Obsidian Magic (Legacy Series Book 2)

by McKenzie Hunter

  “Ah, yes. Pardon me, I made the mistake of pairing you with the wrong person.”

  Gareth tugged him to his feet to his feet and pulled him into the large office. When he returned he had a satisfied smile on his face.

  “What did you do?” Beth asked, the disappointed moue deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. Faes aged but because of their magic they did so better than others. Often the only thing that aged them was their gray hair. Had her wrinkles been magically enhanced? I couldn’t help but wonder why. Perhaps she liked that they added character to her appearance, made her look genteel, demure, grandmotherly, and innocuous, which probably allowed her to get away with a lot of things. It couldn’t possibly be the sweet elderly woman who greets us every morning with an infectious smile. But I had been treated to her fae mojo when she’d used it to manipulate my emotions. It was illegal, but I had a feeling “illegal” and “legal” magical usage weren’t kept strictly separated within the confines of the Supernatural Guild. I suspected that trying to continue the peace and alliance with humans and maintain the perception that magic wasn’t that bad often put them in murky gray areas.

  Gareth grinned. “He’s now the office assistant. That should keep him busy.”

  “You are putting in zero effort trying to be the favorite uncle,” I offered as I followed him to the door.

  “If I cared about being a favorite or popular, I doubt I’d be good at my job. Those traits rarely coexist in a good leader.”

  “Who are you getting your leadership advice from, Amanda Waller?”

  His brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “From Suicide Squad, the comic book. They take a bunch of misfits and use them for government operations. The leader is a little hard-ass but has to be because she is dealing with the craziest and most deranged criminals in the world,” I explained.

  I was met with a blank stare and the only way I could explain it any further was with other comic book references. “Never mind.”

  “You’re an odd woman, Ms. Michaels.”

  I shrugged off his observation or insult—I didn’t care to figure out which one it was as I headed for my car, parked across the street from his.

  “Where are you going?” he asked as I opened my door.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  He’d stopped walking, was just standing on the sidewalk of the large beige structure that reminded me of a federal building because of its size. Well-manicured bushes wrapped around the building. Beds of brightly colored flowers, which I suspected were magically enhanced, trailed along the bottom of its walls and seemed to soften the ominous feel. I realized a building couldn’t have a personality, but there was something cold and sterile about it. Even with people who had taken great liberties with the business casual dress code walking in and out, the place seemed stiff. An organization that dealt with the magical misfits and criminals of the supernatural world probably couldn’t have a soft and cuddly feel.

  “No,” he said simply without an explanation. No. Did I ask him? I wasn’t changing my mind unless he gave me one. A casually amused, defiant smile remained on his face as he stood planted just a few feet from my car. I wasn’t sure why I needed to win this. Who was I kidding, Gareth had been the conductor of this situation from the beginning, wrangling every bit of control from me, and I hated it. He was narcissistic and domineering and I felt it was my personal obligation—no, my duty—to resist him doing it to me.

  I had come to his office to talk—he’d won. I’d agreed to lunch although all I’d wanted was a meeting. We were going to lunch—he’d won. I needed this to be on my terms. I was starting to think that for every inch I allowed him to take, he would definitely take a mile. I wasn’t ready to concede.

  I got into the car. He laughed, turned, and started to walk back into the building. I hopped out. “Where are you going?”

  With a shrug and a plaintive smile, he said, “I do believe there are pressing things about our conversation that will warrant a level of privacy. I think it is as important to me as it is to you. Perhaps I was wrong. But when you’re ready to discuss things, my door is always open. Have a good day, Ms. Michaels.”

  Tumbleweed should have bounced across the sidewalk as it did in old Westerns—I felt like this was a standoff with our hands on the triggers of our stubbornness, each waiting for the other to concede. I refused to be the one to do it. Not going to do it. Nope. It isn’t going to happen.

  Then he started walking again.

  Damn.

