Page 33

Leopold

B ewitched proved less than spellbinding, maybe because Leopold had experienced more than enough magic for the time being.

Which was kind of too bad. One of his foster families had possessed a huge library of vintage-TV DVDs, and for the several months that he’d lived there, he’d found surprising comfort in bingeing them all.

Now, though, he switched off the TV just as Endora was in the middle of trying to break up Samantha and Darrin’s marriage. That struck a little too close to home.

Leopold climbed into bed and tried to fall back asleep, but it was a no-go. He kept thinking about Crispin and wondering how he was doing.

“Maybe I did accidentally enchant him into falling for me,” Leopold said to the empty room. “And if so, maybe now that we’re separated, he’s over me.” That would be good, right? For Crispin, at any rate.

But Leopold was definitely not over Crispin.

He couldn’t rationally explain how or why he’d fallen in love so fast. On the face of it, Crispin was his polar opposite: neat and organized and flawless while Leopold was, well, Chaos.

Opposites did attract, however. And since when was love ever rational?

He sat up quickly, struck by a thought. Love was messy and unpredictable and sometimes dangerous. It was, he concluded, another one of those things—like magic and art—that could only exist with some Chaos in the world. That idea made him proud, if wistful. Gods, he missed Crispin!

Time was hard to measure in this place, but at least several hours must have passed after that, with Leopold pacing the room and trying to flex his powers.

As far as he could tell, nothing happened.

Maybe the protective spell on this place was like defensive shields in a sci-fi movie, and if he pelted it hard enough and long enough it would be damaged and eventually disintegrate. That was a plan, anyway. Sort of.

His legs grew tired eventually, so he plopped down onto the couch.

How would Crispin approach this problem if he were in Leopold’s place?

Obviously, if it weren’t for Leopold, Crispin would never find himself in a situation like this.

He would instead happily spend his life perfecting his perfecality score, hanging out with Minkis, and having occasional trysts with hunky men.

That reminded Leopold of Qylzryd, and a new wave of anger washed over him.

That rat! That stinking puddle of slug scum!

He had betrayed Crispin and kidnapped Leopold for no good reason other than money.

At least Juzir had been motivated by concern for the fate of the world—and a destroyed bathroom, for which Leopold still felt a nagging sense of guilt.

Qylzryd was just a mercenary. Crispin deserved much better than that.

“Like me,” Leopold said sadly. Because if he were reunited with Crispin—and if Crispin still wanted him—Leopold would treat him right.

He’d never sell him out for any reason. He’d listen to Crispin go on about obscure facts that nobody else in the universe cared about, and he would be happy to hear him.

Leopold would remind him every day that despite Aspin’s bullshit, and despite his mother’s somewhat cavalier treatment of him, Crispin was amazing. And loved.

“I am not a thing to be archived!” Leopold roared, leaping to his feet.

He picked up the chair and rammed it against the wall several times, but neither the wall nor the chair showed any signs of damage, and eventually he dropped the chair and sank to the floor in defeat.

He’d spent his entire life feeling like a screwup, but even causing disasters was better than causing… nothing.

He’d never felt so useless.

“Focus, Leo.” Saying it out loud helped a little. “Think like a desk fae.” Or like the Skipper. “Bamboo and coconut shells. What are your assets?”

He took a visual inventory and came up fairly short. He still didn’t have any clothing aside from his underwear. There were no windows, no doors. No way to communicate with the outside world. No?—

Wait. Maybe he couldn’t communicate with the world, but it had communicated with him via the television. What if he could do more than get cryptic advice from incompetent ship captains? Though to be fair, it really hadn’t been the Skipper’s fault. That storm had come up really fast….

Leopold switched on the set again. Static hissed for a few moments before the picture clarified. Ah. Another midcentury cishet male’s misogynistic fantasy about controlling a powerful woman. Only this woman—who also possessed magic—was more scantily clad than Samantha.

Wearing her culturally appropriated pink costume, Jeannie sat cross-legged on her purple couch, reading a magazine. She didn’t say anything, or even look up, so Leopold cleared his throat.

“Um, hello?” He would have felt stupid starting a conversation with the TV, except he’d been talking quite a lot to Thea lately and she was a broken cell phone.

