36 Dáinn
DáINN
Legs are amazing. The mechanics of them, the range of motion.
Truly one of the better inventions of evolution.
I haven’t walked down the street on a pair of legs in more than two hundred years.
There’s a spring in my step as I swing first one leg, then the other, feeling the cushion of the sidewalk land hard underfoot.
I will say that current fashion trends leave something to be desired.
This denim fabric is bulky. It doesn’t breathe like a stout pair of trousers would.
The last time I took corporeal form, I was wearing a frock coat and top hat.
I feel all but naked in this thin shirt.
And no cravat? No waistcoat? And what does this generation of men have against pockets?
Baz dressed me, of course. He took almost too much delight in selecting this ensemble.
He’s promised to send a wardrobe to Jasper’s house so I can change this render’s clothes as often as I wish.
It did no good telling him I could just borrow clothes from my witch.
To quote the mage, “No render of mine will ever be caught undead wearing flannel.”
I flex my new hands, glancing down at the chunky gold ring glinting on the first finger of my left hand. If I slip that ring off now, I’ll appear in my shadowy wraith form, right in the middle of Main Street. It’s a fun trick but can lead to messy results.
Better not.
I’m on a mission.
Strolling down the sidewalk, I have to remember that everyone can see me. I can’t simply pass through them like so much smoke. “Excuse me, good sir,” I say brightly, ducking out of the way as a man walks past.
His orange sherbet aura flickers with confusion. “Nah, man. You’re good.” Then he keeps walking.
That went really well! We didn’t even knock shoulders.
Boosted with confidence, I make my way down the street, pausing in front of the large shop window for Heirloom Café.
I breathe deep the scents of the restaurant.
In this rendered form, everything is slightly muted.
The strawberries don’t dance with flavor.
The coffee beans don’t make me think of sun-drenched hills.
Auras aren’t quite so vivid either. Every human within the café still glows, but it’s easier for me to ignore the swirls of color and focus only on the people.
I search for one aura in particular, finding it quickly. He’s here. I knew he would be. I know some of his habits from all my time watching Jasper. Ducking into the restaurant, I step up to the host stand. The pretty Japanese woman smiles at me. “Hello. Welcome to Heirloom Café. Table for one?”
I pull air into my chest, not that I need it to breathe. But it’s good to try and make this render look and sound as natural as possible. “I won’t need my own table, kind proprietress. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”
“Oh. Well, are they already here?”
“Yes. Director Howe.”
She brightens. “You’re meeting Ezra? How funny, he didn’t say he was meeting anyone for lunch.”
“And yet, here I am.” I gesture with both hands to my corporeal form. “You can see me, right?”
Her aura glows as she takes me in, her cheeks blooming slightly pink. Oh, yes. She can see me. Well done, Baz. I think this render will work out quite nicely. “Umm . . . you can just . . .” Shuffling the menus, she gestures over her shoulder. “He’s right over there.”
“Thank you, proprietress. And may I say that shade of plum brings out the color in your cheeks famously.”
She brushes a hand down the front of her purple top. “Thank you.”
With a nod, I step around her, weaving though the tables until I can walk up behind the director. “Howe? Ezra, is that you?”
He turns, plucking both the little white buds out of his ears. Humans use them to distract their senses with music that plays quite literally inside their heads. “Yeah? And you are . . .”
Leaning closer, I place one hand on his shoulder.
I fight a shiver as we first connect, relishing the feel of my persuasion magic leeching out from my palm, sinking beneath his skin.
In moments, his eyes unfocus slightly. “It’s Daniel.
Daniel Black? From the American Archaeological Association annual conference in Toledo?
We spoke at length about your project here on Burr Island. ”
Believe me, I soothe. Don’t fight it, my sweet. Of course, you remember me.
“Of course, I remember you,” he drones. “How are you, Professor Black?”
I’m a professor now? How delightful. “Very well indeed. Mind if I join you?”
He gestures to the open chair across from him. “Be my guest.”
Dragging the chair around, I sit right next to him, sliding my hand down his shoulder to rest on his forearm. “Now tell me, Ezra. How goes your little dig project?”
Before he can respond, the blushing proprietress reappears. Her eyes go wide as she takes in how close we’re sitting, my hand on Howe’s arm. “Can I get you anything?”
I smile up at her. “I’ll have a glass of your finest champagne.” It’s not to drink, of course. I just love the scent bouquet of expensive champagne.
“They only serve alcohol on weekends,” says Howe.
“Yeah, sorry,” she adds.
I wave my free hand. “No matter. Bring me a glass of freshly pressed orange juice. Fresh, mind you. No concentrate.”
“Oh, don’t worry. All our juice is fresh.”
I beam at her, flexing the muscles in this render’s face. “Excellent.”
She glances between us. “Anything else? Ezra . . . anything?”
I miss nothing of the hopeful look in sweet Ms. Sigura’s eyes . . . or the gentle pulse of her aura. Oh, I see. She fancies the intrepid grave robber.
“Nothing else, Kimiko,” he says for us both. “We’re fine.”
She ducks away, leaving me to my prey.
I mean to make quick work of this. Time is not on my side. Howe is utterly in my thrall, his mind now mine for the haunting. I lean in, gripping tight to his arm. “What are you looking for up at Homewood?”
“Bodies,” he drones.
“Which bodies?”
He hums, a vacant smile on his face. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“You know, which bodies . . . witch bodies.”
“Witches?” I press. “You’re looking for the bodies of witches?”
