Chapter Five
Territory could fairly be spelled with “terror”
when one is discussing thaumaturgic geography.
Blazing Trails , W.H. Jackson
“Aaaagghhh!”
The scream shook everything out of Elodie’s brain. Which might have been a good thing, since she was obviously hallucinating. After all, inn lobbies generally did not contain a white billy goat with a tufted beard, pink knitted pom-pom hat, and more to the point (literally), large sharp horns protruding from said hat.
A moment later her wits returned, however, and she found herself still looking at a sizable goat. In the intervening two seconds, the animal had turned from glaring at her and Gabriel to ducking its head and huffing as it lined up an angle of attack against Algernon, who apparently had entered the lobby, taken one look at the goat, and suffered an instantaneous internal landslide. His scream having made the situation worse, he was now trying to crawl into the five-inch-high space beneath a sideboard.
“Let’s go while the creature is distracted,” Gabriel murmured to Elodie.
“But poor Mr. Jennings,” she argued.
“Just think of the money we’ll save on feeding him. He himself would approve.”
Ignoring this, Elodie stepped forward, clicking her tongue softly and holding out a hand to the goat. He really was an adorable fellow in his pom-pom hat, to say nothing of the fluffy—
“MEHH!”
The goat pivoted toward her with terrifying speed, rearing up on his hind hooves and beating at the air. Elodie’s pulse stammered. But she had barely enough time to withdraw her hand before Gabriel moved, pushing her back roughly. Well, how obnox—
Thwomp .
His umbrella burst open. He held it out like a shield between Elodie and the goat, and the creature dropped to all four hooves.
“Mehhhh,” he declared (the goat, that is, not Gabriel), managing to combine surrender and utter disdain in one noise. There followed a moment of dire silence as the geographers waited to see what he would do next.
“Baby!”
The call snapped out like a whip from the inn’s kitchen doorway. Everyone jolted, including the goat. A young woman with a tempest of black ringlets stepped into the corridor, rolling pin in one hand and apple in the other. She tossed the latter, and the goat bounced forward to catch it expertly in his mouth. Elodie was so impressed by this feat, she felt compelled to applaud.
Algernon shot her a look of outright horror from where he huddled against the sideboard. “How can you clap for a beast that just tried to kill you?” he asked, his syllables leaping more than the goat itself had done.
“Because that’s the kind of person she is,” Gabriel said, punctuating the comment with a brusque click of his umbrella’s latch as he closed it.
Elodie blinked rapidly. Had that been an insult or a compliment from her husband? She began to ask, and no doubt incite another argument, but at that moment the young woman called out.
“Come on, Baby, be a good boy!” She patted her thigh and the goat trotted to her, apple in mouth, tail wagging. The girl scratched his neck before stepping aside so he could pass. The sound of his hooves tip-tapping across the stone floor and away into the kitchen ought to have been relieving, but somehow conveyed that “defeat” was just another word for “eventual revenge” in goat parlance.
Algernon rose, wiping sweat from his face. “Now I see why geographers claim hazard pay,” he said shakily.
“I am sorry, I am,” the young woman told them, her voice lilting as it swayed between the apology and a barely repressed amusement. “Baby is usually such a shy fellow. I don’t know what’s got into him that he’s being so friendly now.”
Elodie rather thought that Baby’s idea of friendliness was more murderous than was usually applied to the word, but she refrained from saying so on the grounds of the Second Rule. She smiled at the girl. “He seems like a charming pet,” she lied graciously.
“I’m Tegan Parry, my father owns this inn,” the girl said. “Can I get you some tea?”
“No thank you, we’re just going out.”
Tegan’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “But it’s raining! You might catch a cold that sees you slide rapidly into pneumonia, and despite our valiant efforts, die in this lonely, distant village, far from all those you love.”
“Egad!” Algernon cried, eyes growing wide.
“We’re quite used to inclement weather,” Elodie explained, “and want to make the most use of our time.” Indeed, Gabriel was already halfway along the lobby and moving fast. “But I’m sure Mr. Jennings could do with a soothing cup of tea.”
“Tea?” Algernon echoed. “Tea, when the beast might return at any moment?”
“Or you could come out into the storm with us,” Elodie replied in the deceptively mild tone that her students knew meant danger. “Do you have a fireproof umbrella in case of explosive rain?”
