-Hecate’s Guide to Arcane Philosophy

  Quiet

  Istood on an old closed road which connected the historic district to Castleway, near the entrance of the circus. Woolen cloak pulled up to my chin to stave off the winter cold, I shuffled my frozen toes in my boots. The morning frost had melted hours ago, but the air still had a bite to it, and it came in gusts strong enough to knock my tall hat from my head. My little assistants had to take cover in the void in my pockets.

  I’d dragged two of my witch sisters along with me to scout the area. Goose was excellent with numbers, especially when calculations involved large groups and needed to be tallied quickly. She was the first one I’d recruited when I started the twice weekly ritual of canvasing this area. Under the burden of Rorick’s disapproval, I kept my word to him by always remaining outside of the brightly colored tents.

  “Four deep . . . seven back . . .” Goose muttered under her breath, tawny hair blowing in her face and tangling under her witch’s hat. She was in her adult form, not a child or a crone. She appeared to be a woman in her thirties now. Goose held her wand—a silver pocket watch—in her palm, stroking the metal face out of habit.

  Astor flanked me, standing at the ready, gaze shadowed by her fedora. She rested a gloved hand on the wand shaped like a revolver on her hip, eyeing the group of fanatics gathered in a tight huddle near the grand gates of the historic district’s old central road. They painted their faces to resemble the clown specters the circus was most famous for. The group handed out pamphlets to a disinterested crowd, avowing that the clowns were gods who’d created our universe on a whim.

  We avoided making direct eye contact with them.

  “That looks to be the last of this group. What’s the final number, Goose?” I asked, as the end of the line exited the tent opening to the sound of upbeat string music, treading over a slew of discarded pamphlets that caught in the wind and rolled like tumbleweed.

  The people, mostly geds, chattered excitedly about the magical show they’d just witnessed: illusions, apparitions, ghostly acrobats. Fireworks so bright they could be seen even in daylight erupted overhead, casting rainbows of color into the sky. Even in the dead of winter, the Castleway Circus drew in massive crowds from all over Purgatory and the countryside beyond it.

  “There are ninety-six people in this group,” Goose said.

  Reaching into the void inside my pocket, I pulled out my journal and checked our numbers. “Ninety-six entered. Ninety-six came out.”

  “Well,” Astor said, “at least no one went missing this time. Your bull-headed tick will be glad to hear that.”

  “I’m allowed to call Rorick names,” I said sternly. “You can’t.”

  “I’ll wait until you’re not around next time,” Astor said, a secret smile blooming in the corner of her mouth.

  “I think we’re done here for now . . .” I was about to send them home. We’d scouted out the crowd long enough, and my toes were numb in my boots. But then the music grew louder and as a new group began to fill in around us in anticipation of the next show, an intimidating figure appeared alone, standing off to the side of the tents.

  A clown towered there with bulky muscles that barely fit in his under-sized shirt. His eyes and lips were painted black, and his face was powdered white, exaggerating his frown. He tucked a dead daisy behind his ear, and he dragged a large wooden mallet behind him.

  He watched me, and the weight of his deep-set eyes smothered me even though the distance between us was great.

  “What is it?” Astor followed my gaze to where the canvas flapped in the wind and the grass grew tall between the pavers of what remained of an old, ruined road. “What are you staring at?”

  “You don’t see the big specter there?” I panted, struggling to catch a full breath. If she couldn’t see him, then it was because the clown didn’t want her to. That was the nature of specters. We saw what they wished us to see. The more powerful they were, the grander the illusion.

  Goose leaned in close and squinted hard. “I don’t see anything either.”

  I removed my hat and dug inside it, calling the special lens Goose had made for me to my fingers. When I found the glass, I lifted it to my eye like a monocle. Through the lens, I could make out the ethereal edges of the clown’s body. They were wispy and wraith-like.

  I centered the large specter in the glass and motioned Goose in closer.

  “For Fate’s sake,” she gasped. “Who or what in the blooming blazes is that thing?”

