by Kat Howard
She thought of Bryce Dee, sweating from the effort of casting, even with a waiting pool of magic to access. Imagined that he slept peacefully, his cost already paid.
She had been one of the ones to pay it, and now she paid her own.
“Sydney?” Ian’s voice, sleepy and warm from the bedroom. She turned off the faucet. There were more pleasant ways to distract herself.
• • •
Later, Sydney walked home, thirty-seven blocks, in her heels. She had refused Ian’s offer of a cab: “I like the night.”
The air was cool on her flushed cheeks, and the distance long enough for her to finally feel grounded again after a spell of that size and its aftershocks. The pain now no more than background noise, but remnants of magic still burned through her blood as she walked past the warmth and light of restaurants and bars, past beautifully decorated store windows. She slowed a bit passing those, looking at their jewel-box designs, color and pattern like a fairy tale on acid, dressed up in this season’s fashion. She craved beauty like that, showy and strange. Like what magic should have been.
Six months and thirteen days. That was how long she had been out of Shadows. Not free, not yet. But out. It was getting easier to believe—last week she had gone an entire day without wondering if that would be the day Shara changed her mind and forced her to return forever, the doors sealed shut behind her. That was impossible, yes—her magic had broken those doors open before and could again. But there was a type of terror that didn’t care about reality, a fear that lived in secret places, and it clawed at her soft insides. It clawed harder at night, which was another thing she hated. But she’d been out long enough to almost sleep through the night now, most nights. There were nightmares still, of course, but things were getting easier.
Easier, but not safe. Not free.
Not yet.
The first night she’d spent outside of Shadows, she hadn’t slept at all. She hadn’t even tried. Instead, she had spent the entire night—her shadow still weeping pieces of darkness from that first deep cut necessary to sign her name on her contract, to indicate the measure of her debt to the House—standing outside, watching the stars and imagining what she would do when she truly earned her freedom.
She had imagined scrawling “fuck you” after her name on that heavy grey paper, imagined breaking the bottle where her shadow was converted to ink, imagined snapping the pen in her hand. Imagined driving that pen through Shara’s heart, or her throat, or some other soft and vulnerable place. She had imagined a thousand ways that freedom would feel. She had begun to plan, then, a way to get to it faster.
Now, at night, when she couldn’t sleep, she didn’t count sheep. She imagined a match and a contract burning. She fell asleep to the image of smoke rising through the air.
A cab slowed next to her, but she waved the driver on.
“Are you sure, lady? Those shoes look like killers.”
“So am I,” she called back. The window shut as the car sped away.
Her heartbeat was close to normal now, her muscles languid and warm. The remaining fizz of magic was only an ache in her hands. She was pleased with the spell, pleased with the night as a whole. Fortune’s Wheel was turning, and she would make certain that the Unseen World changed with it. Tonight had been a good beginning.
Home. Sydney walked across her building’s empty lobby to the elevator. She kept her killer heels on until she was inside her door. No weakness, even here. Once inside, she slipped out of the shoes and dress and into black leggings and an oversize T-shirt. Paused for a moment to ground herself: There were blankets piled at the foot of the bed, topped with a quilt embroidered in stars. There were glasses in every richness of blue in the cupboard, because even glasses could be beautiful, and so why shouldn’t they be? There was a sofa, dark red velvet, and a sculpture of leaves—brass and bronze and copper—on the wall above it. Her own tiny jewel box of beauty, a longing made real.
Settled, she made herself coffee. She had no desire to have nightmares, and there was work still to do.
• • •
The results came to Laurent the following morning, just before they went to the rest of the Unseen World. Winner’s privilege. Sydney thought it might more realistically be called the last moments of calm before she became a walking target, but that took a bit longer to say. Not that she was complaining—it was exactly what she wanted.
The email appeared on his screen, using the same technomagic protocols the notification of the Turning had done. The spell was a masterwork of collective magic. Fully anonymous voting by the magicians in attendance, scores tabulated by the spell itself, a spell also designed to flag anomalies in magic use. It was the same magic that regulated all aspects of the Turning, impossible for any one House to override. The screen shimmered, almost iridescent.
“We won!” Laurent said, turning around in his chair to smile at her, his delight so obvious Sydney grinned back.
“Good,” she said. “I would have been astounded if you hadn’t.”
“I wish I had been able to see it in person. I heard you did gorgeous work.”
He hadn’t even been invited to House Dee’s party, where his challenge was fought, House Dee being somewhat particular about those it considered suitable members of the Unseen World. They had been careful to make sure it got back to Laurent that outsiders who hadn’t even been born in the Unseen World and who had the arrogance to think they deserved to found a House were not on their list.
“They’re snobs.” Sydney shrugged, dismissing the entirety of the Unseen World with the movement of her shoulders. “But they’re snobs who recognize power. You’ll be invited to everything from now on, I’m guessing.”
“You’ve strengthened your wards, taken whatever precautions you should?” Laurent asked. “I’ve heard that accidents can happen on purpose during these things—I don’t want you to be one.”
