by Tess Adair
“And I always knew you were right,” answered Logan easily. “That’s just how committed I am to an even playing field.”
“And now I’ll never compliment you again,” said Sasha, shaking her head as she pushed herself off the wall. Dramatically and gracefully, she tossed herself into the nearest armchair. “So. What did you come out here to tell us?”
Logan raised her right eyebrow, one eye involuntarily tracking the cuff tattoo. She knew she should be used to it by now, but it still unnerved her sometimes when Sasha told her what she was about to do. Perhaps it felt a little bit like having her thunder taken away.
“You have news?” asked Knatt, turning his head. He paused at the door to his own room, where he likely planned to change for the Ball as well.
“Yeah,” said Logan, taking a deep breath. “I met with the High Prophet this afternoon.”
“That’s where you went?” Jude stood frozen at the door to the bathroom.
Logan nodded. “He wanted to let me in on his plan. To get my help. And my complicity.” The anger she still felt about this asinine plan rose up in her chest. “He’s using the entire Summit as bait to lure the Wolf. He wants the Wolf to attack. Everyone here is in danger.”
Silence met her words. Collapsed on her chair like a boneless cat, Sasha rustled her wrap thoughtfully. Jude still seemed frozen on the spot, neither moving nor reacting. Eventually, Knatt cleared his throat.
“He actually told you he’s using the Summit as bait?”
“He said that he’s hoping the Wolf will attack because he thinks they can catch him off guard.”
“But you disagree?”
“Part of his plan hinges on me helping him,” she said, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “He’s betting on me tipping the scales. I think it’s a dumb bet.”
“It wouldn’t only be you,” said Knatt carefully. “The Order has fighters, too.”
“Fighters who have already failed against the Wolf,” said Logan, waving her hand dismissively. “They sent a team of Adepts against him about two weeks ago. None of them made it out.”
Again, silence greeted her as the others absorbed this. Sasha was the one to break it this time.
“Can I see the picture?”
She pointed at Logan’s left hand, which still held her notebook. As Logan stepped closer to hand it over, she saw Jude’s mouth pop open, saw her struggling to form the question.
“I told you I was psychic,” said Sasha casually, not even bothering to glance Jude’s way. Jude’s cheeks turned bright red. After a moment, Sasha passed the book back. “It’s called the Mark of the Deeper Beast.”
Logan glanced at the page, her right eyebrow raised.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“What does that mean?”
“No idea.” Sasha shrugged, her expression troubled. “But I don’t like it. It looks…wrong, somehow.” She shook her head quickly back and forth, as if she could physically shake away whatever feeling had overcome her. Logan saw her automatically touch her right wrist. “I can’t explain it any more than that.”
Logan kept her sigh to herself. She loved Sasha, but her readings weren’t always specific. Still, she now had one more piece of information than she had before. She turned to Knatt before he had a chance to ask her and gave the notebook to him.
“Thank you,” he murmured, eyes already glued to the page. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite pull it out. I’ll do some research tonight.”
He started to turn back toward his door, but Logan put out her arm.
“I think the rest of you should leave,” she said, her tone deadly serious. “I can handle this on my own. I’ll stay here and protect as many people as possible, but the rest of you should leave. I’ll work better if I know you’re safe.”
Knatt slowly inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his face.
“You make a fair point.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’m not going to leave you.”
“Damnit, Knatt, what did I just say?”
“You think you’ll work better on your own. I disagree.”
Logan glanced over at Jude.
“One of us needs to get her to safety, at the very least.”
At that, Jude let out an angry noise, not unlike a snarl.
“Hey! I don’t want to leave either!” She crossed her arms, evidently doing her best to look imposing. “How do you think I would feel if I ran away scared, and the rest of you got killed?”
Knatt gave Logan a significant look. “She’s old enough to make up her own mind, don’t you think?”
Logan brought her hand to her temple, the headache she’d developed in Atherton’s office threatening to rear its ugly head again. “Fantastic. Why don’t you all just go and get yourselves killed, hm?”
From her perch on the armchair, Sasha stretched and yawned. “For the record,” she said, “I haven’t made up my mind either way. But I’m certainly not leaving before tonight.” She glanced down at herself appreciatively. “This dress deserves to be seen at least once, I think.”
Logan knew she couldn’t make any of their decisions for them. She was stuck with whatever they chose for themselves. Even if they were all hell-bent on killing themselves.
“Fine,” she said reluctantly. Then she turned back to her own room. “In that case, I’m getting more weapons.”
Logan wasn’t entirely surprised that nearly an hour later, she found herself alone in the main room with Knatt, who was seated calmly in the chair he had apparently claimed for the duration of their trip, wearing a tuxedo and flipping impassively through a giant tome. Logan glanced at the clock for the third time in under a minute and sighed in frustration.
“How’s it going in there?” she called toward the bathroom, where Sasha was apparently performing some sort of readying ritual on Jude.
“Almost there!” Sasha’s voice came to her in a semi-strangled cry. “Just one more—yes, we’ve got it!”
