by Nancy Holder and Erin Underwood
That’s gotta hurt, Michael thought, as he spared a glance at a streaming BBC news report on his laptop. On the screen, grainy security footage showed three men breaking into the Old Map, the pub down the street from his uncle’s antiquarian bookshop. One skinhead shattered the window with a tire iron and the other two barreled on in. Michael pursed his lips together in a grim half-smile. No, he didn’t think he’d be flying to London anytime soon.
He was about to resume work on the merger when Mr. Hartner, one of the senior partners, rapped on the doorjamb. Michael kept his door open. International corporate law was like a war, and he did everything necessary to maintain his position on the front lines. Drawbridge down, no moat in sight.
He half-stood as his boss walked in— and forced himself not to grimace as Asha Sen followed after, very chummy with the old man, smiling in triumph at Michael. She didn’t have an appointment, and he’d refused to see her.
The British attorney was as beautiful in person as she was on Skype. She wore her long, straight black hair tied back with a golden pin and a black suit that complemented her lovely dark complexion and almond-shaped eyes. There were shadows under those eyes and her cheeks were gaunt. When she saw him, she sucked in her breath just a little and blinked. The O’Dare genes were strong. He knew he looked like his uncle, only younger, with his coal black hair and silver eyes.
“Look who I found in the waiting room,” Mr. Hartner declared, the traces of his British accent more pronounced than usual. “Why didn’t you tell me you had family business with Morris and Fletcher? You know we have a longstanding relationship with them.” He smiled at Ms. Sen, and she smiled pleasantly back. “The timing is providential as we have a London client who’s been sitting on her proxies. Michael, you can hold her hand and get your uncle’s papers in order at the same time.”
“I have the merger,” Michael protested. It was the plum assignment of the quarter, and he had fought tooth and nail to get it.
“You’ll only be gone a few days, yes? If anything comes up, I’ll put Brian on it,” Mr. Hartner said, and Michael tried to flash Ms. Sen a killing look. Brian Glick was his bitterest rival. Michael had given up what was left of his social life in order to score this assignment and he would be damned before he let Glick touch it. But Ms. Sen stood firmly in the elderly attorney’s line of sight, and hence, protected from Michael’s glare.
“There are two flights out tonight,” Ms. Sen informed Michael and Mr. Hartner at the same time.
“Our staff keep suitcases packed and ready,” Mr. Hartner told her. “We have an in-house travel agent who can book the tickets. Got your passport, Michael?” His voice was amiable, but Michael heard the warning in it: he’d better be ready. He knew better than to disappoint a partner.
He’d better go.
“Of course, sir,” he said.
Mr. Hartner left, and Ms. Sen stayed behind. Maybe she was used to swaying men with her beauty, but it wasn’t working on him.
“Congratulations,” he snapped at her.
“I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t absolutely necessary,” she replied, unruffled. “As you know, you stand to inherit everything, if you agree to sign the lease in our London office by ten o’clock this Thursday.”
“A lease that you neglected to FedEx along with every other piece of paper in my uncle’s file cabinet,” he said pointedly. “All of which I’ve already signed and had notarized, and returned to you.”
“I was unable to include it,” she replied.
“Because it’s enchanted.”
She dipped her head in assent, and he made a point of returning his attention to his laptop. “My uncle never once mentioned any of this… insanity.”
“Your cousin was next in line, but when Sean died, you became Daniel’s sole heir. By then…” She stopped speaking and despite himself, he took the bait and looked up at her. He and Sean had been like brothers. Sean had come to visit, they went out drinking, and Michael should never have let him drive. After that, he’d stopped going to London.
“By then you had cut your uncle out of your life, and broken his heart,” she said.
He blinked, shocked that she would say such a thing straight to his face, and masked his emotion by muttering “I’m busy” and turning his attention back to his work.
* * *
It was bucketing rain. Enroute to JFK, the cabbie listened to the news; the violence in London was escalating from a local skirmish to full-blown riots throughout the city. Economic uncertainty, hostility toward immigrants, the fading middle-class, and “keeping English jobs for the English.” Michael was even angrier with Ms. Sen, both for dragging him to London and for her cutting remark about how he had neglected his poor, dying uncle. It was unprofessional and untrue. He had even sent Uncle Daniel a birthday card not two weeks ago.