She smiled. “Even you don’t know where I live. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m serious. I don’t mean to sound like a dick, but I have money. A lot of it. If the choice is between paying your rent or making sure you’re safe, know that I consider your safety a business expense. Buy whatever you need and I’ll reimburse you, or let me know what it is, and I’ll make sure you have it.”
“I know what you’re paying me to represent you, Laurent. And we’re sitting in your five-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. The fact that you have money is not a secret.”
“Sydney.”
Laurent looked concerned enough that Sydney decided he actually meant what he said. “If cost becomes an object to my personal safety, I will let you know. But trust me—I want to get through to the end of this. I have no intention of dying—either in an accident or during a duel. The goal is to make sure that you’re the founder of a House when this is over, and for that to happen, I need to stay alive. I’ve taken precautions, and I’m good at what I do.”
He kept his eyes on hers, then nodded. “All right.”
“So, what’s the next move?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. And my first thought was there’s something to be said for going after the powerful Houses now,” Laurent said. “Get them out of the way before things shift and all the duels are mortal.”
“And your second thought?” Sydney asked.
“That there’s a more subtle strategy to play—just because a House is powerful doesn’t mean their champion is. A lot of the old Houses are too insular to hire a champion, and their magic suffers for it. So I want to work my way through this differently.”
“I think that’s a smart call,” Sydney said. “House Dee is one of the oldest and most established Houses, but Bryce’s spell was nothing. If you want my advice?”
Laurent nodded. “Of course.”
“You have some time. Watch what happens this round before you decide who to challenge in the next. Watch the results, the type of spells cast, who falls out of contention. Alliances among the Houses will shift, too.
All those pings on your phone while we’ve been talking? I’m guessing that a good percentage of them are Heads of Houses, or other candidates, inviting you to drinks, to dinners, to events where they can learn more about who you are and whether your way of thinking about magic lines up with theirs.”
Laurent glanced at the screen of his phone, scrolled, nodded. “And there’s the expected subtlety, sure, but isn’t it a little early for any of them to care what I think about magic?”
“It’s really not. After last night, they aren’t just wondering whether you’ll be made a House. They’re wondering what might happen to magic if you win.”
“Like, what, I’m going to make people pay dues in order to use it or something?” He laughed the idea off.
“The thing is, you could. The winner of the Turning leads the Unseen World. If that’s you, you’ll have a lot of say in how magic is used and who gets to use it. You came from outside—maybe you’d be interested in opening things up. Some Houses will think that’s great. Others will hate that idea so much they’ll wish you were representing yourself so they could kill you when this turns mortal.”
He winced.
“But if people discover that you think the same way they do, and that you can do the hard work for them during the challenges—removing the people who don’t think the same from contention—then maybe they decide it’s better to support you than to challenge you.” Not every House met in challenges. The Turning wasn’t ever meant to scorch the earth of the Unseen World, only to shake it up a bit. Some alliances needed to remain alliances. From what she’d seen of him so far, Laurent had a head for strategy. And if he was focused on that, that would give her some time to think about what to do with Ian Merlin being at House Prospero and how much of all of that Shara needed to know. She now had plans of her own she needed to rethink.
Laurent leaned against the counter. “Miles Merlin’s been in control for as long as I’ve been here. The way he runs things is all I know about the Unseen World, and magic, any of it. Which, I guess might make some people think I’d be happy to go along with the status quo and, honestly, right now I’m happy to have them think that.”
“But?” Sydney asked.
“They call me an outsider. Like it’s a title, except a bad one. Because I wasn’t born in a House. House Dee wouldn’t even let me in the door last night, and no one said a word against that. I am the only person with skin darker than pale who is competing in the Turning, and I’d bet every dollar in my bank accounts that I’d be the first black man to be named a House.
“I want power. I won’t pretend that I don’t. But the other reason I’m in this is that there are kids like I was, and they belong here, too. Even if I can’t open up the entire Unseen World to them, I can open up my House and give them a place.
“So, sure. I’ll wait and see for now, and once things become clearer, I’ll decide who to challenge next.”
“All right, then,” she said. “One other thing I want to ask you to think about—what to do about Grey.”
“I said—”
She cut him off. “I know what you said. That he’s off-limits. I’m not saying to change that, but you need to keep in mind that at some point the challenges become mortal. You can only duel a House or candidate once.”
“So it might be better to do it early and risk knocking him out than to do it later and risk killing him.” Laurent looked unhappy. “I don’t like it, but I get it. I’ll think about it. I’m not promising anything else, but I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I wanted,” Sydney said, though it wasn’t, not really. She wanted him to consider that his own success meant the challenge might come from Grey, and what he might do about that, but this clearly wasn’t the time to have that conversation. “Send me the next challenge when you decide who it is.”
• • •
There were a number of spells put in place when the House of Shadows was established. One of those spells looked like an angel.
