Heart Hunting Magic: Stag Heart Pendulum, #2

By Charlotte Munich

My heart is rooted here to stay.

 

When Tristan Rentier disappears and a law firm from the realms takes worryingly radical steps to find him, Victoire discovers new levels of realms intrigue. Soon, magical heavyweights gather to search for him, and it's unclear whether they intend to save him or make sure he ends up dead.

 

It's up to Victoire and her dubious new ally, Dora Vinok, to team up and protect him as well as his estate. Because Vic knows there's an ancient magical artifact hidden somewhere on the Rentier grounds, and she must not ever let it fall into the wrong hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlotte Munich
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9791096438839

Book preview

1

Paris is wonderful in the spring. Especially at sunset on a beautiful Friday evening, when the sky is that delicate luminescent blue, so clear and wide that anything seems possible. Walking by the Seine, I sighed happily, taking in the scenery. It was still early May, but the weather was so lovely all of a sudden, that everybody in town had started wearing summer clothes again. With the soft wind caressing my calves after the endless winter, and the glowing orange light on the historic buildings huddled on the Seine, I felt so lucky to be here. There were people everywhere, hurrying off to parties, calling one another and laughing, walking hand in hand, simply happy to exist in the warm, free evening. Just strolling along the Quais of the Seine, I got dizzy from all the fashionable perfumes, the delicious aromas of food wafting from the restaurants nearby, and even the less delicate smells of traffic and river. I was home again.

Here, in the historical center of the city, near the Seine islands, you could walk down to the banks and sit by the river, with your feet dangling over the water, your beloved by your side and a glass of wine in your hands. I was born and bred in this city and I’d been missing it sorely since we’d moved to the country. Sure, everything here was far too expensive for a struggling artist like me. But things were so lively, so teeming with energy. I intended to soak it all in during my stay in the city.

Coming back here with this feeling of conquest, victory and accomplishment, felt heady and wonderful.

Stepping on the Pont au Double, I blew Notre-Dame a goodbye kiss before crossing into the Latin Quarter. With her brand-new stained-glass spire and roof, unveiled just months before, the cathedral looked part gothic jewel and part giant dragonfly, and I loved her more than ever. She was the majestic proof that you could have deep historic and spiritual roots yet still be able to change and morph into something new. It was never too late, you could always reinvent yourself.

I was still admiring the monument when Thom pulled on the sleeve of my cotton shirt, saving me from collision with a speeding bike. 

Careful there, honey. Wouldn’t want you to die now, before we dazzle Mr. Big Shot.

I smiled at him. He made it sound like I could die later, though, if I really insisted on it. Classic Thom humor. I knew he wasn’t serious about it. At least not consciously. Thom and I may have had a competitive relationship in the past, and we didn’t always see eye to eye on band strategy, but we’d grown a lot closer since the winter, since we’d written that gem of an album together. Now there was mutual respect mixed in with the constructive rivalry.

So I grinned at him, because I liked him, and because the occasion called for euphoria: we were headed for the meeting that would change everything. With a label. They were going to produce our first record. I could feel it at my fingertips. This was it: our big, lucky break.

Come on, guys, Linus, our drummer, called from the other side of the bridge. The spectacular sunset lit a fiery light in his short blond hair. Sam, the bassist, was asking an American tourist for her phone number, probably telling her this was her last chance of nailing a future superstar before his fame made him unattainable, or some such bullshit. Since we’d arrived two days earlier, Sam was enjoying the hell out of our new luck.

It had all started in February, after that concert at the Victory bar, the establishment I’d worked at for a couple of weeks and where we’d premiered our new songs. Even though it was in a backwards town, Dompierre, in the middle of nowhere in the French countryside, the opening night had been huge, thanks to hard work and to the bar owner’s special kind of magic. Tristan had had that little something that had made a big difference—by which I mean, he could really do magic. He was literally from another world, the realms, something akin to the mythical Faerie. Which meant he could change his appearance through some kind of glamour (although he could almost never fool me). He had real, legit magic beyond that. He could travel between his world and ours through magical teleportation. I’d been to his place, a huge castle lit only by the full moon. I’d nearly made the mistake of letting him worm his way into my heart. We’d split after the fire that had destroyed the bar on the very night of its opening. It was for the best.

On that night, while I was busy getting trapped by Tristan’s evil cousin Hughes, getting sliced into by giant steel thorns, attacked by wolves in a death realm, and finally almost burned to embers, my bandmates, who still didn’t know about the realms, had had a far more enjoyable evening. See, after our concert, they had met The Simon Cadet. Yes. That one. Simon Cadet of Hell Hunt Records. The visionary genius who’d signed Glitter Carcass, Oona, The Oppenheimers, just to quote a few of the more iconic bands of the millennium, and a shit ton of other legendary artists over the years. He’d been shaping the rock ’n’ roll scene since I’d been a mini (and very snotty) singer in diapers. Lightning had struck for us, big time.