Seemingly unsurprised, Jeanie glanced up. “Oh, hello, master.”

Oh gods. “I’m not your master. I’m not anyone’s master. Well, that’s not entirely right. Uh, if the other person is fully consenting.”

She laughed. “Of course I am fully consenting, silly. I am pretty powerful, right? I cannot do much here inside my bottle”—she waved her arms to indicate the curved, jewel-studded walls—“just as you cannot do much inside of yours. But when I am outside my bottle, I can do all sorts of things. If someone tried to be my master and I did not wish it, well, he would regret it very much. But sometimes I wish it very much.” She winked.

Lovely. There went another childhood memory, thoroughly ruined.

Leopold sighed. “Well, I don’t want to be your master. I just hoped maybe you could help me.”

Jeannie put down her magazine and laced her fingers in her lap. “Very well. I can try.”

That was something at least. “It’s just, they’ve trapped me here and I can’t get out.

And I’m in love with an elf—well, a fae…

.” He still wasn’t clear on the difference.

He’d have to ask Crispy about that when he saw him again.

If I ever see him again. “But I’m worried about him.

He’s got troubles of his own, which I sort of created.

Family drama. I want to be reunited with him.

Or at least know that he’s okay. I hate being stuck here. ”

“I can understand that. I was trapped in my bottle for two thousand years.”

Leopold groaned. He was already going nuts, and he’d been here less than two days. And even if he could survive for two millennia, what about Crispin? Leopold had no idea of the lifespan for fae.

“Leo,” said Jeannie softly, “I cannot get you out of your room.”

“I didn’t figure you could. But I appreciate you listening to me complain.” He went to the couch and lay down, staring at the unremarkable ceiling. If all he could do was wallow in self-pity, well then, dammit, he was going to do a good job of wallowing.

“Although I cannot help you, that does not mean it is impossible.”

He didn’t bother turning his head to look at the screen. “Maybe not, but I’m not going to figure it out. I’m not a figuring-it-out kind of guy.”

“Then perhaps you should find someone who is.”

“Yeah,” he replied hopelessly. That would be Crispin.

It was possible that Crispin did still love him, and if so, it was also possible—likely, actually—that right this very minute he was working away at the problem.

And if true, it was even possible that he would be successful.

But man, that was a few too many possibles for Leopold’s taste.

Right now, he could really go for a definite or even a probable .

“Thanks, Jeannie,” he said, because she’d been really nice. The TV went back to static, which was actually pretty soothing, so he left it on. It reminded him a little of pure Chaos.

He missed that part of himself. He’d spent his whole life believing—reasonably enough—that he was human, and it had been shocking to discover that he wasn’t.

But it had also been… affirming, in a way.

An acknowledgment that the unsettledness he’d always felt in his core wasn’t craziness or a bad attitude but, instead, a source of power. And now it was gone.

And it wasn’t as if he entirely minded being human-ish.

He liked his body well enough and the things he could do with it, like eating and enjoying a nice spring day and, of course, sex.

He wasn’t nearly as handsome as Crispin, but Leopold’s eyes were a nice color.

And being around other people, that wasn’t so bad, even if he inevitably messed something up and did something, well, chaotic that upset them.

He was, in fact, grateful that Crispin’s mother had made him human-shaped and had sent him to Earth.

Yet now, in this place, he wasn’t even really human. He’d been reduced to an object. Part of a collection, with no more abilities than a butterfly pinned to cardboard.

Yep, here he was, back to wallowing again. He could do that for two thousand years if he had to. It wasn’t as if he had any better way to spend his time.

He groaned and covered his eyes with an arm.

He remained like that for a time, but it turned out that wallowing was actually pretty boring.

He also lacked the accessories for proper wallowing, such as bottles of alcohol or tubs of ice cream or those plastic yellow squeezy sleeves of chocolate chip cookie dough.

He’d never really noticed before how tedious his own company could be.

A new idea trickled slowly into his brain. Jeannie had suggested that he find someone clever to help. Maybe someone else on TV would fit the bill. Someone who solved mysteries.

