AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Astrid?”
“The girl with the kid.”
“Ah.” So that was why Françoise had gone to the far side of the stage to work her spell. Nulls exerted a dampening field on magic for a space around them. For the stronger, it could be up to a city block in size; for the weaker, it was much smaller. But even a low-level null would have interfered if she was close.
“That’s how she got away, after she found out about the kid. They couldn’t track her.”
I nodded. Nulls weren’t automatically incarcerated like some mages with malfunctioning magic, because they weren’t considered a threat. But if Astrid had been discovered pregnant, a lot of pressure would have been put on her to terminate it, so as not to pass malfunctioning genes along. No wonder she’d run. And nulls were damn hard to find when they didn’t want to be.
Tami was a low-level null herself, which had helped her to keep the Misfits safe and the chaos to a minimum, at least when she was at home. And her abilities ensured that any runaways she took in didn’t have to worry about registering on a magical tracking spell. Which made it strange that, after so many years, the mages had caught up with her now.
“Okay. I’m relieved to hear that.” And I was. Astrid’s presence might help tone things down, but she couldn’t be everywhere, and there were seven kids to watch besides the baby. I needed to know what I was taking on. “But we both know that not everyone here is a null.”
Jesse kicked concrete with his heel and said nothing. “Jesse.”
“I’m a fluke, okay?” he blurted, in the same tone someone might once have used to say “leper.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.” “Fluke” is a catchall term for magical oddities dealing with what humans call luck. Not good luck, not bad luck, just…luck.
A famous example, even among norms, is the odd experience of the French writer Émile Deschamps. In 1805, he was treated to some plum pudding by a stranger, Monsieur de Fortgibu, at a Paris restaurant. Ten years later, he saw plum pudding on the menu of another establishment and tried to order some, only to have the waiter tell him that the last dish had just been served, to a customer who turned out to be de Fortgibu. Much later, in 1832, Deschamps was once again offered plum pudding at a restaurant. He laughingly told his friends that only de Fortgibu was missing to make the cycle complete—and a moment later de Fortgibu showed up.
Of course, what the history books don’t say is that de Fortigbu was a fluke. His magic associated certain things with particular people, places or events. Every time he saw one of his cousins, for instance, she was wearing blue; the scent of oranges accompanied every visit to his favorite bookseller; and if he got within a few yards of Deschamps, pudding invariably appeared.
Most humans claimed that events like these were mere coincidence. Magical healers, on the other hand, speculated that they were somehow linked to memory. Images of people or places are stored in everyone’s brain in connection with some type of sensory data. A flower a man’s grandmother liked, for example, might make him think of her whenever he saw one. Being a mage, de Fortgibu had simply carried that to a new level: his malfunctioning magic insured that when one cue appeared, the other also did.
But not all flukes had magic that manifested itself in the slightly batty but mostly nonthreatening way of de Fortgibu’s. One young man caused massive undertows whenever he got within five miles of the shore and had to be banned from any access to the beach. Another caused seismic activity and was restricted from going anywhere near an active fault line. That particular group of flukes was memorable enough to deserve their own name: jinx.
A jinx was basically a walking Murphy’s Law, with “accidents” caused by out-of-control power cropping up on a regular basis. And unlike the random stuff that most flukes caused, a jinx’s actions were invariably harmful. There was a time, a few hundred years back, when they’d been killed on sight. I really, really hoped that wasn’t what I was dealing with here. Not that Jesse was likely to admit it, if it was.
“How strong are you?” A jinx of any type was dangerous, but a strong one would be a walking disaster. Literally.
“Not strong,” he assured me fervently. “Not strong at all! And I’m the only one. The others are…pretty harmless.”
“Uh-huh.” None of the kids, most of whom appeared to be around seven or eight, had looked like a threat. But, then, neither had Lucy. “Define ‘pretty harmless.’”
“If you’re gonna thr
ow me out, just do it!” Jesse said furiously. “But the others are okay. I’ll clear out if you’ll let them—”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to leave! I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.”
Magical children didn’t fall through the cracks for no reason. It was almost a certainty that the kids all had some kind of talent that made them persona non grata in the magical community. Yet Jesse would admit only to a null, a fluke and a seer, swearing that the other five were just scrims, the current PC term for mages with little ability. I had my doubts. Scrims formed the largest population of magical runaways, but Tami hadn’t concentrated on them when I knew her because they didn’t have handicaps that could benefit from a null’s calming influence. They could also pass for norms, avoiding the magical community and its laws altogether if they chose. That was not an option for people like Lucy.
But doubts or no, I couldn’t force him to tell me the truth. And with Astrid around, hopefully it wouldn’t matter anyway. Her power should negate the kids’ abilities, whatever they were, as long as they stayed close. Giving me time to find out what had happened to Tami.
I decided to change the subject. “How did the mages find you?”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know. They just busted in one morning and Tami screamed at us to run. Astrid tried to drain them, but there were too many and they had guns. She didn’t stand a chance.”
“But she got away.”
“’Cause they didn’t want her. They were all about Tami. They hardly even looked at the rest of us until they caught her.”
“Why?”
Jesse fidgeted with the sleeves on his god-awful pea green sweatshirt. “Uh, I don’t know?”
“That sentence would work a lot better without the question mark at the end,” I said dryly.