  I groaned, grabbed my sai that I’d placed on the passenger side, and walked over to his car. “Fine.” He stopped walking and turned around. He arched a brow at the sai but didn’t comment. For years I’d lived in this perpetual state of terror that if people ever found out who I was, they’d try to kill me. Gareth was the type of person that hunted me. I’d had Trackers that were shifters and mages come after me. He knew what and who I was and the fear, doubt, and need for self-preservation dwelled so deep in me they were hard to abandon. I could be at ease around Savannah, but it was hard to do it around anyone else.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Antonio’s. There’s a meeting room, so our conversation will be private.”

  “How long did you have to wait for that reservation?” I asked, impressed. Kalen had been trying to get a reservation with them for nearly three months; it was something I had to hear about more often than I cared to acknowledge.

  “A couple of hours. When you said you were coming to the office, I had it made.”

  “A couple of hours? Someone has clout in the city.” I tried to keep the snark to a minimum but I couldn’t help it. He usually did get the things he wanted.

  He chuckled. “Or a mother who does.” This was Gareth, head of the Supernatural Guild, a member of the Magic Council, and son of a business magnate who could get reservations at a restaurant with a three-month waiting list with a couple hours’ notice.

  At least he was a gracious winner—the taunting look of victory was just a small glint in his eyes and wavered on his face for a few seconds. “I appreciate you joining me. I don’t bite, you know?” he said as I settled into the passenger side.

  “You’re a lion, that’s exactly what they do to their prey. They use their claws and fangs. Is this the right time for me to point out that I’ve seen you literally bite another shifter? Yes, you do bite.”

  “Well, that’s different.” And in bemused silence, he sat next to me, and when he spoke, it was with a deep, silken rumble. “You consider yourself prey?”

  “No, but I think you do.”

  He grinned as he pulled out of the parking lot and I attempted to pay attention to the passing landscape that whizzed by instead of the periodic glances he gave me.

  “What happened to your parents?” he asked softly, as though he already knew the answer but needed it confirmed.

  “Trackers found them. I was fifteen when it happened.” I squeezed my eyes together, fighting tears, and tried to push away the memories and the heaviness that always accompanied them. Grief didn’t help; it only made me angry and I couldn’t properly direct the rage because there were so many people to extend it to. Did I blame the Legacy for their nefarious, twisted thirst for power, humans who had rightfully destroyed them but made sure the world knew that a dead Legacy was the only Legacy acceptable, or Trackers who wouldn’t let the rumors of our existence die? The ones who existed were harmless, and I was tired of paying for the evils of others. It was a belief that had held steady until I’d met Conner. Conner was going to turn my world upside down and make a mess of things.

  “Conner wants to have another Cleanse,” I finally said after moments of uncomfortable silence.

  “Yes, I gathered that from the last time we spoke. He’s disappeared. I went back to the location where I found you the last time with several high-level mages and they couldn’t find a veil or feel a ward.”

  I had gone two days ago to the very spot and I couldn’t find anything, either. Could he
still be there and have something like the shield I had on my foot that masked my magic so that it was virtually undetectable? Could he do the same with his wards? My parents had tried to protect me and I understood why they’d kept some things from me, but I doubted they’d ever thought that I would be trying to stop a demagogue who was aligning his army to do another Cleanse. When the panic sparked in me, it felt like a forest fire blazing in my chest and squelching it wasn’t as easy as it had been before.

  It was real. I had a fight on my hands and there was more at stake than just a bruised ego and hurt feelings if I failed. Before, if I failed the only person who suffered was me. Not anymore.

  “He’s stronger than any mage that you can use. Even if they find it, will they be able to bring it down?” Less than a hundred Legacy and Vertu had performed the Cleanse; it had taken hundreds of powerful mages, witches, and faes to bring down wards and open the veil.

  “Maybe not, but at least they can—” He stopped abruptly. I immediately saw what caught his attention. In the middle of the square that we were driving through, a brawl was taking place. Bodies soared across the street, and strong magic inundated the air, lacing around my skin, pricking at the hairs on it. I felt it and pushed against it, unraveling it away from me. Gareth looked at me and held my gaze, eyes narrowed.

