Lord of Unkindness Ch. 22

 Notes: Let's introspect a bit more, shall we? Back to action soon!

Title: Lord of Unkindness Ch. 22

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Chapter Twenty-Two

 

Ciro dreams about magic.

Well, not exactly. He dreams about flying, but flying to him has always represented his magic. When he manifested his first familiar as a child, only seven at the time, his mother had taken one look at the pair of birds on his shoulders as he’d walked proudly into the dining room that morning and come over to him, kneeling down and hugging him around the waist so that she didn’t disrupt his birds.

“Look at you, Le Le,” she’d said, pressing her lips close to his ear as she whispered. “Look at your beautiful magic. You can go anywhere with magic like this, Ciro. Absolutely anywhere.”

“Like your fish, mama?” He’d always loved her koi, such powerful swimmers for all that it was hard for them to get around inside the Tower.

“Yes, Le Le, like my—”

“Mei, for god’s sake, stop coddling him,” his father had snapped, and heavy hands had come down on both their shoulders to pull them apart, scattering Ciro’s birds into the air.

The dream scatters with them, and a moment later he’s looking out of the eyes of his familiar as they fly over a landscape delineated in shades of grey, roads and bridges giving way to trees, then rocky desert. In the center of this barren landscape is a single great tree, its branches bare of leaves but moving with the rustle and preen of a great unkindness of ravens.

Even as he lands among them, Ciro is awed by the sheer breadth of power these birds represent. He flits among them, stopping to touch every now and then, comforted and calmed even though he knows now, without a doubt, that this is the most wishful dream he’s ever had. No one since the Pied Piper of Hamelin has had so many familiars, and the way bloodlines are diminishing it’s not likely that anyone else ever will. He certainly won’t be contributing to that mess.

Nephele had been congratulated by his father for manifesting the beady-eyed, swarming little bastards she called her “squad”—big, fat rats that harkened back to the originator of their family name. His father liked it, both for its nod to tradition and because the rats weren’t as intimidating as his dogs. It had taken Ciro a long time to understand just how much of his father’s worth was tied up in his manifestations, the way they looked and behaved, how menacing they could be. Dogs were fierce, predatory; dogs were something he could take out in the street without getting stares. But birds?

“Strange. Somewhat cowardly. But useful,” he’d concluded after testing young Ciro’s abilities. Ciro still remembered how it felt to have his father grip one of his familiars in his hand while pulling its feathers out with the other, watching how they turned to smoke and returned to Ciro before touching the floor. It had hurt, even though the magic had come back to him. Hurting his familiars was as good as hurting him.

Now, though, managing that pain is second nature. Normal witches, with their single familiar, they have barriers between them to prevent spillover, but people like the Hamblys leave those connections wide open to help them manage their magical creatures, to guide them and guard them. And, occasionally, lose them.

No wonder Annette screamed so loud when hers were killed.

Unable to confront his own memories any longer, Ciro takes off from the tree and flies up into the sky. The rest of the flock goes with him, spiraling up into the air on a thermal like a group of vultures instead of what they are. There are so many of them that, when Ciro looks down at the ground, it’s nearly blotted out with black bodies, all of them swirling upward, higher and higher, delighting in flying with him. His own magic surrounds him, strengthens him, and Ciro caws with joy as he flies straight toward the sun, heat shimmering on his feathers and lifting him ever higher. It’s pure bliss, and when he finally wakes up, he’s got a smile on his face and grit in the corners of his eyes.

And his stomach is rumbling like a rockslide.

7:45 in the morning. Holy shit, he’d slept most of the day and night away since Angelo left. No wonder he’s so hungry. He reaches blearily for his phone and checks to see if he’s missed any messages. There’s only one, sent last night at 9.

See you tomorrow, babe. Nice and vague, but there was a limit to how specific Angelo could be under the circumstances. He must have been successful, must have found Annette and got her to agree to come back.

Shit. Ciro might as well eat before he wasn’t capable of keeping anything down anymore.

He got to his feet and his raven immediately flew to his shoulder. The bird felt weighty, solid in a way he hadn’t felt for some time. It was big, too—almost big enough to make two ravens. “That must mean we’re feeling better, huh?” Ciro says idly to his magic as he heads for the kitchen. Angelo stocked the fridge with all sorts of things, colorful and flavorful and healthy. It’s funny how decadent it feels to make a thick slice of toast, cover it with mashed avocado, and throw an egg on top. A few scallions and sliced tomatoes later, it and the coffee are ready.

Ciro eats slowly, savoring each bite he takes as he heads out to the little garden space at the back of the house. He opens the door and steps out into the cool morning air, breathes in the fresh, clean scent of plants and water—not so much fragrance with the blossoms shy in the darkness, but it’s still wonderfully relaxing. His raven flies over to the wall that separates their little slice of safety from the rest of the world, and Ciro thinks nothing of it. It’s fine, everything is fine, and then—

The raven flies off.

“Wha—” Ciro chokes on his last bite of toast and ends up coughing most of it into a hydrangea bush. He washes the crumbs down with coffee even as he reaches out for his magic.

Get back here!

There’s no response. He can—he can still feel it, it’s not like his magic is gone, perse. It feels like it does when it flies across a room without him, or when it’s working in another part of the city, but this is different. He doesn’t have any of the rest of his birds with him right now, and familiars are independent enough to be tricky on the best of days.

Ciro’s magic has just abandoned him, flown off into the morning sky, and he has no idea why. He does know it’s not safe out there, though. He tries again to command it back to his side, but he can’t because he has no magic to make the idiot bird listen to him. Shit, shit, shit… He runs back inside, dumps his mug into the sink, sprints to the front door, flings it open, and—

A familiar woman with curly red hair wearing a pale blue sundress is just pushing a pair of sunglasses up on top of her head. Ciro freezes, his breath solid in his lungs. Oh my god.

“Ciro.” Annette smiles tentatively. “Hi.”