Chapter 20
They arrived in Ragsling Village well past sundown.
It was a small village with cobblestone streets and little pitched roof cottages.
The main road that led them straight to town, a mile from the train stop, was lined with plain looking shops with hand painted CLOSED signs in their darkened windows.
She felt no Magic, not even a trace.
Ragsling Village was purely Human.
They moved into a narrow alleyway between two shops, heading for a flickering light ahead.
Maeve halted and strained her neck. Her hand reached back and grazed the nape of her neck.
“What?” Asked Mal in a hushed voice.
That uneasy and unwelcome feeling trickled down Maeve’s spine. Barely there. It had been a week since she felt it. She sighed, having hoped it was gone.
“What’s wrong?” He asked.
Maeve didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he replied. “What are you feeling?”
Maeve looked down the cobblestone alley. A cool breeze pushed around them, blowing a newspaper past that had been littered. She relented and finally admitted what she had kept from.
“Like someone is watching me,” she whispered.
She could feel Mal’s immediate reaction of panic. Then disdain.
“For how long?”
“A month,” she admitted.
“A month?” Mal asked incredulously.
Maeve looked up at him. “It comes and goes.”
Mal shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It seemed, well, irrelevant.”
Mal’s eyes were darkened by the moonlight-less alley way, but Maeve knew there was anger flitting across them.
“Come on,” said Maeve, and restarted their walk. “We need to find a place to stay.”
“We’re Magicals. We can stay anywhere we see fit,” said Mal.
“But don’t you think it’s much more adventurous this way?” She asked, wringing out her hands in at attempt to dull the creeping sensation running across her skin. “Besides, if you have Magical Family near, it’s best they don’t feel our Magic first, in case a surprise visit is necessary.”
“I know,” said Mal, clearly still annoyed at her secret keeping. “I’m the one who suggested that.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Maeve playfully, glancing over at him.
He shook his head.
The narrow path opened up into a square.
There was a small brick fountain in the middle.
It was dry, barely a trickle of water running down the center.
Across the square was a tall, skinny brick building with a large sign that read: THE HANGED MAN PUB.
It was the only building on the street with light shining through the windows.
“Maybe they know where we can stay the night,” said Maeve.
They crossed the square in silence, their cloaks whipping in the summer wind. The steps to the pub creaked as they approached the door. Mal reached for the knob, and Maeve’s arm shot out in front of him quickly.
“I think you should wear your hood up. This village is small, and if you bare any resemblance to your family, they’ll know who you are. It’s best you aren’t seen, given our business here.”
Mal cut her a look but pulled his hood around his face. Maeve stopped, mesmerized by the dangerous look it gave him. He pushed open the door with one long arm and Maeve crossed inside, brushing off the smile threatening to betray her thoughts.
The Hanged Man smelled strongly of beer, a smell Maeve detested. Behind the bar was an older man with a large grey mustache that covered his whole mouth. It was as dreary on the inside as it was on the outside.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Maeve with a smile. “We’re traveling through and hoping to find a place to stay for the night.”
She placed her hands on the counter. They struck. Her smile faltered as she peeled them up and looked at them. They were now covered in a thin, sticky film.
She held her hands awkwardly in the air.
The barman looked her over. “I got two rooms, but I don’t know about renting them to teenagers. You traveling alone?”
“We are, sir. If it’s any consolation, we aren’t teenagers. I’m twenty-one-”
“What’s a pair of kids doing traveling alone?”
Maeve sighed and smiled once more. She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of Human currency, hating that she was touching her things with dirty hands. She slid eighty pounds across the counter at the man.
“Are the rooms upstairs or down?” Maeve asked him.
The barman’s eyes grew wide, and he choked on the swig of beer he had just downed. Scrambling to gather the money, he nodded and pointed towards the stairs on the opposite side of the pub.
“Thank you,” said Maeve curtly.
Up the rickety stairs, there was a small landing with two doors opposite one another. Maeve snapped her fingers, instantly cleaning her palms.
“What happened to ‘no Magic’?” Mal asked.
“Oh,” she said, never having realized how habitual Magic was. “I suppose that didn’t last long, did it?”
“Where did you get that human money?” Mal asked lowering his hood.
“One must always be three steps ahead of one’s self. The possibility for plans to go awry is almost certain.”
“Hmm,” said Mal. “It’s likely you overpaid. Or we could have done it my way.”
“What’s your way?” Asked Maeve.
“Goodnight,” said Mal with a wicked grin as he pushed open the door to one of the rooms.
