Chapter 34
The province of Quebec was only half an hour away from The Ten Percent in Ottawa.
Montréal, however, was another two hours into Quebec, and acted as the heart of the techno-witchcraft scene.
Though Caspar had seen postcards and heard rumours about Montréal’s legacy while in prison, he never fully appreciated what “techno-witchcraft” meant until they crossed over.
As the signs changed from the green ones bearing English and French writing to signs entirely in French and made out of lights, the landscape also changed.
The rolling hills and evergreens they’d passed on the road morphed into glass windows filled with a million different colours.
Each row of buildings seemed to have its own fountain with dark statues in the centre; water flowed up and over the figures and caught the manufactured light from the city, fracturing it across the sidewalks.
Each street corner seemed to have a light show, ready and waiting for the right people to come and witness it.
Brutal-looking metallic structures stuck out at odd angles, giving each building jagged shadows where snow lingered, though they were well into the end of April.
Neighbourhoods seemed to have houses made out of Lego blocks and shiny chrome surfaces.
Whenever the bus stopped at a red light, the entire city seemed to hum.
Caspar blinked and saw something like lightning crackle over cables and bridges as cars crossed under or over them.
Sometimes the signs spoke their locations aloud for the visually impaired, always in a melodic-sounding French feminine voice.
“This place is unreal,” Caspar said.
“I assure you, it’s very real. We toured here once,” Malek said.
“And was it always like this?”
“Yes and no. It had only just started changing then, but the atmosphere of that change and innovation was always here, if that makes sense. Montréal…” As they passed another sign, Malek read off the French motto and translated it into English. “‘The city where dreams manifest.’”
“What does that really mean, though?” Caspar asked. “I don’t even know how techno-magic works.”
“Well, techno-witches are a newly common breed of witches who thrive on machines and technology to make their spells work,” Malek explained.
“Most witches have elements associated with their power. Twigs, you know, she’s an earth witch who needs to use plants.
Witches can use items outside their power source, but it’s not as strong.
For techno-witches, everything can be a power source, as long as it’s man-made. ”
“There has to be a limit, though,” Caspar asked.
“No,” Malek said. “That’s the thing about technology.
It comes from the Greek word ‘techne,’ which means ‘art’ or something that is crafted.
Technology is anything that can be taught.
Writing is a technology, since it’s not natural to us.
So, in that way, all writing can be used in spellwork.
Techno-witches know how to harness that power and manifest dreams—but they don’t have limits. ”
“That sounds dangerous,” Natasha said. She marvelled as they passed under an ornate bridge and the bus was bathed in orange light.
“It can be,” Malek agreed. “But Quebec has some different laws, and because of it, all the witches flocked here. And now you have… whatever that is.”
Malek gestured toward a mural that seemed to be made of garbage. From one angle, the pop cans and plastic bottles formed a flame, but as they took a corner and rounded yet another French-sounding street, the garbage mural became a tree. Black writing underneath called the piece Prometheus.
“Some elementals, from what I remember,” William added, “can produce metal. They’re called Conductors.”
“Yeah, I’ve met one or two,” Katja said, nodding along. “They like to come to Montréal too, so they can work with witches. Replicators as well, since they make trinkets and work with elementals sometimes.”
“And those who find and study trinkets like it here, too,” Malek said. “The scholar I was telling Caspar about is here.”
“And so are George Cosner and his wife, Amara. The couple who own everything in the world,” Natasha said, then sighed. “Or at least, it feels that way.”
“Definitely.” Caspar gazed out at each new building in wonder.
In between staring out the windows and asking a dozen questions about French and witches to Katja and Malek, the few hours they had to themselves on the bus until they reached a hotel were put to use.
Natasha pulled up the floor plans for the museum from a database she still had access to, so Ultima could assess the best strategies to get in and out.
Katja searched through some old records that Jocasta gave her passwords for, and they accessed a complete catalogue of information about all the items listed in the museum.
