Crown of Briars Read online

  Instead, Zoe built back up her foundations, bit by bit. She forced herself to run through a simple plan for the next hour, to reassure herself with a sense of routine. Get home, she told herself. Turn on the lights. Check the wards. Take a sleeping pill.

  Zoe took a breath. Then — with a painful, exacting effort — she stepped back.

  Simon’s spell had yet to fade. He was still exerting himself, fuelling the flickering golden wisp between them with a consistent thread of magic. Zoe had to remind herself that she was supposed to be mortal — that as far as Simon knew, she couldn’t see the spell at all, could barely sense its existence. A mortal Zoe would simply know that she felt safer, for no particular reason she could discern.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. She had to avert her eyes, to keep from focusing on the little light in front of her.

  Simon patted her on the shoulder — as though she’d merely sneezed or gotten tongue-tied, instead of freezing like a cornered rabbit in the middle of the sidewalk. As though he hadn’t just ignored his own demons to expertly shore up her courage.

  He stayed a bit closer to her side as they took the last block to the nearest metro station. Zoe saw the well-intentioned lie in his aura as he claimed to be headed in the same direction as her stop. The normally sterile light of the metro car softened under the touch of the golden light that he carried with them. The few passengers that traveled with them took on dreamy looks, caught up in their own pleasant, distant thoughts as the spell did its work on them. Zoe let herself drift with them, as Simon stood near her seat — just close enough for comfort, and far enough to give her space.

  “You're on my way,” Simon lied to her again, as they stepped out of the metro onto the snowy, dimly-lit street outside. “I can see you home. It’s just a detour of a street or two.”

  Or three, or four. Or maybe you live on the other side of town entirely, Zoe thought. But she didn’t call him on it. Just now, she realized, she wanted the company.

  Simon kept that golden fairy light burning the entire way home. As Zoe paused in front of the door to her condo, searching for her keys, she saw him rifle through his pockets with a frown. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to come up short. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled a small, golden trinket from the inside pocket of his coat.

  The golden will o’ wisp leapt toward the object in his hand, burrowing into the metal. Zoe realized that he’d tied the spell to it, just as she’d done with the wards in Dorian’s building — to ensure that the magic would burn on even after he left.

  “Miss Zoe?”

  She turned and he caught her hand, tucking the newly-bound talisman into her palm. It was a little golden compass, Zoe realized — though there didn’t seem to be a North on it. Its point spun lazily every which way as she watched. There’s some other magic in this already, she thought. He can’t prepare a proper talisman on the spot, so he’s borrowing this one to fuel his spell.

  “Would you mind holding onto this for a bit?” Simon asked.

  Zoe searched his eyes. “This is something important,” she said. “Even I can tell that. Are you sure you want to give it to me?”

  Simon’s lips quirked upward. “It’s important,” he confirmed. “I’ll need it back from you eventually. But I’m not using it right this instant.”

  Zoe looked down at the compass. There was some kind of intricate underlying spell on it. Something directional. There was a sliver of something in the compass needle, but whatever it was, the compass couldn’t currently find it. “…what does it do?”

  Simon ran his fingers back through his hair. He was a bit nervous about handing it over, she saw. But that odd thread of possessiveness whispered through his aura again and dispelled his nerves. “It points toward the Briars,” he said. “It’s how I navigate Arcadia, most of the time. But it might also help you feel better, if you keep it nearby.”

  Ah. He’d probably placed a sliver of the Briars themselves into the compass needle, and used his particular brand of magic to point it back to its home. A thought occurred to Zoe, and she smiled.

  Of course. The fiery wisp. The spell of direction. Simon was a Sagittarius witch.

  “I’ll keep it very safe,” she promised. And though she’d sworn that she wouldn’t indulge that choking affection in her chest any further, she threw her arms around him again, breathing in his scent just one more time.

  The gesture surprised Simon. It took him a moment to respond. But he wrapped his arms around her again, and Zoe savored the moment.