“I’ll stay here and have tea,” Algernon answered at once. Gabriel shut the front door behind him with a thunk that managed to sound disgusted. Smiling tightly, Elodie turned back to Tegan.
“Is it your bedroom we’ve taken over, Miss Parry?”
The girl flushed with delight at being addressed formally. “I’m happy to give it. Scientists, here in little D?lylleuad! So exciting! If you don’t get struck by lightning or tricked into a bog by a pwcca , I want to ask you all about geography!”
“Of course,” Elodie said, and made her escape before the girl could get started on a new doom.
Immediately upon stepping outside, Elodie discovered the afternoon had turned cyanic (a special geographical term for “weird-as-hell blue”). The inn’s garden glistened with diaphanous rain that drummed lightly against her umbrella. Chimney smoke stained the cold, rustling breeze, its scent making her wish she could curl up in a plump armchair beside a fire, enjoying hot chocolate and a really good map. But she could also taste the bitterness of magic with every breath and knew there would be no comfortable scenes in her near future.
Despite the gloom, D?lylleuad was quaintly charming, its ambling paths flanked by ramshackle stone walls overgrown with thyme and briar roses, the slate roofs of its cottages singing with rain. A wealth of trees shivered as the breeze rummaged through them. Their fallen leaves, red and gold and burnished copper, littered the ground like the memory of summer romance (and threatened to cause Elodie a dire injury as her bootheels slid on them). She felt lovely autumnal daydreams stirring in the warm, cozy corners of her imagination, and pushed them away in favor of cool, sensible observations about the lay of the land and its buildings, and how they might interact with any further thaumaturgic eruptions. After all, this was no time for reverie. The leaves gleamed blue beneath her feet, as if she stirred dreams out of the sodden earth. Walking through the nascent enchantment, feeling it waft like delicate gossamer threads against her skin, Elodie knew it could at any moment become like her marriage had been—tender loveliness that turned abruptly to disaster.
Gabriel had already vanished within the mist of rain. Not that Elodie sought him, mind you. She was professional, focused, and oh look, what a pretty tree! Was it a sessile or pedunculated oak? She veered toward it, then veered away again, reminding herself that there was no time to waste on random curiosity: she had important work to accomplish before nightfall. Opening the wrought iron gate of a cottage, she began up the garden’s stony path, admiring its verge of potted flowers and—Was that Gabriel farther along the street, a mere shadow in the silvery haze as he strode toward the edge of the village? If it was, she did not care a whit, she was dedicated to her own task, and—
Crash!
A stack of empty pots went clattering across the path as she collided with them. Elodie stumbled back, and a moment later the cottage door flung open.
“Who’s there?” growled a man with an expression as hard as Welsh slate, despite the soft fluff of his beard.
“Terribly sorry,” Elodie said, trying to hold her umbrella in one hand and tidy the pots back into place with the other.
“What kind of name is that?” the man scoffed.
One I ought to adopt, considering how often I say it, Elodie thought ruefully as her tidying efforts resulted in one pot rolling down the pathway and another spilling its contents over her boot.
“If you’re a tourist,” the man continued before she could answer, “we’re all full up.”
“Thank you, but I’m from the Home Office,” she said, giving up on the pots to straighten and look at the man directly. “My colleague and I are here to investigate the magical disturbances in the village. My name’s Dr. Tarrant.”
She seldom used the title in regular life, but when in the field it could be a convenient way to establish an air of authority. However, the man did not reply, and she guessed he’d misunderstood her. “To be clear, I’m not your pulse-taking, medicine-dispensing species of doctor…although actually a pharmacist would be the one to dispense medicine, wouldn’t they? I earned a doctorate in geographical science from Oxford University, which accords me the right to be known as Dr. Tarrant—although strictly speaking I am Mrs. Dr. Tarrant, I suppose. But it’s just by chance (and some unfortunate eavesdropping, but that’s another story) that I’m married to a doctor, which is to say another geographer with a doctorate, and I don’t want you to assume that I’m not Dr. Tarrant in my own right, despite my marriage to Dr. Tarrant. Dr. Gabriel Tarrant, that is. I am Dr. Elodie Tarrant. I have been trained in first aid, however, so in fact I can take your pulse should you need me to.”
