LIX
The call came just after noon, when the London rain had finally thinned into a silver mist and I was debating whether to wander down to the river or stay curled up with the tuxedo cat. My phone buzzed with an unfamiliar international number. Spanish, judging by the country code.
I answered, and a warm, accented voice flowed through the speaker.
"Señorita? In possession of the demon gatito? This is Señora Valera, representative of Mallorca on the European Council."
I straightened immediately. Council members didn't call for casual conversation.
"Yes, I'm here," I said, already reaching for the protective sleeve in my bag, checking that my documents were still safe.
Her tone shifted to polite, but edged with urgency.
"We have a situation in a small village near Sóller. Something dark has appeared. Something magical. Something… old." A pause, heavy. "Lorian is still in Geneva, and his father is occupied with negotiations. You are the nearest council‑approved handler."
Handler. That was my title now.
I glanced at the cat's carrier. He slept curled in a perfect little comma, the shard pulsing faintly beneath his fur. The hat man stirred, whispering from the mirror.
"I feel your excitement. Good. I was getting bored in this crate."
I ignored him.
Señora Valera continued, "We request your presence. Immediately, if possible. The village is frightened. The mayor believes it is a spirit or a creature from the old mountains. We need someone who can… manage such things."
"I can come," I said. "You'll need to arrange transport."
"We will send a car to the townhouse," she replied. "And a private flight from Heathrow to Palma. Your creature's permit is already registered with Spanish magical customs." These council people were efficient.
Before she hung up, her voice softened.
"Thank you, señorita. Europe is grateful for your cooperation."
The call ended.
I sat there for a moment, phone still in my hand, the room quiet except for the soft breathing of the cat. My paperwork felt heavier in my bag, the protective sleeve suddenly more important than ever. Lorian's father had warned me about pickpockets, and now I understood why, losing those documents would mean losing control of my identity, losing my authority, losing my ability to travel or intervene.
I checked the sleeve again. Still safe.
The cat stirred, blinking one sleepy eye.
The hat man whispered faintly:
"Sweetheart… are we going somewhere dangerous?…"
I exhaled.
"A small Spanish village," I murmured. "Something dark showed up."
The mirror warmed in my hand.
"Excellent."
I stood, grabbed my bag, and prepared to meet the car.
Europe wasn't just waiting for me anymore.
It was calling.
The council arranged everything with unnerving efficiency. By the time I finished packing the cat's carrier and double‑checking my magical‑creature permit for the tenth time, a sleek black car was already waiting to take me to Heathrow's private regional terminal.
The puddle jumper wasn't glamorous, but it was fast.
It was a twin‑engine turboprop, white with fading blue stripes, the kind of plane that looked like it spent most of its life hopping between islands and coastal towns. The propellers ticked as they warmed, sounding more like a giant mechanical insect than a commercial aircraft.
Inside, the cabin was narrow—two seats on each side, maybe twenty passengers total. The overhead bins were laughably small. I kept the cat's carrier tucked under the seat in front of me, the mirror wrapped in a padded sleeve in my lap.
We flew low enough that I could see the patchwork fields of northern France—green squares, golden rectangles, winding rivers like silver threads. The plane dipped occasionally, catching pockets of warm air rising from the land.
The flight attendant, a cheerful woman with a French accent, offered me a tiny bottle of water and a packet of lemon biscuits.
"You have a very handsome cat," she whispered, peeking at the carrier.
I smiled. "He's… special."
The moment we crossed over the Mediterranean Sea, the world changed.
The water below was deep turquoise, shimmering under the sun. The plane flew low enough that I could see whitecaps breaking against the surface. The air grew warmer, smoother, calmer.
The hat man stirred again.
"My darling… I prefer a warmer destination. London is too wet."
I rested my hand on the carrier. "Shh. We're almost there."
The moment we crossed over the Mediterranean Sea, the world changed.
The water below was deep turquoise, shimmering under the sun. The plane flew low enough that I could see whitecaps breaking against the surface. The air grew warmer, smoother, calmer.
Mallorca appeared like a jewel, mountains rising sharply from the coastline, villages nestled in green valleys, terraced orchards glowing under the afternoon sun.
The Serra de Tramuntana stretched along the northwest like a jagged spine, dramatic and ancient. Even from the air, I could feel the weight of old magic in those peaks.
The plane dipped lower, circling over orange groves and stone farmhouses before lining up with the runway at Palma's small regional airport.
We touched down with a bounce. The engines whined.
The propellers slowed, doors cracking open, and cabin filled with warm island air.
My driver arrived exactly as Señora Valera promised. A native bilingual Mallorcan man in a striped button‑up polo and blue shorts, cheerful in that sun‑worn way people from warm islands often are. His small truck rattled up to the townhouse gate, the logo of a Spanish orange company painted proudly on both doors. It looked like it usually hauled crates of citrus, not magical emergencies.
When he tapped the horn, it let out a bright, ridiculous meep meep, like a cartoon greeting me for an adventure.
I couldn't help smiling.
He hopped out, waving. "Señorita en Gatito sí? I take you to Sóller. Is urgent, but we go fast. Very fast."
He opened the passenger door for me, then gently lifted the cat carrier into the back seat, securing it with a strap so it wouldn't slide.
We pulled away from the airport and into the winding streets of a town near the Serra de Tramuntana, the mountains of the north wind. They rose in the distance like a jagged spine, running almost 90 kilometers along Mallorca's northwestern coast. Even from far away, they looked ancient, spiked weathered grey stone, deep green forests, cliffs carved by centuries of storms.
The truck bounced lightly over cobblestones, the engine humming, the horn occasionally chirping its silly meep meep at pedestrians who stepped too close.
