“They’ll give DSI permission to label the ICM a threat to human society, and DSI will use that permission to launch a sustained shadow campaign designed to cripple every remotely illicit act the ICM attempts. Meanwhile, the Wolves—not known for restraint, as you pointed out—will seek absolute vengeance against you and the High Court for the untimely and unwarranted murders of their brethren.”
Nausea ripples through my gut, and I hold my tongue until it settles. “The next thing you know,” I continue, “the ICM will be facing the threat of a literal war from the Lycanthrope Republic, and instead of having DSI to help mediate the conflict, the Crows will simply stand back and refuse to help until the teeth start snapping and the spells start flying. At which point, they’ll do all in their power to justify the arrests of every ICM practitioner they can get their hands on—thus fulfilling their own need to avenge the slaughter of Byers’ team.”
I lean forward as far as I can with the magic vise around my neck. “But here’s the thing, Targus. I don’t want that clusterfuck to happen. I don’t want innocent civilians getting caught in the supernatural crossfire. I don’t want DSI digging any more graves for fallen agents. I don’t want any more werewolf bodies lying nude and bloody on the ground. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone the truth when I first figured it out. Because the potential consequences of revealing the truth are just too damn dire. Even though I think the High Court, and you, acting as their proxy, deserve to be punished for all the heinous blows dealt to this city over the past two days, I don’t think securing that punishment is worth the price of supernatural social collapse, and all the death and destruction that will inevitably follow.”
I look Targus in the eye, even as the vise spell starts to cut off my airflow again. “Long story short, I don’t want that email sent any more than you do. So if you kill me, we’re both going to be disappointed.”
Targus considers this assertion and replies, “So this meeting on the roof is what, a negotiation? You came up here specifically to lure me out so we could come to some sort of agreement?”
“I did, yes.”
“What makes you think I can’t just wrench your username and password from your mind and delete the offending email?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. Only thing is, I copied the email across five different throwaway accounts, so in order to ensure none of the copies are sent, you’ll have to pull five different sets of login information out of my brain. Which is going to take a considerable amount of time, given that I’m going to fight you tooth and nail every step of the way. And the entire time we’re struggling inside my mind, there’ll be a constant risk that you’ll push too hard and fry my brain entirely, and a constant risk that I’ll figure out how to circumvent your magic and lash back with my own, dealing you the same sort of brain damage I dealt Delos when he tried to turn me into one of his puppets.”
Targus’ lips twitch this time. He’s annoyed and trying very hard not to show it. “I suppose you make a fair point.”
“So, what do you say we call a truce?”
Targus dips his head and chuckles, which is not what you want a coldblooded killer to do in the middle of a tense negotiation that could end with your corpse cooling on a roof. “You’re not driving a hard enough bargain, Kinsey, for the sort of truce you’re looking for. I’ll exchange points with you, one for one, tit for tat, but I’m not taking the short end of the stick. I’ll spare your life in exchange for the deletion of the email, but anything else you want will have to come in exchange for something I want in return. If you aren’t amenable to this, I’ll take my chances with ripping your mind apart and digging out the information I need.”
Man, I knew this confrontation was going to go south at some point.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “All right. What do you want?”
“Hm. Let me think about it for a minute.” He unfolds his legs and rises smoothly with a single push of his superstrong hand, then proceeds to pace around me in a perfect loop, step by even step. The whole time he’s circling me like a hyena about to pounce, I’m stuck in the crater of cracked roofing material, on the verge of choking from the neck vise while the rest of my ribs threaten to crack under the constant pressure from the spell clamped around my chest and arms. Admittedly, this is one of the worse prisoner situations I’ve stumbled into, second only to my short and harrowing stay in Delos’ brainwashing dungeon.
But hey, at least my healing factor is working to untangle my ravaged intestines, and they’ve stopped violently convulsing and threatening to spew more blood up my throat. Now if only I couldn’t feel them worming their way through my abdomen as they shift back into place. Oh god. I’m going to have nightmares about this. Assuming I live through this, of course.
Targus claps, startling me, and comes to a stop in the same place he started. “Here’s the deal, Kinsey. I’m greatly perturbed by the amount of insider information you seem to possess, and the number of informed connections the possession of that information implies you have. Under the reasonable assumption that you will continue to utilize those resources against me and the interests of the High Court, in favor of DSI and mundane human society, I have three stipulations I require you to accept before I let you leave this roof in one piece. In order to ensure that you adhere to those stipulations, I’ll allow you to pony up three of your own for me, and we’ll seal the agreement with a binding oath. An equal exchange.”
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to prevent myself from spewing out an automatic rejection. “I want to know your stipulations before I state mine.”
“Very well.” He shrugs, nonchalant, and I get the sense that no matter what I choose, the restrictions won’t make any substantial difference to Targus’ future plans. He’ll find a way to wriggle out of the fetters, same as he’s found ways to course correct on missions gone awry over the years he’s been cleaning up the High Court’s messes—and making messes that their enemies can’t clean up.
