Incarnate (A Spellmason Chronicle) (21 page)

Alexandra

I
’d been to Madison Square Garden for countless concerts over the years, but I had never shown up there at midnight. The usually busy arena was practically dark except for the barest minimum of work lights from within. Still and silent as it was, all Rory, Marshall, and I could do was stare up at the enormous space. The only one of us who was oblivious to its urban majesty was Caleb, who was too busy to notice as he scarfed down a pretzel he may or may not have just stolen off a street vendor. The short leash I had put him on earlier had me trying to keep things all business with him, which only made him overcompensate in the opposite direction and act out.

“You sure about this?” I asked him.

“Pretty sure,” Caleb said, wiping a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Unless Warren was screwing with me.”

“How likely is that?” Marshall asked.

Caleb shrugged. “I’m not sure. You never can tell with these arcane types.”

“That’s reassuring,” I said. A day ago I found his antics charming. Now? Not so much. “And now we’re supposed to go before a whole bunch of them?”

“Relax,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

Rory shook her head. “I don’t suppose I should break out the
glaive guisarme
 . . . ?”

“Let’s try the friendly approach first,” I said, “and if that doesn’t work, I promise
then
you can get all stabby.”

Rory smiled. Despite the implication of things going wrong, my promise seemed to make her twistedly happy.

On the other side of her, Marshall dug through his pockets like he had lost his keys. “Do you think it would be gauche to hand out business cards?” Marshall asked, more to Caleb than any of the rest of us.

“Depends,” Caleb said. “Do you really want to start handing out physical evidence with your name on it? Don’t we already have enough cops in our lives without you leaving a paper trail?”

Marshall went red-faced and stopped his search, going silent while we waited. It wasn’t long before the scruffy, familiar face of Warren O’Shea appeared at the main entry doors that were set back from the bustle of Seventh Avenue. His hair was a wild mass of black tangles, and the rings on both his hands holding the doors glowed with a constant shift of colors. His long formal coat blew in the wind as he held open the door for us, waiting as we crossed the vast expanse of the open sidewalk.

“The Convocation will see you now,” he said. “Hopefully you will prove yourself a bit more impressive than when you broke into my home.”

“No promises,” Caleb said, pushing past him with a bit of bite to his words.

“Fine,” Warren said, closing the door after we were all in. “Take your chances with every witch and warlock in the five boroughs. Smart move.” There was a bit of disapproval in his voice, but when he noticed me noticing it, he switched on a dime and offered me a cheerful smile. “But I
did
promise to bring you before the Convocation . . .”

He turned before I could speak again and led our group along one of the lower circular corridors around the lower floor of the arena. Rory ran ahead to catch up with him, matching his pace.

“Umm, how many witches and warlocks are we talking here that they needed to hold this thing at Madison Square Garden?” she asked.

Warren made a sudden right toward the center of the building, entering one of the corridors that led to a set of double doors that obviously led into the arena itself. He spun back around to us, his arms spread out wide across the doors, blocking our path.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “This isn’t about being able to house massive amounts of people. It’s all about location, location, location. Our kind have . . . trust issues. Therefore, our meetings—when we can agree to all get together, that is—are like a moveable feast. They are rarely in the same place twice, although truth be told, I am rather fond of this venue for it.”

“Why?” I asked.

Warren gave me a smile from one corner of his mouth. “You’ll see,” he said, and turned with a flourish, arms still out to his sides. The warlock flicked his wrists and the doors shot open without him touching them.

Warren stepped through them as they clattered against the walls, and the rest of us scrambled through after him, a nervous excitement running through us. I was ten again, coming here with my family to catch the circus.

In the dim light beyond the doors, stadium seating rose up on either side of the corridor, the click of our heels echoing as we went. Moving forward, the confined space opened up to the Garden itself, and as we came to a stop at the edge of the stadium floor, the silence within the space was deafening.

“It’s empty,” I said.

“What the hell?” Rory asked, one of her hands coming to rest on the art tube she was wearing.

I didn’t blame her for reaching for her weapon. “Is this some kind of trick?” I asked. “You get me on the hunt, I take your case, then you lure us here out in the open . . . for what exactly?”

Warren sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed. “It is amazing you have survived this long,” he said. “If you didn’t have your gargoyles watching over you, I shudder to think what might become of you.”

“Hey, we don’t need protection,” I countered, but secretly I wished we
had
brought Stanis along. At the time, it just hadn’t seemed like the best way to show up when you were trying to make nice with an entire magical community. Flustered, I started for Warren, wanting to get right up in his face, but Marshall grabbed me by the arm, stopping me.

“Hold up,” he said. “This is it, isn’t it?”

Warren didn’t shake his head yes or no, but raised an eyebrow. “This is
what
?”

“This is like part of the audition,” he said, looking all around at the empty space, walking in a complete circle until he faced us again. “This is a test.”

“Is it?” I asked Warren.

The warlock simply shrugged at me, which only made me want to punch him in the throat.

“He’s right,” Caleb said, starting to search the space as he walked out onto the empty basketball court. “All is not as it seems.”

Marshall joined him, his eyes squinting as he tried to focus his attention off to the far end of the court. “We are not alone,” he said.

“We’re not?” Rory asked, assembling her pole arm as she crossed the court to join them.

I followed, not wanting to be left alone in the giant space.

Marshall shook his head, narrowing his eyes to the point that they looked shut. “I’m not sure who or what else
is
out there, but if I concentrate, I can feel some sort of resistance in the air. Whatever it is does not wish to be seen.”

I looked to Warren. “Well?”

Warren drew his fingers across his lips, twisted the tips of his fingers against them in a locking motion, then motioned as if he were throwing away a key. To my surprise a little key that glowed an eldritch green flew away from him, fizzling out and disappearing before it could hit the floor.

