On the Edge, page 23
An older woman at the jewelry counter nearly dislocated her neck, trying to get his attention. A housewife fussing over a little girl in a cart looked up as they maneuvered around her and simply stared, openmouthed. A woman at the clothes rack raised an eyebrow, tugged her low-cut white blouse lower, and followed them with a determined look on her face.
Just what they needed, more attention. Rose took a sharp turn into the aisle running between the shoe section and sporting goods and glanced behind her. Six women, some discreetly, some openly, followed them. It irritated her to no end.
“I should’ve made you wear a hockey mask,” she murmured.
Declan glanced back and unleashed a dazzling smile. One of the younger girls squeaked like an unoiled door. Somebody mumbled, “Oh, Lord.”
“Stop that!” Rose snapped.
“Stop what?” He turned to her, and she found herself on the receiving end of that same smile. She could’ve stared at him for a year and never gotten tired. “That,” she said firmly. “Quit it.”
“Is it upsetting you?”
The adoring crowd seemed to have grown. “You’re going to cause a riot.”
“You think so? I’ve never created a riot before. I did cause a brawl at the last formal. A large number of young women there actually arrived with the expectation of seducing me into matrimony, and a couple of their mothers came to blows. It was hilari—I mean, dreadful. Simply dreadful.”
“Yes.” Rose sighed in mock pity. “It’s awful to be rich and mind-bogglingly handsome and have women fawn over you. My heart bleeds for you. Poor dear, how do you manage?”
“So you do think I’m handsome.”
She actually stopped for a second. “Declan, I’m not blind.”
He looked disgustingly smug.
“Oh, get over yourself.”
“Not just handsome but mind-bogglingly handsome,” he said.
He’d never let her live it down. She spun about and fixed their audience with a look of withering scorn. “Ladies, have some decency.”
The crowd scattered.
“And now you’re feeling possessive.”
“I think I liked you better as an icy blueblood.” She shook her head and dropped another set of blue candles into the shopping cart.
NINETEEN
ROSE surveyed Declan’s preparations from the porch.
A Sand-n-Sun inflatable pool, twelve feet across and about three feet high, sat in the middle of the lawn. The water shone under the afternoon sun. To the left, Jack sat in a pine tree, staring at the water with a wistful look on his face. Georgie stayed inside. He would never refuse to come out—he was too polite for that—so he quietly hid in the attic, probably hoping they would forget about him.
The screen door swung open, and Grandmother came to join her. Éléonore looked better. Her hair was teased back up, and she had gained a bit of spring in her step. She stared at the lawn.
“What is that boy doing?”
“According to him, he’s implementing his plan to have me. With all my thorns.”
Grandma blinked. “He said that?”
“He did.” And she was a stupid fool, because every time she thought about it, her heart beat faster.
“He’s trying hard, no?”
Rose nodded.
Declan had bought a measuring tape and very carefully measured the distance from the pool, marking the points with white paint. Next he cut several sticks about two feet tall, sharpened both ends, and hammered the sticks into the marked points. He impaled the candles onto the sticks and then strung white clothesline between them. From the height of the porch, the clothesline formed a complex geometrical figure, a seven-pointed star enclosed in a circle, with the pool in the exact center.
“Well, it’s a sigil,” Grandmother said.
Rose had tried to study sigils before. Mystical signs, sigils were most often used in summoning and alchemy. Some of them signified true names of magical beings, and some channeled magic into patterns. It was boring as all get-out, but she’d forced herself to learn the basics.
“Looks like he used a single piece of string,” Grandmother murmured.
Rose found the knot and tried to follow the clothesline with her gaze. The stretches of string crossed, under, over, under again, and came back to the same first post. “Yes,” she said.
“Definitely a sigil,” Grandmother said.
“Grandma?”
“Mmm?”
“Did the boys tell you about Casshorn?”
Éléonore’s eyes darkened, taking on a strange, predatory aspect. “Yes. Yes, they did.”
“He’s in the Wood,” Rose said.
Magic swirled around Éléonore, dark and frightening, like black wings. “Of course,” she said evenly, her face terrible. “Where else would he be? Thinks he can hide in our back-yard, does he? We’ll find him. And once we do, I’ll bring the power of all of East Laporte onto his head for daring to touch my grandchildren. I’ll see him weep bloody tears before this is over.”
Rose shivered.
Declan emerged from the driveway, carrying the grill from the truck. He set it at the starting point of the star, dumped some charcoal into it, and brought over the large metal bowl filled with powdered herbs.
There were so many things they didn’t know yet. And Declan was their key to finding them out.
“He has half of my supply room in that bowl,” Grandmother said. Rose snuck a peek at her—the dark magic was gone, as if it had never been.
In the yard, Declan drenched the charcoal in lighter fluid and lit it. The flames surged up, licking the briquettes.
“Do you think he can help Georgie?” Rose asked.
“We’ve tried everything else. He can’t hurt, I suppose.” Grandma sighed. “But if you don’t want to leave with him, you should stop helping him.”
