Authors: Christina Bell
With that, Miles Oberon turned and walked back to his office. As he moved out of sight, the door swung closed behind him.
Cam ran both hands through his hair and clutched his forehead as if he could squeeze out some solution to this predicament that didn’t include taking Chloe. But what if Miles was right? Nothing else was getting through to this insane girl. Maybe taking her would help. He didn’t see how, but it was worth a shot.
“Well, if you’re coming, then move,” Cam said shortly and headed toward the door. Chloe followed quickly.
Soon, they were travelling across the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time in their lives.
10:30 PM
As the driver pulled to a stop in front of a triad of low awnings, Puck looked out of the car’s tinted window and saw that they were on a wide street, lined with enormous brick warehouses. The lower floors of these buildings housed various small businesses. Puck could see a clearly marked bakery and a dry cleaner on different corners. He double-checked the address on the paper that Miles had given him against the numbers on the three faded awnings. A jewelry store and a flower shop were clearly marked on two of the awnings, but the letters on the red awning were faded and hard to read in the dim evening light.
Puck thanked the driver and told him to wait before he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He moved closer, scanning the front of the building until he found the number he needed. The sign above the address was for an establishment called The Cuckoo’s Nest, which seemed to be a bar. This was the place Miles intended for him to go, but Puck was surprised it wasn’t more dramatic, either shabbier or more grandiose. When his father said that he would be acquiring the powder from a three-hundred year old magician, Puck pictured some cobweb-filled basement apartment full of shrunken heads and chicken feet. Even if that image was a little extreme, it was a definite mismatch with the completely average bar he found himself approaching. Perhaps, he thought, this magician lived in some dank corner of the basement of a spider-infested upstairs apartment. He looked at his father’s directions again. After the address, he read the instruction
Ask for Tadhg
. He didn’t remember his father calling the powder that he was supposed to pick up by that name, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to know who to ask.
Puck pulled open the door of the bar to find that the inside was only slightly brighter than it was outside, though it wasn’t as grungy as the exterior. A long bar ran the length of the right wall. Tables lined the left side. The walls, the bar, and all of the furnishings were crafted from the same shade of dark wood, which was polished and gleaming. The bar rail and beer taps were immaculately polished brass and gleamed, even in the faint light. Puck had seen this layout before, and his hunch was confirmed when he saw the beer taps labeled Guiness and Harp. Miles had sent him to a British pub, which added up to brownie points and good beer. This was the best errand ever.
The bartender was young, no more than twenty-five years old, and ruggedly handsome. His short white hair matched his white t-shirt, which was just tight enough to reveal the bulging muscles in his arms and chest. Puck wondered if he was prematurely aging or if he had dyed his hair. Puck looked down the bar and quickly counted only four customers, all of them far away, toward the back of the establishment.
For the first time in ages, Puck was unsure of what he should do next. Discretion demanded that he didn’t just march up to someone and demand a magical powder. He scanned the bar for any sign of a door that would lead somewhere like an apartment or a staircase, but found nothing. His only choice was to try to be discreet and ask for what he needed at the same time. He took a deep breath, approached the bar, and leaned forward. The bartender took notice of him and waved a hand in acknowledgement. “Be right with ya, friend,” he called in a thick Irish accent. Okay, Puck thought, maybe it’s an Irish pub.
The bartender finished pouring his beers and served them to the customers at the back of the bar before he approached Puck. “What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Guinness,” Puck responded, not wanting to jump into his questions too quickly. It was good to gain some trust, just in case this guy knew something about the magician. He couldn’t tell Miles that he had blown it by being too pushy and freaking out the locals. What if this was some kind of gatekeeper situation? Regardless, he needed information. While waiting for his beer, he found his phone in his pocket and typed a quick text to Miles.
IN PUB. NO TADHG IN SIGHT. WHAT NOW?
However, when he pushed send, he noticed that the lost signal emblem was at the top of his screen. Unbelievable, he thought.
He looked up just in time to see his beer being placed on the bar in front of him. “Those things don’t work in here, never have,” the bartender said, pointing to Puck’s phone. “Something about the building blocks the signal. I think it’s the tin.” The bartender pointed up toward the ceiling, which was covered in tin and had what Puck recognized as the traditional symbols for salt, mercury, and sulfur etched into it in a repeating pattern. These symbols and others like them had been part of his lessons with Miles. When he was little, he called them the stick men and the eye. Mercury looked like a legless stick person with a little semicircle head. Sulfur was the same, but it had a triangle head and no hat. Salt looked like a closed eye, a circle with a horizontal line through it. It was this symbol that adorned a ring that his father recently showed him, an heirloom that Miles kept locked in his office safe. It was supposedly priceless, which confused Puck because he could have sworn he saw a similar one on Grace’s hand at dinner this evening.
According to occult history, these three symbols represented the basic components
from which all other materials were created. They formed the first tier of petals in the Rosy Cross, an ancient magical symbol representing dual forces, both divided and united.
Puck smiled. He was definitely in the right place. Now, he needed to forge through and figure out
this Tadhg business.
He looked down at his pint of stout. A perfect shamrock was etched onto the surface of the foam. He grinned and took a drink. “I’m looking for something here, but I’m not sure where to start,” he said to the bartender.
“It’s not drugs, is it?” The bartender furrowed his brow. “We don’t keep that kind of company around here.”
