The Wild Ways (36 page)
“Yeah, and a random water bomb would be a little hard to explain. Contain it. Keep it from spreading. If the grass catches . . .”
“It’d be big trouble, right!” He squared his shoulders. “I got it.”
“Jack, do it in skin! And plausibly deniable if you can!”
He turned to stare at her. “I don’t even know what that
means
.”
means
.”
“If you have to lie, make sure it’s one they’ll believe.”
“Right.” A quick thumbs up, then he turned and ran.
Charlie scooped her guitar out of the case and wrestled the strap over her head as she pushed through people running the other way. Besides being squat, hairy, and smelly even at a distance, evidence suggested the Boggarts were among those Fey who were disproportionately strong. There were only three of them, all just under a meter tall, but they were rocking a stage built to hold up under multiple dancers with more enthusiasm than skill. Music may have charms to sooth the savage breast, but it seemed unlikely these three would be soothed quickly enough to keep those members of
Captain Wedderburn
being flung about on the stage from injury.
Captain Wedderburn
being flung about on the stage from injury.
As Charlie rocked to a stop, the left side of the stage buckled, nails ripping free, plywood cracking. A two by four snapped. The front corner of the roof dropped half a meter, shaking free a light that smashed against the corner of the stage, spraying glass and sparks. The immediate area plunged into shadow.
No time for anything but quick and dirty.
Eyes narrowed, Charlie put her fingers to the strings.
Music could empty a room as fast as fill it.
Bagpipes could empty whole neighborhoods.
Charlie wished she could play Jack’s song on the bagpipes—it’d serve the destructive little shits right—but, as she couldn’t, she hit the top E so hard it buzzed against the frets like an angry wasp. Then she bent the buzz.
Heads turned.
At least, she thought they turned. In all honesty, there wasn’t much to choose from between the back and the front.
She didn’t so much play Jack’s song as wield it like a club.
Hey, Boggarts! Don’t make me go Draconis on your ass! I have a dragon in my pocket, and I’m not afraid to use him. Okay, not actually in my pocket because he’s way too big. And hungry. Big and hungry!
Mouths open, eyes wide—or if not mouths and eyes then facial features in approximately the same position—the Boggarts shrieked like middle-aged women at an Adam Lambert concert, and ran for it. Charlie closed the last two meters between her and the stage, reached out as the corner began to collapse and sketched a quick charm in the dust. Timbers creaked but held.
It wouldn’t hold long, but the keyboard player had gotten her foot out from under her pedals and Captain Wedderburn’s fiddler was hauling the drummer, clutching his bass drum, down to the grass.
Stage secured, Charlie spun around, hoisted her guitar up under her right arm, and ran for the other end of the field. She’d taken no more than a dozen strides when something exploded.
Those who’d been unsure of how to personally take part in the growing panic suddenly decided, charging away from the column of fire now rising ten to fifteen meters into the night sky. Half a dozen Boggarts ran with them, shoving, pinching, and spraying beer around.
Charlie pivoted without breaking stride. If she could plug into the sound system, she could clear the Boggarts off the . . .
The empty stage shuddered as a dangling cable scraped across the charm, then the whole thing fell in toward the collapsing corner. Cables ripped free. The sound system gave one last bleat of protest, and died, taking the stage lights with it.
“Okay, then.” Another pivot. Dodging through a dark mass of hysterical tourists, Charlie ran for Jack. “Plan B.”
Having spent the evening watching the action on a well-lit stage, she hadn’t bothered with night-sight charms. If she had it to do over, she’d say screw the ambiance and sketch them on. At least the Canadians apologized as they careened off her.
She finally got close enough to see it was the Lions Club chip wagon that had gone over; the three double deep fat fryers the genesis of the blaze. Charlie couldn’t see bodies and she couldn’t smell pork so, since the food court had closed at ten, it seemed the club’s volunteers had been long gone before the Boggarts showed up. The good news: it was
only
the Lions Club chip wagon burning.
Papa Do
g, previously tucked up snug to the left, was now about six meters away. Given that the paint on the side closest to the fire had blistered and peeled, it looked like Jack had stepped in and shoved it clear. A dozen or so people worked to carry everything even vaguely portable away from the heat, and a dozen or so more had their phones up, recording. The beer tent continued doing brisk business.
only
the Lions Club chip wagon burning.