  “Just ‘Zoe’ is fine, by the way,” she mumbled into his chest.

  She couldn’t see his face, but she knew she’d flustered him a bit. “Oh,” he said. There with a hint of embarrassed pleasure in the word.

  As Zoe forced herself to release him, she saw that his aura had lightened again substantially. Clarity hit her like a bolt of lightning, and she nearly smacked herself for her stupidity. Simon likes helping people. That’s how he feels better.

  The thought elicited a small sigh from her, as she readjusted her perceptions of the evening. Simon had needed someone to save, in a way. Zoe had just been the right person at the right time. If there was any infatuation involved, it was all on her end.

  That’s a good thing, Zoe reminded herself forcefully. She shot him one last wispy smile. “I’ll keep it with me,” she said. “You can just… come and get it, whenever you need it.”

  Simon smiled at her, and her traitorous knees went weak. “Maybe I’ll trade you some chocolate for it,” he said. He fished his scarf out of a coat pocket, tucking it around his neck. “Goodnight, Mi— Zoe.” He corrected himself just in time, sheepish.

  Zoe swallowed down an odd lump in her throat. “Goodnight, Simon,” she said.

  She felt his eyes on her back as he waited for her to get safely indoors. As she peeled off her coat and sank into her own couch, Zoe realized she was still holding the little golden compass next to her heart.

  Simon’s little comforting light still burned upon it, suffusing her in the ghost of his presence. Zoe closed her eyes, letting it sink into her. For just a moment, she let herself imagine that Simon had come in and settled next to her instead of leaving. She could watch the snow falling with his arm around her shoulders, and her cheek against his chest…

  Zoe groaned, and let her head fall back against the couch cushion. “Fuck,” she said.

  She hadn’t grown infatuated with Simon that night. God no. She’d already been infatuated with him. Years of professional barriers and steady reminders of what a bad idea that would be had done wonders to help her deny it, but there was no escaping the truth after tonight.

  The oblivious bastard hadn’t done a thing to discourage her. He was probably headed home even now with absolutely no idea that he’d given new fuel to a long, infuriating crush.

  Zoe pressed her fingers into the compass. It should have been cold after being outside for so long, but it still held a faint warmth. “That man is gonna make me do something stupid,” she muttered.

  Yes, she decided. As usual — this was all Simon’s fault.

  Chapter 4

  “Zoe?” A snap of fingers. “Allô! Zoe!”

  Zoe blinked, dragging herself back to the present. Dorian had leaned himself onto the edge of her desk, waving his palm in front of her face. She flushed in embarrassment. There was a pile of fresh jurisprudence in front of her, waiting for copies.

  “I’ll get on it,” she mumbled. She quickly tucked away the little golden compass in her hand. Dorian didn’t notice, though the glow of Simon’s magic was still bright enough to light up her entire desk. La Voûte had a strange magic of his own, but one thing he didn’t have was Witchsight.

  Dorian raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re more distracted than usual,” he observed.

  Zoe pushed to her feet, gathering up the files. “You’re more nosy than usual,” she shot back. Dorian had clearly flustered her though, and he knew it.

  His other eyebrow inched upward. “K
eeping secrets?” he asked. His tone was more intrigued than upset.

  “Would you like to say that again, with less hypocrisy this time?” Zoe asked him sardonically.

  Dorian’s lips twitched. “Point,” he acknowledged. He pushed off the desk and stepped out of her way as she swept past him for the back.

  It had been three days since Simon had given her his compass. Zoe had spent every moment of it agonizing over the things it had forced her to confront about herself and her feelings. Logical Zoe knew that she needed to backpedal, to reassert some kind of distance between her and Simon — given time, she could squash the daydreams and the traitorous flutters in her stomach.

  But Infatuated Zoe just kept whining in the back of her mind: What if you didn’t?