At that, the door to the bathroom burst open, and both Sasha and Jude tumbled out—or, at least, Logan was relatively sure it was Jude. While Sasha brushed a few stray hairs off her white collared shirt, Logan took in the changes to her appearance. Her shirt was tucked neatly into light gray dress pants, and below that, Logan could see plaid socks and Oxford shoes. Her hair now fell a little past her shoulders instead of all the way to her waist, and it fell in short, flattering layers around her face. For half a second, Logan didn’t entirely recognize the angry girl in the sweatshirt, trying so hard to hide herself from the world. Jude smiled.
“It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” She beamed, her voice radiating with excitement.
“You look great, kid,” Logan answered, matching her smile.
“Just remember, I’m not a magician,” said Sasha as she brushed a few more hairs from her own hands. “Well, I’m specifically not a hair magician, anyway. Your hair should look good tonight, but if you wake up tomorrow and it’s fucking weird, don’t come crying to me.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Remember what I told you?”
“You told me to make sure that I get a real haircut when I get home, and to stop acting like lost Dickensian chimney sweep is a valid look for me.”
“Yeah…I meant that in a ‘love yourself’ kind of way, but, yeah, you get the point.”
Knatt cleared his throat and lowered his book, the thick hardcover making a decisive noise as he set it down. “On that note,” he announced as he rose to standing, “I believe it’s time for us to make our way down.”
Knatt led the way out the door, with Logan pausing just long enough to let Sasha by so she could close the door behind her. As she clicked the door fully shut, she took a deep breath, hoping to still the icy quake of anxiety at her center.
Everything will be fine, she told herself as they made their way toward the main ballroom. And if it isn’t…at least I have knives.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Champion Bound
Logan’s anxiety peaked just before she crossed the threshold into the Grand Ballroom, but it ebbed right after. The Ballroom was a lot to take in; they entered through a large archway out onto a grand staircase that provided a sweeping view of the massive chamber, which was dominated by a wide, almost empty dance floor. Hundreds of tables bordered the dance floor on the north and south sides, while the west side was a wall of windows and glass doors leading out onto a terrace, which had been lit by thousands of tiny, twinkling lights. The eastern wall boasted what appeared to be a movable dais, currently draped in black fabric and set up with the trappings of letha rituals. Logan eyed it carefully while one of the Order’s endless supply of servants brought them to a table near the center of the room, not terribly far from the dais.
As she took her seat, Logan cursed under her breath. Sitting in the center of the room meant she could only keep an eye on about half of it at a time. Not ideal. Even as the thought formed in her mind, people began to flood into the room in increasing numbers, each group led to their table by another Novice-servant.
“What’s that all for?” Jude asked once their red-sleeve was out of earshot, pointing at the stone lectern that stood on the dais.
“It’s for the binding,” said Knatt serenely, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary about his statement. With utmost calm and poise, he picked up the cloth napkin at his place setting, shook out the fan folds, and placed it in his lap. “The tournament winner will be bound by the High Prophet to commence the ball.”
Off Jude’s startled look of concern, Logan opened her mouth to explain further, glanced up from her place setting, and suddenly froze. About thirty feet across the room stood Alexei Marin, staring right at her.
For a moment, she felt like time might have actually stopped. She couldn’t look away from him, but she couldn’t seem to make any real attempt to communicate with him, either. After what seemed like an eternity, his face began to move, and for half a second, she thought he might even smile—
Until, of course, someone walked between them, followed by several other people immediately after. The Grand Ballroom was filling up. She considered letting her gaze linger until she found his again, but uncertainty got the best of her, and she looked away.
Her sudden, fervent desire for distraction pushed her to speak.
“The binding,” she said, turning to Jude, “is the real reason most of the donors bother to come. Because binding is illegal outside of the Order, this is the one time a year that anyone can legally observe a binding take place.” Having never seen the point of attending the Summit before, Logan had never seen a binding herself. She didn’t expect to be wowed by this one, nor was she impressed by the respect the donors seemed to give it. “I don’t quite get it myself, but some of these idiots have convinced themselves it’s a special honor to be bound by the biggest wig in the room.”
A few of the attendees passing by their table to get to their own seemed to hear her and paused long enough to throw her a dirty look. Logan shrugged unapologetically at them in response.
Jude didn’t seem to notice this exchange. The concern on her face remained.
“So,” she said, uncertainly, “what exactly is going to happen to—them?”
Logan was fairly certain Jude was going to say “her” before she switched course.
“The winner,” said Knatt in his best professorial tone, “in this case, Miss Blake, will become something of a superhuman.”
“She’ll also be connected to Atherton,” said Logan, making sure to stress this particular point with Jude. “She’ll be loyal to him, but it will feel like more than that to her. The connection between the Bound and their master is more like a physical fact than a feeling.”
Jude nodded, though it was hard to tell from her expression if she took Logan’s whole meaning.
“Most of the time, Order Adepts are just bound with physical strength,” Knatt continued. “Or occasionally a very specific physical power. But every once in a while, one of them gets a psychic power instead.”
