1924 words (7 minute read)

VII: heads

They arrive at Malachy’s house about two blocks later. He attempts to unlock the door with normal means, then sticks the key in his pocket and presses his palm to the middle of the door.

Alima slumps onto the couch in relief. “Yay. The vodka isn’t mixing well with Guinness.”

He follows suit on the other side. “Of course it wouldn’t mix well. You used expired spell ingredients on it.”

“You and your fucking details,” she accuses.

He scrubs at his eyes; even the dim shapes in the living room are starting to swirl. “It figures when you get stuck in a fucking tree, I’m the one who feels sick from sloppy teleporting.”

She groans and sinks down, but instead of a cushion is a warm and relatively firm mass of cloth.

The hay-and-vanilla powdery smell winds its way around them again, and the living room steadies a little. “What kind of shampoo do you use?” He asks.

“I mix my own. Once I found out about sweetgrass, I couldn't get enough of it. Sorry if it’s too strong--I get used to it, so I can’t tell sometimes.”

“No, it's fine. It makes me less dizzy.” He breathes it in--whatever magic the grass held has been dutifully neutralized, but not gotten rid of. “Why didn’t you get rid of the magic?”

“Can’t,” she replies sleepily. “Sweetgrass has been used by a lot of the Plains tribes, so now it’s all tied up in cultural magic. And that's tied to the smell, so I just keep it in a clay pot to neutralize it.”

“Hmm.” He shifts a little, and is now nested in the corner of the couch. “Where’d you learn about that?”

“Dated a Blackfoot guy. David Sandpiper.” She giggles. An arm winds around his ribs. “We're still friends. We only dated for two months anyway, because that just felt weird. Not even bad, just... you know that off feeling?”

“I hear that,” he agrees. “Mag and I never even bothered.”

She sighs and props herself up in the crook of his elbow. “If I don’t move too much for the next few hours, I probably won’t vomit.”

“Please don’t throw up on the couch,” he says, and eases halfway down. “I hate magic stains.”

They stay there for about two or three hours before he lurches to the kitchen to get some water. (And ends up dry-heaving into the sink.)

"Shouldn't have moved!" Alima calls from the living room. She caws a laugh at him, and then cuts herself off. "Ugh, not good..."

"Not on the couch!" He reminds her. Luckily, there's no vomit when he staggers back.

---
They catch up on events with Mag, Harry, and Owen over breakfast in the White Stag. (Aine is still in the "unable to tolerate bright lights or noise" stage.)

"I hope you guys at least tried to have sex after you got magicked off by accident," Owen states, but Mal sighs.

"Even if we were dating already, I threw up in the sink."

"'Dating already?' Ugh, you two are boring. No injuries, no one-night stands, she only lost a fucking hair-tie..." Owen prods Mag. "Remember when I turned us into birds--"

Harry backhands him across the temple. "That was a booze dream, Owen. Remember?"

"Yes, Dad," Owen drones. He contents himself with finishing his scone, but suddenly his voice comes into her head: I'll wait for my chaperones to leave, birdy-bird.

"Gah!" She nearly spills her coffee--he didn't even need to look at her. "You're a telepath?"

"Ugh, show-off!" Mag chastises between bites of croissant. "And it did NOT happen!"

"He... didn't say that," Alima says. She supposes it's technically true.

"Well, just in case," Mag replies.

---
The other three filter out as they head to work. For all Owen's mouthiness, he does let her refill her coffee before he starts the conversation. "I'm sorry Mal's so uptight. He pretty much stopped being fun after his parents died."

"Then how come nobody minded you asking if we had a one-night stand?" She points out, and he gives her another fox-grin.

"I have restrained myself regarding the newbie," he tells her with exaggerated care, dabbing at his mouth.

"You get worse?" Alima narrowly misses her yogurt when her head drops onto the table. "Why do people keep thinking I'm interested in Malachy? You, my friend, my friend's aunt..." A pained moan, and she straightens back up for another gulp of coffee.

"Wait, what? I thought you were just mad because you're hungover!" His laugh is startled and genuine, and she realizes that she's never seen him do that before. After he's caught his breath, he taunts her. "Now you've given me ideas, birdy-bird!"

She groans, and then she realizes he's not checking the time. "Wait, Owen, do you work? It's almost nine."

"Can't find it. They say it's because I'm the mad one in Granddad's family, but who do they think it comes from? Mum? Really, they just don't want a faggot."

"Wh--" Her coffee is jolted, and she tries to get the stain off her sleeve. "Did you just call yourself that?"

"Right, you're American. It's worse for you, isn't it?"

"I... would think... that you'd know it's not a good word to use around Americans?" She asks faintly. But her head is getting foggy again as the leftover magic pulses in her jaw. "Sorry I freaked out, I can't deal with things right now."