No, he hadn’t. He saw it in his briefcase now, as he double-checked to make sure he had his passport— and still in need of an international postage stamp. A frisson of guilt tickled his spine, and he snapped his briefcase shut.
She paid the fare; they stepped out of the taxi and headed inside the terminal. At the airline kiosk, he printed out his ticket while she stabbed her finger at the next touchscreen over, her expression growing darker with each error message that lit the screen.
“Something wrong?” Michael asked, peering over her shoulder.
“My reservation’s gone,” she said double-checking the itinerary that Michael’s assistant had printed out for them. She lightly smacked the screen. “And the flight is full.”
“Pity.” His voice dripped with insincerity.
“I’ll take the later flight.” She tapped the screen again. “Faeries,” she swore.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Bloody hell! The later flight’s been delayed.”
“Thanks to you, I have to take this flight. Mr. Hartner has already arranged for me to see our client tomorrow morning,” Michael said, savoring his reprieve.
“I know.”
And it was only then that he realized that what she had said was “faeries.” Which could mean that she believed in the mystical lease he was supposed to sign— a longstanding compact, centuries old, made between the O’Dares and Mab, Queen of the Fair Folk, perpetuating the human race’s lease on the planet. According to Ms. Sen, it was due to expire, and if he, Michael O’Dare, didn’t renew it, the world would fall under the control of the Sidhe, the fae realm that Queen Mab ruled.
“So you’re telling me that the faeries screwed up your reservation,” he said, smirking, but her cheeks colored as she made her reservation for the following morning on the kiosk screen. When she didn’t answer, he pushed a little harder. “I’m the one who has to sign the lease. Why didn’t they screw up mine?”
“They can’t interfere directly with the Leaseholder,” she bit off.
“They interfered with you.”
“I’m not the Leaseholder, Michael. I’m just your attorney. “You should head to the security check now,” she said, nodding in the direction of the winding TSA lines. “My colleague will be waiting for you at Heathrow after you clear customs. He’ll have a sign with your name on it. Do not leave the airport unless you’re with someone from my firm.”
He raised his brows. “Don’t tell me. Faeries?”
She was typing her passport number on a keypad on the screen. “They can’t stop you directly, but they’ll try to waylay you by stopping those you are with. So, no talking to anyone. No trusting anyone except us.”
That means no trusting anyone, he thought. Which was already how he lived, so no problem there. He hadn’t forgiven her for her “you broke his heart” comment and she hadn’t seen fit to apologize for it. He couldn’t get away from her fast enough, no matter how attractive she was or how nice she smelled. He tried to recall the last time he’d had sex. Or even gone out to dinner with a woman who wasn’t a corporate client.
“See you in London,” Michael replied coolly, and turned his back on her. He didn’t appreciate having his hand forced, and he didn’t like to lose.
On the plane, he was informed he’d been upgraded from business to first class— not the usual protocol, but he wouldn’t turn down more legroom and champagne, especially on a red-eye flight. But as he was directed to his spacious seat, the large, welcoming grin on the face of the passenger abutting his side table made him cringe. He needed to go over their London client’s file, and he would prefer to be given his privacy rather than having to handle a chatty stranger.
“Evening,” the other man said in a booming Australian accent. He was drinking a beer. “I’m Broomfield. Matthew Anthony Broomfield.”
“Listen—” Michael began.
“Heard there’s going to be some turbulence.” He glanced at the aircraft’s door. “Missus not coming?”
Michael blinked, taken aback. “She’s not my missus.” He sat down with the file folder already in his lap. “I’m sorry, but I have a lot of work to do.”
The Australian smiled. “Of course you do, successful man such as yourself. No worries. I’ve got a good book and a bad movie to entertain myself.”
Michael nodded. If the man had taken offense, he had the grace to keep it to himself.
* * *
You’re so shut down. So closed off.
