by Emery Belle
Pierre was barking frantically, straining and bucking against his invisible restraints, and when Merry let go of the brownie, gasping for breath, Wendall turned toward the sound of the commotion. He raised his hand once more, aiming straight at my familiar, and sent a ball of fire spinning toward him as the dog yelped helplessly.
I launched myself in front of the dog with a battle cry, prepared to face the consequences of Wendall’s magic, no matter how dire—I’d been the one set on catching the yeti’s murderer, not innocent Pierre, and there was no way I was going to let any harm befall him.
As I was jumping, I shouted the first thing that came to mind—“Igviri!”—not stopping to consider the fact that I hadn’t properly learned the defensive spell yet, or that I wasn’t even holding my training wand.
My hand dragged through the air, acting of its own accord, and a spray of emerald fire burst from my fingertips, forming a towering wall of flames that Wendall couldn’t pierce, no matter how hard he tried. Through the flames and the green smoke spiraling toward the dirt-packed ceiling of Merry’s gnome hole, I could see the brownie aiming spell after spell at us, but the fire remained impenetrable.
Merry was nowhere to be seen, and a wave of desperation threatened to overwhelm me as I called out for him in vain. Had he left with Sweetpea and abandoned me to die? I wasn’t naïve enough to think a level zero witch was any match for Wendall’s power. My fire would only last for so long.
With a howl of frustration, Wendall stomped his hairy feet and swung around, searching the room for Merry. I could sense the flames weakening, and I screwed up my face in concentration and mouthed the spell again and again, willing my only defense against the brownie to remain in place long enough for me to figure out a way to get myself and Pierre safely out of the gnome hole, which was quickly becoming a death trap.
Suddenly, amid the roar of the fire, I heard a scampering sound that grew louder as it drew closer, as if dozens of pairs of tiny feet were heading our way. I cocked my head, listening as hard as I could, and looked at Wendall out of the corner of my eye, but the brownie was too busy turning the house upside down in search of Merry to notice anything amiss.
Seconds later, though it felt like an eternity had elapsed, the gnome’s front door burst open. At least twenty moles scurried in, noses twitching, beady eyes searching the room, taking in the still-frozen Pierre and the flickering wall of flames I was still holding onto by a thread.
I widened my eyes meaningfully and tipped my head toward Wendall, who finally whirled around as the lead mole squeaked, “Charge!” and the animals morphed as one into a group of burly security guards wearing fur-lined vests bearing the words Mole Patrol on the back.
The brownie let out a squeak of alarm at the sight of the men charging him, but recovered quickly enough to send spell after spell in their direction. The men dodged and weaved the spells, which ricocheted off the walls and furniture, colliding in the air amid a shower of sparks and explosions.
Over the commotion, I heard another pair of footsteps bounding toward the gnome hole, heavier this time, and as I screwed up my face, listening hard, they seemed to morph into… gallops?
I cried out in alarm as Kellen burst through the doorway in minotaur form, his red eyes glowing with rage as he quickly swept them over the room, taking in the scene—members of the Mole Patrol dancing around Wendall’s spells, which he was still throwing in earnest, his tiny face alight with fury; Pierre and me barricaded behind the wall of emerald flames, though by this point they were barely more than sparks; and Merry, who had charged into the room wearing a full bodysuit of heavy armor that clanked loudly as he threw himself at the brownie, missing by several feet and instead tumbling to the ground with the sound of crashing metal.
Kellen roared, steam spiraling from his nose, and plucked his baton from the waistband of his uniform. Aiming it squarely at the brownie’s head, he launched it across the room as hard as he could, and I watched as it spiraled toward Wendall, who was busy trying to detach Merry from where he had grabbed him around the ankles.
I stifled a yell as the baton sailed through the air—part of me still felt sorry for Wendall for the injustice he’d suffered at Emeril’s hands—but the brownie turned around just in time. His eyes bulged at the sight of the weapon, and as Merry made one last desperate attempt to wrestle him to the ground, Wendall turned on the spot, his eyes locking on mine for a split second, and vanished, leaving nothing but empty air in his wake.
I heard the click-clack of high heels approaching me from behind and smothered a sigh behind my hand as I steeled myself for what was to come. “Is the column on the fashion show ready, Wren?” Sandrine asked, tapping her fingernails impatiently on the outside wall of my cubicle as she scrutinized my face with her cold eyes. “I trust that you were able to do as I asked and discover the truth behind Emeril and Preston’s feud?”
She had no idea.
“It’s almost done,” I said in as pleasant a voice as I could muster, setting down my pen and wiggling the kinks out of my fingers. “Just a few more finishing touches and I’ll have it on your desk.”
“See that you do.” She traced her fingers lightly, unconsciously, over the raised scar above her heart. “And it better be perfect, since I had wanted it to be completed two days ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, offering her a smile that she didn’t return. “I’ve been a bit… busy. Personal issues.”
She curled one corner of her red-painted lips. “I would think, seeing how your performance—and status as a reporter for this paper—is currently under strict evaluation, that you would set aside any personal issues and do the one and only thing I’m concerned about: your work.” Then she turned on her stiletto heel and sashayed away, on to interrogate her next victim.
