Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters (16 page)

With a scream, the dragon fell out of the sky, dragging the phoenix down with it. Only at the last moment did Rose disentangle her talons from the dragon’s face, before it smashed into the water, launching an enormous wave onto the shores of the river, and sending the ferries and schooners moored at the seaport into a wild instant storm. A plume of steam rose up from the dragon’s body before it sank beneath the surging waves.

Before Jane could cry out or augment Rose’s flight with her magic, Rose stood next to her again, back in the form of a little girl. Rose looked exactly as she had a few minutes before, except her left hand was scorched and covered in blood.

Jane clasped that hand anyway, and drew Rose close. “Bless you child, you saved my life,” she whispered.

“I’m only returning the favor, but look out,” Rose replied, and Jane turned to see Imogen Stewart herself standing atop the gigantic granite tower where her dragon had perched only a minute before.

“How dare you,” she bellowed. “Vicious, murderous girl! I will drink your blood before conquering the city.”

“What you conquer, you destroy,” Jane called up into the sky. The prim, proper figure of Imogen Stewart cut a hole into the blue behind her. “Come down, submit yourself to the justice of your fellow mages,” Jane said. “You need not die.”

“No untrained child is going to murder me!” Imogen shrieked back.

Without warning, Imogen blasted Jane’s shields. They held, barely, and Jane whispered her power back into them, reweaving them where they had frayed under Imogen’s magical assault.

But Jane could not carry the day solely through defense. She stood tall and stretched her arms out from her sides. Rose flew up behind her, her wings catching the sunlight and sending multicolored streaks of light into the sky all around them.

Jane drank in the energy the phoenix so freely generated, and crafted a spell of binding. It was not a customary spell of Fire Mages, who preferred blasting and electrifying with their Fire power. But Daniel had taught her the intricate spells of Air, and the very oxygen in the air around them fed Jane’s spell, augmented it.

The Air magic, coupled with Fire, caught the rogue mage off guard. Imogen thrashed, fighting the purple and orange streaks of light that surrounded her, ate up her own shields to feed Jane’s spell.

And right behind her, Jane heard Daniel Tappen’s dry, imperturbable voice: “Brilliant spellcraft, Jane, better than mine. I’ve never seen Fire and Air woven together so artfully. Truly, the work of a Master.”

Jane wanted to give full credit to the phoenix, or even to Daniel himself, but she was too winded to resist his praise. Jane had never done magical battle before, and she was making up for it now.

“Thank you,” she gasped.

Daniel stepped forward. “Miss Stewart,” Daniel called into the sky, “your crimes have been exposed. The authorities intend to prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. Surrender now if you wish to seek clemency.”

“No one can stop me, much less that magicless milquetoast Grace! Go to hell, all of you.” The rogue mage stared defiantly back at them, as the phoenix swooped over the bridge, screaming its desolate cry.

Imogen Stewart struggled against the bonds that Jane had looped around her shoulders, and it became clear to them all that she could work no magic, not under the constraints placed by Jane’s spell.

“The story will run in the evening edition,” Daniel said. “You are ruined, unless you surrender now.”

“None of you can stop me, never!” And with a terrible wrench, Imogen yanked herself free.

But instead of assailing them, Imogen Stewart hurled herself off the bridge into the East River, hundreds of feet below. Her body hit the water with a hideous crash, and the currents sucked her under.

A horrible way for a Fire Mage to die, by drowning, but Imogen Stewart would never burn a child again. And if Imogen hadn’t ended her own life, Jane had stood ready to embrace the darkness and murder the rogue mage herself.

Rose shot back to where Jane stood and resumed her human form. For a long moment, the three of them stood, staring at the place where Imogen Stewart had met her death.

“Are you really running the story? How will you manage?” Jane asked Daniel, her voice shaking.

“I suppose we’ll have to tell it slant,” Daniel said, his voice dry and sardonic as ever. “The headline will read:
City Rises from Ashes of Arsonist Empire, Is Reborn.
”

Jane glanced at her beautiful phoenix and smiled. “And I’m just the girl to write that story,” she said.