Now he recalled the last time he’d had sex. Toni. It had all gone downhill so fast. She wasn’t the first woman to say that, and she probably wouldn’t be the last. Personal relationships created weaknesses that he couldn’t afford while clawing his way to the top of the firm. He had actually caught himself surreptitiously checking the time while she’d broken up with him. It was a little shocking, even to him. But wearisome, too.
Maybe when he was older, he’d do the relationship thing.
The next thing he knew, the plane was touching down on the London tarmac. He put away his work, frustrated that his mind had wandered. Broomfield took off his headphones and started talking about his movie. The trip through the airport went smoothly, except for the Australian’s constant chatter as they waded through the line of travelers clearing customs before stepping out into the public area of Heathrow Airport.
Michael looked at the horde of chauffeurs bearing placards with people’s names written in neat black ink, but none of them bore his name. He reached into his pocket for his phone. It wasn’t there.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He dropped his bags and dug through his pockets. As he began a second round of searching, a meaty hand appeared, bearing his cellphone like a pearl in the palm.
“Looking for this?” the Australian said. “I found it in my bag. Must have fallen out of your pocket on the plane.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, relieved.
He took it and switched it on. Nothing happened. The battery had been fully charged before he’d boarded, but still it didn’t power up.
The Australian looked at him. “Need a ride?”
“No, thanks. I’m expected,” Michael said. “They’ll be here.”
“I’ll shove off, then.” The man gave him a little wave, which Michael half-heartedly returned, and he resumed the search for his ride.
No one.
He waited another fifteen minutes, sighing and shifting. Finally he darted over to a cart and bought a phone charger, then found a place to plug in so that he could retrieve and send messages. It wouldn’t charge. Something was definitely wrong with it.
She’d said to stay put, but he’d been to London enough times to get himself a cab. He was due at Lady Davis’s in a couple of hours; if he left now, he had just enough time to stop off at their London office to finish reading her paperwork, say hello to his London counterparts, and freshen up. He jumped into a cab.
* * *
Lady Davis was waffling on her proxies because she didn’t trust anyone to run the companies in which she held investments. She was worried about the future of Britain, and no wonder. The ride from her beautiful row house to his uncle’s flat was unnerving, to say the least. Windows boarded up, more “for let” signs than businesses, it seemed, and armed British soldiers in the streets. At the Hartner & Lowe London office, the staff had made anxious jokes about the state of the nation and the barbarians at the gates. “I mean,” a colleague had said, “it makes one hesitant to suggest any sort of long-term strategic planning.”
The cab dropped him off at Charing Cross Road outside Ogham Antiquarian Bookshop, in front of the unassuming blue door that led upstairs to his uncle’s flat above the store.
As he walked up the interior stairway and into the flat, he smelled dust, tobacco smoke, and licorice, and he stopped for a moment, half-expecting to hear his uncle softly singing as he cooked up some beans and chips for dinner. Uncle Daniel had stepped in as the father he’d lost, but he wasn’t at all like Michael’s father. Could two brothers be any less alike? Uncle Daniel sang old Celtic songs and told old stories— fairy tales and poems about moons and galleons. Michael’s father had been into tennis. Then again, that was what Michael had loved about Daniel.
“Hello, Uncle,” Michael murmured, as he opened the door and flicked on a light. The birthday card sat heavy in his briefcase.
Daniel’s apartment had always been filled with the oddest assortment of antiques and one-of-a-kind objects— ivory Chinese fans and lanterns, ebony elephants and windup monkeys complete with brass cymbals. A painting of Oscar Wilde whose eyes followed you everywhere, Michael swore.
Then there were what appeared to be journals with yellow covers, dozens of them. Michael vaguely remembered seeing a few in a box beneath Uncle Daniel’s bed, back when he was a boy and he had thought he’d heard a strange, metallic laugh echoing through the rooms before Daniel had come upstairs from the shop. Michael had had no interest in them back then, but now?
Now Michael was alone in a dead man’s home, and he tried to remember the last time he’d phoned or even emailed him.
Daniel had known Michael was busy; at least, Michael tried to tell himself that. He made himself a cup of tea and sat on the couch, surrounded by the journals, and opened one at random.