A good Rook, I surmise, can not only plan for any number of contingencies but can also adapt to any unanticipated circumstances on the fly. So if I don’t handle the next few minutes of this conversation with extreme precision, I’m going to be the one who ends up with the short end of the stick. And it’s going to be a very short end.
Targus raises a finger. “Firstly, you will quit DSI, effective immediately, and never work for them again in any capacity, paid or not, including volunteer work and consultations.” The second finger pops up. “Secondly, you will not, via any medium, inform any employee of DSI, or anyone liable to publicly or privately pass information to DSI, about the truth of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Delos’ relatives, the associated deaths of the DSI team and the werewolves, or the attempted extrajudicial execution of Sadie Wheeler.” The third finger appears. “Lastly, you will leave Aurora, Michigan by midnight tonight, and you will not step foot within the city limits or contact anyone who lives within the city limits for a period of at least six months.”
What’s left of my stomach collapses into a dark and empty void, and a chilling sense of emptiness creeps from its core, teasing the edges of my heart. “But…that’s practically everyone I know,” I stupidly mumble.
“That’s the idea.” Targus tugs off his glasses and wipes the blood off the lenses with a clean patch of his shirt. “I don’t want you in a position to interfere with my upcoming operations in this city until I’m certain I have a foothold you can’t possibly erode. To achieve that, I need you out of the picture. And out of the picture you will be, whether you’re dead and buried or aimlessly wandering the countryside in search of new friends.” He taps his wrist to indicate time, aka his patience, is running low. “Your decision. Make it quickly.”
I know it’s moronic to hesitate, since the alternative to agreeing is magic mind torture followed by a painful death, and since I get to formulate obstructive stipulations for Targus in return. But the idea of tossing the last year of my life into the trash, of walking awa
y from everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve, paralyzes me, body and soul.
No more saving innocent civilians from supernatural threats, because I won’t have the authority to do so. No more fighting with Ella and Amy and Desmond, or even cheering them on from the sidelines, because I won’t be able to talk to them at all. No more team bonding lunches. No more office birthday parties. No more water cooler gossip. No more inside jokes. No more anything. A complete and total separation between Calvin Kinsey and DSI.
A separation I have no choice but to accept.
“Fine,” I growl out in response to the dim twinkle of amusement in Targus’ eye, a clear sign the bastard’s enjoying my struggle. “But here’s what you’re going to do for me in return. First, you will never intentionally kill another DSI Aurora agent. No more repeats of that shit you pulled on Byers’ team. Second, as long as you’re the head of this city’s ICM chapter, you will never accept any assignment from the High Court that involves targeting the citizens of Aurora in any negative capacity. And third, you will never use my practitioner status as a tool to inflict operational damage on DSI in order to advance the ICM’s political position or gain any other sort of leverage.”
Targus gazes at the darkening sky, no doubt attempting to poke holes in my demands. Either he finds enough weak points to satisfy his ambitions, or he believes he can if he tries hard enough, because he snaps his head back down after only four seconds and responds, “I accept. Let’s formalize the deal.”
He drops to one knee in front of me, rolls up his left sleeve, and grabs my left wrist with his right hand. The entire limb goes numb instantly, sparks of Targus’ magic arcing across my skin. Once Targus is sure I can’t move the arm—he digs his thumbnail into my palm until it bleeds to check if I have a pain response; I don’t—he slips the arm out of the spell securing my torso and holds it up, placing his bared left wrist against my own.
Words march off his tongue in a language my addled mind identifies as Greek, and as the tempo and intensity of his voice rises, his dark-blue aura encompasses our arms. The aura gradually coalesces into distinct shapes, a complex series of crisscrossing lines that stretch the length of our forearms, a diamond shape at the base of the wrist, and four faint rows of symbols surrounding the diamond.
The last line of the spell comes to an abrupt stop, and Targus says in English, “Repeat after me.” He says three more words in Greek, and after my anxiety makes a last-ditch attempt to dissuade me from agreeing to this awful deal, I repeat the words. Targus then says the words again himself, with more emphasis, and I catch on: the three words represent the affirmation needed to “sign” the deal, so to speak, and—
The structural array hovering around our arms suddenly constricts, and I swear to god steam rises from my skin, accompanied by the popping sound of boiling grease, for about half a second. Before the blue glow of the array winks out and leaves behind pale impressions of the shapes and symbols, reminiscent of old scars, that I have a feeling won’t fade from my skin anytime soon. Targus releases my paralyzed arm, and reclaims his own to carefully examine his marks on the off chance he made some kind of critical mistake with the oath spell. Finding no flaw after a short period of scrutiny, however, he rolls his sleeve down, stands up, and backs five steps away from me.
The spells holding me prisoner dissipate into a faint blue fog. Caught off guard, I slump to the right and brace myself against the rooftop with my one working arm, the left one now mobile but still numb. I screw my eyes shut and take a minute to reorient myself, gather up what shreds of composure lie within my reach, and repeatedly fill my lungs with deep breaths until my cheeks stop tingling from encroaching hypoxia. Once I’m sure the lightheadedness is weakening, I force myself to sit up, wait for the ache in my healing ribs to diminish, and finally rise to my feet on shaky legs but solid footing.