My driver chatted easily in English and Spanish, switching between them like water flowing over stones.
"These mountains," he said, gesturing with one hand while steering with the other, "they are old. Very old. People say spirits live there. My abuela said the north wind carries voices."
I glanced at the cat carrier.
The shard pulsed faintly beneath the tuxedo cat's fur.
The hat man whispered:
"My darling… I feel something. Something familiar."
The driver didn't hear him, of course. He just kept talking, cheerful and unbothered.
"We go to a small village. Sóller. Very beautiful. Very quiet. Until today."
He gave me a sideways look.
"You have the papers, sí? The magical permit?"
I patted my crossbody bag, feeling the protective plastic sleeve through the fabric. I'd checked it three times already. Lorian's father's warnings about pickpockets echoed in my mind, and I guarded those documents like they were the crown jewels.
"Yes," I said. "Everything's here."
"Bueno," he said, nodding. "Spain is safe, but Europe… Europe has hands everywhere."
He tapped the side of his nose the same way Lorian's father had.
I settled back into the seat, watching the mountains grow larger as we approached. The air smelled like oranges and sea wind. The sky was bright, the roads narrow, the villages sun‑washed and quiet.
Paulo's little orange‑company truck bounced along the narrow road as we approached the village, the Serra de Tramuntana rising behind it like a jagged wall of stone and wind. I'd expected something eerie, something ominous—some sign that a dark magical entity had touched the place.
Instead, the village looked… quaint.
Warm stone houses with green shutters. Terracotta roofs glowing under the sun.
Bougainvillea spilling pink and purple over old walls. Children kicking a ball in the plaza.
An old woman sweeping her doorstep.
It was the kind of place where you'd expect to find olive oil tastings and sleepy cats sunning themselves on windowsills, not a supernatural disturbance.
But looks can be deceiving.
Paulo parked near the small town hall, the truck giving its cheerful meep meep as he tapped the horn. He hopped out and waved us forward, his striped polo fluttering in the mountain breeze.
"Ven, ven," he said. "The chief is waiting."
The village chief stood outside the building—a stout man with sun‑browned skin, a serious expression, and a badge pinned to his linen shirt. He looked relieved to see us, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the mountains.
Beside him stood a tall, thin Black man—easily over six feet, dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. His posture was straight, his presence calm, but his eyes were sharp, assessing everything at once.
He spoke rapid Spanish to Paulo, who translated with a quick gesture.
"This is Señor Delavega," Paulo said. "He is… ah… how do you say… magician. Curandero."
A healer, a magical practitioner. He was the council‑approved magical specialist.
Señor Delavega turned to me, switching to smooth, accented English.
"Señorita," he said, offering his hand. "I have heard of your situation. And of your… companion."
His gaze flicked to the cat carrier.
The shard pulsed faintly beneath the tuxedo cat's fur.
The hat man whispered from the mirror at my hip:
"My darling… this man smells of old magic."
Delavega's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he sensed the whisper even if he couldn't hear it.
He nodded once.
"We are grateful you came. Something is wrong here. Something old. Something that does not belong."
The chief crossed himself.
Paulo muttered, "Brujería," under his breath.
And I tightened my grip on the carrier strap, feeling the weight of the mirror against my hip.
The village might have looked peaceful, sun‑washed, and harmless.
But the air around us told a different story.
The chief's porch was shaded by grapevines and old wooden beams, the kind of place where generations had sat through hot afternoons and long siestas. He insisted we rest before discussing anything dangerous, and a few village ladies brought out a small meal. Steaming fresh bread still warm from the oven, slices of soft cheese, olives brined in herbs, and little clay cups of chilled lemon water.
I pulled the tuxedo cat from his carrier into my lap, feeding him a sardine from the plate.
It felt almost too peaceful for what we'd come here to investigate.
I sat with Paulo, the chief, and Señor Delavega at a long wooden table. The cat's carrier rested at my feet, the shard pulsing faintly beneath the tuxedo cat's fur. The hat man whispered from the mirror:
"My darling… this place is quiet. Too quiet."
I didn't disagree.
Señor Delavega had already been in the village for two weeks. He ate slowly, politely, but his eyes stayed sharp—always watching the mountains, the road, the shadows between the houses.
He spoke fast Spanish to the chief, who nodded gravely, then switched to English for my sake.
"There have been disappearances," Delavega said. "Young women. Children. Over the last few years."
My stomach tightened. Paulo crossed himself.
The chief added, "Always on the snake road."
I'd heard of it. The locals called it la carretera serpiente, a winding mountain road that twisted like a serpent through the Tramuntana. Beautiful, dangerous, and old.
Delavega continued, "The disappearances began after a cave was found. A cave in the shadow of the mountains near the sea. A place that was not on any map."
He paused, letting the weight of that settle.
"A place that should not exist."
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of citrus and sea salt. The village ladies retreated inside, whispering to each other. Even the birds seemed quieter.
I felt the mirror warm against my hip. I lifted the tuxedo cat out of his carrier, sitting him on my lap, feeding him a sardine from the plate.
The hat man whispered again, softer this time:
"My darling… caves are like mirrors, they can be doors."
Delavega's gaze flicked toward me, as if he sensed the whisper even if he couldn't hear it.
He folded his hands.
"We need to go there," he said. "Today. Before sunset. Whatever is inside that cave… it is waking."
The chief nodded, face pale.
Paulo swallowed hard.
And I tightened my grip on the carrier strap, feeling the cat shift inside, the shard pulsing like a heartbeat.
The village might have looked quaint and harmless.
But the mountains were watching.