They taunt me that we’re almost out of time. They say we’re done for. They say that when the world is theirs again, they’ll make the valleys green and the waters blue. But their Queen is cruel. Icy. Asha promises me that Michael will come.
Asha. Asha Sen.
Mab came for dinner. She had strawberries and sugar. I spilled the milk and she cooed over it as if it were a lamb. She counted it precious. She brought me whiskey and once she thought I was good and pissed, she tried to trick me out of the Lease. Asha arrived in the nick of time and she knew what to do. Salt and needles and Mab was out the door!
Then I sang Irish songs — you know what they say, the Irish sing sadly of love and merrily of battle — and I cried on Asha’s shoulder because I’m alone in the world and must hang on for a fortnight to sign the Lease. Asha reminds me that we must expect more tricks from the Fair Folk until it is all taken care of. She’s been reading her Yeats and all the old stories for clues about what they’ll try. When I speak of Michael, she frowns, and then she softens and says that he is coming.
“So is Christmas,” I told her, “and that’s one thing we can count on.”
“We can count on the faeries,” she said, “to make it go hard with us.”
Asha. There she was over and over again, encouraging Daniel. Affirming him. Deluding him. Michael shut the journal and threw it down on the stack on the coffee table. The freakishly, obsessively towering stack.
He had failed Daniel miserably by not being here during the last days, and because of that, Asha had stepped in and taken advantage. Daniel’s mental condition was clearly fragile, allowing him to be preyed upon. Now she was trying to play Michael for the same kind of fool, but to what end? Whatever she wanted, she wasn’t going to get it from him. He owed his uncle that much. He would never sign that lease.
As if on cue, he heard high heels clicking on the stairs. A key turned in the lock; then Asha stepped through the front door in her rumpled navy suit. When she saw him, the fear on her face hardened into anger.
“Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” she asked, jabbing the old brass skeleton key at him. “I was worried!”
“There was no one there to meet me. So I took care of my business. Besides my phone is broken.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and set down her bag. “I thought they might have—”
“They? Oh, right. The faeries that are set to inherit the Earth, if I don’t sign some piece of paper. You sure had my uncle convinced about that faerie tale. Why? What’s in it for you?”
She jerked. Then she saw all the journals. “Where did you get these? I’ve been looking for them everywhere.” She began to gather them up.
“I believe those are mine,” he said. “Evidence if I decide to sue you.”
She froze. “For what?”
“Preying on an old man. Warping his mind so that he couldn’t tell fantasy from reality. Encouraging his delusions. Scaring him when he was old and sick.” His voice cracked.
She glowered at him. “I beg your pardon. Your uncle was my friend. I was the one who took care of him when he was sick and dying. Not some nurse. Not you.”
“Don’t forget Queen Mab. Looks like she checked in on him pretty often. They were old chums.” He opened a journal. “You brainwashed him. You told him what to believe.”
“You used to believe, too,” she said. “Don’t you remember? He told me about when you were little. You saw the faeries everywhere. Because you’re an O’Dare.”
“I didn’t, I’m not—”
“And as for what I told him to believe, I also told him that you would come before he died.”
She let the remark hang in the air. Then she grabbed her bag and left the flat, shutting the door with exaggerated care.
“Screw you,” he said quietly.
He picked up another journal and flipped through it, but he was tired and, he realized, hungry. There was nothing in his uncle’s fridge, and only a jar of blackberry jam and some spices in the pantry. The jam was for when Queen Mab came by, he supposed. He hoped that when she came, she would bring him some whiskey.
He went downstairs and onto the street. Asha Sen was not there, pouting and waiting. She was gone. Good. Night was falling, darkness puddling around the buildings that had once housed ethnic grocers and tiny takeout places. He smelled cumin, lemons, and garlic.
Then he thought of the Old Map, recently vandalized, and decided to go there. He walked down the street, made a couple of turns, and swung inside. No one greeted him as he was seated and given a menu; years ago, he’d known everyone who worked there by name.
“Well, now, this is downright uncanny,” said a familiar voice. Michael looked up to find the Australian standing next to his table.
Michael felt foolishly relieved to see a familiar face that was not Asha’s. He strained to smile and said, “What are the odds?”
