The Girl Without Magic Page 4

  Maggie raced past the row of gray tents and down another avenue she had never seen. Bright white tents dotted with rainbow colors sat in a long line. She had no idea where she was going. But the screams of the black-haired woman followed her, so she kept running.

  Night was coming fast. Soon it would be dark, and she could find a place to hide. Her lungs ached, pain shot up her legs, but she kept running. The white tents turned back to gray. Whether from the fading light or actual color, Maggie didn’t know. The lane twisted, and Maggie’s feet hit hard stone, sending her tumbling forward. Pain shot through Maggie’s hands and head where they struck the cobblestone street.

  “Just give us a taste, and we’ll let you go!” one of the men shouted.

  Maggie leapt to her feet, running between the stone buildings, desperate to find a place to hide. How could people so sickly-looking run so fast? But the doors were locked and barred. If she had been able to use magic, she could have thrown open one of the doors in an instant.

  Maggie rounded a tight corner, careful not to tip into the canal that reflected the stars up above. The stars caught Maggie’s eye as she kept running. There were clouds covering some of them. The storm was nearly there.

  “A place to hide,” Maggie muttered. “I want a place to hide.”

  A hand shot out of the darkness and closed around her arm, dragging her into the shadows.

  hand covered Maggie’s mouth before she could scream.

  “Do not make a sound, or they will find you, Miss Trent,” a voice whispered urgently in Maggie’s ear. “I don’t fancy fighting four Derelict when the Siren has chosen to bring a storm upon us.”

  “Mmmhmmnaa,” Maggie tried to speak against the hand.

  “I will release you, Miss Trent, but I do insist you remain quiet.”

  Maggie nodded as much as the stranger’s grip would allow, turning to see who had grabbed her the moment she was free.

  Bertrand Wayland held a finger to his lips.

  Maggie swallowed the urge to scream or punch him.

  “Why the hell did you grab me like that?” Maggie hissed.

  Footsteps and shouts sounded from the corner not ten feet away. This time Maggie didn’t fight as Bertrand pulled her farther into the shadows.

  “Come out, come out, little one!” the short man called, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “It won’t hurt for more than a minute. And when it’s done, it’s done.”

  “We want what’s ours!” the woman screamed. They were coming closer. Shadows or not, they would see her and Bertrand hiding. Maggie took a breath, getting ready to step out into the open to fight.

  Bertrand took her hand and pulled her further back than it seemed the shadows could go. “Move quickly,” he whispered.

  Several things happened at once. A whine of old metal came from behind Bertrand, a patch of light appeared, the woman screamed, “We’ve got her!” and a bolt of lightning burst through the sky as thunder shook the building. Before Maggie had time to decide which thing was the most threatening, she had been pulled off her feet and landed on her back in a dimly lit room. A slam shook the floor as another rumble of thunder sounded from outside.

  Maggie lay on the floor, gasping. The sound of a heavy lock being turned made her look toward the door. Thick and wooden with bars across, it looked like the doors at street level. Someone was beating on the door to come in. Maggie scrambled to her feet.

  “They won’t get through the door,” Bertrand said calmly. “I’m quite sure of it. Two of the best things about living on the stone streets: doors that lock and much more privacy.” He leaned back against the stone wall. They weren’t trapped in a tomb like Maggie had feared. It was more like a narrow entryway with a much less battle-worthy wooden door at the far end. “The people here don’t tend to be nearly as neighborly. There isn’t the sense of blissful freedom as in the Textile Town, but it is worth it when the Derelict come.”

  “Derelict?”

  “The ones with no magic left,” Bertrand said somberly. “They’ve used all they have, and when the drabness of nothing becomes too much, they steal from those who have something left to give.” Bertrand moved to the other wooden door. “It really is a pity to see. I’ve been here for quite some time, however, and it happens again and again. Would you like to come in, Miss Trent?” Bertrand asked, gesturing to the wooden door. “The storm is arriving, and I think it will be quite some time before you will safely be able to travel home.”

