Milo ...Trigger

     By Pattie Lawler

 

Bonefolder’s wan glow brightened as Milo penetrated the cool, dark room. They were immediately surrounded by singing. The rich timbre of plainchant swelled in the background as if rising from a distant monastery. From this, Milo concluded two things; Elliot used the music for inspiration, and his inspiration had triggered the spells.

He also understood that Elliot didn’t know that Tear Spells actually worked. If the artist had, he wouldn’t have risked the music. The damage was done, but Milo needed clarity to work.

“Simon! If you can hear me, kill the power to the loft!”

“Scar…let?”

The strained voice seemed to emanate from overhead. Looking up, Milo saw the bottoms of two, dangling shoes and nothing beyond the blanketing blackness.

“Elliot!”

“Hel…p...me.”

Milo stepped back to assess what he was seeing. A small comet streaked by, illuminating Elliot’s knees but revealing enough of the man for Milo to see the swirling black energy that buffeted and held the artist aloft.

“Hang on!”

To the sounds of Kyrie Eleison, Milo retreated another step, digging in his pocket for silver coins. These he transferred to his other hand, crammed his glove into his underarm and pulled his bare hand free. He pressed one of the dead areas of his hand against Bonefolder’s edge. Squeezing the surrounding skin, blood welled.

The wandering spells converged.

Milo smeared blood on the coins, moved back under Elliot and dropped them in a wide circle. This new barrier forced the agitated spells away.

A glance at the door confirmed that Simon was otherwise occupied, so Milo turned his attention to the trashcan across the room. Stepping clear of the blood and silver barrier drew the spells’ interest, but they were no match for Bonefolder's aura. Milo felt them passing as a damp, chilled caress.

Drawing closer to the source of the spells, the drop in temperature was palpable. He stared down into the trash and the pale, blue glow of the spells.

“How many did you toss?”

“Eight…nine.”

Retrieving his glove, Milo sucked some blood from his wound, replaced the glove on his hand and pulled a topmost spell from the garbage. Through the warm leather, his fingertips felt chilled by the paper. He smoothed the vellum against his leg, trying to flatten it, and then spat onto the page. The blood immediately became thread-like worms that hurried for the nearest edge.

This spell was a curse.

Forcing aside the obvious implications, Milo dropped it on the nearest table and reached for the next one. Spell after spell he lifted from the trash until his fingers ached from the cold.

“Nine,” he muttered.

The chanting stopped, and the emergency light flicked on.

He stood looking down at the spells. Four snake oil, three curses, and two hand of glory. One of the hand of glory spells was missing its topmost inch of paper.

“Made yourself a skeleton key, did ya?”

“Milo!”

Milo turned to see Simon in the door. He gestured with his chin to Elliot. “I’ll cut you in. Be ready to catch him.”

Simon nodded.

Milo looked up at Elliot. The young man’s eyes were wide with fear, so Milo smiled encouragement.

 <0>

What Scarlet could be planning was beyond Elliot’s scope. The glowing sword, the active spells...nothing made sense.

Scarlet twisted toward the door, the tip of the sword lost in the folds of his coat but seemingly beside his heel. In one motion, he stepped forward and swung the sword up in an arc, like a tennis backhand.

A curved blade of light cut through the room and impacted against the door. Elliot’s weight returned just as the tip of the sword came into easy view, and he fell...

Into the arms of the man who had been outside the door. Scarlet’s bodyguard. He remembered seeing him at the manor. Simon. Simon was his name. He smelled of mint and leather, and his voice was a deep rumble.

“You okay?”

How to answer?

Elliot managed half a nod.

“Try not to move.”

Good plan.

Simon lowered them both to the floor facing Scarlet whose silhouetted form was in profile. He appeared to be dusting the glowing sword with something from his coat pocket.

“Wha...t?”

“Cayenne.

Of course.

“I’m guessing you didn’t know your spells work.”

“Stu...pid.”

Simon shrugged. “Facts are facts.”

Scarlet held the sword up to his sternum, the length of it pointing away from him, jerked his arms wide, and the sword stayed, suspended on nothing.

Elliot blinked, desperate to clear this dream from his mind.

Scarlet pointed, and one of the spells rose off the table, drifted to the sword, and delicately balanced its edge along the edge of the sword. Scarlet swept an arm downward, and the page sliced down. On one side of the blade was the blank page, on the other was the glowing image of the spell. The paper fluttered to the floor, but the spell remained. Scarlet pointed again, and the paperless art whisked across the room to splat against the picture window.

He summoned the next spell.

Each one he treated in the same fashion, until all nine spells were pressed to the glass, and nine harmless pieces of paper littered the floor. Drawing his arms in close, he folded his hands together as if in prayer and Elliot could just make out the sounds of Latin.

It didn’t sound like a prayer.

Scarlet shouted, lunged forward a step, his hand stabbing out. The sword lanced through the room and exploded the picture window outward in a deafening boom of glass. The lacerated spells twinkled in the streetlight for a second before raining onto the empty street below.

In the room, the exchange of air felt like a stone was lifted from his chest. Elliot shifted, aware of the shaking of Simon’s body. Was he laughing?