Air of Mystery

Jody Lynn Nye

Aurelia Degard inclined her slender body ever so slightly toward Mme. Noisette and rotated the empty cut-crystal flacon held delicately between her pliant fingertips. The older woman, in spite of her corset and bustle, could not help but match her angle, so appealing was the sparkle of the leaded glass.

“But of course I can prepare the lavender toilet lotion for you as M. Rupier does, Madame,” Aurelia said, her gentle voice holding no touch of reproof. She turned the glittering bottle so that the warmth of her hands under the small electric lamp would cause soothing aromas to arise from the drop of vetiver on her skin. She knew, as her master did, that there would be some protests against his absence in the Levant, so she had prepared a scent that calmed the senses and relaxed anxieties. Though subtle among the multiple sweet odors that permeated the shop, it still pervaded. It worked on her as well as on the privileged clientele. “He has taught me well. I have his recipe book, which lists not only the formula, but also the alterations you have requested over time. Are there any special requirements that you have for this replenishment?”

Aurelia tilted her conservatively coiffed head of smooth, dark hair slightly to show deference, but not unctuous servitude. This was, after all, Le Parfumier Rupier, the finest purveyor of scents and perfumes in all of Paris, perhaps of France, and therefore of the world. It held its place proudly on the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, just off the Champs Elysees in the 8th Arrondissement, that most exclusive of shopping precincts.

Mollified, Mme. Noisette placed a purple-deerskin-gloved fingertip to her plump cheek and looked around the shop as she considered. Much was there to please the onlooker. The warm, rosewood paneling of the walls made a charming, cozy setting for the Tiffany glass lamps in the dragonfly pattern, brilliant with greens and blues with a daring hint of red at the eyes. The counters were also of rosewood to the level of Aurelia’s waist, where the display cases began. Those, polished to mirror brightness, picked up colored lights from the lamps. Underfoot, the soft silk carpets from Turkey and Persia glowed with subtle color, a blended perfume for the eyes.

“If you would add a trifle less of the chamomile oil, that would suit me. The scent seemed a little heavy the last time. You did not formulate it then, did you?”

Aurelia looked concerned. The expression brought a V-shaped line to her smooth, narrow forehead, and lowered her dark brows over her bright, hazel eyes. She consulted the large chestnut-colored, leather-bound ledger that lay upon the counter between them. The rasp as she turned each crisp page was like a whisper that hinted at deep, intriguing secrets.

“Alas, no, Madame,” she said. “That would have been in February, just before the feast of St. Valentine, would it not? It is certain that M. Rupier created your lotion with his own hands. He will be desolated to know that you were displeased with it.”

“Hmmph!” Madame snorted. “It was not so bad, I admit. But he will not return in time to mix this one for me?”

Aurelia folded her hands together on top of the ledger’s cover.

“I regret, but no. It will cause him much pain to have missed a chance to serve you, such respect he has for you and your custom! His trip has only just begun. I have received a telegraph message from him that he has reached the kasbahs of Morocco. He will travel all the way across the north of Africa before he turns his feet back toward Paris. Perhaps not until June, or even the celebration of the republic in July.”

Madame waved a hand.

“That is far too long. Very well, I have no choice but to trust you. My footman will call for the bottle in five days.”

Aurelia drew herself up. Her slender back went stiff with pride. “He may come for it in three, Madame. That will be sufficient time to compile it to your chosen formula. I will give my personal and immediate attention.”

Her emphatic reply surprised a nod of approval from Mme. Noisette.

“That will be satisfactory. Good day, Mlle. Degard.”

Aurelia accompanied her to the heavy, carved door with the twinkling leaded panels cut into it. The apprentice clerk, a stocky boy of twelve with unruly red hair, ran to open it for the client. The trio of tiny silver bells hanging from a curved bronze Art Nouveau bracket shaped like a fairy at the top chimed farewell. He bowed deeply.

“Good day, Madame.”

Aurelia turned away as the door closed. She would have brushed her hand in weariness across her forehead, but she needed to get the vetiver serum off her skin. It was a powerful preparation. M. Rupier rarely used it, and only in the presence of very important new clients. His personality was enough to cow his usual patrons. Aurelia did not consider herself to be impressive. In fact, she often went unnoticed by the very customers who fawned upon her master. She felt that she needed the serum to deal with Mme. Noisette.