“It’s a small world. What can I say?” said the Australian, smiling. “Join you?”
They spent the next hour talking politics, science, and movies— anything but faeries. They drank beer and then the Australian bought a couple rounds of whiskey. Michael got a little too drunk, then way too drunk, and he didn’t care. The world, such as it was, was back to normal, whatever normal was. Faeries, his ass.
They both watched as one of the waiters drew back a curtain and showed another waiter the plywood sheet covering the window that Michael had seen broken on the news video. The second waiter nervously patted the piece of wood and whispered something under his breath as if to assure himself that it would stand up to further violence.
“I saw that happen on TV,” Michael said. “Skinheads tried to loot the till.”
“Crikey,” the Australian murmured. “Humanity! You’d think by now we’d have solved everyone’s problems.”
“Maybe we should just give it back,” Michael muttered. “We’re doing a real bang-up job with the place.” He put both his hands on the table as the pub spun around him like a falling autumn leaf. “I’m going home.”
“Walk you?” said the other man.
“I mean New York.”
“Missing that bird who’s not your missus?” the Australian said, and snorted a laugh. “Poetry.”
Michael couldn’t make himself smile. “Not in the least. She’s what you’d call an unmissed miss. A real PIA, if you get my meaning.”
“Women,” the Australian agreed.
They grinned at each other and Michael drained the very last drops of his whiskey.
“And on that note, it’s late and I have a morning appointment. No rest for the wicked, don’t they say?” the Australian said. “What’s on your agenda tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was Thursday. Michael felt a fierce joy at the thought of blowing off Asha’s magical deadline.
“Not a thing besides catching a flight back home,” Michael replied. As he put cash on the table, he re-remembered the man’s name, which he had forgotten and remembered several times already. “Matthew. Great to run into you.”
“The same.” The man picked up his coat.
They parted at the pub’s front door. The evening air was cool and fresh. Michael remembered books and stories and old Irish songs about lost battles and the evil English. O’Dare was an Irish name, and although his uncle said they’d lived in London for generations, Uncle Daniel had still spoken with a wee bit o’ lilt.
“Too late, me boyo,” Michael murmured. “You’ll never hear that voice again.”
A commotion in the opposite direction caught his attention. The end of the street was surprisingly crowded; a young man in jeans and a T-shirt threw something at the plate glass window of an electronics shop. The man yelled something about taxes and another young man, this one holding a baseball bat, took a swing at the same window. The crowd transformed into a mob that howled and smashed away the remaining glass before swarming into the store. Sirens blared in the background while people re-emerged carrying cartons, boxes.
Michael was stunned. They were looting.
Michael’s waiter poked his head out of the door, then called back over his shoulder, “Call the coppers, Wills! It’s starting up again.” He looked at Michael and added, “Best come back inside, sir.”
“My place is close,” Michael said, pointing away from the chaos.
“Then best get going,” the waiter said.
But Michael knew a mob could turn on a dime, so he hurried the rest of the way back to the bookstore. A sense of ownership came over him— this was his family’s store. It belonged to the O’Dares. To him. He needed to protect it.
Through the bookshop’s front window, a dim light left on from earlier in the day reflected from the back room. Given the turmoil, Michael stopped to turn off the light before heading upstairs to the flat.
The aged book smell was like a calming shot of whiskey after the shock of the riot. He’d always loved that smell. He’d spent some of his happiest times here with his uncle, shelving old leather-bound books, and listening to tall tales about faeries and the tricks they played on humans. When he was a kid, those old stories had felt so real. He had even imagined seeing the occasional faerie as he walked through Hyde Park with his uncle, but after Sean’s death, life in New York and the daily legal grind had worn away the magic, turning those stories into what they really were— fanciful tales told by a sweet old man. Yet, somehow, standing there in the bookshop, he remembered what it felt like to believe.
Then he heard the gentle sound of breathing punctuated by soft crying from the back room. He tiptoed forward, avoiding the floorboards that creaked when you walked on them and he hovered on the threshold. Light spilled over his shoulder to reveal Asha Sen, sitting cross-legged on the floor with photos of Daniel spread around her. Mascara-stained tears streaked her cheeks.
