Street Magic

Frozen obsidian claws raked her back and the silver mist poured into the room, forming three of the female shapes. The one who broke the window hissed, staring down at Pete with empty black eyes that seemed to stretch to the bottom of the world.

Pete opened her mouth to yell for Jack, but was deafened by a scream that went straight through her, rending flesh and piercing bone.

The mist-woman closed her mouth, blood bubbling down her chin, and hissed, 'Where is the crow-mage? The man called Winter?' Her voice was sibilant and split Pete's ears until she was sure she was deaf, hearing the mist-woman's voice through the echo inside her skull.

'I don't…' she said, or thought she did. She couldn't hear, not even her own heartbeat.

The mist-woman's robe smelled of marsh water and the blood of ancient battlefields. It slithered over Pete's face as she lay at their feet, body stiff and chilled, head ringing. Jack. She had to get Jack. Warn Jack.

'Where is the mage called Winter?' they demanded again, a concert of moans and sighs. Their hair floated as if they were submerged, black as muddy reeds. Behind their shoulders, a line of light glowed, the edge of the door. 'The mage called Winter!' the bansidhe screamed. They looked like every one of Juniper's stories, down to the black claws that curled from sodden, wrinkled hands.

The first bansidhe swooped and brought her face close to Pete's. 'Give him to us!'

Fear coiled, sprung, wrapped itself around Pete's heart like a rusty iron chain, but she met the bansidhe's black eyes, and snarled with all the pain and fury she could expel. 'Go back to Hell.' She rolled, wrenching all the already painful parts of her body, and wrapped her hands around the lamp, swinging it through the bansidhe's drowned corpse face.

The bansidhe howled, claws raking at its face where Pete hit, the skin melting and running over a skull alive with maggots. Stinking marsh water spattered on the floor.

Pete broke for the door. 'Jack! Jack, there's trouble!'

Behind her she felt them, as if she were extending invisible fingers. She felt their blackness part the air as they flew, claws and hair lashing, catching Pete's shirt and yanking her backward.

She fell, twisting, down the last stairs, rolled on her side and got up again. The bansidhe's howling cracked her skull, caused the hall lights to flicker.

Jack appeared in front of her, eyes flaming, his hands sparking with chalk dust as the mist covered them both. 'Jack!' Pete gasped, or screamed. She didn't know, only the vibration in her throat even told her she was speaking. 'Jack, they're behind me.'

Jack's irises expanded and he let go of Pete's shoulders. He saw them. 'Pete.' She saw his lips move. 'Pete, get behind me.'

'Winter!' screeched the bansidhe, and Pete heard them perfectly. 'Crow-mage! Surrender yourself!'

Jack drew in a breath and witchfire blossomed on his palms, hot as the bansidhe's skin was icy. 'Bugger to that,' he said. 'You're not welcome here, and this is a very bad time to make me lose my temper.'

The bansidhe drew back their lips from their razor-wire fangs. Their leader raised her right hand and drew her left set of talons across her wrist. Blood oozed from the cuts, and where it hit the walls and the floor smoke rose, black as the coal haze that drifted over London a hundred years ago.

Pete choked as the smoke roiled and grew. It was too much like her nightmare, and where the smoke touched her skin ice crystals appeared. The entire hallway of her flat was frozen over with ice the color of oil.

'Surrender, or the companion dies,' snarled the bansidhe woman. 'We have cause, crow-mage!'

'State your cause, then!' Jack snapped. 'I serve no Un-seelie master and you can't compel me with your bloody Fae laws!'

'A price has been paid and a bargain set.' The bansidhe smiled, or what a smile would have been wrought in her hissing rictus of a face. 'Your life has a value, crow-mage. For the one who ends it, your talents are the reward.'

Pete choked as she felt the ice work its way down her throat, and caught hold of Jack's hand. His body was humming like a guitar string, but he showed none of it, stock-still, the witchfire melting the ice around him quickly as it grew.

'Leave now,' Jack told the bansidhe with a terrible still anger that Pete had only ever seen from Connor, 'and maybe I'll decide not to rip your wretched carcasses out of the ether and turn you to mud as a repayment for this trespass.'

The bansidhe screamed at the insult, and Pete staggered, but the pain slowly lessened inside her head, almost as if she could dial down the volume now that she was growing used to the sound. She dug her other set of fingers into Jack's collarbone and felt him still his shaking in return.

'This is no warded place or churchyard!' the leader screeched. Pete's small cluster of photographs tumbled to the ground under the noise, their glass shattering. 'This is neutral ground, mage, and we demand your surrender! Give yourself over… or live to see your thighbones picked clean.' Her shadowed spirit eyes flickered with delight.

Jack slid his gaze over to Pete, all the rage run out. He was skinny and old too soon again, and Pete saw from the tight lines along his mouth that Jack was afraid. 'Run,' he said. 'Get to the lift.'

'What are you doing?' Pete said. She could hear again, the pain almost entirely dissipated. She would not let go of Jack, not leave him for the sighing and screaming bansidhe.

'Not sure,' said Jack. 'Time was I could bolt for holy ground, but I've accepted that I'm not as young as I used to be. They've been given cause to take me away, by some git who cuts deals with Fae—I'm gaining the feeling rapidly that I'm rather fucked.'

'My lift is holy ground?' Pete tried to arch her eyebrow but was shivering too uncontrollably. Jack cut his hand across the air.

'No, but it's steel, I'd guess. Not cold iron, but it'll keep them out long enough. Might as well save yourself, Pete.'

The bansidhe rippled and swirled like a phantom wind had stirred her and then appeared inches from Jack's face. Pete lost feeling in her exposed skin, and saw blue veins crawl into being along Jack's cheeks and neck.