Aurelia preferred not to attract much attention. Her plain black silk dress and modest kidskin shoes were meant to be self-effacing. Her features, while not considered plain, were, as her mother kindly put it, an acquired taste. Her hazel eyes were large and liquid enough. Her lips were perhaps a trifle thin for the current style of beauty, and her cheekbones too sharp to attract a gentleman’s kiss. Her nose drew attention, not because it was large or red, but of an unusual shape, with an upward-tilted tip. Her brothers called it a pig nose, but truly, it did not bear any real resemblance to a snout. But, like the unlovely pig’s, Aurelia’s nose was remarkably sensitive. Luckily, everything in the shop smelled delightful to her.

“That was good,” Alfonse said. “She bought, and she did not complain overmuch. Will you tell M. Rupier how well you did?”

“No,” Aurelia said, with a smile for the boy. “Not until she has received it and not returned it with a curt note. Then I will crow about the success.”

Alfonse nodded.

“That is a good idea. But you will make the potion well. M. Rupier would not have trusted you with the entire shop if he did not expect you to. He would just have closed it, as he used to do before you came.”

Aurelia frowned.

“Didn’t he have an apprentice then?”

“Oh, yes, Robert, but M. Rupier didn’t trust him as he does you,” Alfonse said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Or Jean-Pierre, or Louise, or Darnelle. None of them have the magic. . . .”

“Stop!” Aurelia said. She covered her ears in mock horror. “I hope when it is my turn to depart, you won’t tell tales about me to the next trainee!”

Alfonse smirked, his cherubic cheeks rounding.

“There will be no other trainee. You will be
parfumiere
after M. Rupier retires. I can tell. He has been looking for one such as you.”

Aurelia liked the sound of that.
Parfumiere
.

She loved her job. The skills at mixing scents to achieve the desired results—such heavenly results—was a profession that she had barely dared contemplate. When she had been small, she assembled nosegays from gardens of the surrounding houses to create a mix of perfumes pleasing to the senses, so remarkably delicious that her friends and her mother’s friends called upon her for almost any occasion that required a fragrant atmosphere. It was as if she could paint a picture with scents instead of colors like her more talented friends. She could tell just what little ingredient was needed to make the sought-after mood complete.

When she reached sixteen the previous December, a kindly guest at her father’s home said he had seen a discreet notice for an assistant in M. Rupier’s shop, and suggested she apply for the position. She could not believe how God had smiled upon her when M. Rupier had taken her on.

During her interview in his luxurious and expensively scented office, it had been as if the famous man did not look directly at her once. He sat in his deep, chestnut leather chair, upright like a cat, which he greatly resembled, with his narrow black mustaches waxed to points like whiskers, and his green eyes watchful in his high-cheekboned face. Even his glossy black hair was combed back over his somewhat flat skull like the fur on a cat’s head. His hands were not like paws, though his fingers ended in spatulate tips.

He had assigned her to mix the essential oils on the table in proportions that would evaporate in the correct order and at the correct rate. He had watched her hands as she combined drops of the precious oils and extracts with pure spirit, then sniffed each vial and tested each preparation on his own wrists without meeting her eyes. Until the end, when he came around the desk, took her hand in his and bowed over it. His cat-green eyes seemed to sparkle.

“Remarkable, mademoiselle. You have the job. Please be prepared to start on the Monday of the new moon.”

Over the past few months, she had progressed rapidly. M. Rupier told her that she had excellent natural instincts for what fragrances would be best as top, heart, and base notes in perfumes and what would work best with what. All she would need was technique, which he drilled into her. He exclaimed over her triumphs and detailed carefully when she erred. Her finest day was when he accepted one of her own formulations to sell in the shop, and she had the pleasure of seeing a customer buy it.