While I’d been gone to fight the baddie, Simon Cadet had climbed onto the stage to speak with Thom, and thus the talks had started. Things had gone back and forth a lot, with Simon never really settling down in his offices in Paris long enough to really sit down with us again. But phone conferences with his numerous minions had been organized, contracts had been drafted and examined by lawyers. Everything was legit. As hard as it was to believe in that kind of luck, here it was.

Now, after three epically frantic months, it was finally time to meet, sign all the papers, and celebrate.

We veered off and away from the Seine, into a small street, and entered a touristy area full of bars and shops where the evening crowd was particularly dense and ebullient. We were right on time for our 9 p.m. appointment. Yes, it was very late. Apparently, execs at record companies could keep weird schedules along with the best of them.

From the outside, Hell Hunt Records’ headquarters didn’t look as though they could make or break rock ’n’ roll. They were located in a medieval building, solid gray stone in a narrow paved street, with a round arch door. The wide windowsills on the low first floor made it quite clear that the walls were at least three feet thick. As many of the oldest Parisian buildings do, this one was drooping towards the street and you had the immediate sense that it wouldn’t pass a bubble-level test all too well.

And then, we stepped inside, and things got . . . quirkier. Kitschier. Definitely more exotic.

The temperature that had started to drop outside got heavy again inside the building, almost tropical. In fact, the whole lobby had been designed as a beach. I mean, as an actual ocean beach, complete with palm trees and soft white sand and a wide pool of turquoise water.

And I don’t mean potted palm trees and a dusting of sand over marble. No. Whoever had done this had gone all out. The lighting made it seem as if the sun had just gone down, as it had in the actual city, and the beach party was going to start any minute now. As soon as you saw that scene, all you wanted to do was take off your shoes, so you could really dig your heels in the warm, fine sand, and walk to the edge of the pool, where the ground slowly dipped into the water, exactly how it would on a sandy beach on some paradisiac island. And maybe shed your T-shirt, while you were at it. It was nuts. It even smelled like the ocean.

The practical and levelheaded Linus stopped dead in his tracks. Sam, who must have been wearing a button-down shirt tonight for the very first time in his life, started cackling like a madman, his usual reaction to utter astonishment. And I just stood there with my mouth agape and a fierce need to take off my wedges and wiggle my toes in the water—and this, just before a life-changing business meeting. This left Thom strutting alone to the reception area to announce our arrival. Blessed be his huge ego.

The receptionist was wearing a bejeweled bathing suit and several layers of flower necklaces. Her desk almost disappeared under a cascade of tropical plants, several of which were in full bloom.

I’ll tell Mr. Cadet that you’re here, she promised Thom with a dazzling smile.

Thom thanked her and came back to me, an enormous grin on his face. I could almost hear him yelling, Is this the life, or not?

An elevator dinged somewhere behind a tree and a second later, rock ’n’ roll’s most famous master entered the scene, wearing a Hawaiian shirt in all tones of orange, aviator sunglasses and a shredded straw hat over his abundant white mane. He smiled, opening his arms. He was barefoot, with orange nail polish on his toes. On his hands and feet, he wore as many rings as there were panties left lying around on the stage after a Pink Stud Clint concert.

And this is when it hit me. This wasn’t eccentricity. It was more than that: it was glamour.

Simon Cadet was most likely from the realms.

He certainly had that vibe going on.

2

Isat down, or rather, almost sank into the flamingo pink plush armchair, while Thom and Sam selected a black leather sofa that looked like a cross between a dragon and a werewolf, with pointy ears, a long-spiked tail, and freaking teeth protruding under the armrests. Linus hesitated, but didn’t have many options other than to make do with a rocking chair that looked like it had been woven by a crazy, giant spider on steroids.

Simon Cadet was already lounging behind the enormous desk that sprawled in his gigantic office, complete with goat horns and a wide collection of ink bottles in every color of the rainbow.

Please, he insisted, make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink? You can totally kick off your shoes here. Nobody’s going to make you behave or deny you your student loan because you chill out for a minute. It’s just us artists in here.

Sam broke into a huge smile. He was clearly thinking this must be the hottest wet dream of his life.

I let my eyes wander around the huge office. Posters and signed polaroids of mythical groups and concerts covered the walls. There were guitars everywhere, in all shapes and colors. Distinctions and awards seemed to have grown on every horizontal surface like mushrooms, as if they weren’t that huge a deal, merely an inconvenience that came with being scarily talented, something you just had to endure.

I was still fighting to get over the initial shock.

But it all made sense. Simon Cadet had found us at the Victory Bar. Of course there had been a fifty-fifty chance at least that he could be from the realms.