“Show off,” the bodyguard chuckled.

Simon gently pushed, but Elliot no longer felt as weak as a newborn. Rising to his feet, he faced Scarlet.

“What was that?”

Scarlet stood, sword in hand, and an amused expression on his face. “That, Mr. Diarmait, was proof positive that I have an excellent eye for talent.” The collector looked at his bodyguard. “No doubt MaryAnne is outside, waiting for my call. I’ll talk her off the ledge while you call a glazer. I’ll meet you at the car.”

Simon nodded, reaching for his phone as Scarlet strode from the room.

Elliot didn’t know where to look. “Hey! Wait!” He started forward.

Simon caught his arm, jerked him to a halt then released him. “Ask MaryAnne.”

“But! But...who is he?”

“Your new employer.” Simon grinned and turned away as his call connected.

Elliot stood for a moment, dazed, and then went to the fallen pages. Bending, he collected the pristine sheets and piled them on the desk.

 <0>

Milo was surprised to hear voices in the kitchen as he removed his coat. Pausing for clean gloves, he silently moved to the kitchen door and smiled at the domestic scene within.

Albany was at the stove, frying something, and Fanny sat at the table, slicing whatever was on her plate.

“Mind if I join you?”

Both women looked up, and their smiles were invitation enough.

“Albany’s making quesadillas,” Fanny announced and then mimicked Albany’s voice. “The perfect late night snack.”

He went to the table and lowered himself into the chair across from Fanny. “Why are you ladies up? Isn’t it past everyone’s bedtime?”

“We were waiting for you,” Albany said. She took another plate from the cabinet and put it before him. “Our allowance of Milo time has fallen off lately, and we decided to pass on sleep to see you.”

“Nice one, but I already know you’re off tomorrow.”

Albany shrugged, turning from the stove, frying pan in hand. “Even if I wasn’t, I’d still be waiting for you.”

Milo leaned back as she slipped the hot tortilla onto his plate, and he smiled up at her. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Placing a kiss on his head, she returned to the stove.

“Do you want to share mine?” Fanny asked, smearing sour cream across the several wedges on her plate.

“Sure.” Albany turned off the stove and joined them at the table. “How was Elliot?”

“He’s good. And I mean that. He’s really good.”

“So you think he’ll work out?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Uncle Milo saw your scrapbook today.”

Albany smiled at Fanny. “You mean you showed it to him.”

“Same thing.” Fanny giggled, holding the jar of salsa out for Milo to open.

“No, young lady, it isn’t.” He took the jar, broke the seal and handed it back. “You can’t share things that don’t belong to you. What if Albany had wanted to surprise us?”

Fanny rocked against Albany. “We were surprised. Really, really happy and surprised. Uncle Milo says we’re all going shopping tomorrow.”

Albany lifted a wedge of quesadilla and spooned some salsa onto it. “I’m hoping Sam will call, but the likelihood is low, so, yes, please. I’d love to go shopping.”

Milo watched her take a bite, took the knife off Fanny’s plate and used is as a pointer, indicating the Tex-Mex spread before applying it to his food. “Where did this come from?”

The women exchanged glances and then laughed. “We had to go out and buy it,” Albany said with a shake of her head. “This is the most under-stocked kitchen I’ve ever been in.”

“We have a chef on call.”

“I told her that,” Fanny said.

“And I don’t care. I wanted to cook.”

“Well, it was excellent. Thank you.” 

Albany and Fanny stared, open-mouthed, at Milo’s empty plate. Albany met his eye. “Did you—” Her gaze swept the table, searching for the missing quesadilla, and she shook her head. “Would you like another?”

“Do you mind?”

“No. In fact, I’ve signed with the ‘take care of Milo for life’ franchise, so I’m good.” She rose, ignoring his protests to eat first. “If you wolfed that one down that quickly, you must be starving.” She turned the heat on under the pan and pulled a tortilla from the package. “Joe wanted you to call her first thing, by the way. She left a message on the voice mail.”

Milo frowned, reaching for his BlackBerry.

“She said it was nothing to worry about, but wanted to reach you as soon as possible. Was your phone off?”

An image of his time at the loft flashed through him mind, and he nodded. “You could say I was out of range.” He glanced at his watch and texted his secretary. No one was surprised when the phone rang in less time than the quesadilla took to heat.

“Good morning, Joe! Albany said you needed me?”

Albany slipped the second tortilla onto his plate and used the spatula to cut it for him. Engrossed by what Joe was saying, he lifted a wedge, took a bite and then dropped both the phone and the food. Turning, he scooped a surprised Albany into his arms and spun her around.

“What?” Both Albany and Fanny demanded.

Milo didn’t pause as he carried Albany to Fanny’s side. “We’ve heard from Buckingham. The Queen has given her consent! The announcements go out today!”

Albany recoiled. “The Queen?”

He nodded. “As a Peer of the Realm it’s a formality, but a politic one. Now that Her Majesty has given her blessing, we can move forward!” He hugged Albany, set her down and threw his arms around Fanny, twisting her in his delight. “What a day! What a day!”

 

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