She looked up and pursed her lips when she saw him standing in the doorway.
“I won’t be long. I was just looking for a picture.”
“I think you found one,” Michael said. Asha uttered a startled laugh through her tears and nodded.
“I guess I did.” She heaved a sigh and looked back down at the photos. “I used to stop by every night to check on him, even before he got sick. I’d sit next to his bed, reading to him for hours. We had just finished Robinson Crusoe.” She pointed to a stack of leather-bound classics whose spines and covers were marked by years of wear. She wiped her cheeks. “I miss him.”
Michael knelt next to her. Outside, the angry crowd was surging down his street. Anger, mistrust, frustration. Fear. He felt all that, boiling inside; but Asha’s grief smashed a different wall within him, a wall of his own: after his father’s death, he had clung to his dotty old uncle, a man who lived on fairy stories and whiskey, and somehow when he was little, Michael had believed that faeries could bring his father back. But of course that hadn’t been true. Faeries weren’t real.
I couldn’t let myself believe Uncle Daniel was dying, too, he thought. That he would leave me. I couldn’t go through it again.
If it hadn’t been for Asha, his uncle really would have died alone. Maybe she wasn’t the evil lawyer he’d made her out to be.
Maybe that role was his.
“I’m so sorry.” He touched her shoulder and used his other hand to dab at the tears on his cheeks.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said.
He sighed. “I was planning to go home tomorrow morning, but… do I have to believe to sign the lease?”
“No. You just need to sign.”
Michael thought for a moment and then nodded. A few extra hours’ delay to honor the old man; it wasn’t much, but it was the least he could do.
“Then I’ll sign it. For him. And for you,” Michael said looking at the picture in Asha’s hands. Then he looked at some of the others on the floor, and still more hanging on the walls, softly lit by moonlight.
There were dozens of images that included Asha at different ages. A young girl in a frilly sundress, a young woman wearing a university gown, and one that could have been taken last week as she stood beneath the bookshop sign, shielding her eyes from the sun. There were photos of Sean, too, and of him and Sean. And then, after that, there were only two of him that his mother must have sent.
Asha had spent more of her life with Uncle Daniel than Michael. While he had focused on his career and hadn’t visited in years, Asha had been there all along.
“I’ll sign it,” he said again.
“Thank you.” Asha reached up to touch his cheek. The space between them collapsed; their lips touched, and he wrapped his arms around her. Responding, she pressed against him and they held each other gently. Then, after a time, the gentleness vanished and something different came over him. Something very new, as Asha kissed his closed eyes, his forehead, and his lips.
He caught his breath. This was what magic felt like.
* * *
Magic.
In the dawn, Michael woke to find Asha breathing gently beside him. Her hair was mussed and her mascara tears had dried beneath her eyes, and she was still beautiful. Lying there with her next to him felt like home. Instead of rousing her, he watched her sleep, enjoying the comfort of having her close.
When she finally opened her eyes, he grinned, feeling foolish for watching her. She pulled him close for a kiss.
Half an hour later, they were pulling on their clothes. Then Asha reached for the black leather briefcase she had brought with her.
“This is a copy of the lease,” she said, handing him a large sealed envelope. “I was going to give it to you last night. Now that you’re in England, you can take possession of it. But I have to warn you that I haven’t read it.”
He stopped tying his tie and stared at her, thunderstruck. That was an unbelievable admission for an attorney to make under any circumstances, but in this case, when they had discussed and debated a legal document on two continents and she had insisted that he had to come to London to sign it, he simply didn’t believe her.
“He did try to read it to me,” she said, “but the words became gibberish as soon as they left his mouth.”
The walls crashed back down around his heart. She wasn’t devious or manipulative, she was utterly mad. She must have seen the change in his feelings; she paled and reached out a hand and said, “Please, Michael. Please trust me.”
“I need to look it over,” he said. He opened the envelope.
“I should have ordered a car from our firm,” she said apologetically. “We’ll take a taxi and you can read it on the way, all right?”
He blew air out of his cheeks and nodded very unhappily. What was the saying, in for a penny?