“Not exactly.” Reassured by his sighting of the symbols from the Rosy Cross, he decided to be a bit bolder. “I was told to look for Tag.”
“Never heard of it. What is it?”
Puck clutched the paper with his father’s directions. “I can’t say. I just need to find it.”
“We’re in kind of a stalemate then, aren’t we?” The bartender turned as if to walk away. But before he could, Puck called him back.
“Wait!” It was time to take a risk. He held out the paper. “This is what I’m looking for.”
As he read the paper, a mischievous grin crept across the bartender’s face. “That’s not a what, friend. It’s a who.”
“Who is it? Who’s Tag?”
“It’s not Tag. It’s Tadhg. Like the first part of Tiger. Tadhg.”
Puck felt a pang of mild embarrassment, but pushed it aside. “Where can I find this Tadhg?” This time, he pronounced it correctly.
“I’m Tadhg,” the bartender responded. “And you must be young Puck. Nice to meet you.” Tadhg held out his hand in greeting. Puck smiled when he realized that Tadhg had been having some fun at his expense and shook hands.
“How do you know my father?” he asked.
“Miles? I’ve known Miles since he was a small child. I taught him half of what he knows. The other half, he learned from his own father.”
Puck’s mind took a moment to wrap itself around Tadhg’s last statement. This guy didn’t look a day past his mid-twenties. “You’re the magician, aren’t you?”
“I’m the one. I got a call from your father earlier. So, he’s looking for love-in-idleness, is he?” Tadhg pulled a fresh glass from the shelf behind him and began to pull another beer from the tap. Puck drained the one he was working on as Tadhg put the fresh one on the bar for Puck. “That’s some powerful magic, much stronger than what he usually needs. Got your eye on a lady, son?”
It took Puck a moment to process the question, but when he did, he shook his head vigorously. “No, I do fine on my own.”
“I’m sure you do. I remember when your father was your age. If a girl was too proper to answer his calls, he’d just throw a little magic at her, and she’d come around to his way of thinking straight away. I’m assuming you’ve similar powers?”
“My father and I are a pretty close match. I’m still learning, but I can do most of what he does, just not as well.”
“Don’t be too sure that he’s shown you all he can do. There’s more to Miles than changing people’s minds. Can you make people freeze frame?”
“Stasis? Easy,” Puck responded.
“Telekinesis?”
In response, Puck made his drink slide to the near end of the bar and back. Luckily, the other patrons were too preoccupied to notice.
“Transmogrification?”
“Miles can’t do that.” Puck was sure that his father never mentioned changing anything into something else.
“Sure he can.” Tadhg laughed. “He just hasn’t told you yet. Perhaps he’s worried about your impulse control. I remember your father being a bit of a
deargamadan
at your age. He knows from experience what can happen. You have the same twinkle in your eye that he had at your age. I’m guessing you’re not one to be trusted.”
Puck recognized the Gaelic word
deargamadan
, which implied that someone was a fiery idiot, from his Gaelic lessons with Miles. He was put off for a moment, but then he had to smile. That was probably a fair assessment, considering how many times Puck telekinetically hurled books and toys at other kids out of sheer boredom. If Miles was worried about Puck changing his playmates into toads, then of course he would hold back on that particular talent.
“Tell me more about your history with my family,” Puck said.
“His father was a pal o’ mine, a drinking buddy. When Miles was born, your grandfather kind of went mainstream, made a pile of money, and settled down. We stayed in touch, but his carousing days were over.” Tadhg held up a finger to indicate that Puck should wait a moment as he went to serve another customer. Puck checked the time on his phone. He knew he should leave, but this was infinitely more fascinating than hanging out with his idiot minions.
When Tadhg returned, Puck asked, “Why do you look so young? What’s your story? My father said that you’re three-hundred years old.”
Tadhg glanced down the bar and confirmed that all was well before he began. “Three-hundred and nine, to be exact. Do you really want the whole story?”
Puck was excited that Miles
had sent him here, that he was letting him meet an old friend. “Yeah,” he said sincerely. “I really do.”
Tadhg leaned forward, elbows on the bar. He looked pensive
, as if thinking about where to begin. “Okay, here goes. I was born in 1701 into a nice Catholic family in Northern Ireland. Back then, everyone was poor, so when I was seventeen, my parents were lucky enough to find me an apprenticeship with an apothecary. His name was John Flannery. He was a good man with a knack for healing. It broke his heart to see people sick. When I first went to him, he was in the habit of trading goods or services for medicines, but eventually, people became too poor and had nothing to trade. Flannery didn’t care. I worked for him for seven years, mixing powders and liquids, crushing herbs, and watching as he dispensed endless amounts of medicine free of charge. In that time, he became like a second father to me.”
Puck was very proud of himself when he thought that he had figured out where the story was going. “He was a magician?”
Tadhg nodded. “A very kind one. That’s also how he could afford to be so generous. In better times, he had traveled through Ireland and Scotland, selling his potions, and he had a bit of a nest egg. Anyway, there was one spell he couldn’t seem to master, the one spell he needed more than anything. I didn’t even know he was trying until the fifth year I was with him. He was getting older and wearing down. Sometimes he would rush into a back room, and I would hear him coughing. I wondered why he didn’t heal himself. In time, he confided in me. He explained what had been under my nose for years. He was using magic to heal the community, but he hadn’t found a spell to prevent natural aging. He could cure an enormous range of illnesses, but he couldn’t slow down the damage of time.”