“It’s harder to find psychic demons,” said Sasha helpfully, from Logan’s other side. A sly smile curved her lips. “We’re a special breed. Otherwise the Order would use them all the time.”
Jude’s eyes went predictably wide.
“Does that mean—are you a—?”
“Sasha is not a demon,” said Logan authoritatively. After all, she would know.
“I guess I’m more of a delightful sprite,” said Sasha. She tossed her head with flair. “A delightful psychic sprite, obviously.”
Jude grinned at her. “Cool,” she said, her voice awed.
Around them, the Grand Ballroom seemed nearly filled to capacity, though a few people still drifted between the tables on their way to their assigned seats. To Logan’s chagrin, the empty seats at their table were eventually filled by a couple of strangers, and it didn’t take long for Logan to conclude that they were merely tourists, not casters in any meaningful way. Which meant it was probably best to ignore them.
After what felt like an hour, the chandelier lights above them began to dim. The chatter quieted as the final stragglers hurried to their tables. For a few moments, everything was still and dark.
Suddenly, into the darkness, a low gong sounded. At almost the same moment, the dais lit up with a blinding spotlight. The High Prophet appeared before them, his pristine white robe nearly glistening in the light. With a familiar smarmy smirk, he stroked his short, black goatee and surveyed the crowd. Logan felt her arms cross over her chest without a conscious command from her. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“Well, my friends,” he spoke slowly, as if he were considering his words with great care. “It’s come that time again, hasn’t it? That time when we must say farewell to our gracious donors. Until next year, that is.” His smile broadened, and he shifted his gaze all across the audience, possibly in an attempt to make eye contact with every single one of them.
“But, as always, it is our intention to send our wonderful friends off in style! In a few short moments, our cum laude and magna cum laude graduates will take the stage to demonstrate the results of their bindings. A few short moments after that, our newest Champion of the Gauntlet shall make her way to the stage, and you will all bear witness to the honor of her binding.”
As he said those last four words, Logan felt the tension rise up all around the room.
With his hands raised before him like an entreaty, Atherton closed his eyes and lowered his head gravely, apparently to impress upon them all the gravity and importance of what they were about to experience. Logan did her best not to yawn.
At last, he raised his head and continued.
“Once the ceremonies are completed, the festival may commence! Seer Clément will ascend the stage and lead you all in a toast, and dinner will be served. And without further ado, let us begin!”
With that, the light on the stage went out. Logan nearly rolled her eyes at the pretense. She could clearly hear three sets of feet scurrying up a hidden staircase onto the dais, though of course she’d be hard-pressed to say if anyone else in the ballroom could hear it. This time, stage lights went up instead of a lone, overpowered spotlight.
I give the production value a solid C+. Even to her own mind, she sounded angry.
Clément arrived in her gold-lined robes and took the center of the stage, flanked by two black-robed graduates. One was male, burly, and Asian, his hair cut short and shaved on the sides, his robes barely containing his bulk. The other was female, more compact than her counterpart but hardly slender, and white with brown hair in a tight ponytail. They both stood with their hands clasped behind their backs in what appeared to be a well-practiced pose.
Seer Clément did not bother to clear her throat.
“Adept Harrison,” she barked, “take up your instrument.”
The young woman gave a quick bow before stepping forward and bending down to pick something
up from the ground before her. It was some kind of metal rod, more than twice the thickness of a crowbar. She held it out in front of her, parallel to the floor, and waited.
“Adept Yang, take up your instrument.”
Yang also bowed, took a step forward, and picked up his bar. He, too, waited.
Clément drew out the moment. Then—
“Begin!”
Both newly minted Adepts grasped their bars, fortified their stances, and began to press. They pressed both sides of the bar down and inward, and the metal gave way immediately. Within moments, both pieces were bent neatly in half, each now forming a compressed V shape. The room burst into thunderous applause.
Sasha leaned very, very close to Logan’s ear and whispered so low, Logan was quite sure that she alone could hear.
“I’ve seen better than that in my living room.”
Logan barely had time to suppress a laugh before the show continued.
“Adepts, submit!”
The young man and woman dropped to their knees, heads bowed, arms to their sides. Clément stepped forward and touched them each on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Adepts. You have performed your duties well. Go with honor.”
Still kneeling, the graduates bowed again. Then they picked themselves up and made their way from the stage. Clément turned to the crowd.
“Friends,” she said graciously, “the High Prophet and the Twelve Seers extend our thanks to you, both for your contributions throughout the year, and for doing us the honor of joining us here tonight. Those of you who attended the Gauntlet Tournament know what a talented host of Novices competed this year. And our Champion of the Gauntlet outshone them all.” She smiled somewhat smugly at the room. “As you all know, within the Order of Shadows, there are no empty titles.” She stepped back and angled her body to the side, and when she spoke again, her voice boomed. “Champion of the Gauntlet, you are called!”
A new set of lights came on, lighting up a pathway between the dais and the bottom of the stairs. Eliana Blake stepped into it, her jaw set. For one moment, she stared defiantly out at the crowd, not yet moving. Then she began to march the path that had been set for her.