  “I can wait here,” Maggie said.

  “I would prefer if you didn’t.” Bertrand opened the door, and warm light poured into the entryway. The smell of fresh baked bread and herbs filled the air. “If you were to wait in the dark hall, I would feel obligated as your host to wait with you. And since the storm is here I would much prefer to wait by the fire.”

  As though to emphasize his words, thunder shook the stone walls.

  “Fine,” Maggie said, moving toward the door. “Thank you,” she added grudgingly as she went through the door and up five stairs to enter the main house.

  It was unlike any house Maggie had ever seen. The walls were made of stone, giving the whole place the look of a fortress. The windows were set chest high to be above the eye level of anyone on the street. Rain pounded against the glass, nearly obscuring the thick metal bars on the outside of the windows.

  With the sound of another lock scraping shut, Bertrand followed her up the stairs.

  “This way please.” He turned the corner, and Maggie followed, examining the worn, wooden floor as she went. The wood was grooved with the wear of uncountable footsteps. How old was this house? Or had Bertrand merely wanted worn floors?

  Bertrand stopped in a room that looked like a fancy living room from an old movie. A bookshelf stood against one wall away from the barred windows. A fireplace was nestled in the corner, and after a glance from Bertrand, a fire sprang to life.

  Maggie flinched. How much magic had it cost him to start the fire? Would it have been less or more to just ask the Siren for matches?

  A large painting hung above the crackling fire. The painting showed a glade in the woods. White trees surrounded a patch of sunlit grass.

  “Please do sit.” Bertrand nodded to the large red sofa in front of the fire before moving to a tray in the corner.

  Maggie sat watching him work at the tray. Less than a minute later he pressed a cup of steaming tea into her hand. The scent of lavender made Maggie’s shoulders relax before she even knew what was happening.

  “It is excellent tea.” Bertrand nodded. “There’s a lovely woman on the market lane―”

  “I don’t want tea.” Maggie set the unsipped tea down on the table next to her. “I’m just going to wait here for the storm to pass, and then I’ll go home.”

  “To the tent on the rocks?” Bertrand asked. “Do you really think your tent will still be there after the storm, Miss Trent?”

  “How do you know where I live?” Maggie asked, glancing down at the talisman on her wrist out of habit. But she wouldn’t be able to defend herself with magic here. Why had she let him lock her in?

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” Bertrand said, apparently not having noticed Maggie’s eyes searching for an escape. “It seemed to be the kind thing to do after your unexpected arrival. It’s not often that we have someone fall into the Siren’s Realm by chance. And I think in your case it might not be chance at all.”

  “I―what?” Maggie asked, Bertrand’s words distracting her from planning her escape.

  “I simply mean, Miss Trent, and I do hope you’ll forgive me for being so forward, but for a girl who is clearly a witch to fall into the Siren’s Realm and pretend to have no natural magic? That’s not a thing one forgets quickly.”

  “I’m not a witch.” Maggie’s mouth had gone completely dry. “I’m human.”

  “Miss Trent, even if you weren’t wearing a clan symbol on your wrist―”

  Maggie clapped a hand over her bracelet.

  “�
�I knew the first time I shook your hand you were a witch. And a strong one at that,” Bertrand finished.

  “How did you know my clan’s crest?” Maggie asked, giving up on the lie.

  “I came from your world, Miss Trent.” Bertrand smiled gently. “Unlike your friend Gabriel, whose world is far from ours, we may have walked the same streets centuries apart. Still, the Clans of my time are the Clans of your time as well.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Maggie asked.

  “If you were determined to lie about being a witch, I assumed it must be for a good reason.” Bertrand sipped his tea. “Though, of course, with a lie as dangerous as that, it was clearly my duty to make sure you remained safe.”

  “Why is saying I’m human dangerous?” Maggie ran her hands though her hair, wondering if it would be worse to be out in the pouring rain than stuck in a warm sitting room with Bertrand Wayland.

