Page 34 of Outfoxed

The magic, which I sensed as an electric undercurrent to the crackling flames, bothered me.

Everybody claimed magic had exploded into the world on July 14, 1853.

My magic told me a different story.

Magic had been around all along, waiting for its chance to burst forth and forever change the world.

The blacksmith finished his work, and he polished the steel, holding the blade so it caught the light. The magic in the forge jumped from the flames to the katana’s rippling pattern, adding an unnatural gleam to the edge, one its maker failed to notice.

He stroked his fingers along the bo-hi, and something about the groove drew my attention. When caught in the light, patterns appeared, etched into the metal.

My magic accommodated my curiosity and offered me a closer look.

Tiny kitsune lurked in the bo-hi’s shadow, running and leaping, their tails streaming behind them.

The blacksmith left the forge, strolled through an immaculate garden with a koi pond in its heart, and entered a wooden building, and its elaborate eaves and the pair of guardian dogs guarding the doorway supported my belief the man held some wealth. Within, a woman in a dark blue kimono worked, and she stitched the final touches on the katana’s sheath.

They spoke, and while I recognized their language as Japanese, I understood nothing they said, but he showed off the finished blade, and he smiled.

She presented the sheath, and he eased the blade into its embrace, buckled it into place around his waist, and patted the hilt.

Rather than dump me out of the past as it often did, my magic eased me away from Peace’s gentle beginning.

Thursday, July 14, 1853.

The New-York Historical Society.

New York City, New York.

The spark of magic within Peace awoke and danced over the sheathed blade, and the katana roused. It remembered its beginning, it remembered the death of the man who’d forged it—no, her—with love, and her grief outlasted even centuries.

In her forger’s hands, she had been a piece of art, beloved but never used.

I wondered what being quenched with her forger’s blood had done to the blade, and what darkness had grown in the years of her mourning.

Hot magic boiled through the building, cresting over every item held within the museum, and Peace’s desire for the justice she could never claim darkened to something malevolent, a need for revenge—not on the bandit who’d first stolen her, but for all who would steal and kill.

The years could not bring life to the desire of her steel heart, but she could do one thing. She could put an end to those who would bring harm to the innocent.

Peace’s rage told me another truth of her maker and how deep her love for him ran.

He’d died with pride, staring his killer in the eyes without fear. Being stabbed hurt, I’d endured a nasty cut or two, but he’d faced his demise with dignity. I would have to find a way to learn the man’s name, although I doubted I’d be learning much more.

I needed to have a long talk with my magic about its tendency to cause me problems.

Magic pulsed through the museum in bands of gold and green, reminding me of an aurora curtaining across a clear winter sky. Peace listened, her spark of magic strengthening with every flash of light sweeping through her display.

Somewhere distant, people screamed. Footsteps drew close, and a man in rags tiptoed through the darkened room. His vest had seen better days, and I could see through patches of his shirt, revealing soot-stained skin. Bruises and scabbing sores mottled his face. I’d seen such sores before, and I frowned, wondering how I could recognize an illness from so long ago.

While the Alley had diseases aplenty, especially among those who stayed in the outskirts too close to the bodies, it wasn’t quite the same. The bubonic plague manifested in a distinct way, with egg-sized lumps in the throat, blackened flesh, and bleeding from the eyes or mouth. The plague went from bad to worse, and the gentlest version of it involved a controversial nursery rhyme nobody could confirm was actually about the black death but usually associated with it.

A ring around the rosy sounded a great deal more pleasant than blood seeping from most orifices. I had no idea if the plague actually involved rashes at all.

Whatever he had, it wasn’t the plague.

I dubbed him Scabs for a lack of anything else to call him. Scabs checked out the exhibits, and he picked up an iron pot on open display and smashed it through the glass of a case, snatching the jewelry on display.

Peace seethed, and I couldn’t blame the sword. Scabs’s behavior matched that of the man who’d stolen the sword’s beloved maker. One by one, Scabs smashed his way through the museum, stuffing his pockets full of small valuables. When he reached Peace’s display, he hesitated.