The big old Victorian had been built a century ago, right smack on top of a vortex. Yes, one of those vortexes, the wells of power created when two or more ley lines cross. And, yes, those ley lines, the rivers of magical energy that flow across our world and then beyond, serving some purpose in the grand scheme of things that nobody has quite figured out yet.
Some people think that they’re the result of two universes rubbing together, ours and the one Faerie resides in, like great tectonic plates, with energy bubbling up like lava along the fault lines. Others believe that the planets act as giant talismans, collecting the magical energy of creation and distilling it into rivers of current, which they then send rocketing across metaphysical space. Still others believe that the earth itself generates them as a kind of by-product, like gravity or lightning, just one that’s not detectable to nonmagical humans.
There were a thousand theories, and no one knew which, if any, were right. But that didn’t stop people from sussing out vortexes, and building structures on top of them to benefit from all that free energy. Of course, the main whirlpools of power, those that weren’t too strong to use, had been claimed centuries ago, but not all were so obvious.
Some vortexes had formed on cadet branches of the lines, little ones that didn’t go anywhere interesting, and thus didn’t get much traffic. Or that weren’t well explored, because the ley line system hadn’t been known about for all that long, magically speaking. And then there were those that formed in a field of vortexes, such as the one that lay all over New York City, allowing them to hide in the glow and remain undetected.
At least, long enough for someone to plop a house down on one.
That someone, a retired ship’s captain, hadn’t known what he’d had, but Claire’s uncle Pip did, and snapped it up as soon as the old boy died. And started layering his treasure with protection spells, which in themselves hadn’t been a problem. The trouble came when he decided to link said spells, not to his own power or to a talisman, the magical equivalent of a battery, but directly into the vortex itself.
And then to just leave them there, to do their own thing, for decades.
That had caused some problems, because spells aren’t meant to last forever. They peter out if not renewed, or expire with the death of the caster—which is actually a good thing. Because it prevents them from becoming weird.
Unattended magic can become problematic over time, as the rules of the original spell become confused, or get overwritten by pieces they borrow from other spells around them, or link up with the wild magic of the earth. The upshot was that the house had become a little . . . eccentric . . . over the years, almost like it had a mind of its own. Or a personality, anyway.
Specifically, that of a crotchety old woman who didn’t like people messing with her stuff.
Really didn’t, I thought, glancing at the hall. Where a bunch of small things were writhing helplessly under sheets of faded floral wallpaper, which had previously been shredded by burgeoning pecan pods. And which were now whole again and set on revenge.
Watching them caused the same kind of creeping horror as watching a sweet old lady in a lilac-covered housecoat slowly strangling a small animal to death. Until I quickly looked away, and continued to rummage. Hey, I had to sleep upstairs, okay? If the house wanted to murder some pecans, that was its business.
A moment later, I’d gathered everything up and set a line of creamers in front of the fey. There was everything from peppermint mocha to caramel macchiato, because Claire is a flavored-coffee nut. He just stared at them, apparently overwhelmed by the choice.
I pointed at the coconut crème. “That one’s good, and the amaretto. I’d stay away from the butter pecan.” I glanced at the hall. “At least right now.”
The fey eyed the little bottle warily, as if I’d told him it was poisoned. And opted for the coconut. “That’s nice,” he said, looking up at me in surprise.
I nodded. “Claire really likes that one. I use her for my barometer on all things fey.”
“Your . . .”
“Gauge? Measure? Test?” I guess they didn’t have barometers in Faerie.
He nodded. “Thank you. I’m supposed to be improving my English, but there are many words I don’t know.”
“That’s why you’re here? Other than to guard her, I mean.”
“I don’t think she needs much guarding!” he blurted out, and then looked mortified when he realized what he’d said. “I—I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
“No! No, you—” He stopped, realizing that he was halfway off his stool. And with a hand reached out as if to touch me reassuringly, which he quickly drew back. Because the fey are famously lacking in the whole touchy-feely department.
Well, except for Caedmon.
But he was a rule unto himself on a lot of things.
“I’m sorry.” The young fey sat back down. “I’m also supposed to be working on my . . . my ability to speak as though I had thought about it beforehand.”
He sounded like he was quoting. “Caedmon told you that?”
He shook his head. “My father. He is one of the king’s chief counselors, but I . . . just say things. I don’t mean offense, but—”
“But people take it that way.”
A miserable nod. He had a longer-than-usual neck, even for a fey, and was drinking coffee while we spoke. He was starting to remind me of those mechanical drinking birds. Nod . . . sip . . . nod . . . sip. It was kind of hypnotizing.
“Don’t worry. I do the same thing,” I said. “Only I usually intend to piss people off.”
The kid just sat there, clutching the coffee cup in his hands, and looking unsure of himself. As if he was trying to parse both the language and the humor, and was having a problem with it. He didn’t seem to multitask well.
Or maybe it’s your “humor,” Dory, I thought wryly. Stop teasing the infant.
But he recovered pretty fast. “I . . . just meant that she’s so powerful. And she has you. And the j?tnar. She is well guarded.”
“Then why are you here?”
Again a pause. “Me or . . . everyone?”
“Both. Either.” I didn’t really care that much, but I was enjoying the cookies.
“Well, we’re here—the group of us, I mean—as . . . I suppose you would call it . . . an honor guard?”
I nodded, since he seemed to like that gesture.
“And because, well, you’re not powerful just by having power; you must know how to wield it. And the king says—”
“Claire doesn’t know how yet.” He nodded, looking relieved. Maybe because I’d said it, so he didn’t have to. “And you?”
The fey didn’t answer. His eyes were on Gessa, who had just come in, her curly brown hair even messier than usual, a yawn threatening to split her face. She dragged a stool over to the counter, climbed up on top to pour herself some coffee, then plopped her butt down on the all-purpose piece of furniture to drink it.
“Gessa, do you know—” I looked at the fey.
Who was looking at the little nursemaid with an expression somewhere between curious and concerned. Like a sleepy, three-foot-tall au pair was a potential threat. Gessa yawned again.
“You have a name?” I asked the fey, more pointedly.
“What?” He blinked at me. And then blushed when he realized he’d been staring, not that Gessa seemed to care. She was staring now, too.
At his cookies.
“I . . . yes. Hemming,” he said, watching her scoot her stool over the floor and brazenly take half his stash. “But, uh, they don’t call me that.”
“What do they call you?” I was familiar by now with the fact that the fey had about fifty names each. But for some reason, this request only made him blush harder.
“Soini,” he finally said, like he was admitting something.
Gessa snorted into her coffee.
“What’s funny?” I asked her, but she just shook her head.
“It means ‘boy,’” the fey blurted out. “I’m . . . not as old as the others.”
No shit, I didn’t say. Because, despite what certain people believe, I do have manners. Sometimes.
“So, what are you doing here?” I asked instead. “Or do they regularly take boys on trips like this?”
“I’m not actually a boy,” the boy hastened to assure me. “I just haven’t really gone anywhere before, and my father thought—”