The man stared at her blankly, but Elodie was used to that expression on people’s faces, and gave him a geographer’s smile, the kind that suggests private property is merely lines on paper and can she please come in? In response, the man gripped the edge of his door, preparatory to slamming it shut in her face. “What do you want?” he demanded.
Elodie lowered her hand unshaken. “I’m just here to ascertain—”
“Osian?” came a feminine voice from inside the cottage. “Who is it?”
“A doctor,” Osian replied, while still eyeing Elodie as if he suspected “ascertain” involved assassinating him.
Suddenly, a great clamor filled the room behind him. He was shoved aside by a woman, a crookbacked old man, and a youth with a mustache as wispy as pampas grass.
“Lovely to meet you,” the woman said with an old-fashioned curtsy. “I don’t suppose you know anything about carbuncles?”
“No, sorry,” Elodie answered. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Ach, Meggie, carbuncles probably require a specialist,” the old man said with a wink to Elodie that suggested he not only had considered himself a charmer in his youth but still did. “On the other hand, I’ve a rash that the lady doctor might be so kind as to look at?” He did not await her reply before proceeding to unbutton his trousers.
“Ah, er, um,” Elodie said, taking a hasty step back.
“I saw you arrive on that balloon, I did,” the youth interjected, smoothing his mustache with a finger. “Amazing! I don’t suppose your colleague is with you?” He craned to see over her shoulder hopefully.
“Er, um, ah,” Elodie said.
“Why don’t you come in?” the woman offered. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and some scones with jam and cream, and maybe you can tell me what a person should do when their carbuncle is oozing.”
Whoosh!
A sudden ferocious gust slammed through the cottage garden, frankly just in the nick of time, snatching away the umbrella along with Elodie’s balance. She stumbled, and Osian, despite his antagonism, reached out to help her. But then they both stopped, staring across the garden to the south.
The hills had vanished behind thunderclouds. Lightning ripped through the roiling, malevolent blackness, tearing it apart ruthlessly, like a mournful heart struck by memory. The rain was darkening from a veil to a shroud.
In the doorway, Osian crossed himself. But Elodie took a step toward the storm, shielding her eyes with a hand as she assessed the lower horizon. Wind shoved at her viciously, but she ignored it. The locals were saying something about it getting a little chilly; she ignored them too. The enchanted wild filled her mind. Eerie, deadly, it felt like home. She always bumbled her way through university corridors and human conversations, but here, at the edge of disaster, where the world was delirious with weather, and where all certainties unraveled, leaving only the hope that held the heart of all existence— here , she was centered. Standing quiet, she waited…
Then it came. In a graveyard behind the old stone church at the edge of the village, several bright blue lights flickered, as if poets were out with lanterns, looking for themselves among the dead.
Very tall poets, creeping steadily closer to the heart of D?lylleuad.
Elodie’s instincts leaped, flinging her pulse up with them. “Get inside!” she shouted at the family. “And shut every door, every window!”
There was no time for further explanation, and Elodie could only hope they obeyed. She ran down the path—skirting the fallen pots—wincing as sodden wind slapped her face—not stopping when she reached the gate. Setting one hand atop it, she vaulted over with an ease that wouldn’t have matched the even greater ease of spending two extra seconds opening the gate and walking through, but that was admittedly more impressive.
Turning left, she raced along the street toward the dark maw of the wild, boots splashing through murky puddles, hair unraveling from its knot, dressing gown billowing dramatically as the wind shoved at her from behind. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be indoors, where she hoped they would remain, safe from the magic that had begun to flare through the storm-wrecked atmosphere.
Even with iron and gold hooked around her ear as protection, Elodie could feel that magic limning her nerves like a siren song. She could feel it warming deep places inside her body where the most fragile of her dreams were tucked away like pressed flowers among old receipts and scraps of childhood drawings. Most of them involved Gabriel, and were blushed with the recollection of their nights together, gentle and quiet nights that swayed with a shy rhythm coiling slowly into wishes she’d never dared to tell another soul. And although she knew it was a deadly earthborn enchantment, still she wanted it to continue until it slipped right inside her, killing her with a blissful little death, right there on the road.
Apparently not even iron and gold were enough against some magic or memories.
But this was something geographers trained for, relentlessly and essentially, and Elodie was not afraid. Indeed, she felt invigorated by the threat. “Gods do what they like, they call down hurricanes with a whisper, or send off a tsunami the way you would a love letter,” she called out to the sky in ancient Greek, laughing.