He nods. “The First Five. I know they’re up there . . . have to be . . . they have to be—”
“Where are they?”
“Don’t know . . . still looking . . .”
“And how do you intend to find them?” I send a fresh shiver of my coaxing magic through my palm and into this pliable human.
“GPR.”
“GPR?” I repeat. “Alas, I seem to have left my archaeologists’ lexicon at home—”
“Ground penetrating radar,” he says over me.
“Radar? So, this is some kind of human invention? Like a corpse-finding machine?”
He nods again.
“And you have one of these machines? You are actively using it in your search for the bodies of the Witches of Homewood?”
“Broken,” he mumbles. “Damn thing was used when I got it. Past warranty. Had to order new parts. Backordered. Won’t matter.”
“Why won’t it matter, Ezra?”
“They’re gonna shut me down.” He sniffles, tears welling in his eyes as he reaches absently for a french fry from his plate. “It’s over . . . all over. I thought Birdie would help me but—”
At the mention of my human’s name, I clench tighter to his arm. “What are you having her do for you?”
“Here’s your juice! Fresh squeezed, as requested. I—oh—” Kimiko sets the juice down, her smile falling as she takes in the stricken look on Howe’s face. “Ezra, are you all right?”
Pulling him in against me, I wrap an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, don’t mind us. He’s just a bit out of sorts today. You caught us commiserating over the sudden loss of Jasper Prescott. Had you heard?”
Kimiko’s eyes fill with tears too. “Yes, it’s just awful. They said it was a heart attack?”
“Sudden cardiac arrest,” I correct with a solemn nod. “At least he went quick.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she replies. “He was just so strong. And there were no signs of illness. Saito is in pieces about it.”
“Never meant for him to die,” Howe mumbles against my chest, his voice soft, barely a whisper. “All my fault.”
Kimiko leans closer. “What was that?”
I flood Howe with the urge to stay silent. “Poor thing blames himself,” I say for him. “They argued, you see. The day before Prescott died. Always hard when one party passes after a quarrel.”
“Oh, Ezra, I’m so sorry.” She places her own consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure he knew you meant well.”
Okay, this nosy proprietress needs to go. Now.
“There, there,” I say a little louder, feeding Howe the urge to cry. “No shame in a grown man’s tears.”
Right on cue, Howe lets out a terrible, snotty-sounding sob.
Dropping her hand away, Kimiko steps back. “I’ll just . . . leave you both to it then.”
I nod again, mouthing the words “thank you.”
She walks away and I can’t contain the low growl that escapes me.
“All my fault,” Howe keeps mumbling. “Just found out. Can’t believe it . . . think I did this . . . don’t know how but—”
“Yes, it is your fault,” I snarl. “Now, tell me about my Birdie. What is she doing for you?”
“The journal,” he pants. “Need the journal—”
“Which journal?”
“The journal of Robert Dent. Mercy Bartlett has it. Won’t let me see it.”
“Why do you need Birdie to procure this journal for you?”
“Need evidence . . . or they’ll shut me down.”
“And what is this journal evidence of?”
“Witches were burned,” he mumbles. “Then buried. Families buried them.”
“And why do you want to exhume their bodies?”
“Island history . . . cultural legacy . . . reframe the taboo around witchcraft in early America.”
“And bodies will do all this?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Grimoires.”
Oh, fuckity fuck on a garlic shrimp toast!
Howe groans, my magic clearly taking a toll as his human senses try to fight the drain. He slumps against me. Isis wept, I’m losing him. I have to let go soon or he’ll pass out, dead to the world for the next twelve hours.
“Howe, quickly now,” I urge. “What about the grimoires?”
“Buried . . . with the bodies.”
“You’re sure?”
He shrugs, slumping against me again. “Only one way to find out.”
I’ve heard enough. Leaning away, I cup his cheek. “Howe, look at me.”
The weary archaeologist blinks, his eyes wholly unfocused. “Oh . . . hello, doctor. Is it time for my physical?”
I smile. “Thank you so much for telling me all about Homewood.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It sounds like a truly fascinating project. And I would love to donate to the historical society to support this groundbreaking work.”
He brightens at this. “You would? Really?”
“Mhmm. In fact, I just did.”
He sighs with relief. “The Burr Island Historical Society is a 501(c)(3) organization. Would you like proof of your donation?”
I pat his cheek. “That won’t be necessary. But you’re so kind for asking. I’m going to let go of you now.”
“Thank you.”
“When I let go, I’m going to leave, and you’re never going to think of me again. My face will be one you’ve seen somewhere before but can’t quite place.”
He searches my face, clearly confused. “Who are you?”
“Exactly.”
I drop my hands away from him and scoot back, watching as the effect of my magic slowly fades. The poor director takes on a green tinge as he comes back to his senses. He stops swaying on his chair, blinking down at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate.
“Are you okay?” I say.
He turns slowly to me. “What?”
“You were just choking on your sandwich. I said, are you okay?”
He rubs a hand to his chest. “Yeah . . . I think so.”
I rise from my chair, setting it back on the side of the table opposite him. “You take care now.”
“You too.”
Exiting past the host stand, I reach out, brushing my fingers down Kimiko’s arm. “I was never here.”
She looks around, confused. “Who said that?”
Chuckling, I drop my hand away. That was almost too easy.
Stepping out onto the busy street, my smile falls. Now I know what Ludmilla really wants . . . and I think I know how to stop her from getting it.