  Those daydreams surged back as she leaned on the edge of the copier: the feel of Simon’s arms around her — the delirious pleasure of losing herself in everything that he was. He smiled so often already, but what if Zoe could be the one that elicited those smiles?

  Zoe blinked. She’d lost her focus again. But there wasn’t even anything to distract her Witchsight this time…

  But there was. She glanced down, and realized that she’d pulled back out the little compass. Its lovely golden glow suffused everything around her.

  The compass was affecting her. It was a constant, needling reminder of everything she adored about Simon. The ghost of his presence was like ongoing fuel for Infatuated Zoe. It was no wonder she couldn’t get him out of her head!

  “I need to him to come and get this stupid thing,” Zoe muttered worriedly. Her fingers curled around the compass instinctively, as though to prevent her from setting it aside. She set her jaw, and stuffed the compass back into the pocket of her work slacks.

  There were reasons — good reasons — that Zoe couldn’t pursue this weird infatuation. Malcolm was almost certainly dead, but his awful secrets weren’t. Zoe didn’t have Dorian’s ability to lock away dangerous ideas. All she could realistically do was hold onto them silently until she died.

  You would never get through a relationship with Simon without spilling. He might have more leverage than the average warlock, but he’s still got a faerie lord jerking him around. If she found out…

  A sobering shiver went down Zoe’s spine at the very thought. Malcolm had been human, and he’d still been willing to commit all of those atrocities in exchange for power. The Lady of Briars was a faerie lord, devoid of human rationality. Maybe she’d found herself a sliver of humanity and maybe she hadn’t. But either way, it would be just like a faerie to decide to pick back up Malcolm’s experiments on a whim.

  The thought dragged Zoe back to a cold clarity. She needed to stay away from Simon. She needed to quash this. To quash it, she needed to give this damned compass back to Simon.

  Though he’d originally come in to see about making an appointment, Simon had yet to get one on the books. They didn’t have any sort of phone number or address on file for him… but she could figure something out. She had to.

  He still teaches. The thought struck her abruptly. Zoe dug out her phone. A few simple searches later, and she had a profile for Professor Simon Leclair, on the website for the Université du Québec à Montréal. He wasn’t an active, full-time professor anymore, she saw — he’d dropped down to guest lectures. It was probably difficult keeping up a normal human schedule when you went for regular jaunts in Arcadia, she thought; time sometimes flowed at a different rate there. It was exceedingly rare to lose whole years in that other world, but it wasn’t unheard of to come back a week or two later than you’d intended.

  Simon did have a lecture that evening, as part of a local conference — it was probably the reason he’d felt so comfortable lending her his compass. Zoe winced as she saw the subject matter.

  Contes de fées françaises.

  French fairy tales. Of course. The entire lecture was probably in French too, given the description.

  Just as well you’re not trying to flirt with him, Zoe thought glumly. Just her luck she’d fallen for a French teacher. The moment she opened her mouth and tried to speak any sort of complex French with Simon, her horrible accent would probably put him off forever.

  She embraced the disappointment, forcing herself to acknowledge it. That was that. She didn’t need to worry about the implications of her crush, as it was never going to go anywhere.

  Zoe wasn’t thrilled about being out and about after the sun was down, but the steady golden glow of Simon’s compass made the darkness significantly less daunting than before. She had to admit that she would miss the comfort that it lent her — once she gave it back, she’d probably wimp out and call a cab home. Dorian had given her a raised eyebrow when she declined his ride home, but at least he hadn’t pried this time.

  UQAM, as the university was known locally, was one of those places you often passed and rarely entered, unless you were a student or a teacher. The Berri-UQAM metro station was the busiest in the city; three different metro lines crossed at its nexus. Zoe found herself squeezed into a metro car at rush hour with what must have been fully half the city. Surrounded by the press of so many tired, frustrated people, she was reminded once again just why she hated using the metro. Her Witchsight was hopelessly cluttered; the crowd was already giving her a keen, throbbing headache behind her eyes.