  “Let me see.” Astor sidled between us, taking the lens from me. Goose showed her where to hold it, pushing her elbow up higher.

  “Bloody hell,” Astor whispered. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Quiet? That’s the biggest specter I’ve ever laid eyes on! I mean, that is a specter, right?”

  Looking over her shoulder, I pressed my face close to hers so we could all watch the great clown standing there, staring back at us, frowning like the sky was falling. The longer I peered at those pitch eyes in that painted face, the more I felt lost and hopeless. Melancholy swirled in my belly and made my stomach clench.

  “I don’t know exactly what he is. He’s different from the others,” I confessed. The wind picked up again, drying my lips. I wet them. “But I think we need to find out.”

  The lumbering clown shifted his weight, shuffling backward, dragging himself and his mallet behind the tents. Discarded paper pamphlets blew by.

  “Come quickly,” I said.

  “You want to follow that big frightening thing?” Goose protested. “But you’re supposed to be smart!”

  “Yes,” I said impatiently, worried we’d lose him if we didn’t hurry.

  Goose and Astor shared a look.

  “Stay here, then, if you must,” I said, gathering up my skirts. “I intend to see where he’s going!”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Goose said, jogging after me. “We do this together. If you’re about to get yourself trapped inside another haunted something-or-other, then you’re getting us trapped there, too.”

  “I’d rather not be trapped inside anything,” Astor grumped.

  “Rorick would absolutely hate that I was following after this specter,” I told her.

  The corners of Astor’s arctic eyes crinkled. “Hm. I guess it’s fine, then.”

  Broken flagstones turned to gravel under my boots. The crowd paid us no mind. They fell into a cluttered queue, filtering inside the entrance. The specter we tailed moved with long heavy strides that left prints in his wake, rounding the great tents. With every flap of the canvas, every new gust of wind, every touch of cold on the back of my neck, my heart rose farther and farther into my throat.

  The clown stopped, and my pulse froze in my neck for one beat, then two. I skidded to a halt in loose rock, slowing my sisters at my side with my arms extended.

  “Where is he now?” Goose whispered.

  I pointed him out. He had his back to us, mallet pulling through the gravel, leaving the stones disturbed. Slowly, he lifted the back end of the tent up over his head. I squinted into the poorly-lit space. A man played on a steam-powered organ, shooting gusts into the air as fanfare rang out, heralding a start to the show in the next tent over.

  “Who’s that?” Astor whispered, reading my thoughts.

  “I don’t know, but . . . there’s something familiar about him.” I could see him mostly in profile. His hair was silver at his temples. He wore a burgundy top hat, and his face was painted like a clown’s, but this was no specter. He wore a ringleader’s double-breasted suit.

  “What now?” Astor asked.

  I had the same question and shuffled closer. “I’m here,” I whispered to the clown. “I received your invitation.”

  The mysterious clown didn’t turn. He just stared hard at the ringleader operating the steam organ.

  “I don’t know why you beckoned me. I’ll need you to explain.” Remembering that I’d never seen him speak before, I amended, “Or perhaps you could show me why I’m here.”

  The organ stopped and a cheer rang out, a thunderous roar of applause from the next tent over. The ringleader rose to his feet and began to climb down from the massive contraption he’d been playing. My stomach sank. Any second now the ringleader would reach the bottom, and then he’d turn and see us here staring at him.

  Why did that feel like such a terrible thing? Dread knotted my stomach.

  Gravel shifted and crunched beneath us, stealing my attention. The clunk of metal knocking against metal reverberated through the soles of my boots. A heartbeat before the ringleader reached the bottom, the ground opened under our feet and we fell.

  Our screams blended into a shrill chorus. Sunlight vanished, overtaken by an inky blackness so dark I thought for a second I’d gone blind. I landed bottom-first on a steep, wet slope, letting out a grunt of surprise. Astor sprawled next to me. Goose landed in my lap, her elbow in my face. Falling gravel clattered down the dark chute of damp stone ahead of us. Above us, sunlight poured in through some sort of makeshift trapdoor.