“I’m doing it for Georgie.”
“I know, child. I know.” Éléonore petted her shoulder and went inside.
Rose hopped off the porch and approached Declan. He spread the coals with an oversized fork and glanced at her through the cloud of sparks.
“Are you planning to summon a demon?” she asked.
He grimaced. “No.”
“Just checking.”
He threw a handful of herbs into the fire.
“But you are summoning something?”
“An image. I’m also binding it to the water.” He tossed another handful into the fire. The greedy flames pounced on the herbs, sending aromatic smoke into the air. “Problem is, I have to reach across the boundary into the Weird. That will take a fair amount of magic. I’ll need a sacrifice. Just not sure if what I have is enough.”
The first hesitant traces of magic swirled along the clothesline. The water in the pool darkened.
Declan began to intone something in a steady monotone. She didn’t recognize the language, but she felt his effort and the roiling current of magic vibrating within the sigil.
He chanted for almost a half hour, his face quaking with the strain. She sank next to him on the grass. The sound of his voice lulled her into a kind of trance. Shrouded in clouds of fragrant smoke, he seemed otherworldly, like some arcane sorcerer from a fairy tale.
Then Declan clasped his hair in a tight grip, drew the knife, and sliced it off.
“Aaaa!” It happened so fast, all Rose could do was gasp.
“What?” He threw the hair into the flames.
“Your hair!”
“That’s why I grew it,” he said, glancing at the water in the pool. “Power reserve. Three years’ worth. But it’s not enough.”
Rose stood up, gathered her hair, and held out her hand.
He handed her the knife. She severed her hair with one sharp stroke and threw it in the fire.
“Most women would rather die than cut their hair,” he said.
“It’s just hair,” she said. “I would sacrifice a lot more to keep Georgie alive.”
The water within the pool bubbled up, rising, twisting into a huge translucent dome.
Something bumped Rose’s elbow, and she jumped. “Jack!”
He regarded her with solemn eyes and held out his hand.
Declan passed her the knife, and she handed it to Jack. He sliced a lock from his head and tossed it into the fire. It went up in flames.
“Smells awful,” Rose said, ruffling Jack’s hair.
The water swirled, geysered up one last time, and snapped into shape.
SOMEONE was coming up the attic stairs. Georgie looked away from the picture. The attic belonged to him and Jack. It was a wondrous place. Huge piles of junk gathered against the walls: books, weapons, rusty contraptions, drawings, parchments . . . Down in the house, Rose cleaned up any hint of dirt and clutter, but here everything was messy and dusty. He liked it up here. It was quiet, and he could dream. Sometimes he imagined himself to be a pirate like Grandpa in the hull of his ship filled with treasure. Sometimes he was an explorer like Dad. Sometimes he was a demon . . .
A blond head emerged, followed by the rest of Declan. His long blond ponytail was gone, and his head looked lopsided, the hair on one side longer than on the other.
The blueblood paused for a moment, taking in the gloom and treasures, and looked at Georgie on his seat on a punching bag by a narrow window. Georgie sighed. There would be another talk about letting things die and “take their natural course.” He’d nod and do what he always did. A waste of time.
Declan crossed the floor, crouched by him, and looked at the metal frame in his hands. George offered it to Declan.
Grandpa Cletus stood in the picture. Very tall and red-headed, he wore loose dark pants and a light shirt, with a triangular hat set at a jaunty angle. A carbine, an ancient musket, rested across his shoulders, the stock held in his right hand, the barrel passing behind his neck. In his other hand, he held a long rapier, leaning on it slightly as if it were a walking stick. His eyes were alight with crazy mirth. Grandma said he looked like a grown-up version of Jack, wrapped in pirate garb. When he first dragged this picture down to show her, she clicked her tongue and said, “Fiercely loyal and utterly unreliable.” She didn’t smile for a whole day after that, and he hid the picture in the attic with the rest of his stuff.
“Grandpa,” George said, in case Declan failed to figure it out.
“I see.”
“What happened to your hair?”
“I got tired of it.”
George nodded and looked at him, waiting for a lecture.
“I’ve made something for you,” Declan said. “I’d like it if you came to see it with me.”
George followed him outside. A kiddie pool was in the middle of the lawn. Around it was a big complicated design made with rope and sticks. They climbed through the ropes. Declan stepped over the lines, while George ducked underneath, and they stood together at the rim.
A transparent dome rose in the middle of the pool, all the water bound together tightly by the magic. Within the dome sat a small settlement of crooked huts. Fields and forest surrounded it, giving way to a green plain. The top of the dome glowed with soft silvery light, and he could see every detail of the village, from the stones on the well to tiny creatures scurrying about. Shaped like little human-looking foxes with red, brown, and black pelts, the creatures went about performing small tasks, carrying water, tending the fields, fixing the thatched roofs. Georgie stared, mesmerized.
“What is that?” he asked finally.
“It’s a willworld. Do you know what a computer is?” Declan asked.
“Yes.”