The Angel of the Waters, on top of the Bethesda Fountain, set in the red brick of Central Park’s Bethesda Terrace. Striding forward, her wings open, arms outstretched, a lily in one hand. Sydney stood, facing the cooing pigeons perched in a line atop the statue’s wings.
The statue wasn’t magic in and of itself. It had been there before Shadows was created—made as a celebration of clean water, a symbol of freshness, of purity, a fact that had rendered Sydney incandescent when she learned it. After its appropriation by the spell that created Shadows, that governed the magic that came from that place, it was neither of those things.
If it had been associated with anything other than Shadows, Sydney would have found the statue beautiful. But knowing what it was, even with the setting sun making a watercolor of the sky and clouds behind it, she could barely stand to look at it.
But to break a spell you needed to know how it worked in the first place. That required that she do more than look at the statue.
Sydney walked around the fountain, keeping it in the periphery of her gaze. Shadows clung more deeply to it than they did to the other things in the park. But the effect was a subtle one. A photographer or painter, someone who worked with light, might notice it, but it seemed unlikely that most mundanes would. It was a well-hidden piece of magic.
She spoke a word to draw the air around her like a cloak. Its syllables broke and fell like soft rain. She extended her hands, a mirror reverse of the statue, and she reached into the magic that was anchored in it.
Dark copper and rot, the feel of clotting blood between her fingers, and that was exactly what she expected to find. Shadows’ magic. This, she knew. This, she could unmake.
She breathed in, she breathed out, and sank deeper.
Magic whipped around her like ropes, like barbed wire, holding, pulling, sinking in claws. Hungry. Some other spell, knitted into the magic from Shadows. Some other spell, trying to pull magic out of her. Fingers clutching at her heart, searching.
Sydney gritted a word out through clenched teeth, singeing the air, breaking her connection to the magic running through the Angel. She spat a curse, the aftermath of that second, searching spell lingering in her mouth like bile. An ache, dull and hollow, crouched just behind her ribs.
She narrowed her eyes and resumed her walk around the fountain, this time in the opposite direction. It was possible that Shara knew about this other, second spell. That this was another test: Could Sydney discover it? Would she tell when she did? But none of the instructions Shara had given her, none of Shadows’ plans, involved the statue.
It was also possible Shara didn’t know about this other spell, and that was something worth thinking on.
There were rumors—Sydney had heard them; she had spent her first month out of Shadows learning how to function in the mundane world and her second month learning everything she could about the Unseen World—that there was something wrong with magic. Tiny spells that went awry, or that had to be recast, or that weren’t quite what was expected. Small rumors, but enough of them that she was sure there was truth lurking in the whispers.
Shara had said nothing about any of that.
Which made sense, if the problem was with the spell that was anchored in the Angel. The magic would be fine coming out of Shadows, and then here—Sydney braced and reached into it again, more cautiously this time, stopping just before that hungry, lurking presence. Just close enough to feel the emptiness underneath.
Whatever it was, this was where things were going wrong.
• • •
Laurent met Grey three times a week, early in the morning, to run around the Central Park Reservoir. Grey had gone on a fitness kick about three years back—he’d said being in better physical condition would help make their magic stronger, a healthy mind in a healthy body and all that. Grey was always getting ideas about what he could do to improve his magic, make it stronger, some of which were a little out there, but running was pretty benign, even if early mornings weren’t, so Laurent showed u
p and he ran.
They set a pace that was comfortable enough to let them talk. “How’d your first challenge go?” Laurent asked.
“Fine. Another candidate, some second cousin or stepchild from the Morgan family looking to establish their own House. Pissed at Miranda about something and looking to take it out on me. This whole thing will be much less of a pain in my ass once people realize that she won’t care if I lose, by the way. But I had choice of magic, and I chose locations and did an unfolding map spell, so I won.”
“Nice. What will you do next?”
“Trying to steal my strategy?” Grey laughed. “I’m going after one of the big Houses. Make a point. Beating them will show I can’t be fucked with. You?”
“Strategy first. Meetings. Drinks. All the background shuffling before I decide. You know how it is.”
“Not really,” Grey said. The remnants of yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the wind as they ran by. “No one’s asked me for any of that.”
Laurent tried to minimize his mistake. Grey was always happiest when he felt connected. “Well, people probably think they already know you well enough to be direct. You were born here—I’m an outsider, remember?”
“Right,” Grey said, looking over his shoulder to the dark gap in the trees. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“What happened over there?” Laurent asked, nodding back at the dark space in the trees.
“I can’t see enough to tell,” Grey said, turning and running backward for a few steps to better see the crime scene. But all that was visible was the bedraggled police tape.
“Did you hear about that woman who was murdered and had all her finger bones removed? Maybe that was where she was found.”
“Huh,” Grey said. “Maybe.”
“So creepy, right? Like, who steals someone’s finger bones? That is, like, Brothers Grimm shit.”
“Seems like,” Grey said, turning back around.
“Anyway, back to strategy, do you have any advice?” Laurent asked. “Who I should trust, that sort of thing?” He could tell from Grey’s face that had been the right question to ask.