'Do you surrender, crow-mage?' the bansidhe demanded, her voice low and jagged as an old scar. 'Or do you choose to die at my hand?'

'Jack,' Pete hissed. 'Jack, I may have something.'

Jack looked at Pete, back at the bansidhe, staring the creature eye to eye as if she were another hooligan in the pit at Fiver's, inconsequential. 'You sure?' he murmured.

Pete squeezed his shoulder hard as she could, until the bones creaked. She wasn't. They could die, and the only difference would be what room of her flat was taped off for the crime scene investigators.

The bansidhe howled and raised her claws to rake Jack's face. Pete jerked him backward. 'I'm sure!'

She dragged Jack away, turned and ran, taking up his hand. Skidding on the ice, her heart thrumming like a faulty motor, she fell into the bathroom. Jack tripped over her legs and landed on top.

'The tub,' Pete rasped. Trying to speak normally, she found her throat raw as if she'd stood on the Channel cliffs in a winter storm and screamed.

Jack understood and ripped the curtain off its hooks, pulling Pete after him until they landed in a heap in the basin of the old claw-foot.

And the bansidhe came, raging and screaming as if their newborn children had been ripped away, flying hair cutting like stinging nettles and their icy breath clouding the air in the bath. Pete's door fell off the hinges and the mirror and tiles cracked as they howled. She ducked her head below the lip of the tub and prayed, wordless with fear even inside her own head.

On top of her, Jack muttered, over and over, in Irish that sounded like last rites, 'Cosain me, cosain si, a fhiach dhubh, cosain si.'

The bansidhe howled on, and slowly their cries of rage turned into a high keening of pain. Pete raised her eyes over the lip of the basin and saw the leader ripping out her own hair, clawing at her flesh, bits and patches flaking away from decaying black bone.

'You are a deceiver, crow-mage! May you burn in hell!' the leader cried. Then a whirlwind left a slick of snow that smelled like seawater, and the bansidhe vanished into smoke.

Pete exhaled. Her hands and throat and skin were tinged with pink frostbite, and her bones hurt. The cold had cut all the way down. She groaned. 'Jack, get off me.'

He hauled himself out of the tub and sprawled on the tile. 'Old flat. Iron tub. Iron sink and pipes as well?'

'I—I guess so,' Pete muttered shakily. She sat back and then screeched as bright fire lanced between her shoulder blades. Jack was back next to her, peeling back her bloody shirt.

'Bollocks,' he hissed when he saw the claw marks. 'They got you, Pete.'

'Cunts,' Pete muttered.

'You don't know half the story.' Jack sighed. 'Come on, luv. That'll need cleaning, if not stitches.' He offered his hand. Pete clasped it, but held on when he tried to lift her.

'You're being awfully solicitous for a man who hates me.'

'Saved my arse,' said Jack. 'Least I can do is put yours back together.' He pulled Pete to her feet and she felt a wire inside his arms that hadn't been there when she'd found him in Southwark.

'Those women,' she said, sitting on the lid of the toilet while Jack searched for peroxide and gauze.

'Bansidhe, luv. The only way they resemble women is in their charming personalities. Unseelie bitches.'

'Be that as it may, Jack. They called you 'crow-mage.' What does that mean?'

Jack poured peroxide on a pad and dabbed it against her back, and Pete yelped. 'It means nothing. The Fae are fond of names that should be spelled out in portentous capital letters.'

He dropped his eyes as he smoothed a bandage over Pete's back, not even trying to hide the lie. Pete opened her mouth, then shut it again. She hurt. Her skin, her mind, gristle and bone were all weary. Someday soon, she'd find out what the bansidhe had meant, but not now.

'Why'd you tell me to run?'

'No point in both of us getting our blood spilled and drunk up, was there?' he grunted. Pete began to say that she knew something else had moved Jack to try and save her, but that would be disastrous—he'd run and she'd never see him again. So she sat in compliant silence as Jack taped down the gauze, his hands free of tremors for the first time.

'Thank you,' she said, when Jack pulled her torn shirt back over her shoulder blades.

'Yeah.' He dismissed it with a shrug, and left the room. Pete sighed and tried standing on her left hip. It shot tongues of fire up and down her leg when she put weight on it, but she hobbled into the hallway, hissing as she stepped on a piece of crushed glass. 'Jack, do me a favor and get my shoes from the entry?'

'Don't have time to clean up.' Jack reappeared with one of Pete's duffels in hand and a fistful of Terry's hand-me-down clothing in the other. 'We've got to get moving before more creatures of the night try to tear our flesh off the bones.'

Pete swallowed, looking at the wreck the bansidhe had made of her flat. 'Why did they come? What did you do to them, Jack?'

'Quick to blame me, aren't you?' he snapped, shoving his clothes into the duffel. 'And I don't know why, Pete.' He sighed and shoved a hand into his hair, spiking it downward over his eyes. 'Fuck. I should have realized something would bollocks this up. Sounded so simple—find the kids, get clear of you, go on with me life. Should have known.'

'Your personal angst aside, for a moment,' said Pete. 'The bansidhe were after you, Jack. Knew you by name.'

'Which is precisely why we need to go!' he said. He turned and strode into the front entry, bringing Pete's workday shoes back to her. 'I wasn't strong enough to ward your flat when I came here, Pete—and the bansidhe broke whatever barriers may have naturally occured. Anything can come inside, and trust me, there are things out there that make the bansidhe nothing more than a dream-shadow on the wall.'

Pete stepped into her shoes. She knew Jack was right, in that solid and unexplainable way of magic that she was beginning to recognize when it dropped into her mind like a single raindrop into a deep well. 'I promised to believe you,' she said, 'but I'm stretching, Jack. Close to breaking. Where can we possibly go?'