The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale by Bishop O'Connell Page A
Authors: Bishop O'Connell
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hand on the arm of the chair. That was another problem with having an eidetic memory. He was so used to knowing things that when he didnât, it really, really, REALLY bothered him, especially when it was something he should know, like, say, a wizard knowing about faeries.
He rolled his head to one side until he was staring at the open door to his study.
So do something. Youâre a wizard, do some wizarding .
Nghalon, as heâd named the voice, just to have something to call it, was one of the less comforting aspects of the house. Edward wasnât even sure it was the house, because sometimes he heard Nghalon in his office as well. No one else could hear it, and as a result, he frequently wondered if practicing magic was causing him to lose his mind. Of course, heâd never heard of an auditory hallucination being quite so sarcastic. It was like being haunted by the ghosts of Waldorf and Statler from The Muppet Show .
âSure, now you have some advice,â Edward said. He extricated himself from the chair. The study was large, and like all the rooms in the house, it didnât fit the layout. The house was larger on the inside than on the outside, literally. Heâd taken measurements once to be sure.
The blaze in the fireplace, which took up nearly a third of the wall, was crackling as always. Someday heâd have to figure out how to extinguish it. It was like a giant version of a trick birthday candle. Shelves covered the walls, and they were filled with books ranging from recent medical references to ancient tomes in languages he couldnât even identify. An old wooden desk and chair near the center of the room, a small wet bar, and a love seat not far from the desk finished the décor.
He poured himself some whiskey, took a sip, then set the glass on the desk and walked to a bookcase. He went along the shelves, reading the titles. Of course, in any other setting, heâd be able to remember every title and its location, but another treat of this house was the libraryâs tendency to rearrange the books on its own. Oftentimes heâd find entirely new books. They usually had to do with whatever he was considering at the time, so that rather made up for the rearranging thing, which really annoyed him.
A familiar title jumped out at him. He removed the book and sat down at his desk. He turned on some music to settle his nerves, and Tom Waitsâs gravelly voice filled the silence as Edward took another drink. He flipped through the bookâs pages.
Hadnât he seen some kind of tracking spell before? Maybe he could use it to find Fiona. Alternatively, maybe he could find a way to wake Caitlin.
âNo, letâs solve problems, not create new ones,â he told himself.
After several minutes, he hadnât found anything. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. When he opened his eyes, he flipped more pages, his patience faltering.
Then he stopped.
He adjusted his glasses and turned back a Âcouple pages. The symbols were familiar. He read the description and noted the symbols were related to connections and scrying. Scrying! If he could see Fiona, then he could not only find out where she was but also make sure she was okay. He examined the page; it looked simple enough.
Famous last words.
âNot now,â he said to Nghalon. âBesides, you were wrong about the protection spell, werenât you? I told you I knew what I was doing then, and I still do.â
He pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk drawer. Thankfully, this spell didnât require blood over ink. He copied the circle from the book on a little bigger scale. He slowed his breathing and focused on the intent behind the symbols, filling them with power. When he finished, he looked the drawing over and compared it to the original. It was a perfect match. Now he just needed to collect the ingredients.
He opened a large steamer trunk behind the love seat and looked over the
He rolled his head to one side until he was staring at the open door to his study.
So do something. Youâre a wizard, do some wizarding .
Nghalon, as heâd named the voice, just to have something to call it, was one of the less comforting aspects of the house. Edward wasnât even sure it was the house, because sometimes he heard Nghalon in his office as well. No one else could hear it, and as a result, he frequently wondered if practicing magic was causing him to lose his mind. Of course, heâd never heard of an auditory hallucination being quite so sarcastic. It was like being haunted by the ghosts of Waldorf and Statler from The Muppet Show .
âSure, now you have some advice,â Edward said. He extricated himself from the chair. The study was large, and like all the rooms in the house, it didnât fit the layout. The house was larger on the inside than on the outside, literally. Heâd taken measurements once to be sure.
The blaze in the fireplace, which took up nearly a third of the wall, was crackling as always. Someday heâd have to figure out how to extinguish it. It was like a giant version of a trick birthday candle. Shelves covered the walls, and they were filled with books ranging from recent medical references to ancient tomes in languages he couldnât even identify. An old wooden desk and chair near the center of the room, a small wet bar, and a love seat not far from the desk finished the décor.
He poured himself some whiskey, took a sip, then set the glass on the desk and walked to a bookcase. He went along the shelves, reading the titles. Of course, in any other setting, heâd be able to remember every title and its location, but another treat of this house was the libraryâs tendency to rearrange the books on its own. Oftentimes heâd find entirely new books. They usually had to do with whatever he was considering at the time, so that rather made up for the rearranging thing, which really annoyed him.
A familiar title jumped out at him. He removed the book and sat down at his desk. He turned on some music to settle his nerves, and Tom Waitsâs gravelly voice filled the silence as Edward took another drink. He flipped through the bookâs pages.
Hadnât he seen some kind of tracking spell before? Maybe he could use it to find Fiona. Alternatively, maybe he could find a way to wake Caitlin.
âNo, letâs solve problems, not create new ones,â he told himself.
After several minutes, he hadnât found anything. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. When he opened his eyes, he flipped more pages, his patience faltering.
Then he stopped.
He adjusted his glasses and turned back a Âcouple pages. The symbols were familiar. He read the description and noted the symbols were related to connections and scrying. Scrying! If he could see Fiona, then he could not only find out where she was but also make sure she was okay. He examined the page; it looked simple enough.
Famous last words.
âNot now,â he said to Nghalon. âBesides, you were wrong about the protection spell, werenât you? I told you I knew what I was doing then, and I still do.â
He pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk drawer. Thankfully, this spell didnât require blood over ink. He copied the circle from the book on a little bigger scale. He slowed his breathing and focused on the intent behind the symbols, filling them with power. When he finished, he looked the drawing over and compared it to the original. It was a perfect match. Now he just needed to collect the ingredients.
He opened a large steamer trunk behind the love seat and looked over the
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