Papa Do
g, previously tucked up snug to the left, was now about six meters away. Given that the paint on the side closest to the fire had blistered and peeled, it looked like Jack had stepped in and shoved it clear. A dozen or so people worked to carry everything even vaguely portable away from the heat, and a dozen or so more had their phones up, recording. The beer tent continued doing brisk business.
Charlie didn’t see Jack until a second explosion slammed the shadows back.
“Propane tanks,” he said as she stopped, coughing, beside him. “I fixed it so they shoot up into the air and any bits of metal fall straight back down into the fire. Is that okay?”
“That’s great.” His T-shirt had started to scorch. She licked her finger and charmed it cool. “Now roar!” The remaining Boggarts were still working the crowd. So far, in spite of the shrieking and the swearing, it didn’t look as if anyone had gotten seriously hurt, but as long as the Boggarts kept ramping up the levels of hysteria, that wouldn’t last. “If you can talk while you control this, you can roar. We need to let the Boggarts know you’re here!”
She’d told the Boggarts to run. To be afraid. Very afraid even. Hopefully, since Jack couldn’t roar for the Boggarts’ ears alone, Human brains would refuse to acknowledge the information as he announced his presence with authority. Where the
authority
came from being a dragon.
authority
came from being a dragon.
When Jack opened his mouth, Charlies stuffed her fingers in her ears and watched the crowd split into three. The Boggarts and the pureblood Selkies ran. Humans with Selkie wives and Humans with Selkie blood turned to stare—and a lot of the locals had a touch of Fey. Seemed the Selkies had been getting busy over the last couple hundred years. Those in the crowd who were nothing more or less than Human, froze as their hindbrains screamed, OMG DRAGON! and an instant later carried on running and shouting as their forebrains added, NO SUCH THING AS DRAGONS, DUMBASS! FIRE, THOUGH, THAT’S REAL!
When Jack closed his mouth, Charlie unplugged her ears. Her bones were still vibrating, and she had a certain amount of sympathy for the Fey who’d run. Half of her wanted to get the hell out of Dodge before scaled death arrived to rend and tear, the other half muttered, P
lease, it’s a Gale boy. What’s he going to do, sulk at you?
lease, it’s a Gale boy. What’s he going to do, sulk at you?
“How . . . ?” Oh, great, she was deaf. She’d formed the word. Said the word. Couldn’t hear the word.
Another propane tank exploded, and her ears popped.
I’m not sure it works that way . . .
She swallowed hard, then forced a yawn . . .
but what the hell.
“How many more tanks in there?”
She swallowed hard, then forced a yawn . . .
but what the hell.
“How many more tanks in there?”
“How should I know?” Jack rolled golden eyes. “It’s not like I have propane sense or something.”
“Fair enough. Listen, when the last tank blows, you need to go after those Boggarts. Catch one alive if you can.”
“Why?”
“They’re small scale. They can’t open a gate, so someone invited them in; I want to know who.”
Jack cocked his head, frowning. “You think it was Auntie Catherine, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, she’s here.” Charlie flicked up a finger. Then another. “She’s already screwing the Selkies.” And a third. “And you know what Chekhov says.”
“Um . . . Wictor, wictor, seven?”
“If you hang an auntie on the wall in act one, she’ll be a pain in the ass by act three.”
“Is that in the extras? Because I didn’t watch the deleted scenes.”
“That was . . . never mind.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged and waved a bit of flame back into the bulk of the burn. “Charlie, why didn’t the Boggarts know I was here? I mean, before I told them.”
“They weren’t ignoring you, Your Highness. You’re wearing skin, surrounded by skin, and they can’t have had a lot of experience with Humans. Also, you were close to the fire; it was probably masking your innate dragon-ness. Plus . . .” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “. . . they would have been able to tell that I’m a Gale and they didn’t seem to care. That makes them not too smart.”
Another tank blew, then one more immediately after it.
Charlie tried to count to ten, got to seven, and said, “Okay, I think that’s it.” Some of the lingering ringing in her ears turned out to be sirens in the distance. At least they’d gotten rid of the Boggarts before the Louisburg Fire Department had shown. The whole thing—encore to roar—had taken just under fifteen minutes. Auntie Catherine—and where the aunties were concerned, Charlie believed in guilty until proven innocent—had to have known how the Boggarts would run from a Dragon, so why had she gone to all the trouble of opening a gate for such a minor bit of vandalism?