  When the doors finally opened on Berri, Zoe darted out of the car as soon as humanly possible, her stomach churning. Just give the compass back and go home, she thought furiously. She held the thought in mind — a clear goal that she could focus on.

  Zoe had meant to get to the lecture just before it started, but she’d barely underestimated her travel time; as she snuck into the back of the auditorium that had been purposed for the conference, she saw Simon already up at the front, speaking in even French tones. It was strange seeing him in such a different element; his manner was more relaxed, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. Simon’s white-blond hair was mussed again, as though he’d run his fingers through it multiple times that day.

  The room was full of distinguished academics and younger students still in their degree programs. Everyone looked a bit tired and ragged around the edges from a full day of lectures, but to Simon’s credit, there were a number of intrigued, animated expressions at his presentation. Many of those interested expressions belonged — quite predictably — to the female students and professors in the audience; Simon had a lovely, lilting way of speaking, and nothing about him was hard on the eyes. But there did seem to be a more general interest in the subject of his lecture.

  There were pictures on display of what looked like old, carefully-restored French manuscripts. Not just French, Zoe realized — medieval French. Oof. Any stray hopes she’d had of understanding the lecture evaporated immediately into thin air.

  Zoe tuned in to what he was saying, trying to make some sense of it. His crisp, clear accent helped significantly, but she still found herself struggling to keep up. This crowd was obviously francophone, and he had no need to slow down for them.

  He was currently discussing a woman named Madame d'Aulnoy — a historical figure, if Zoe’s disjointed translations were correct. The word salonnières came up more than once; she’d never heard it before, but context suggested that Madame d’Aulnoy was one. As Simon said something about amour interdit, Zoe found herself briefly able to follow: French soap operas had given her a particularly strong grasp of all things lurid and dramatic.

  Fairy tales were a subtle vehicle for sedition and for the airing of female grievances, she translated loosely in her head. An expression of frustration with the thankless drudgery of housework, and a longing for a world where women of the era could marry handsome princes instead of drunks, gamblers, and men more than twice their age.

  Zoe nearly laughed out loud. Soap operas, she thought to herself. A few hundred years ago wasn’t so different from today, after all. Of course, she and Simon both knew very well that many fairy tales had originated from real e
vents… but it sounded as though their popularity and evolution was still a very human endeavor.

  “Mademoiselle?” Zoe started, caught off guard by the whispered address. An older professor had moved to address her. Short and slightly greying, he had the pinched look of a man who’d been a bureaucrat for many years.

  Zoe flushed. Shit. She broke her brain away from the intensive process of translating what she was hearing, fumbling for a simple phrase that wouldn’t make her sound like an idiot. “Oui, monsieur?” she whispered back.

  She hadn’t done a bad job on the words, but something about her accent had subtly given her away anyway. She watched as the older man’s aura chilled toward her, recognizing that she hadn’t been born to French in the same way that he had been. The younger generation here worried much less about such things, but some of the old guard still possessed deeply-held frustration and disdain for les anglophones.

  The older professor tapped at his conference badge impatiently, and Zoe realized that she didn’t have one. Oops. She’d been hoping to leave before any of the lectures, but since that hadn’t happened, her presence was probably an unwelcome intrusion. She nodded, embarrassed. “Um. J’attends quelqu’un. Je… je peux…” Her brain stuttered at the deepening scowl that he levelled in her direction. The contempt in his aura was palpable, close enough to touch. The simplest of French words failed her, and she abandoned the attempt, red-faced. She ducked away toward the door, stepping out into the hallway.

  The area just outside of the conference had been nearly deserted on her way in — but there was someone else there now. Zoe started at the familiar aura, blanching as she realized whose it was. What the hell?

  Vivienne Cloutier threaded her arm through Zoe’s as though the two of them were old friends. The sharp smile on her face was reminiscent of a cat that had just caught the canary out of its cage.