  “No, no, no . . .” I was slipping.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Goose panted.

  I clawed for purchase with my hands and feet but could do nothing to slow our descent. On we fell, sliding farther into the dark on our backs. Our collective screams turned into a choir of oaths and curses.

  “If we die, Quiet,” Astor shouted, “I’m going to kill you!”

  We clung to each other, shooting down a wet, slippery incline, gaining speed.

  Swathed in shadows so thick I couldn’t see anything at all, we were airborne again. My arms beat at the empty air like a desperate bird. I reached for my sisters, trying to hold on to them, but they slipped from my fingers.

  “Goose!” I screamed.

  My hat was thrown from my head, and I went tumbling.

  My descent came to a painful halt. Wet stone thudded against my chest and rattled my skull. And then there was nothing but darkness.

  Chapter 4

  Wands are conduits of a witch’s magic. Over time and after lengthy study, the witch bonds to an object that holds great significance for them. The process of attachment and the focus of study informs the nature and specialty of the witch’s future castings.

  -Hecate’s Guide to Arcane Philosophy

  Rorick

  My sun slumber had started the way it often did—with me not quite ready for it, sprawled on my bed at the brownstone I kept in the city. I’d barely gotten my boots off when sunrise hit me. Whatever Hecate had placed in my tea, I felt myself drifting deeper into my subconscious and at an unnaturally fast rate, plummeting into the murkier recesses of my mind.

  I was back in my coffin in my dream, clawing free through dirt that was cold and hard and stung my hands.

  Then I was being chased by ichors, only I was no longer in my body. I was floating far above it all, vaguely aware that I was safe in bed and dreaming. I watched myself fleeing the graveyard, the somber tombstone of Liam Rorick there beside the unpacked earth I’d left behind. A horde of shifters pursued me. From my new perspective, I could smell the ichors’ moldy skin, could hear the gnashing of their sharp teeth, and I felt no fear. The memories were unpleasant, but I knew I’d wake up soon.

  In the way of dreams, I was suddenly no longer in the graveyard. I hovered over my body as I was being chased through the streets of Castleway, in the city. The tents of the Castleway Circus towered in the distance as big as a palace, backlit by moonlight.

  I made it to the deserted street with the small pub I knew, and when I reached the door, the ichors gave up their pursuit, vanishing as though they’d never been there at all.

  Floating safely above my own body, I observed myself enter the pub and take a seat at the lone table across from Hecate. She poured steaming water into a ceramic teacup.

  “You’re late,” she said, dropping two tea bags inside. They floated to the surface, turning the water an auburn shade.

  “The Night Train was late,” I told her—or the version of me sitting at the table did.

  “Was the train the only reason you’re behind schedule?” Her slanted smile was knowing.

  “I went to see her again,” I confessed, returning her grin. “Her laboratory isn’t far from here.”

  She rolled her eyes at me, annoyance and affection in the taunt. “I told you to stop that snooping. She doesn’t know you. You could ruin everything by mistake. Let chance happen. You can’t force these things.”

  “She didn’t catch me snooping. You’ve already convinced me to let our first proper meeting happen naturally. I just . . . needed to see her for a moment.”

  Hecate squinted at me. “See her how? It’s midnight, and Quiet isn’t a vampire. She doesn’t keep night hours.”

  “Her doors are warded, but her mirrors are not. She must not know much about travelers. I flew in through the bedroom mirror and took a peek inside with no trouble. Lots of insects in there— Don’t look at me like that. I was quick. She never knew a thing.”

  “Impatient fool,” she tutted at me. “You’re a stranger to her! If she’d found you there, she’d have cursed you into a gnat or worse. I certainly would have.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “She’s new to the craft still, you said. Only recently came into her immortality.”

  “We’re fast learners,” Hecate admonished.

