In Plain Sight

Sorsha’s eyes and nose were red and her makeup had run down her cheeks. She did not look her usual perfect self. She wore a black mourning dress, a hat with a long black feather in it, and supported herself with a polished cane.

“Mr. Lockerby,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “You do turn up in the strangest places.”

“The funeral for Father Harry just finished,” he said.

“The priest who helped raise you,” Sorsha said. She’d done her homework apparently.

“I take it this is the service for your man, Hitchens,” Alex said, noting that there wasn’t any grave dug, just a headstone. Sorsha nodded.

“He was with me since just after I came into my powers,” she said. “He was younger then. I knew him a long time. He was a genuinely good man.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said.

“All things end, Alex,” she said, though she didn’t sound like she wanted to believe it.

“Thank you for the check,” he said, after a pause.

“You earned it.”

“Where are you staying?” He was just making conversation to fill the awkward silence, but she suddenly turned on him, her face full of anger. She slapped him hard across the face and Alex staggered back.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“Don’t you dare ask me that,” she hissed, limping up to him. “You dumped my home into the Atlantic. My home! Every precious memory I had, every letter, every memento is at the bottom of the ocean.”

Alex held up his good hand to ward off any more blows.

“Might I remind you that I didn’t drop your house out of the sky,” he said. “I just decided where it would land.”

“At no small expense to yourself, I hear,” she said, her voice seething.

Alex wasn’t sure, but he thought for a moment that this might be the real reason she had slapped him.

“I did what needed to be done,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, her voice cold. “All hail the savior of New York.” Her tone implied mockery, but there was no trace of levity in her eyes.

“That’s me,” Alex said with exaggerated false modesty.

“And yet only you and I and Doctor Bell will ever know that New York City almost died yesterday.”

“I didn’t do it for the glory,” Alex said.

“I know,” she said, then she smiled demurely. “You’re in it for the money.” Then she stepped forward and kissed him. She pressed against him, holding him by the back of the neck. When she finally let go, her cheeks were flushed and she looked a bit sheepish.

“Sorceress,” Alex said, a smile creeping onto his face. “I didn’t know—”

She put her finger on his lips to silence him.

“Don’t read too much into that,” she said. “You saved my life, and the life of everyone in the city. I don’t know the exact price you paid, but Doctor Bell seems to think you a great fool, so I can only guess it was high. Decades of your life?”

“Something like that,” he said.

The look she gave him swept up from his face to his snowy hair and then back down.

“I don’t want to see you again, Alex,” she said, her cold, officious voice returning. “Sorcerers live for hundreds of years, but I’m still very young as sorcerers go. I haven’t had to watch people I care about die.” She nodded toward the stone that marked Hitchens’ empty grave. “He’s the first.”

“And you don’t want me to be the second?”

“Something like that,” she sent his words back at him. “I wish you well, Alex,” she said, then limped away on her cane.

Alex watched her go until she reached the street, stepping into a long, sleek floater. He knew what her request not to see him meant, what feelings she was covering up. He knew all too well, which was why he didn’t run after her. She deserved someone who could be there for her. She deserved better than he could offer.

“So long, beautiful,” he said as the car lifted up into the air and climbed out of sight.

26 The Monograph

The sun was setting by the time Alex and Iggy got home. Neither felt much like eating, and Iggy looked tired and worn.

“Make up a fire,” he said. “Then I think we should talk.”

“Sounds good,” Alex said. He reached for the coal bucket and poured some on the grate.

While Alex worked, Iggy went upstairs. Alex knew from experience that the doc would get out of his suit coat and into his smoking jacket. He lit the fire, then selected a book from the shelf, and sat down in the chair nearest the wall.

It only took Iggy a few minutes to return.

“How about some…” he began, but his face went white when he saw Alex. “No!” he gasped. “You must not read that!”

His voice sounded desperate, like a man facing death while clinging to the last vestiges of life.

Alex sat in the soft, wing-back chair with his legs crossed. A thin book bound in red leather lay open on his lap, illuminated by the light of the table lamp. He had taken it from the space next to the hollowed-out book where he kept his money.

Hiding in plain sight.

“It’s a little late for that, Iggy,” Alex said, turning a page. “I read this book last week.”

“Alex,” Iggy told him. “You’re not ready.”