He thought back to the foster parents’ DVDs, trying to remember whether there had been any detective shows among the mix. Did Adam-12 count?

It was worth a try.

Leopold heaved himself off the couch and turned the channel knob on the TV. At first there was more static, but just as he was about to give up, a cartoon speech bubble appeared. POW! It was replaced a second or two later by another: BAM! and then SOCK! Familiar music began to play.

“Oh,” sighed Leopold.

And there they were in their leotards, capes, and masks, grinning at him. Leopold waved and collapsed back onto the couch. “Hi, guys.”

It wasn’t Adam-12 , obviously, and these guys weren’t detectives. Although one of the actors was named Adam, if he remembered right, so maybe that counted for something.

They did solve crimes, though. Sort of. And jeez, watching this series had led to his gay awakening, when his not-quite-adolescent self had become increasingly aware of how interested he was in Robin and his almost skin-tight clothes.

“I’m not trying to fight a humanoid feline or an Egyptian mummy. You can go away now,” Leopold informed the TV.

“Holy doormat, who knew you’d give up so easily?” Robin looked slightly disgusted.

“I’m giving up ‘cause I can’t do anything. I’ve got nothing. Look at me! I’m even more scantily dressed than you.”

“Clothing does not make the man,” said the other guy on the screen, and it looked as if he might be about to launch into a lecture.

Leopold stopped him with a raised hand. “I’m not your young ward , okay, so spare me.

I’m nobody’s anything. And my underwear isn’t really the point.

” He was reminded that the whole adopt the handsome young guy who likes to wear really tight tights thing had always seemed a bit suspicious. “My powers are gone. I’ve got zip.”

“Oh?” Robin crossed his arms. “If that’s the case, how come you’re talking to us?”

That question hadn’t occurred to Leopold.

If it had, he would have assumed it was just part of the general magicness of OotL.

Except… it didn’t make sense that Bidulla—or whoever was in charge of such things—would send him TV characters who were potentially helpful.

Or that she would choose shows that had comforted him in his childhood.

“Okay, fine. Maybe I can somehow manifest you guys. But that’s not helpful. I need to escape this place, but I can’t get anything out, not even a message to Crispin.”

The older man raised one beautifully tweezed eyebrow. “Maybe the answer isn’t getting things out. Maybe it’s drawing things in.”

They both watched him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to get it.

He didn’t, though, and a moment later they hopped into a black car and raced away, leaving him with nothing but a bright yellow screen with a speech bubble that said KLONK!

He didn’t want to draw things in. What was he supposed to do? Zap Crispin here so he was imprisoned too? As much as Leopold missed him, he would never stoop so low, even if he could. Crispin deserved his freedom.

This is stupid. He clicked off the TV, stomped over to the bed, and fell dramatically onto it.

The problem was that he had zero ideas. Which wasn’t a surprise, since Crispin had said that creativity came from Chaos, and right now Leopold was fresh out of Chaos.

Which sucked. Chaos did help make the worlds beautiful.

Without it, life would be as pointless and featureless as this room, without even a poster on the walls.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

Draw things in .

Due to the magic spell or whatever hex the OotL people had put on this room, Leopold couldn’t send Chaos outward. But what if he could pull Chaos inward ?

There was a lot of Chaos in the worlds; any idiot could see that. Incarcerated or not, Leopold was a part of that Chaos. He was Chaos. And the Chaos was him. So all he had to do….

He reached deep inside himself, metaphorically speaking, and discovered a single thread. He gave it an experimental tug, and it moved.

When he pulled harder, it moved some more.

He imagined a fishing reel somewhere in his center. The handle might be a little hard to turn, as if there were a giant fish on the other end, but with patience he could manage.

If this worked, the worlds would become increasingly dull, bereft of music and dance and storytelling and painting and… all of the things that made life worthwhile. Including love.

People would notice pretty fast, and they wouldn’t be pleased.

The Office of the Lost would have to do something . Like maybe come open the door to find out what he was up to.

Was he willing to hold Chaos hostage in return for his release? Sure. They were already holding him, and he was Chaos personified.

“After all, turnabout is fair play.” Grinning, Leopold set about it in earnest, reeling in Chaos.