“You need to catch one of those little shits and find out why they attacked the festival.” She shoved Jack past the burning trailer toward the darkness on the other side and the masking bulk of the Visitor’s Center. He could change behind it, so she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the night saying,
What dragon?
“And you need to do it before they run wee wee wee all the way home.” If she were Auntie Catherine, she’d have left the gate in place but set it so it only worked one way, allowing the Boggarts to return to the UnderRealm on their own, but preventing anything else from coming through. However, given that she wasn’t Auntie Catherine and Auntie Catherine was at best unpredictable and at worse really fucking unpredictable, the gate could just as easily be swinging wide for anything who wanted to come visiting. “Find out where the gate is so we can close it.”
What dragon?
“And you need to do it before they run wee wee wee all the way home.” If she were Auntie Catherine, she’d have left the gate in place but set it so it only worked one way, allowing the Boggarts to return to the UnderRealm on their own, but preventing anything else from coming through. However, given that she wasn’t Auntie Catherine and Auntie Catherine was at best unpredictable and at worse really fucking unpredictable, the gate could just as easily be swinging wide for anything who wanted to come visiting. “Find out where the gate is so we can close it.”
“Couldn’t you just sing your way to it?”
“Probably. But the last time Auntie Catherine didn’t want me to get somewhere, I ended up in Brazil. And, if the gate is guarded, I’d rather the large, fire-breathing, nearly indestructible dragon discovered that first.” Another shove. “Now go.”
“You want a coffee, too?”
“No, I’m good. Fly, my pretty!”
Jack dug in his heels.
Given how far they were dug in, Charlie suspected he was using dragon weight. The sweat on his T-shirt was drying out fast in the heat rising off his skin. “I’m sorry I called you pretty.”
He folded his arms, smoke trickling out of his nose.
“And referred to you like you were a flying monkey. Now please get your golden ass in the air before our answers take a powder.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
Good question. She stopped applying pressure between his shoulder blades and glanced around at the festival grounds—at the smoldering chip wagon, at the clusters of babbling people, at the crying children, at the half dozen musicians still sitting in the beer tent, at the fire truck and the EMTs. The excitement was over and the professionals were here. Hysteria would rewrite what had happened, editing the Boggarts out.
Reaching under her guitar, she pulled her phone from the pocket of her shorts. Jack turned and tracked the movement. Aunties didn’t lie. And aunties loved messing with people more than Gales loved pie. If Auntie Catherine answered . . .
Auntie Catherine didn’t.
Charlie put the phone back in her pocket.
“You going to go find her?” Jack asked.
“No.”
“Are you scared of her?”
“Wary. Careful. Confronting an auntie has been known to end in gingerbread.”
“I like gingerbread,” Jack pointed out.
“As a career choice?”
“Oh.”
“Besides, if she intended to tell me what was going on, she’d have answered the phone. Face-to-face, the best I’d get would be, “My business is none of your business, Charlotte.” And I’d say, “Your having the Boggarts attack the festival makes it my business.” And she’d say, “Did the Boggarts tell you I told them to attack the festival?” There’s no point in talking to her until after you talk to the Boggarts. So . . .” Charlie took a deep breath and shook off the anger she’d felt since the stage started to shake. “I’m going to make sure the band is safe, retrieve my guitar case, and then I’m going to wait until you bring me some answers. You find the gate; I close it. You find out what Auntie Catherine told the Boggarts; we decide what we’re going to do next.”
We decide . . .
He’s fourteen, Charlie! Yeah, he’s more than that, but he’s that, too.
Damn.
She took a step back, giving him space. “This is more than you signed on for. You can head back to Calgary tomorrow: no harm, no foul.”
“Calgary is boring. Besides,” he continued, his voice coming from inside a sudden cloud of smoke, “all you asked me to do is catch a Boggart. I can do that in my sleep.” The smoke cleared, and he didn’t look disgusted by the thought of going back to Calgary and boredom; he looked like someone had just killed his puppy. “Okay, not in my sleep but almost. It’s easy. I’m sorry I didn’t fly after them right away. Don’t send me back, okay? I thought you wanted me here.”
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