“Huh,” Targus says, somewhat nonplussed, “you must have quite the constitution to be able to stand after the beating I dealt you.”
Nope. Just a little nonhuman blood. But you don’t need to know that.
“You get used to beatings after a few months in DSI,” I reply, wiping a layer of blood off my chin with the back of my hand. “I got tortured by werewolves in a shack for three days once. This is nothing.”
I can tell he wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “Whatever you say.”
“So, we done here? I have some emails to cancel, and then I need to get back to the office.”
“I would prefer you not visit the DSI office before your departure.”
“Too bad. I’ve got to help banish your ugly tentacle monster before I leave.”
Targus blinks slowly. “Ah, right. You bound the polong earlier.”
“Yeah, and Riker bullied some guy into agreeing to banish it. But he can’t do that through my binding circle.”
“Perhaps not.” Targus rolls up his right shirtsleeve, revealing a small circle of weakly glowing symbols stamped onto his forearm. “But I can.” He presses two fingers to his arm and whispers something in what I take to be Malay, and the circle disperses into another small puff of blue energy.
At the same time, I feel a disturbance in my soul, a shift within an active spell. A quick mental probe reveals that the binding circle back at the DSI building is now devoid of creatures in need of binding. The polong has slipped right off the edge of the Earth and back into the Eververse.
“Oh, I guess that works,” I murmur.
“Indeed. And now you have no need to return to the DSI building. Since it’s getting rather late in the day, and your deadline is only midnight, my suggestion is that you go straight home and start packing.”
I suppress a sneer, but I’m sure the anger comes across as I say, “I’ll take that under advisement.”
Targus reapplies that faux placid smile he used on my team yesterday. “It’d serve you well, since breaking a magically binding oath is tantamount to suicide.”
Unease slithers through my tangled guts. “Is it?”
“Very much so. If you intentionally violate the terms of an oath, your own magic attacks your soul. The more magic you have, the worse the resulting damage. Past a certain power level”—one you’ve surpassed, he doesn’t say—“the damage is unavoidably fatal.” He laces his hands together behind his back. “I believe the spell’s original architect installed that feature to impress a sense of consequential magnitude upon powerful practitioners seeking to lure their rivals into damaging or uneven deals.”
“Interesting history lesson,” I drawl.
Targus adjusts his glasses. “More a warning than a lesson.”
“Not for me, it isn’t.”
He finally gives in and rolls his eyes. Hard. “For half the gods’ sakes, Kinsey, just go back to your dinky little apartment, write your resignation letter, pack your bags, and get the fuck out of my city.”
“Magically exiled, I still have a better claim to this city than you.” I slowly back toward the fire escape. “And when I return from my little vacation, I’m going to show you exactly how superior that claim is, and you’re going to wish you never stepped foot in Aurora, Michigan.”
“Really now?” Targus crosses his arms. “What exactly are you going to do?”
I smile, bright and cheery, with two rows of red-tinged teeth and matching bloody lips. “I’m going to kick your ass.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The term “walk of shame” sort of describes how I feel as I hobble back to my apartment, but it doesn’t quite capture the gravity of the situation.
I knew before I climbed onto that roof that Targus was going to beat the shit out of me, but the fact he took me down for the count in all of five seconds, so fast and so brutally that I didn’t even have a chance to resist, underscored the vastness of the chasm between our relative skill sets and severely rocked what little confidence I had in myself as a magic practitioner.
I knew back in that lounge in the DSI office, when I was drowsily drafting the email, Zhane’s e
ncouraging words still ringing in my head, that Targus wasn’t going to accept my blackmail scheme without carving out considerable concessions for himself. But he pushed those concessions so much further than I anticipated, pushed me so close to the edge of the cliff, that I’m not sure I can recover my balance before he wriggles out of the weak manacles I placed on his ambitions and steps back onto his warpath.
I knew as soon as I trudged out of the Eververse Bridge last night that my career at DSI was kaput, that I was going to be forced to turn in my badge, toss aside all my career aspirations, and sever all my working relationships on my way out the door. And I thought rendering myself an impotent non-player, an entity with no authority to act against the ICM, would be enough of a power reduction to satisfy Targus for the time being.
It didn’t occur to me that he’d perceive my mere proximity as a threat, not when he could so easily have me arrested under ICM law for even the smallest magic infraction. But it should have been obvious to me that Targus would kick me out of my home in order to ensure I can’t interfere in his plans again until he has an unshakeable foothold in my city. It’s the kind of thoroughness one might reasonably expect from the High Court’s secret army of ultimate fixers.
The short of it is that I pulled a fast one on Targus and he responded in kind. And right now, I have no choice but to suck it up and move on. Literally move on. Because I’ve only got a little over six hours to leave the city before the oath spell zaps me to death.
A quick glance at a window informs me that I look like I got jumped by a group of burly men armed with baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire, my clothes soaked in blood from my profuse vomiting, my face badly swollen on one side, where Targus backhanded me and just about shattered my skull.
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