  “I would have thought you had reasoned that answer out by now, Miss Trent.” Bertrand shook his head. “In a realm where magic is all important―”

  “But you can’t even do spells here! If I could―”

  “Then I am sure those Derelict would never have been able to chase you. But it isn’t the spells that are important in the Siren’s Realm, Miss Trent.” Bertrand stood and began to pace the path of a particularly deep groove in the floor. “Some places, they trade gold, or livestock, even bits of paper. Here, we trade magic. Magic is our currency. Ask the Siren for something, she will take a bit; buy something on the street, the vendor will take a bit. Everyone takes until there is nothing left to give. Once a person is Derelict, the Siren in her mercy moves them to the shadows where they can exist without needing anything. But nothingness is boring, and once in a great while they find their way back up onto our streets. Then fighting begins, and the storm blows. The Siren will rinse her realm of anything that does not fit into the order she has created.”

  “Wait,” Maggie said, leaning forward, “so the people out there, the Derelict, is the Siren just going to blow them away?”

  “I would be terribly surprised if they were still in the Siren’s Realm come morning.”

  “Where is she going to send them?” Maggie pictured the terrible blackness that had greeted her in the Siren’s Realm. Would that be the fate of the Derelict? Did they really deserve something better?

  “One problem at a time, Miss Trent.” Bertrand held up a hand. “There is nothing more offensive to a Derelict than someone with no natural magic who manages to survive in the light of the Siren’s Realm. Those who have worked hard to earn magic for trade are considered usurpers. Those who came in with magic but have managed to gain more than their original share are hoarders. The Derelict will seek to take it all. And a young girl who seems to have usurped so much so quickly would of course be a target for theft.”

  “But if I had told them I came in with magic,” Maggie said, “that I’m a witch,” she choked on the word, “they would have left me alone?”

  “That is a story many human-born have tried to tell.” Bertrand sat on the opposite end of the couch. “So, no, I don’t believe it would have saved you.”

  “Do you do this a lot?” Maggie asked. “Stalk people just in case crazies come up from the shadows and try and steal their magic?”

  “No. You are a special circumstance. Generally, I try not to bother with what others are going about. My life is enough of an adventure that others’ business is rather mundane.”

  “But I’m not?” Maggie asked, trying to decide if she should feel offended or not.

  “On the surface, most definitely you are.” Bertrand examined her. “But there is something more to you than a girl with a fishing net. You come from my world, a world I fought desperately to leave long ago when the fate of magic seemed bleak beyond all redemption. Yet Magickind continues. You were born and lived a life grand enough for the Siren to rip you from the grips of a battle and drag you into her realm.”

  “I wasn’t ripped, I fell.” Maggie ground her teeth, her desire to be inconsequential warring with the need for abandoning her friends to mean something.

  “Are the two so very different? No, Miss Trent, I cannot allow the Derelict to get you before I discover what your fate here is.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you wish to thank me, please drink your tea.” Bertrand pointed to her abandoned cup on the table. “The storm has yet to begin, and it would be a pity to waste such a fine cup of tea.”

  Maggie picked up the cup and took a sip of the hot liquid. The vague sweetness and earthy brightness made her breathe easier at once. “Thanks,” she muttered, watching the rain lash against the window as the wind began to howl.

  er cup was empty, but Maggie still held it clenched tightly in her hands. It wasn’t even warming her fingers anymore, but she was afraid if she let go, her hands might tremble, and then Bertrand would know the storm was scaring her. The winds had picked up over the last hour, blowing the pounding rain down in horizontal sheets.

  Underneath the wind’s howling, the rain striking the window, and the thunder crashing was another noise. A steady thumping that grew louder with the wind’s increasing strength. Maggie took a breath, willing her heart to slow down. It wasn’t until her sixth deep breath that she realized the sound wasn’t her heart.

  “What’s that noise?” Maggie turned to Bertrand who had moved to an arm chair by the fire and was sipping his tea and watching the rain disinterestedly.