Passing the old church, she followed the road as it bent around a vast oak tree—then stopped abruptly, her heartbeat tripping over itself.
Gabriel stood beside the entrance to the church’s graveyard, his long black coat swirling like tamed storm shadows. He held his umbrella aloft as thaumaturgic lightning struck its metal tip in one continual, delicate beam of energy that would have killed him had it been real lightning and the umbrella been a real umbrella instead of a Weather Mitigation Device constructed with silver and enchanted oilcloth. He looked like a dark angel, leashing perilous weather for the sake of the dead.
Ooh, Elodie’s very soul gasped. Never mind earth magic; the witchery of her own lust caught fire within her, so that she felt surprised the rain didn’t start steaming above her head.
Gabriel glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Damp, wind-tangled strands of hair had fallen across his face, and as he looked through them with his dark, dark eyes, Elodie’s internal flames became an inferno.
But she had been suffering reactions like this from the moment she first laid sight on the man nine years ago, and it was a matter of little effort to make a show of indifference now.
“Hello,” she called, walking closer, hands in her skirt pockets. “Aeolus is certainly out to play this afternoon.”
Gabriel did not reply. She couldn’t decide if this was because he failed to recognize the name of the Greek storm god, or because he was an obnoxious, arrogant sod , despite his physical charms. Then she noticed the thaumaturgic compass in his black-gloved hand.
“Lost your way?”
“No,” he said, raising his voice calmly above the crackle of the lightning, and Elodie reflected that he wouldn’t recognize banter even if it hit him smack in the face. She had a sinking feeling that this assignment was going to prove methodical, orderly, and effective—all of which would look great in the official report but would make living through it a tedious misery.
“You might want to stand back,” Gabriel warned her. “As we anticipated, the graveyard has attracted excessive power from the fey line, and thaumaturgic sublimation is emitting magic into the atmosphere. Matters may become dire at any minute.”
Stand back? As if she weren’t a professional, the same as him! A calm, sensible professional with unfaltering mental discipline! Indeed, she was so professional, she could take that umbrella he was holding, lightning and all, and shove it—
“Ahem.” Elodie cleared her throat before the sudden violent idea turned into words and got her into the kind of trouble that thinking aloud had done in the past—for example, married to the arrogant sod with the umbrella.
“I can see that,” she said instead, maintaining her stride. Indeed, she’d have had to be a humanities scholar to not recognize the danger. Above the lush, leaf-strewn grass of the graveyard, several sparks of ignited gases formed out of leaking thaumaturgic energy were being drawn together to become a single greenish-blue globe that pulsed with magic as it grew. Dancing over headstones, illuminating them with its ephemeral, sinister light, it made the name “will-o’-the-wisp” seem far too dreamy. This ghost light was a nightmare.
Elodie hastily calculated the globe’s probable trajectory and realized that, without a doubt, it was going to hit the village like a bomb. And although ignis fatuus phenomena, even when thaumaturgically activated, generally did not have a high charge density, still the danger of civilians being scorched or turned into a flock of chickens remained.
If only she’d not lost her own umbrella, she might have been able to attract and contain the energy bomb with its silver tip, like Gabriel was doing with his. But as it was, there seemed no way to prevent the impending disaster.
“Think, Elodie Hughes; think,” she muttered under her breath, an old habit that had not changed even after she’d married Gabriel and taken on the name Tarrant…
“Aha!” she exclaimed with such force, Gabriel raised his eyebrow at her again. An idea whipped through her imagination, and at once she began to run. Leaping over a narrow, weedy ditch that cut across the graveyard’s entrance, she wove a haphazard route through the headstones, heartily grateful for the shorter length of her field skirt as she skipped over thistles and splashed through murky puddles.
“What are you doing?” Gabriel demanded.
“My job!” Elodie shouted in reply. The rain began to fall harder, filling her eyes with stars of watery light and ending any possibility of conversation. She felt herself enter the thaumaturgic energy flow. It prickled against her skin and beneath her boots, lifting her some three inches until she was running literally on air and magic. She laughed, delighted. As the sizzling bomb of blue light rushed at her, she raised her hand like she had any hope in the world of stopping it.
And everything turned to gold.