“That’s all wonderful,” Ultima said. She was sitting in the disability seat at the front of the bus, though she’d refused to be strapped in. “But none of this means anything until after the gala. The stuff doesn’t seem to be in the wing.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Forgotten King exhibit goes on the second floor, but that’s not until the second week of May.” Ultima pointed to the flyer online. “Right now, there’s a dinosaur exhibit on that floor. When it’s done, The Forgotten King exhibit will go there.”
“Shit,” Natasha said.
“So what about storage space there? The museum has to have some place where they keep the off-season merchandise and the Christmas holiday party stuff. Right?” William suggested. “What about here?”
He gestured to the basement wing on the floor plans, listed as the Post Office. “Why would they need a post office? Is that where they take deliveries?”
“Sensitive deliveries, yes,” Ultima said.
“That’s probably what that means. If this collection is as important as we think it is—and they suspect it is—it’s probably been given a code name that sounds innocuous.
That way, when people visit the sensitive materials, they merely say they’re going to the Post Office and not to, you know, check on the crown and billions of dollars worth of resources. Hmm.”
Ultima took out her phone and googled a few phrases. Caspar had a hard time reading from his position closer to Malek as he drove, so he waited until the group had figured out the next steps.
“Ah. Okay. The security for that room is really complicated, according to Jocasta’s resources. Each area is divided by museum donor, and George Cosner is one among many. So there are separate areas, each held behind personal codes and passkeys for each donor.”
“What does that mean?”
“We need to crack Cosner’s password.”
“Okay,” William said, nodding. “I think there’s software for that. Or Katja’s magic?”
“Not so easy,” Ultima said, shaking her head. She flipped the phone so everyone could read the screen. “You’re only allowed three tries to log in before the site shuts down—and traps everyone inside. There are security question prompts, though.”
“And magic can’t solve that?” William asked.
“Not really. Our best bet is getting to know the owners.”
“George Cosner?” Natasha said. “Are you suggesting we interview him and Amara? Play twenty questions?”
“No. Just pay a little visit to their house. See how they live. People give away their passwords much easier than you suspect.”
“Are you really suggesting using psychic powers or cold reading instead of magic to crack that code?” Caspar asked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not, pirate boy. You have a better plan?”
Caspar glanced at the flyer. The start date for The Forgotten King exhibit was two weeks away—but two weeks seemed too far. “So, are you saying we go to this gala, and several of us go down and try to open the locks to get the crown? Isn’t this the exact trap they’re trying to pull us into?”
“It is, so we have to be better,” Ultima said. “We also don’t send our A-Squad into the basement.”
“So who’s our B-Squad?” Caspar asked.
When Ultima’s gaze settled on him, Caspar groaned. “I’m not going down in that basement with you.”
“You, me, and Katja. It makes the most sense.”
“What about Malek?”
“Malek can’t be caught, because if Odafin is behind this, then he’s walked into a trap designed just for him. But you—you’re a djinn, but of a different family, and as long as you don’t use the third wish, you’re not bound to anyone else. So you’re fine. Untouchable, really.”
Caspar wanted to argue, and it seemed like Malek did as well, but Ultima was talking again. “I’m in a wheelchair, so they won’t suspect me of being a schemer, especially if I’m down there with my cousin who is my caretaker. You can play the registered nurse, if you want.”
“And where is everyone else?”
“In the gala. Having a blast. And acting as security.” Ultima glanced at William, Natasha, and Malek. “Sound okay, guys?”
There was more discussion, and about a dozen other routes planned and forsaken because of the timeline issue.
They needed to get the crown as soon as possible, because everyone in this group had a shelf life—not just Caspar and Malek.
Natasha’s father was going to start to look for her soon, and William was still a runaway who needed to find his brother and his next shot of testosterone before he undid all the work he’d done in his transition.
Katja needed to get back to work with Chaz, and maybe even try to get Natasha out of her bad situation.
The gala was in two days. This was the only plan.
So they had forty-eight hours to perfect it as a team, instead of bickering about the roles.
“Fine,” Caspar said. “I’ll play your registered nurse.”
Ultima laughed much louder than necessary. “Excellent. Because I think I see the hotel now.”
Malek turned the bus onto a multicoloured cobblestone street that led up a small hill where their hotel sat.
The awning was a shade of green that reminded Caspar of jade, and it was framed by gold and brass mouldings.