Maeve smiled softly and retreated into her own room. There was little to it. A twin bed with a metal frame and pale sheets, a small dressing table and a wooden chair. In the corner was a black stove of sorts for heat or cooking.
She clicked the door closed quietly and leaned against it. It would be difficult to sleep knowing he was so close. She slipped off her cloak and laid it across the chair. She ran her hand over the set of candles on the nightstand, flames bursting at their wicks.
The Pub was so quiet she was scared Mal could hear her thoughts as she laid on the feathered bed.
Wind tapped against the window.
She ran her finger along her jawline, thinking about how his hands felt on her skin as she drifted off to sleep.
The bed shook. In the distance was a faint whirling sound, followed quickly by another shake. She sat up slowly. The candle stand on the bedside table clattered quietly, its flame extinguished.
The next whizzing sound was louder. Maeve moved quickly to the window as the glass shook. In the distance, bright lights were flashing across the horizon like distant lightning.
Then a loud and shrill sound filled the streets below. It was a blaring siren that ascended and descended in pitch.
It was a chilling sound.
A warning.
Maeve gasped and grabbed her night robe. She threw it on as she ran towards the door. She flung it open and startled as Mal was already standing at the threshold. His hair was disheveled, and his robe was carelessly covering his exposed chest.
The landing outside their rooms was dark, but Maeve could see his finger was pointed, ready, and his eyes were wild.
The creaking of steps from the third floor caused Maeve to shove his hand away. She placed herself between Mal and the barman.
“You kids alright?” He asked.
Maeve nodded quickly.
“Yes,” answered Mal.
“They aren’t getting us tonight,” said the barman. They’re bombing over in Maidstone, by the looks of it. Much larger metropolitan nearby.”
Mal and Maeve stood silently as the barman stood awkwardly.
“Still, there’s a bunker a few blocks down,” said the barman. “You two might want to make your way there for the night, in case.”
“We’re alright,” said Mal. “We’d prefer to stay here, sir.”
The barman shifted nervously as a flash of light from Maeve’s room illuminated the hallway.
“I feel responsible for the two of you,” said the barman. “You look like well-off kids, and I ain’t trying to have some rich snot coming after me for not getting you to safety-”
“You do not care who we are,” said Mal plainly. “You’ll go back to sleep and leave us be.”
Maeve glanced down, but Mal wasn’t pointing at him. She looked back at the barman, expecting another argument. But the old man nodded, turned and made his way back up the stairs without another word.
Maeve looked up at Mal as the inn rumbled once more.
“Your way, I see,” said Maeve.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
Mal stepped past her into her room and stalked to the window, observing the bombing on the horizon. Maeve closed the door behind them.
“How far away do you think they are?” Asked Maeve as she stood beside him.
“Far enough,” said Mal.
They watched for a moment. Maeve looked down, and there were humans in the streets hurrying towards the bunker the barman spoke of.
“I have to admit,” said Maeve. “That’s quite the invention of theirs. Massively destructive.”
Mal didn’t respond.
“Father says one bomb matches the strength of a thousand Magicals. And they keep making bigger ones.”
She pressed her palm against the glass. The panes vibrated despite their distance from the bombs.
Mal asked. “Do you still feel that magic from earlier?”
Maeve nodded. “It’s so faint. Makes me doubt its existence.”
Mal was quiet for a moment as they watched and listened to the distant rumbling. Then he spoke lowly. “Don’t keep those kind of things from me.”
Maeve didn’t respond.
“We should place protective enchantments,” said Mal, as another larger quake shook through the village.
Maeve agreed. Together they cast enough protective barriers to prevent them from being harmed should the bombs make their way over to Ragsling Village.
After another moment, the sirens fell silent, and Maeve yawned. Mal looked her over.
“You should go back to sleep,” he said.
Maeve nodded and made her way towards the bed. Mal seated himself in the small wooden chair in the room.
“What are you doing?” Asked Maeve.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
Maeve frowned.
“Go back to sleep, Sinclair,” said Mal, running his fingers through his hair. “Morning is only a few hours away.”
Maeve’s eyes lingered on his exposed chest for a moment before she felt her cheeks become warm. She slipped under the covered quickly.
“What about you?”
“I was finding it difficult to sleep anyway,” he said.
Maeve propped up on her side. “Because of the anticipation of tomorrow?”
“No,” he said. “Because you’ve had a feeling you were being watched for a month and didn’t bother to tell me.”
Maeve rolled to her other side. “You’re just nervous is all.”
She stared at the blank wall, her back to him, and wondered if she’d be able to fall asleep with him so close.