She led the way downstairs; as they pushed through the front door, they were surrounded by a sea of angry people. He saw bats in their hands, bricks. The mob pressed them against the wall and Michael caught himself saying, “Look out,” putting himself in front of her. Shielding her.
Michael locked the door, hoping it would be enough to keep the crowds away if things got worse. Asha grabbed his hand with a crushing grip and pulled him.
“Come on. We have to get off this street,” she yelled over her shoulder as she bulldozed her way through the swarming mass of people.
They threaded their way down the lanes and streets. There were rioters everywhere. He heard the crash of breaking glass, angry shouts, a siren. At last they reached Trafalgar Square, heading toward Pall Mall.
Asha hailed a black cab and they climbed in. Michael pulled out the lease; it was in English, and written in contemporary legalese. The professional habits of years of training compelled his slow, deliberate read as they inched along the Mall toward Earl’s Court. Traffic came to a stop a dozen blocks from Asha’s office. Horns blared as cars tangled together, trying to push their way into the street, which had become little more than a parking lot.
“Oh, my God. We’re not going to make it!” she cried, looking at her watch.
“Where’s your office?” Michael said, looking up from the last page.
“There. With the flags.” She pointed toward a white building with colorful pennants hanging above the entry. It was at least ten blocks away. “Pull over,” she told the driver.
The lease was quite specific about the timing of his signature. If they were late and he didn’t make it, it would be finished. Done. He thought it over. And then he thought of how he had felt when he and Asha had made love. As if there was more to the world than he knew or believed.
“No. Keep going,” he told the cabbie. He turned to Asha and said, “I’ll meet you there.”
She started to say something, and then she quickly kissed him and nodded.
He threw open the door, wishing he’d brought his track shoes. He ran, dodging around cars that packed the intersection and sliding across hoods in his best Bruce Willis imitation when there was no space for a pedestrian to cross.
Less than a block from the office Big Ben chimed, echoing all around him and signaling that ten o’clock had come…
…and gone, even as he dashed up a flight of marble stairs toward the doors of Asha’s firm.
Standing outside the door, blocking his entry, was the Australian. He gave Michael a toothy smile.
“Matthew? Excuse me. I need to get inside,” Michael said.
The older man crossed his arms over his large belly without moving aside.
“You’re late. It’s expired.”
Michael gaped at him. “What did you say?”
“Your lease is up.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Mortal, I never ‘kid.’” The Australian grinned triumphantly, raising his hands in a diva-like pose, which made his protruding belly stick out even further.
The tips of Matthew’s fingers caught the sunlight, which slithered down his hands like liquid gold, covering his arms and body before catching fire. Molten flames raged momentarily before dying out.
In his place stood the most beautiful woman Michael had ever seen, with flaming red hair caught up in an emerald crown. Her age was impossible to tell. Her dress was a mix of flowing green silk, covered with emeralds and diamonds that held the sunlight. Her eyes were icy, her smile even more so.
“You have lost, O’Dare,” she declared, her smile turning cruel and barbaric. “Fine day for rioting, wouldn’t you say?”
“My God,” Michael said, stumbling away.
Asha, heaving with exertion, arrived in time to keep him from tumbling backwards down the stairs.
“Please. Call me Mab. ‘God’ is so yesterday. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a lease to sign. Ms. Sen,” Mab said dismissively.
“Mab, no, please,” Asha murmured.
The two watched as Mab entered the building. The door began to swing shut behind her. Asha buried her face in her hands and Michael fought to pull himself together. It was true. All of it.
“I don’t lose cases,” he said slowly. “Damn it, I do not lose.”
He gripped the copy of his lease and caught the closing door with his other hand.
“Not so fast, faerie,” he said, dashing inside. They were in a long hall decorated with oil portraits. His shoes echoed on a marble black-and-white checkerboard floor.
“Your time has come and gone, mortal. Be gracious in defeat, and I’ll grant favor upon you as the former Leaseholder.” Mab’s words trailed behind her.