She thought of M. Rupier as a second father, and trusted him utterly, but clearly he had secrets that he was not yet ready to share with her. She often thought that she saw things in the workroom behind the shop, among the ranks of retorts and distillation equipment that she could not explain, dancing crystal lights and liquid color. The room was indeed full of mirrors and bright glass, prisms and reflections, as though he sought to extend the effects of his potions even farther by dint of light.

He also had a private room he slipped into now and again, when something special was called for. Tactfully, Aurelia never mentioned it. If he wanted her to know what was in the small room, he would tell her. She knew the combination to the safe, which contained not only the money but some of the most precious ingredients. Some of them were poisonous, and could only be used in combination with others to denature their toxins, others were used as catalysts to cause the blooming of other potions. All of it smelled sweet and wholesome to Aurelia. She had favorites, of course, and unfavorites, those that she did not like, but she never shirked to check everything. Every Sunday, she prayed in the Cathedral de Sainte-Chapelle under the glory of its fifteen colored-glass windows, and gave thanks for such a brilliant opportunity to do what she loved.

Customers did not notice her, but she did not mind it. Her ambitions were small: to open a shop one day in a less fashionable part of Paris, or perhaps Lyon or Nice, and supply a select clientele. She, too, would go on exotic journeys like her employer, to find the best ingredients. Perhaps one day she would marry, a handsome man who came in with his sister to buy a present for their mother.

She returned to earth with a thump. Alfonse was regarding her with a surprisingly adult expression, almost one of indulgence.

“But what of you?” she asked, regretting her selfish fantasies. “Do you not wish to become a
parfumier
? You have been here longer than I.”

He smiled.

“I do not have the nose, as you do. It is your magic. I am content to be a guardian. That is my nature.”

She regarded him with puzzlement. Always to watch the doors of another, never to be the master of his own establishment? How curious that was.

Aurelia did not have time to ponder the oddity of Alfonse. The jingling of the door announced the arrival of another customer. Automatically, her eyes went to the large clock standing on a shelf high on the wall. This visitor took advantage of them. The shop hours went to five in the evening, and it lacked only six minutes until then. Still, it was not Aurelia’s place to correct the manners of her betters. She straightened her back and applied her best smile as Alfonse brought the newcomer to her counter.

Since the fantasy had only just evaporated from her imagination, she eyed the gentleman as if he could be a prospective lover and husband. He stood a good foot taller than her petite height of five feet one inch. Aurelia tilted her head back against her lace collar to meet his eyes. Those were blue, but not the sea-blue of the Gauls—rather a gray that seemed diluted from India ink almost to colorlessness. His blond hair was, alas, from a bottle, not from nature. His skin—well, he wore cosmetics. Not an unfamiliar conceit among the fashionable gentlemen of Paris, particularly if one had been so unfortunate as to suffer the pox as a child, or catastrophic acne in adolescence. Otherwise, she found him quite handsome, though it seemed almost to her as if he wore a mask. His face was not his face, so to speak. He also wore a heavy
eau de cologne
, and not a becoming one. When he came closer, she became aware that he stank. The cologne was to hide his personal odor. The combination was nauseating, to be honest. She opened her mouth to offer some advice to him as to better scents to try, but he stopped her from speaking with a sharp look in his very pale blue eyes. A masterful man, then, and one aware of his rank. Perhaps he would not like a shop assistant for a wife.

“Your employer is on the premises, mademoiselle?” he inquired. His tenor voice had music in it.
Most appealing
, Aurelia thought.

“No, sir. He is away. May I serve? I am Mlle. Degard, M. Rupier’s assistant
parfumiere
.”

“I hope you may. You are experienced at formulations and potions?”

“Perfumes, lotions, eaux de toilettes, creams, powders, and sachets,” Aurelia said promptly.

“I want a present for my dear friend,” he said. The
chere amie
was politeness, Aurelia knew. His lover, then. “Something special. You may have noticed that I wear a perfume of my own.”

“I . . . admit that I did, sir.”

Her lowered eyes evinced a bitter laugh from him.

“It is because, well, to put it indelicately, I do not have a good smell of my own, and I want her to breathe in only good airs while I am with her.”

“I can advise you,” she said, eagerly. “I know many scents that can mask one’s personal aroma. Most discreetly, of course.”