I’d known people from the realms could walk the earth if they wanted to, although many of them chose not to. I just hadn’t thought I would cross their path ever again. Maybe some part of me had hoped that, in paying a steep price by letting Tristan go, I’d made sure I’d never hear from the realms again in my life. But that was faulty reasoning. Magical thinking.

Heh.

Simon Cadet was explaining how big we were going to make it now that he was taking us under his wing. Thom was nodding, Sam grinning widely, and I could see Linus filtering everything for bullshit. He was very protective of the band. If Sam was our harebrained let’s-do-it jackass, and Thom the irresistible driving force of confidence in our group, Linus was our steady, beating heart. As for me. . . I was a subtle factor of chaos, something of a black swan sometimes. And now, I’d brought the realms in our lives, and the others didn’t even know it. They had no idea there were magical people and how nasty they could get.

This was not good.

We’d already settled everything from copyright licensing to production to live performances, press relations, social media management, and marketing money. Ours was going to be a 360° contract, but the lawyers we’d hired had already marveled at how favorable to the band its conditions were.

And now Simon Cadet was tossing ideas around, talking about video, tour venues, sound talent, already getting into the thick of things and slowly weaving a tale any musician would fall for. Sam’s eyes had glazed over and Thom was smiling goofily now. Even Linus had a twinkle in his eye.

There was a knock on the door and a young woman with loose blonde hair, in a pareo and bejeweled high-heeled sandals came in carrying paperwork. She handed them to Cadet who started signing everything without ever pausing his wonderful tale of success or even slowing down.

The blonde woman stayed with us the whole time, standing by his desk, and gathering all the papers once he’d signed them before handing them to one of us.

"So you can read them through one last time, cross your t’s, dot your i’s, Cadet said once he was done. You can bring them back on Monday at 6 p.m., and I believe you already know Medea, my second-in-command. She’s supposed to get her ass back from holidays next week. You can get everything started then."

Medea had been copied in some of our email exchanges already. She sounded cool and had a reputation for being a killer producer. This was a warm welcome from the industry god. It was weird. Too good to be true, maybe. I really needed to know if he was a realms guy, if it mattered and how.

During the winter, I’d noticed I could see through realmspeople’s disguises. But Simon Cadet was throwing me. Maybe he was a lot more adept at putting on a glamour than everyone else I’d encountered so far. That would be worrying. And then, the big question was: why us? What had he seen in us? Did he really want us for our musical talent? Or was this somehow related to what had happened in the winter?

And did this mean I would maybe run into Tristan again? I knew I had no right to hope so. I’d ditched him well and truly last winter. I’d told him I wanted nothing to do with magic. I’d even gone as far as to pretend I’d severed the magical link that allowed me to summon him.

I wanted to make my way independently from the realms, focus on my career.

And now this.

How are you enjoying Paris? Simon Cadet inquired.

Sam told him we were all from the city, except for Linus, who’d landed in Paris as an exchange student and had never left.

Simon Cadet then rattled a series of bars, nightclubs and venues we should absolutely visit while we were here.

Just tell them I sent you, he added. Any protege of mine gets unlimited access to anything happening on the Paris music scene.

There was a short silence during which I thought Sam would keel over from joy. We thanked Cadet profusely—Please, please, you must call me Simon—and got out of there with signed contracts in our hands, stars in our eyes and, for me, a lot of questions on my mind.

The whole meeting had taken less than an hour.

3

We were staying with friends of mine in the twelfth arrondissement, not far from Père Lachaise cemetery. The house belonged to my friend Vanessa’s grandmother, who had fled the city to move to Florida with her lover. The granny in question was obviously having fun, judging by the postcards she sent every week. In the meantime, Vanessa enjoyed a quiet house in the middle of the busy city, something that no one our age could ever afford. Although some of Thom’s friends from business school were starting to claim big pieces of real estate, but Thom found them rather boring.

Vanessa was the opposite of boring. She was a bouncy, wide-eyed, curly-haired fair beauty who talked a mile a minute and always had some crazy project going on. Right now, she was the cofounder of an urban beekeeping company who installed beehives on the roofs everywhere in the city. She also ran a network of translators who could basically handle every language on the planet and regularly worked for all kinds of companies and administrations.

V and I had gone to kindergarten together and had even started a business, V & V, before we could even spell correctly. V & V had sold everything from pets to songs to dirt cookies to extraordinary life experiences. Vanessa’s grandmother had bought one of those, and I liked to think she was still reaping the benefits from it.

Her house was a narrow three-story tucked between two other similar townhouses, in a private street crowded with big potted plants that had once led to a shoe factory. The factory had stopped operating a good while ago and had been bought recently by an uber-rich businessman who planned to turn it into a huge loft.

Squatting Vanessa’s granny’s house with us were her boyfriend Carlos, a landscape gardener she’d met through her beekeeping business, and Vanessa’s cousin Madeleine who was also a musician, although of a more classical, lyrical type. We, the band, were sleeping in the attic under a wide