Page 183 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Glamour magic,” he says simply, undoing the feather from the tail of the arrow. He holds up a single feather and grins. “Air.”

“Do you... Are you an archer?” Oren asks, baffled.

“Where do you think I came up with the name ‘Fletcher’?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

Oren nods, looking equal parts unnerved and impressed.

Roxie plucks a carnation out of one of the plastic vases on the table, rubbing their thumb across it. “Hey, this flower is real. Would that work for earth?”

“Perfect,” Fletcher says, grinning. “Then that just leaves the most difficult one. Spirit.”

“Yeah, please explain that one to the class,” I say.

“Well, normally, you’d want to have something that corresponds with the person who is summoning the familiar. But obviously Lillith isn’t here, and Aemon is her familiar. I don’t suppose you have formed a bond with the guy have you, Dame?” Fletcher asks me.

“Uhhh, no,” I say. “Can’t say I’ve wanted to spend any time with the asshat who was supposed to marry my girlfriend and kept her confined to her own home for the last three months.”

“Thought so,” Fletcher says with a sigh.

“Uh, well—I have,” Wren says sheepishly.

“Have you? It must be a real bond. Not some flimsy acquaintanceship?” Fletcher asks.

Satoshi frowns at her and Wren meets his lingering, disapproving look with a challenging one.

“What?” Wren asks. “Spit it out.”

His lips work a moment, like he really does want to say something. Instead, he pouts, slipping his hands into his pockets and crossing the room to sit in one of the massage chairs. “Not my business,” he says, turning the thing on.

Her gaze lingers on him for a while until she shakes off the frustration. “We’ve been getting to know each other,” she finally tells Fletcher. “I think I can act as a taglock for him.”

Fletcher nods and sighs. “Good,” he says. “Now I just need something to draw the circle with.”

Roxie reaches into the phanny pack they always have on when we’re traveling together. They produce a tube of lipstick from its depths, blue and sparkly. “Would this work?” they ask, offering it to Fletcher.

Fletcher chuckles, accepting it. “This is the strangest summoning rite I’ve ever performed, that’s for certain,” he says. “But aye. It should work.”

After that, like most magic, the process is shockingly simple. Fletcher draws a circle that’s about six feet across, give or take a few inches. Inside the circle, he draws a series of lines and symbols that don’t mean much to me. I think I recognize a few letters of Faelish from when Lillith and I hung out in The Buried City, but it’s hard to know for sure. In the end, it looks sort of like an art nouveau star within the confines of the circle.

Fletcher and Wren work together to place the four elements at the proper points of the star, and when they’re done, Fletcher nods toward the tip of the star. “You feeling well enough to sit there and help bring him through?”

Wren nods. “Sure,” she says. “I got enough rest to replenish a bit, I think.”

She sits in the specified spot and Fletcher kneels directly across from her so that they’re facing each other. He claps his hands before shaking them out a bit. He tucks his lips between his teeth—a habit I’ve seen from him when he’s feeling anxious or unsure. Hesitation straightens the lines of his body and makes his movements awkward as he places his hands on the blue, sparkly circle.

“You alright Fletch?” I ask.

He forces a quick smile and nods without looking at me. “Just haven’t done any magic in a while,” he says. He tilts his head as he checks in with Wren—a silent question.

She gives him a firm nod, answering it just as silently.

The air in the lounge takes on a sort of ozonic quality as we clear the area, each of us feeling subconsciously that we should be far out of the way. The hair on my arms sticks up on end, not because I feel a chill, but because static electricity in the room is building. A few sparks flash over the space of the circle. I wince as my ears pop, a dull ache building that feels like it might rupture my eardrums that Wren barely managed to heal.

The lights in the room flicker, fluorescent bulbs popping and adding the acrid stench of ballast to the aquatic tang of the ozone in the air. It’s strange: even with no magic in my body, I can feel the overwhelming build of energy in the room—a feeling of impending action, a foregone conclusion about to come to fruition.

A loud clap sounds, as violent as thunder rolling right overhead during an electrical storm. Everyone in the room flinches, except for Fletcher and Wren, who have their eyes closed now. Glass from the remaining fluorescent bulbs falls like a bridal veil over the now-dark room. I smell sulfur and spent matches as a cloud of black smoke parts, revealing a very unimpressed looking Aemon, wearing... well... pajamas.

At least, I think that’s what they are. They’re a blood-colored satin set with black detailing and buttons.