  But her disapproval did nothing to sour my mood. I’d finally gotten to meet her—my constant. My reason for returning to this plane after venturing through the Nothing and meeting Death. Whatever Hecate’s feelings on the matter, the exhilaration of tempting Fate in such a way reverberated through me, pebbling my skin.

  “I hope she finds me soon,” I said.

  “I knew it was a bad idea, telling you all about that constant business. You shouldn’t tease Fate so. There are consequences!”

  I ignored her scolding because it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. “How did you meet yours again? Tell me the details exactly. Perhaps ours will be similar?” I was as eager as a child who was about to open a wrapped present, sitting on the edge of my seat.

  “I didn’t leave anything out the first time I told you the story. We were partners eons ago in a world similar to this one. He was an alchemist—same as you—and I was a witch, like Quiet, though our specialties are very different. We worked together to solve magical problems for our community. But none of that means your story will happen the same exact way.” She pushed the tea bags around, bobbing them in the rust-colored liquid. “Have I told you about the time I visited a distant world and found a version of myself who was a pirate captain on a ship called Purgatory? Or about the version of me who was a professor at a magical academy? There are variants. An infinite number of them. Choices are made every day—every second. They will all impact the way your path toward one another plays out.”

  My grin held firm, mood unaffected by her caution. “Sure, sure, there are variants. But there are always constants, too,” I said with great hope. “Constants like love.”

  Even as Hecate sighed in exasperation, the corner of her lips quirked. She removed the tea bags one at a time, wringing them out with a small spoon. “In every world I’ve visited, when our souls manage to find each other, yes, there is love,” she confirmed.

  Joy lit up my face, spreading my lips even wider, showcasing my fangs. A great deal of my life had been consumed by a deep and dark pit of loneliness that nothing seemed to allay. I was the odd duke, an eccentric recluse, they said, always lost in my studies. I didn’t bother with company often, because even company did nothing to ease the ache of melancholy loneliness had created. So few found my work interesting. So few tolerated my inability to behave in a consistently charming manner. The loneliness had burrowed inside of me and made a nest there, convincing me there was no cure for it.

  And then I learned through Hecate about constants. The very notion of a relationship that transcended time and space burned away the darkness in me. My constant was out there, working her way toward me the way I was working my way toward her, without ever knowing it. That night, I’d stolen another quick peek at her—just a harmless glance at what would be, and I felt joy in a way I’d never felt it before.

  Hecate dropped two lumps of sugar into my tea. They landed with heavy, foreboding plops. “You’re forgetting my warnings already, or you’re ignoring them outright, and I can’t decide which I dislike more.”

  “I didn’t forget,” I told her, the cheer finally fading from my expression.

  “When we find each other, there’s always love, but in every world I’ve visited, eventually we’re separated. You know I lost my constant to my own hubris . . . Fate save me, Rorick, you look so much like him. There are times when there’s an expression on your face that is exactly like one I’ve seen on his so many times before. I have to remind myself that you aren’t him . . . Please, please don’t make me regret helping you.”

  I understood what worried her. She’d explained about eternal consequences and who paid the price for them should we test Fate too much.

  But now I had hope. Not even Hecate’s most somber disclaimer could sully that.

  “I’ll be traveling again soon.” She pushed the cup across the table toward me. “I’m not certain when I’ll return. Rorick, promise me you’ll let your path cross naturally with Quiet’s.”

  “For her sake, I promise,” I said, sipping at my tea. I meant my words. I wouldn’t risk any harm coming to her, no matter how impatient I was to know her.

  Hecate sat there nibbling at her lip for a moment. “About your nephew . . . I know Alex is your family and you’re tired of me saying this,” she said crossly, “but do be more careful with what you tell him about your research. I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him in my crone form.”

  “I don’t trust him either,” I said with a shrug. Alex was clever and a bit too ambitious, but the preternatural world was new to him. I had little to fear from my nephew.

  “I mean it,” she grumped. “Your blood is a gift from Death himself. I understand how much your sister meant to you, but I wish you hadn’t gone and shared it with the likes of Alexander Harker.”

 

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