He sighs. "You don't handle bad spells well. Although you are small and hungover... Come on, I'll drive you to Granddad's."

She puts the lid back on her yogurt cup and tucks it into her jacket's pocket; as she buckles in and steadily drinks her coffee, she keeps feeling like something is wrong with how Owen so casually uses hate-speech. But she can't piece it together very well, so she ends up making small talk instead.

She tells Owen about her track record for blondes, which is most likely why Danny and her aunt Celeste jumped to conclusions so fast; he laughs and high-fives her, then tells her that he has a track record for curly hair.

"It's just fun to mess it up and get them mad," he grins. "They literally can't stop it. 'Owen, I think I love--BITCH, MY HAIR!' Four times!"

"That's horrible!" She shoves him, but is laughing in spite of herself. "You can't screw with people's feelings like that!"

"Well, it's a good test of character," he grins. "Matthaeus Summer cuffed me so I couldn't ruin his second heartfelt speech. Even I got surprised."

"He puts up with you?"

"He did," he says, waiting to turn left. "But then he moved back to America four years ago."

"Oh." She shoots a glance at him as they turn into the driveway, and then she realizes the time he said. "...Oh. Was it when you got--"

"No, not... His dad was in the military, they got a week's notice, and it was just really bad timing. For everyone." He sighs and takes a runestone off the rear-view mirror.

It's from the Elder Futharc, so she doesn't quite recognize it, but the hematite it's carved into is earthy red. There's no hint of iron like with lower-grade stone, and it lacks the polish of mass-produced jewelry. She wouldn't be surprised if the knotted leather around the stone's wire cage was tanned using the old way--with oak water, or a mash of brain.

Owen speaks: "Wen."

The runestone's pulse starts steadily like someone who's loved, and fades smoothly into a picture: No heart-shaped fade-ins, or glitter, or sappy music. Another sign that Owen made it himself or had it made by a jeweler--factory jewelry is heavy on smoke and mirrors, whether to disguise construction flaws or just to appeal to customers.

The boy in the picture has the worst case of bedhead ever. He can definitely pull off stubble, although it makes him look messy instead of dignified. His smile is open and sunny.

She takes a look at the two of them: Hard-edged, cunning Owen and the sweet, rumpled portrait of Matthaeus. "He doesn't seem like your type," she says hesitantly.

"Even I didn't think so." He counts the knots in the leather, like prayer beads. "Teis." The picture fades back to the rune.

"Is that more of the Elder Futharc?" She asks.

"Nope, it's his nickname." Owen opens the door. "He used to hate when I called him that." He can't quite manage a laugh, but he does smile instead of grin.

"Did you make it?" She continues warily. "I'm sorry to pry, it's just really good work. I thought it was a normal runestone."

Owen is surprised. "Actually, he did. That was why he cuffed me."

"You needed restraints for that?"

"No! Even I have limits." He turns it in his hands, rubs a bit of imaginary dirt off, then winds it back onto the mirror. "But I was flattered, so I gave him a couple hours before I melted the cuffs."

"Two hours?"

"Handcuffs. Boyfriend. Present."

She laughs on the way to the house, and before she can think: "Are you guys planning to meet up again? In person, I mean?"

"Meeting up isn't the problem," Owen tells her. "Teis has a friend in the portal business, so on celebrations he heads over here for vacation rates. He tries to surprise me by trading off celebrations with his family, but I can still feel the portal coming about a day before."

"How do you know it's him and not a tourist?" Alima takes her yogurt out, but it's half-melted; she sticks it back in the fridge and gets the milk out for cereal.

"Because tourists don't usually portal into my family’s living room," Owen replies. "Except that one girl trying to get to Iceland, thanks to her uncle's crap handwriting. Thank god Dad sorted it out, or she'd have been a day late."

She pours the cereal and milk into her bowl, stirs in a spoon of her Moher honey. She makes it about two or three bites in before she wonders: "Why do you keep that in your car? If I couldn't tell it was a locket instead of a runestone, at least half the people in Cloncarrig wouldn't either."

"They might ask who made it," Owen says. "And I’m the mad fairy, but I follow the People of Danu and I have some honor."

“Oh! Stopping by, love?” Marian comes in from the backyard with a wave, but her lips thin when she sees Alima’s stiffly neutral expression. “Owen,” she says, like she’s encountered this more often than she’d like.

“Just getting the birdy home, Gran-Gran,” he says on the way out.

Alima stalls for time with another bite of cereal. “We were talking about Matthaeus,” she says after she swallows.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get any warnings,” the old woman sits down. “And hungover, too... He’s better than he was, but he still keeps digging at himself.”

“Digging? He called himself a faggot--it’s like stabbing!

Marian shakes her head. “You haven’t heard Owen do that, girlie.”

Next Chapter: IX: tails