“That is a disturbing idea,” said Holly. “If you want to perform some useful amphibian-related magic, why don’t you do something about the swear toads?”
Swear toads were the result of a college prank during which a group of postgrads had managed to imbue a strain of toads with the power of speech. Bad language only. This had been hilarious for about five minutes, until the toads began multiplying at a ferocious rate and spouting foul epithets at anything that moved, including kindergarten fairies and people’s grandmothers.
No1 laughed softly. “I like swear toads,” he said. “I have two at home called Bleep and D’Arvit. They are very rude to me, but I know they don’t mean it.” The little demon took another slurp of coffee. “So, let’s talk about your magic problem, Holly.”
“What magic problem?” asked Holly, genuinely puzzled.
“I see magic like another color in the spectrum, and you are leaking magic like swamp cheese leaks stink.”
Holly looked at her own hands, as though the evidence would be visible. “I am?”
“Your skeleton is the battery that stores your magic, but yours has been abused one time too many. How many healings have you undergone? How many traumas?”
“One or two,” admitted Holly, meaning nine or ten.
“One or two this cycle,” scoffed No1. “Don’t lie to me, Holly Short. Your electro-dermal activity has increased significantly. That means your fingertips are sweating. I can see that too.” The little gray demon shuddered. “Actually, sometimes I see stuff that I have no desire to see. A sprite came into my office the other day, and he had a bunch of microscopic hoop-worm larvae wriggling around his armpit. What is wrong with people?”
Holly didn’t answer. It was best to let No1 rant stuff out of his system.
“And I see you’ve been donating a spark or two of your magic every week to the Opal clone in Argon’s clinic, trying to make it a little more comfortable. You’re wasting your time, Holly. That creature doesn’t have a spirit; magic is no use.”
“You’re wrong, No1,” said Holly quietly. “Nopal is a person.”
No1 held out his rough palms. “Give me your hands,” he said.
Holly placed her fingers in his. “Are we going to sing a sea shanty?”
“No,” replied No1. “But this might hurt a little.”
This might hurt a little is universal code for this will definitely hurt a lot, but before Holly’s brain could translate this, No1’s forehead rune spiraled—something it only did when he was building up to some major power displacement. She managed to blurt, “Wait a—” before what felt like two electric eels wrapped themselves around her arms, slithering upward, sinking into her chest. It was not a pleasant experience.
Holly lost control of her limbs, spasming like a marionette on the end of a giggling puppet master’s strings. The entire episode lasted no more than five seconds, but five seconds of acute discomfort can seem like a long time.
Holly coughed smoke and spoke once her jaw stopped clicking. “You had to do that in a coffee shop, I suppose?”
“I thought we wouldn’t see each other for a while, and I worry about you. You’re so reckless, Holly. So eager to help anyone but yourself.”
Holly flexed her fingers, and it was as though her joints had been oiled. “Wow, I feel great now that the blinding pain has faded.” Suddenly the rest of No1’s words registered. “And why wouldn’t we see each other for a while?”
No1 looked suddenly serious. “I’ve accepted an invitation to the Moon Station. They want me to have a look at some microorganisms and see if I can extract some race memory from their cells.”
“Uh-huh,” said Holly, understanding all of the first sentence but nothing of the second beyond the individual words. “How long will you be gone?”
“Two of your Earth years.”
“Two years,” stammered Holly. “Come on, No1. You’re my last single fairy friend. Foaly got hitched. Trouble Kelp is hooked up with Lily Frond, though what he sees in that airhead is beyond me.”
“She’s pretty and she cares about him, but besides that I have no idea,” said No1 archly.
“He’ll find out what Frond is really like when she ditches him for someone more senior.”
No1 thought it politic not to mention Holly’s three disastrous dates with Commander Kelp, the last of which ended with them both being thrown out of a crunchball match.
“There’s always Artemis.”
Holly nodded. “Yeah. Artemis is a good guy, I suppose; but whenever we meet, it ends in shots fired, or time travel, or brain cells dying. I want a quiet friend, No1. Like you.”
No1 took her hand again. “Two years will fly by. Maybe you can get a lunar pass and come to visit me.”