Street Magic

dangled limply from a chain that was nearly eaten away, and a swift kick sent it clattering.
    Inside the gate was unlit night. Pete wrapped her coat around her more tightly and walked into it.
    She would swear up and down that the pub Jack had taken her to the first time was in an open street, bright red door banded with iron facing out, but now it was simply
there
, at the other end of the alley.
    Music drifted out when Pete pulled on the great iron handle, and a bouncer who hadn't been about the last time stopped her with a large hand, nails lacquered black. "Going somewhere special, miss?"
    Pete drew in a breath. The man was massive, shaven-headed with Maori tattoos crawling over the bare flesh. He grinned and displayed a missing front tooth when she gaped at him. "I'm looking for Mr. Mosswood," she said finally, willing herself to be firm.
    "You got business with the Green Man." The bouncer raised an eyebrow in surprise, but didn't question her. He stepped aside and Pete walked in.
    The band onstage could have been playing an Irish folksong, or "God Save the Queen"… the music dove and dipped, never more than a snatch intelligible, but it was still beautiful and at the same time left Pete feeling stricken, as though she'd left pieces of herself scattered everywhere to be picked over by the crows.
    "The eponymous Lament," said a familiar voice. Pete spun to see Mosswood sitting cross-legged at a table, chewing on the end of his pipe.
    "Mr. Mosswood."
    "Just Mosswood," he said, blowing a lazy smoke ring.
    "Lament for who?" Pete said. "Or what?"
    "You've heard of Nero, surely, and the music he played while the empire burned," said Mosswood. "This is the same music. The music that played when Cain slew Abel and the sound that will be at the end of the world."
    Even though a fire was roaring in the pub's wide grate, Pete shivered. Mosswood indicated the chair opposite him. "You are obviously troubled a great deal to come here without an escort, Miss Caldecott. Please. Sit down."
    "I don't need an escort," said Pete reflexively.
    "I suppose you don't." Mosswood knocked out his pipe against the edge of the table and took his leather tobacco pouch out of his coat. "You wouldn't have been able to find your way here again if you were not touched by the Black."
    A cup of tea appeared on the edge of the table, a tiny hand sliding back below eye level, and Pete started.
    "Thank you, Nora," said Mosswood. "And another of the same for Miss Caldecott. Sugar?"
    "No sugar," Pete said, regarding the small earthy-colored creature with an arched eyebrow.
    "Brownies," said Mosswood when Nora had scuttled away. "Not very intelligent, but love menial tasks. Useful for housework, if you need someone to come in."
    "I'm here about Jack," Pete said, putting her palms flat on the table.
    "Oh, I doubt that." Mosswood blew on his pipe and smoke sprouted as the tobacco lit of its own volition. "You are here about what's happening to you, my dear. Jack is merely a side effect of all this."
    "I don't—" Pete started.
    "How much has Jack told you about this? The Black? The magic that he works?"
    Pete sighed. "Not much, and before tonight I didn't want to know. I'd convinced myself a long time ago that all
this"
—and here she gestured at the pub, the music, and brownies scuttling under tables—"wasn't real. But tonight…"
    "Tonight was different," Mosswood said, examining her with a penetrating gaze. For all of his well-groomed shabbiness, the patched coat and sleek beard, Mosswood's eyes were inhuman, black and flat like stones. "Tell me."
    "I… Jack and I were trying to get rid of a demon—that's a long story, entirely separate—and I touched him, really touched him because I was scared, and all this power just…
appeared
."
    Mosswood scratched his beard and sucked on his pipe. "More power than the irredeemable Mr. Winter usually commands. Impressive."
    "What's so impressive about that?" Pete said.
    "Mages, in the great order of the Black, are candle dames," Mosswood said. "Jack Winter is an acetylene torch turned on full. Do you see?"
    "I just want to know what happened when I touched him," said Pete.
    "Afraid of it, are you?" Mosswood nodded. "Bright girl."
    "I'm not
afraid
of anything," Pete snapped. "If it was just my life, I wouldn't be here. There's an innocent child at stake and I need to know that Jack is telling me the truth, when he decides to tell me anything. Whatever happened could affect my ability to help her. Or