“This is similar. It’s the Weird version of it, only unlike a computer, the willworld has a very specific purpose. It only does one thing, but it does it really well. I made it for my graduation project when I finished gymnasium.”
“Did it take you a long time?”
“A couple of years. The willworld itself is back at my house. This is just a facsimile . . . a copy. It’s an exact image of the device, made of water and magic and linked by magic to the original. You might say it’s a three-dimensional reflection. For all practical purposes, it’s pretty much like having the real thing at your disposal.”
George watched the foxes as they carried long stalks back to their huts. “Are they alive?”
“No. They’re magic constructs. Strictly speaking, they don’t actually exist. If you were to break the dome, you couldn’t pick one up. The whole thing would simply go dark. Look here.”
Declan walked over to the side, where a watery control panel protruded from the dome. “The willworld is a simulator. It lets you study the progress of civilization and see how it might develop. You control the world. You can make it rain or you can cause a drought. Here.” He turned a dial.
Water rose within the dome, streaming over the fields. The foxes climbed atop the huts. He turned the dial the other way, and the waters fled.
Declan tapped the keys. The inside of the dome swirled and formed a small white-walled city with gardens and carved white towers. “This is a standard city, a kind of default. Everything is going well. There is plenty of food, the weather is mild, and the civilization prospers.”
Georgie watched the city for a few minutes. Tiny foxes in bright robes lectured before their students in the gardens, strolled through the marketplace, and danced in a square while two other foxes played oddly shaped instruments.
Declan pressed another key.
“See this sign?” He pointed to a horizontal double loop in a small window. “I just set their generation length to infinity. They are now immortal. They can kill each other, but they won’t die of natural causes. I also sped things up a little, so we don’t spend all night watching a single scenario. Now this city is stored within the willworld. Anytime you wish to return to it, push this button right here and the world will be reset.”
For the first few minutes nothing happened. Then the city began to grow. It filled the fields, spreading, sprawling, growing higher and higher. In twenty minutes the city completely swallowed the dome. Streets became tunnels. Towers turned into tall contraptions. Creatures stumbled about in crowded streets. The city had grown filthy and dark, its buildings decrepit.
“What’s happening?” George whispered.
“Overpopulation. There are too many of them. There is not enough food or space. The old ones won’t die, and they keep making more children.”
In thirty minutes, the creatures began falling on the streets, crawling through the filth, searching for scraps of food. Declan reached to reset the dome.
“No. I want to see,” George said.
“It won’t be pretty,” Declan warned.
“I understand.”
Declan let it go.
Fires broke out. The creatures formed gangs and began ripping each other apart, feeding on the severed limbs.
George stumbled away from the dome and closed his eyes.
“Are you unwell?” Declan asked.
Georgie shook his head. They ate each other. The little foxes ate each other.
“Let us continue then. Take two.”
George looked at the dome in time to see the darkness swirl. The perfect little city reappeared.
Five minutes into it, one of the foxes began to cough. The cough spread, first to the neighbors, then farther, engulfing the entire city.
“The plague,” Declan explained. “They’re sick, but they can’t die. Sometimes death is the only way to stop the spread of infection. This sickness can’t quite kill them, but there is no cure.”
They watched the foxes shamble about in the dark, coughing in misery. When they started falling from exhaustion, George asked him to reset the dome.
The third try went well for the first ten minutes, and George began to have hope, until a group of older foxes started smashing the new building with sticks.
“Why are they doing that?” Georgie asked.
“They don’t want the city to change,” Declan said. “They’ve realized that if they keep growing, they’ll run out of space.”
Five minutes later, some foxes were chained, marched to the lake, and forced into the water.
“Why?” Georgie whispered, watching them drown.
“They are probably the ones who wanted the city to grow. The others must have decided that the population should remain the same. The city can only support so many foxes. This is their way of controlling it.”
“But . . .” George bit his lip, as the foxes brought out little fox babies and one by one threw them into the lake. That was just about enough of that. He marched to the control panel and hit a reset button.
Declan straightened. “I’m going to go inside now. You know how to reset the dome back to default. The spell will probably hold through the night, but I doubt we’ll get more than twelve, fifteen hours from it, so if you want to run it a bit more, best to do it now.”
GEORGIE felt Rose’s arms close about him. She hugged him. “It’s almost midnight. You should come inside.”
He shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said, staring at the dome. “A little longer.”
“Declan and I decided to sleep on the porch tonight to keep an eye on you. If you run into any trouble, you come and get one of us, okay?”
George glanced back. On the porch, Declan and Grandma were arranging some blankets.
“Okay,” he said, reaching to the control panel. If he reset it just one more time, maybe it would be fine. It had to be fine. There had to be a way for it to end well.
ROSE awoke when the first hint of sunrise colored the sky. Georgie sat on the steps, hugging his knees. She stirred. At the other end of the porch, Declan’s eyes snapped open. He looked at her from above the back of a small lynx who curled by his side. Jack must’ve taken off his bracelet in the night. Probably to keep an eye on his brother.
