a row, clad in sequin-bedecked costumes that had only a passing resemblance to those worn by the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz .

‘‘Now we will try this again, and this time, listen to the blasted music! Everyone lift your right foot. That’s your left hand. Lift your right… oh, let me show you. Again .’’

The spirit jumped off the desk and started for the six imps, pausing when he almost bumped into me.

‘‘Who are you? What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy now?’’

He brushed past me and took a spot next to the closest imp. ‘‘Right foot, do you see? This one is the right foot. Now you all lift yours. Well, that’s two of you. On the count of four you start forward on this foot. Honestly, it’s like trying to discuss brain surgery with tapioca.’’

This last bit was directed toward me. I figured since the spirit had already seen me, I might as well deshadow. ‘‘This may sound a little odd, but what exactly are you doing?’’ I asked.

‘‘Two by two! What did I just get done telling you? You march two by two toward Dorothy.’’

One imp-I was relieved to note they were the benign Australian house imps rather than the rowdier (and potentially dangerous) European variety-eeked in distress a couple of times.

‘‘Well, I’m going to sound angry when I’ve told you and told you how to do this scene! This is the pivotal moment when Dorothy meets you. She’s your savior, the one who has come to free you from the bondage that has held you in its steely grip for centuries. You march toward her two by two, bow, and go into the jazz number. Do you all have that?’’

The unhappy imp he was addressing suddenly burst into tears, the other five huddling around it in poses of abject misery.

‘‘Oh, for the sake of the sovereign’s ten blessed toes… take five! Go back to your dressing room and collect yourselves!’’

The imps bolted for a large cardboard box that sat next to the wooden desk. I looked from the box to the spirit. ‘‘Do I want to know why you’re evidently drilling imps to play parts from The Wizard of Oz ?’’ I asked him.

He crossed his arms and adopted an extremely put-upon expression. ‘‘It’s not The Wizard of Oz. You’ve heard of that musical about the Wicked Witch? Well, this is my version of the Oz story, told from the perspective of the Munchkins, a much-persecuted and maligned people.’’

‘‘With imps.’’

‘‘Well… they are all I have. It’s not easy being a vault attendant, you know,’’ he said with a sniff, returning to his desk. ‘‘Not allowed to bring in guests, not allowed out for more than one day a week, hardly anyone ever comes here, and there’s not even any Internet access. I would have gone insane long, long ago if it wasn’t for my musical comedy troupe. We bring life to old classics-that’s our motto. Snappy, don’t you think?’’

‘‘Er… very.’’

He held up a colorful flyer that proclaimed ‘‘MUNCH! You’ve heard the witches’ sides, now hear ours!’’ ‘‘I had hoped to open next month, but I lost most of my company when they started their own group and decided to tour America. These new imps seem to be all left feet. And so emotional! You’ve never seen such drama queens in your life.’’ His eyes narrowed on me suddenly. ‘‘Who did you say you were?’’