Marshall turned back to us, his eyes lighting up and a smile that threatened to split his head in two lit his face.

“I have it!” he said, practically giggling.

“Have
what
?” Rory asked with frustration.

“Everything that you’re seeing right now?” he said. “All of it is an illusion.”

“It is?” I said, looking around. I knew the Garden and it looked pretty damn real to me. I turned to Caleb. “Is it?”

He looked like he was trying to find the right words, but in the end scrunched up his face at me. “I’m not really at liberty to say,” he said.

“Jesus,” I said, pushing him toward Warren. “Go stand with him if you’re not allowed to participate.”

Marshall was looking all around the empty space, his eyes darting about.

“Marshall!” I called out, catching his attention. “You look insane. Like cheese-slipped-off-your-cracker insane.”

He ran over to Rory and me, grabbing us by our shoulders and spinning us to face the far end of the arena. Lowering his voice, he spoke.

“Growing up, the bane of my gaming existence in Dungeons and Dragons were Illusionists,” he said. “Much like when non-gamers go see a magician like David Copperfield, illusions rely mostly on the audience choosing to believe in it. So every time I came across something impossible in the game, my knee-jerk reaction was to roll to disbelieve what I thought might be an illusion.”

“Roll?” Rory asked.

“A saving throw,” he added, like we were being stupid.

I started to ask what the hell a saving throw was and what it had to do with this, but Marshall cut me off.

“Look, that’s not really the important part,” he said. “I just need you to trust me.”

Rory shot me a look of doubt and I couldn’t help but return it.

Marshall looked hurt for a second, but whatever had him giddy was too overpowering for him and he went back to his manic look. “Nice,” he said, dismissing us. He dug his fingers into our shoulders, pulling us close and lowering his voice.

“I’m not kidding about needing to trust me,” he continued.

“Okay,” I said, a bit confused. “Consider yourself trusted.”

He looked to Rory.

“After everything we’ve fought together?” she said. “Done! Trusted!”

“Now, I need you to disbelieve what you see,” he said.

“And how does one go about that, exactly?” I asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said without losing a beat of enthusiasm. He thought a moment. “Years of gaming must have helped shape that particular mental muscle in me. Let’s see . . . I guess you just have to trust me over your senses. Normally you believe what you see, right? I’m asking you to believe what
I
see.”

He motioned out across the floor of the empty arena. “For instance, I need you to imagine that this entire space looks like an impromptu Renaissance festival. There’s people scattered about, people like you and me . . . although there’s a lot of eccentric-looking folk here, too. There are aisles and little shops, and overhead . . . just imagine a pyrotechnic Quidditch match going on.”

Rory sighed.
“Marshall . . .”

“Just trust me.”

Although I felt as ridiculous as Rory clearly did, I doubted my own senses and decided to buy into exactly what Marshall was telling me. I couldn’t see any of what he was saying, but I believed it was there.

Something in my mind shifted, feeling like a sharp and sudden dizziness. Much like the changing appearance of Warren’s home from composed to destroyed by a gargoyle, the empty arena all around me began to shimmer, the motion disorienting to the point where I had to fight not to throw up. I didn’t think puking was going to win me any points with whoever was watching. Then everyone else seemed to see it as well, keeping it together, but Rory stumbled and fell to her knees as she tried to take it in.

The empty arena filled with pockets of people everywhere, although it was far from full. They gradually appeared along with sections of tables, stalls, thrones, and chairs throughout the space. Great cauldrons of fire held flames that rose high into the arena, the lighting giving the space an almost primitive cavelike quality. High above, witches and warlocks flew to and fro with the aid of traditional brooms, cloth wings, or by some means I could not quite see. Colors erupted like fireworks as several blasts of energy shot across the open air or at each other, the impacts bursting with explosive lights before fading away with a distinct sizzling sound.

“Holy cats,” Rory exclaimed as she stood back up.

Marshall craned his neck straight up as he tried to take it all in. “This is
exactly
what I had imagined something like this would look like.”

Rory steadied herself by using her weapon to lean on, marveling at the spectacle all around us. “Whoa,” was all she managed to get out.

“Looks like we found Platform Nine and Three-Quarters,” I said.

Warren had already taken off again, now weaving through the stalls, tables, and people on the floor of the arena. Caleb kept up his pace, ignoring just about everything going on around him. I guess having been part of this world for so long had left him unimpressed.

Rory and I were still busy pushing through the noisy crowd when Warren and Caleb stopped far ahead before an ornate heavy table carved with runic symbols. A single wooden throne sat behind it, several feet higher than the table itself, occupied by a blond woman who looked maybe ten years older than me. At the table before her several men and women worked at a frantic pace on its clutter of maps, stacks of books, and loose paper everywhere.

“I told you they pose no threat,” Warren said to the woman.

“We will determine that,” the woman’s voice boomed out in the space. “Bring them closer.”

Warren beckoned us to him, and the crowd parted as we went. He moved around to the other side of the table, leaving Caleb behind to line up with the rest of us before the woman. I felt like we were being summoned before the principal.

The woman’s hands rested on the arms of her throne, her nails stereotypical with a witchy black gloss coat, giving her a real Goth-past-her-prime look. I had expected someone looking like Maleficent, but this woman’s features were gorgeous—her face soft and full, all of it surrounded by a cascade of wavy blond hair that was equal parts
Some Like It Hot
and
Baywatch
. Her face betrayed nothing as she looked us over, running down the line of us. They passed over me and I met hers despite my nerves screaming for me to look away. When she finished examining all of us, her eyes came back to rest on me.