  “Hmm.” He sat up straight and set his tea on the table. “By noise you could mean the rain, thunder, or wind, or even my sipping my tea, though I do pride myself on excellent table manners. But judging from your frightened tone―”

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “―I must conclude you’re speaking of the waves in the canal pounding at the rocks that hold this house above water.” Bertrand regarded Maggie for a moment. “And I hope you don’t believe I was implying that your fear was out of place. On the contrary, there are many times when fear is a very reasonable reaction. The Siren’s storms would definitely qualify as one of those situations.”

  “Should we be sitting here drinking tea?” Maggie asked, ignoring Bertrand’s condescending tone. “If the rocks under this house are being beaten by the storm, shouldn’t we go to solid ground?” Maggie set her cup on the table harder than she had meant to and stood.

  Surely the Derelict had gone. She could get back to… to where? Bertrand had been right; her tent wouldn’t be safe in this storm.

  “The Siren’s will will be done,” Bertrand sighed. “If she wanted to be rid of you, she would be. If she wanted to be rid of your tent on the rocks and you happened to be in it, you would be gone with the tent. We are but fleas to the Siren, tiny beings that inhabit her realm.”

  “So if she wants to be done with this house, then we drown?” Maggie tore her hands through her hair. “I’ve tried to get used to surviving here―I swear I have―but this is too much! Calling up a storm and getting rid of anything she doesn’t like!”

  “Miss Trent, I don’t think you have ever tried to get used to surviving here.” Bertrand laughed. “Hiding on the rocks and pretending you have no magic. I’m not casting blame―” he held up a hand, silencing Maggie’s protest “―I don’t know how often a witch has slipped into the Siren’s Realm without wanting to be here, and to be pulled from a battle, leaving your friends to fight without you―”

  “Leave that out of this!” Maggie growled.

  “You knew nothing of the Siren when you arrived,” Bertrand said. “I chose this path, and I have still found it to be trying. The sacrifices we make to live in the beautiful Siren’s Realm are much like the sacrifices made to live anywhere. It is only much easier to see the rules here, and seeing makes accepting so much more difficult.”

  “So we’re just supposed to sit here and hope the Siren doesn’t blow us away?” Maggie squeaked, hating the panic that surged through her chest.

  “Miss Trent, please.” Bertr
and took her hand, and Maggie didn’t have the will to be bothered to pull it away. “I would not have rescued you from the Derelict only to bring you somewhere unsafe. I have lived through five of the Siren’s storms. The first I was out in the Textile Town―”

  “What?”

  “The tents.” Bertrand gave a dull laugh. “You really should learn more about your new home. Merely surviving isn’t what you are meant for. The Siren’s storms are terrible in the Textile Town; after that first dreadful storm, I made the choice to move here to the Fortress. These stone walls were standing long before I arrived in the Siren’s Realm, and I can assure you they will last through the night.”

  “Unless the Siren decides to kill us.”

  “If you wish to speak crudely, then yes.” Bertrand nodded.

  Maggie watched the storm outside the window. Gabriel would be in his tent. If the Derelict hadn’t gotten him. Bile rose in Maggie’s throat.

  “Miss Trent,” Bertrand said gently, “I know this must all be very disturbing to you. Come down to the kitchen; the noise of the storm won’t be as frightening. I have the feeling you could use a good meal.”

  “I don’t want to eat,” Maggie murmured.

  “That’s usually the time you need food the most.” Bertrand bowed and gestured for her to go back out of the sitting room the way they had come in.

  Maggie bowed back before walking into the hall, half-hoping Bertrand would get angry at her for mocking him, but if he noticed, he showed no signs of it.

  They walked back down the stone hall with the worn floor. A streak of lightning sliced through the sky, and Maggie jumped backward, covering her eyes against the bright flash of light and bumping straight into Bertrand.

  He caught her under the arms when she was halfway to the floor and set her easily back up on her feet. Maggie’s face burned, and she knew it was red. She hated blushing; it was the curse of being pale.

  “Careful, Miss Trent.” Bertrand took the lead down the hall. “I pride myself on ensuring the safety of my guests.”