A door opened before she reached it. With Michael on her heels, she glided into a large conference room dominated by an enormous ebony desk. Humans and strangely-glowing people in elaborate gowns — faeries? — stood around a large round table. Some of the humans were crying in each other’s arms. The faeries were smiling and, at the arrival of Queen Mab, bowed low, then straightened and began to applaud and cheer.
Panting, Michael raised his arms for silence. Mab tipped her head indulgently and signaled everyone to give him their attention.
“The name is O’Dare,” he announced, “and you might think you know me because of those who have come before me to write their names on this lease.” He held up the document.
“I know all I need to know,” Mab said.
A quill pen in a golden inkwell was perched beside an ancient scroll of parchment. The letters were indecipherable until Michael strode up beside Mab. Then they obligingly changed into English characters.
He blocked her hand before she could sign beneath the blank that read REVOKED.
“Not so fast. We are not in breach,” he said.
There was murmuring around the room. Mab rolled her eyes. She reached for the lease again, but her hand recoiled as if hitting an invisible wall.
“Article five, section three B states that the signing deadline is based upon the realm of origin of the document,” Michael said.
Mab dipped her head. “Yes. And it’s after ten o’clock here.”
Michael grinned. “Except I’m not a citizen of the British Realm.”
Mab narrowed her eyes. “What?”
One of the faeries rose. “Your Majesty, this mortal is stalling. His argument is specious. Please feel free to sign.”
“No. I demand my say,” Michael said, and a thrill shot through him as he saw that Mab was unable to follow through, even though she tried again to sign the document.
“Your problem, Mab, is that you’re stuck in the past. You need to modernize your thinking. Article eight, section nine A clearly states that definitions are adaptable to the correct time of the realms in which the parties dwell, and the State of New York, where I dwell, is no longer subject to British rule. Therefore, we’re on East Coast Standard Time, which would make it about four o’clock in the morning, giving me plenty of time to sign.”
“You’re a British citizen, born and bred,” Mab insisted.
“To an American mother, making me a dual citizen. The lease reverts to my time zone as a resident of New York. And you’re out of ploys.” Michael set his U.S. passport on the table next to the lease, and plucked the feather pen from her fingers. He signed his name with flare and watched the ink glow red for a moment before fading to black.
Now it was time for the mortals in the room to cheer. Asha threw her arms around Michael’s neck and kissed him. He kissed her and held her and then he started laughing. He felt positively impish, besting the queen of the faeries.
“Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. I almost had you, O’Dare,” Mab said once the room had quieted back down.
“Almost is only good enough in horseshoes and hand grenades,” Michael said putting down the pen.
Mab shrugged. “What is time to a faerie? I have infinite patience and one day this world will be mine again.”
“Not today,” Michael said, matching her toothy grin.
The faerie queen glowered, her eyes burning like embers, and then she vanished. The rest of the room emptied of the fae, leaving only a handful of humans behind. They rose and rushed Michael, patting him on the back. Champagne corks popped.
Asha introduced him to Sir Christopher Wright, her boss, as she said, “You know that in twenty-five years, you’ll have to sign again.”
“Be easier if you were already in London. We certainly have a place for you here at the firm,” Sir Christopher said. He cocked a brow. “And as you’re the last of the O’Dares — and believe me, on that subject we are positive — it would be prudent for you to start having children as quickly as possible.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir, but I think I’ve put the law behind me,” Michael said. “I own a rather lovely bookshop now.”
Asha beamed at him. “You do. And I think, Sir Christopher, that I’ll have to help him run it.”
“I think you will,” Michael replied.
The scroll rolled up of its own accord and Sir Christopher reverently cradled it against his chest. “This goes back in the vault, then. For twenty-five years.”
“I’ll be here,” Michael said. “With time to spare.”
* * *
New York Times bestselling author Nancy Holder has received five Bram Stoker Awards. She is currently writing a series of novels based on the TV show Beauty and the Beast. Vendetta and Some Grave All are out now. This is her second short story written with Erin Underwood.
* * *
Erin Underwood is a writer and editor as well as the publisher at Underwords Press. She is the co-editor of Futuredaze 2: Reprise with Nancy Holder and is also the co-editor of Geek Theater: 15 Plays by Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers. This is her second story with Nancy Holder.