“Harsh,” a voice said, and I looked up from my desk to see Sebastian peering over our shared cubicle wall, eyebrows raised in amusement. We hadn’t spoken much since I’d turned down his offer of a date—neither of us knew what to say to smooth things over, and I still wasn’t sure I’d made the right call.
But for now, at least, it seemed like we’d come to an unspoken agreement to gloss over our awkwardness and pretend like nothing had happened, which suited me just fine, at least until I worked out my feelings for him. Sebastian, sensing my hesitation, gave me a tight smile and disappeared behind the cubicle wall again, and I soon heard him typing on his keyboard with a little more force than usual.
Sighing again, I returned to my article, which, as I’d told Sandrine, was nearly done. And it was a doozy—I’d told the whole story of the feud, and Preston’s betrayal of his former lover, leaving nothing out. Once the story broke, it would undoubtedly turn the yeti fashion community on its head… and Preston, who I’d heard through the grapevine had been released from jail, would get what he deserved for stealing Emeril’s designs. Even if Emeril had turned out to be a monster in his own right.
Wendall was still on the loose, according to Kellen, who had stopped by The Islander offices just that morning to lecture me on interfering with his second investigation in practically as many weeks. Amid the usual threats to toss me into jail and throw away the key—although this time, I could have sworn just a tad less steam than usual had spiraled out of his nose at the sight of me—the police chief had told me that Emeril’s murderer would most likely never be found. Wendall was probably deep in hiding somewhere in the brownie network, which spanned households across the globe.
That thought didn’t trouble me too much, though… I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Wendall and the other brownies who had been enslaved by Emeril, even if killing the yeti wasn’t the right answer. And besides, my gut told me that Wendall just didn’t have it in him to harm anyone again.
I heard someone clearing their throat tentatively behind me, and I turned to find Preston standing there, toeing at the ground nervously. “I came to thank you,” he said, looking at me but not quite meeting my gaze. “For finding the real killer and s
etting me free.”
“Yeah, well.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Do you really deserve to be free? You aren’t exactly an innocent party here… you’re a fraud. And what’s worse is that you stole from and tricked the man you once loved.”
Preston bowed his head for a moment, and when he raised it again, I saw that his eyes were shining with unshed tears. “You are right, of course,” he said, removing a tissue from his pocket and dabbing at his eyes. “I knew what I was doing, recognized that it was wrong. I guess on some level I was trying to get back at Emeril for breaking my heart.”
“Breaking your heart?” I frowned at him. “That’s not the way Emeril’s sister tells the story. She says you left Emeril out of the blue, almost destroying him in the process.”
Preston drew out his wand and conjured a chair, then sat down in it heavily. “I don’t deny that,” he said, “and it certainly wasn’t my finest moment. But Emeril had… changed. Almost beyond recognition. When we began dating, we were both up-and-comers, still trying to navigate through the weeds of the fashion underworld. We began our journey together, and we found fame together…”
His voice became choked, and he took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “But somewhere along the way, he lost sight of who he was. The fame got to his head, and it destroyed him far more than I ever did. I begged him to return to his old self, the carefree, fun-loving yeti I’d fallen in love with, but it seemed that man was lost forever to one who would do anything in the pursuit of another fan, another dollar, another interview. At some point, I gave up, and that’s when the relationship completely fell apart.”
A single tear dripped down his cheek. “I’ve never stopped loving him, though, and I would give anything in this world to just speak with him one last time, even now, knowing what he did to those brownies. I heard a saying once, that a man is worth more than his worst action. And he was certainly worth more than that to me. I will mourn him for the rest of my life.” He dropped his head into his hands as his shoulders began to heave with grief.
I sat there with him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder while sobs shuddered through his body, because what else could I do? Words were useless now.
Eventually his sobs subsided and he raised his head and gave me a small smile. “My apologies, Wren. From what I’ve heard, you’ve had quite the eventful few days, and I’m sure the last thing you need is for me to be here blubbering all over your office. I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you, and goodbye.”
He stood and waved his wand again, and the chair disappeared. With a final, brief smile, he spun smartly on his heel and began walking away.
I watched him until he was out of sight, then turned back to the column I was writing, my heart sinking as I quickly reread it. I’d done what Sandrine had asked—I’d uncovered the truth. But at what cost? If the newspaper published it, the entire world would know what Preston had done, and his career would be in tatters.
Hadn’t he already suffered enough?
I quietly set down my pen, picked up the nearly-finished column, and tore it to shreds.
Chapter 17
“This meeting of the High Court is now in session,” Lord Macon said, twirling his gold-wrapped wand idly between his long fingers.
Everything was exactly as I remembered it—the all-white room, the softly billowing floor-to-ceiling curtains, the row of imposing-looking men and women looking down at me from a white marble dais. And in the middle sat Lord Macon, the president of the Magic Island division of the International Association of Magical Beings and leader of the High Court, sitting regally on his throne and glowering down at me. His dark eyes, made even darker by the black velvet robes he wore, glittered strangely in the sunlight streaming in through the curtains.