Brass seemed to be the metal of choice on the doorknobs, windowsills, and fencing around the outdoor pool.
“It said there were brass beds online,” William added. “I thought that was good, since brass beds also don’t get bedbugs.”
“Oh, you’ve thought of everything,” Ultima said. “Including the elevator and heated pool.”
“Impressive,” Natasha said as she eyed the solar panels by the pool and roof. “It looks really nice.”
“It is. And we even have a reservation, though we may have to get another room. I don’t think Ultima and Caspar want to share.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Caspar said.
Ultima gave him a wink. He attempted to return the gesture using his bad eye.
Their planning sessions were cut short as they pulled into the hotel parking lot and gathered their bags from the back.
While Caspar and William checked in, Katja and Ultima took the service elevator up.
William tried to grab another room, but only managed to get a larger one for the women, so they all piled in there to continue planning once everyone was accounted for.
The gala was going to take place in the main foyer of the building. They already knew where the crown was located, and the only accessible entry point there was through the museum itself. No outside doors or windows would do, so they needed to get into the gala—and do so without raising suspicion.
“If we go to George Cosner’s house, he’ll have one of the invitations,” William said. “And I can copy it so we can get in.”
“And that’ll work?” Caspar asked.
“Oh yeah,” Natasha said. “Most of these places don’t really pay attention to the tickets—more the people who wield them.”
After a couple more clicks on her phone, Natasha found the address and floor plan for the Cosner residence. The house was in one of the suburbs they’d passed earlier in the day, but without so much ostentatious decor.
“This is actually one of the few areas not concentrated with witches,” Ultima said. “We’ll be looking at typical locks and security systems.”
“I can pick locks,” William said, and again, Ultima looked proud. “Security systems give me a bit of a headache, though.”
“Same. So we’ll strike when they’re home.”
“What?” Malek asked.
“Yeah, another grifter’s technique.”
“I’m not losing my eye again,” Caspar said.
“Of course not, sugar,” Ultima said. “But like with the gala, we split up and cover more ground. This time it’s reconnaissance, so we should have a carefully selected group doing the legwork, while the other half of us pretend to be a delivery crew for the show.”
“Yeah,” Natasha said, nodding along. “If we say a new item has come in, and George is a scavenger, he’ll sign for it no problem, right?”
Caspar had to admit, that sounded like it would actually work. “Natasha, you should be at the door. You know more about this stuff.”
Ultima insisted she should be there as well, since she was good at bullshitting, but they all decided that Katja, Natasha, and William were the best bets to knock on the door. “Young and non-threatening. Besides, William can always steal George’s wallet if he thinks something is going south.”
“That leaves us to do the digging,” Caspar said. “And, um, probably some lifting, right?”
“Yes,” Ultima said. “You and Malek may need to carry me for some sections, but if we break in through her large backyard, we should be fine.”
“There’s a dog, though,” William said, holding up an Instagram photo of Amara Cosner holding a small mutt in her lap and smiling. “He’ll bark.”
“And I love dogs,” Ultima said. “Bring it on.”
After that issue had been put out of the way, Katja ordered pizza again and they took care of the loose ends.
Ultima insisted she needed a day to scout out George and Amara’s schedule, so she could understand them better and also be able to stage a delivery easier to their house.
They talked of switching vehicles for the drop, but William wanted to keep the bus—and, well, Caspar had grown to love it.
“Is that it, then?” Natasha asked at nearly one in the morning. She stifled a yawn, but everyone soon caught it, quickly covering their mouths. “Is that all we have to do?”
“Costumes,” Katja said, brightening. “If we’re going to a gala, we should look the part.”
“Oh,” Ultima said, touching her chest. “I’ve missed you, Kitty-Kat. The dress-up part of cons is my absolute favourite. And that settles it—I know exactly what I’m doing tomorrow.”
When Ultima raised her glass, so did everyone else. Caspar caught Malek’s gaze from the corner of the room and felt his heart flutter with excitement, anticipation, and love, too. Definitely love.
“To The Forgotten King,” Natasha said.
“The Forgotten King,” everyone followed, and drank up.