Page 54 of Strange Lights

“Yes.” I grin as Zara glares. “It’s doable, but a lot more difficult unless you’re both powerful and practiced. Spells really just serve as training wheels to increase precision and accuracy. You still have work to do before taking them off. Even I still use spells sometimes.”

“It would be easier if I could just tether more. Better. Like you.”

“I’m different, Zara. I don’t think you can learn it. Remember how I said to think of it like a house? You need a village of magical neighbors, metaphorically. Most people need their houses close together to reach across the void and help each other. My house is a bit more like a camper van⁠—I can travel; I can reach farther.”

“What if Mother is on to something? Maybe you could go deeper if you don’t use a tether and⁠—”

“No,” I say more sharply than I intended. “Adele is wrong about that. Don’t you dare try it.”

Tethers are more essential than spells; they are what keep those who channel magic from getting swept away in the flow, from getting lost in a flood of magic. Zara knows this already. It’s one of the very first things any magical tutor worth their salt will teach. I’m not exactly sure what happens when someone flings open that door, untethered, and leaps in, an event rare enough even magical books say little on the subject.

“Promise me, Zara.”

“Sheesh. Fine. Calm your tits.”

“Where the fuck did you hear that expression? You’re ten; don’t say that.”

“I’m ten, don’t swear at me. Where do you think I heard it? All I do is listen to you.”

Damn, she is right, but I don’t tell her that.

“What about werewolves?” she goes on. “Can’t they use magic?”

This is why it takes me so long to get anything done. I give up trying to get back to my book and instead spend the next hour answering questions about the lycanthropy virus and werewolf magic.

The lycanthropy virus, when manifested in humans, essentially cracks open a window permanently in that metaphorical house, creating a constant and metered flow of power. That’s why human werewolves can do magic alone, safely and with accuracy and precision, with no need for tethers or spells. I idly wonder how powerful a pack of tethered werewolves might be, something to explore eventually. Werewolf powers are unique in their limits. They have that permanent flow of magic to work with, but they’re locked into a specific affinity for a single type of magic. Wolf-originating werewolves only get a few transient, strange traits before they return to normal. A human werewolf gets a handful of standard powers: shape-shifting and other wolfy skills, like one might expect. But they also have a knack for a specific type of magic to manifest: fire, wind, water, metal, for example. Less is known about the specifics. Finding out and documenting more is one of my goals.

Zara asks so many questions that I finally threaten her with detention if she doesn’t let me get back to work.

“Detention,” Zara scoffs. “This isn’t real school; you aren’t a real teacher. Where would you even have detention, the dungeon?” Her joke falls flat. Adele would do exactly that. We have both been reprimanded that way.

“Homework, then,” I say to break the uncomfortable silence. “I’ll make you do your own research if you keep bothering me.”

“All right, that truly is cruel and unusual punishment,” Zara says. “I’m out of here before I’m stuck reading Ten Thousand Uninteresting Facts about Lycanthropy in Old English.”

The book I’m reading is written in Middle English, and it contains a particularly thrilling example of werewolf folklore, but I don’t bother explaining that to Zara.

I’m quite comfortable with my werewolf research, falling into the predictable trap of complacency, when Adele leads my oblivious, content self right down the road to trouble’s door with one particular test subject. It’s a rare day where I’m working alone, Zara sequestered in her room after the loss of our last test subject, a particularly timid wolf, especially for a lycanthropy-infected specimen. Zara made the mistake of getting attached, naming him Romulus, and suffering all the more for his loss.

I meet our next test subject alone, in the dungeon; he’s locked in the impenetrable cell Adele keeps for dangerous creatures. The previous test subjects have all been the kind of werewolf that started off as wolves. They appeared more creature than human, uncanny and far removed. They felt like what they were, animal test subjects in a cage.

When Adele sends me down to the dungeon, I’m expecting the same. This man, though, is unquestionably human. This is no animal in a cage. I’m caught so off guard that for one wild second I consider marching right back out and up the long winding steps to tell Adele she’s made a mistake. She’s done it this way on purpose, of course, to keep me off balance.

“Ah, they sent their scariest monster to deal with the likes of me. I suppose I should be flattered I warrant such extreme measures,” he mocks. He looks me up and down, coldly assessing, taking in the black clothes and the glittering dark mask.

The cell is kept intentionally bare. At least someone threw in what looks like a camping pad to sleep on. And a camping toilet. It strikes me for the first time that this place is a prison. I’ve spent time locked in nearby cells myself, yet somehow I’ve never considered it for what it truly is. Either way, this man lounges completely at ease, as if he owned the place. His hair is a dark black like raven’s feathers, shaggy, as if he’s gone too long between haircuts. Amber eyes, a color I’ve never seen, shine against brown skin.

I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve talked to an unmasked person in the flesh besides my sisters and Adele. Everyone here wears at least something. Sometimes the lower half of their face, sometimes the upper half, sometimes one side or the other. Even our nannies wore masks one might see at a masquerade party. I’ve learned facial expressions in a piecemeal and scattered fashion. Certainly, I’ve never talked to an unmasked man so close to my age before. Not a man who’s so . . . beautiful. I’m thankful for my mask that hides my reaction. Even so, I can do nothing but stare for a long minute. He meets my gaze through my mask, and I have the strangest feeling he sees right through it.

“I need a blood sample,” I say.

“Straight to the point, I see. Not even going to say hello before requesting my body fluids?” he drawls.

I simply shuffle, uncomfortable, convinced I’m blushing furiously under my mask. I’m not sure how I’m going to do this. With the rest of the test subjects, I’ve simply tranquilized them through the little hatch and then gone in and done what I needed to do. Aside from the fact Adele hasn’t given me back the cell key, the idea of doing that to this man feels strange. Worse than strange, it feels wrong. Damn Adele for springing this on me.

“My name is Luca, though I don’t expect you care,” he says, getting to his feet and tucking his hands in his pockets as he leans against the back of the cell. He’s wearing tight jeans, acid washed and faded, calling to mind 1980s movies. They’re freshly ripped at the knees, the edges stained the dark red of blood, and a Gorillaz T-shirt. One of my favorite bands. I wonder if he’s ever seen a concert, something I’ve only seen on-screen. His feet are bare, no sign of shoes or socks. I’m starkly aware of my neat, all-black attire and sturdy boots.

I set down the supplies on the lab table outside the cell, hoping my hands don’t shake and trying to look busy while I flounder.