“So we meet again, Miss Winters,” he said softly, and despite my pounding heart and the feeling that I was about to lose my breakfast all over the pristine floor, I squared my shoulders and met his gaze, refusing to be cowed. If I was going down, if this all-powerful man was going to force me to leave the place that had quickly become the only true home I’d ever had, then I was determined to keep my dignity. If he expected me to beg and grovel at his feet, he would be sorely disappointed.
He allowed his gaze to roam over my face for a few seconds longer before he threaded his fingers together and nodded to Lady Amabelle, his second-in-command. She cleared her throat, pushed her spectacles up her nose, and began reading from a document laid out before her.
“You, Wren Guinevere Winters, are charged with unlawful use of a training wand under Section 95, Item Z of the International Association of Magical Beings’ Code of Conduct. This charge carries with it an automatic sentence of immediate banishment from Magic Island and all of its territories.” She glanced up at me, and I tried to stop the quivering in my knees. “How do you plead?”
I took a deep breath. “Guilty.”
She frowned down at me. “You do not wish to provide a defense?”
I cut my gaze toward Lord Macon, who was still stroking his wand and sneering down at me, as though he’d love nothing more than to aim it at my face and blast me to smithereens. “Is there any point?”
Lady Amabelle looked taken aback. “Of course, every defendant is entitled to—”
“No.” Lord Macon’s voice cut across her, and she immediately pressed her lips together, silenced. He leaned toward me, a lock of his silver hair falling over one eye. “The law is quite clear, Miss Winters, and according to Lady Winthrop, she made the punishment known on your first day at the academy. You chose to ignore it anyway, and now you must suffer the—”
“I didn’t choose to ignore it,” I said hotly, my cheeks reddening with indignation. “I was about to be murdered by a lunatic, and it was the only defense I had. Not to mention that he’d killed someone else, and the police weren’t able to catch him. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
Lord Macon pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes flashing dangerously at the interruption. The other members of the High Court exchanged glances, as though they could feel the animosity simmering between us, and I saw Lady Amabelle studying Lord Macon’s face with unease.
“You should not have put yourself in that situation at all, Miss Winters,” he said. “I spoke with Kellen, who informed me that he warned you on several occasions to stop interfering with his investigation. Had you listened, or had you alerted the appropriate authorities—”
“There wasn’t time to alert the appropriate authorities!” I shouted, starting to lose my cool. “I had a wand pointed at my heart—what was I supposed to do, say, ‘Hold on a second, Percival, before you incinerate me on the spot, just let me place a quick call to the police.’” I heard a snort of laughter somewhere down the row of councilmembers that was quickly stifled, which only served to further enrage Lord Macon.
“You were in violation of our laws not once, but twice!” he roared back, his eyes bulging. He stood up from his throne and jabbed his wand threateningly in my direction, looking quite deranged. “Did you or did you not use your training wand to perform the Igviri spell in the gnome hole of one Mr. Merry Merriweather?” He curled his lip. “Our records do not lie, Miss Winters.”
“I didn’t use my training wand that time,” I said stoutly, refusing to back down. “I was trying to protect my familiar, and when I said the spell the fire came out of my hand—”
“You mean to tell me that you performed magic in the absence of your wand?” Lady Amabelle interrupted, staring down at me in disbelief. She glanced down at the paper in front of her with a frown. “I have it written here that you are a level zero witch—is that not accurate?”
“No, it is,” I said, and several of the councilmembers gasped.
“That is extremely advanced magic,” Lady Amabelle said, folding her arms across her ruby-colored robes. “Frankly, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Something flashed in Lord Macon’s eyes—was it fear?—as he sat back down and smoo
thed his hair, regaining his composure. “Be that as it may,” he said, “the laws are clear for the first infraction.” He picked up the gavel lying beside him. “Wren Winters, I hereby sentence you to immediate—”
“Now hold on a second, Augustus,” Lady Amabelle interjected, shooting Lord Macon a sharp look. “The entire council still has to vote on this matter, and I, for one, am undecided.”
Lord Macon opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment, the door to the chambers opened and a familiar figure clad all in black strode in, his eyes flicking to me before he came to a stop in front of the dais.
“Mr. Noir!” Lady Amabelle said in surprise, looking down at the man in black. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“This is a closed hearing, Cole,” Lord Macon said through gritted teeth as the two men stared each other down—Lord Macon’s expression one of warning, Cole’s of fiery intensity—and I could sense the unspoken words hanging thickly in the air between them. “If you require a meeting with me, you can send word through my secretary.”
“I am here to request leniency for Wren,” Cole said, his voice carrying across the room. My jaw dropped open and though I tried to catch his eye, he remained staring forward resolutely, his powerful arms crossed in front of his chest.
Lord Macon raised a delicate, disbelieving eyebrow. “And what gives you the authority to make such a request?”
“I was the sole witness to the incident that occurred in the offices of The Islander Gazette,” Cole said, now addressing Lady Amabelle. “Wren acted with courage and cool-headedness, and her actions undoubtedly saved my life.”
His life? Hadn’t it been the other way around? My mind flashed back to an image of Cole launching himself between me and Percival, his body absorbing the deadly spell as he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