  He picked up his phone but before he could make the call, SG cars came from several directions. Violence coursed through the air along with magic—different magic. I let it wash over me just for a second, trying to identify it, making sure it wasn’t my magic or Conner’s. It wasn’t—it was different, but malicious and dark. I had to push it away with effort. It took a few minutes to gather control of the feelings it unleashed. Violence. Terror. Anger. Magic I wasn’t familiar with and could go another lifetime without feeling again. It left a heavy, dreary haze over me.

  Centre Square was probably the most diverse area in the city, filled with boutiques, coffee shops, restaurants, and specialty shops. A few witches had shops in the area but this wasn’t witch magic—it was too dark, malicious, and strong. Possibly mage, but if so, they were using dark magic. It glazed the air with violence and discord.

  Gareth stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out first. I grabbed the twins and followed him through the streets. Two men exchanged punches and blood splattered. I tried to pull them apart using a gentler technique than Gareth, who yanked people apart, sending them a couple of feet away. Once they were subdued, he zip-tied their hands. I made a mental note that he seemed to have a lot of ties with him. Since most of the people were human, a zip tie was enough.

  Twins in hand, I ran through the street, guiding as many people as I could to the magic shops. A witch worth anything would have put up a ward. Even a weak one could at least reduce the effect of the odd magic that had incited the rage and violence. A thin woman, eyes blazing with anger, was about to smash a three-inch heel into another woman when I caught her arm. She directed her magically induced ire on me and slapped me. It wasn’t her. I realized that, but I needed to get her to back off. I pushed her back; a hip toss landed her facedown on the ground while her head flailed and the threat of further injury didn’t help.

  As I surveyed the chaos around me, a familiar strong magic brushed against me, and I knew who it was before she spoke.

  “I have this,” said Harrah, her voice as soft, gentle, and angelic as her features. Calling her just a fae seemed too benign a use of the word. She was the PR guru of the supernatural world and a member of the Magic Council. She was the person who often played intermediary between humans and the supernatural community and the face of what people perceived magic to be: gentle, benign, and benevolent. And magic could be all that and easygoing as the herba terrae, witch weed; but it could also be violent, dark, and dangerous. It was her job to make sure no humans ever perceived it the latter way. Harrah made magic innocuous and palatable for humans because she represented it with a pleasant seraphic face, gentle round amber eyes, and a voice that was saccharine sweet. Magic wasn’t malicious because Harrah was the nonthreatening face of it.

  And if they happened to see another side of it, she made sure she fixed the situation. She was good at her job. I didn’t trust her and she made me nervous. Standing barely over five three, with a narrow frame and her long brown hair pulled back in a neat, low ponytail, she was dressed in a simple dark suit as though she was ready to give a press conference as soon as this ordeal was over.

  Grabbing my sai that I’d had to drop to handle the woman, I ran, trying to trace the magic, feeling large amounts of it coming from the street—the source. Three figures that I couldn’t make out. They saw me as soon as I turned the corner and retreated. I ran through the street cutting through the alleyways when I could, trying to cut them off and catch them. As I moved around a corner, I got a better glimpse at them. The moment I came into their line of sight, they changed direction. I needed to stop them. I could use magic but not out in the open, in front of strangers—especially with Harrah so close. I doubted she was the understanding type, especially after witnessing her give the order to assassinate someone and guarantee she would make the optics work, which she did.

  I pushed myself harder, panting, the magic still wafting in the air, but they were too distracted trying to get away from me to be as effective as they had been before when they’d wreaked havoc on the small area. I was just inches from them when they turned in unison, and I focused on their eyes: an odd chartreuse color. Their features were similar, perhaps they were triplets. They moved as a unit and directed their magic at me, hitting me before I could form a ward. I went back but managed to plant one of my sai in the grass to stabilize me as I was thrashed with stronger magic. By the time I recovered they were gone.

  I rested back on the ground, closing my eyes to the block out the sun as the magic still rebounded around and in me. I waited until it settled and was nothing more than an annoying ache. My hands were sore from gripping the sai too tightly. I was about to get up, when Gareth hovered over me.

  “Do you need help? I know how you hate to be damseled. I don’t want to pull out my white knight shtick if I don’t have to,” he said, amusement quickly settling over his features as he knelt down next to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said, rolling to my feet. “Just a reminder not to tangle with the deadly mage triplets alone, or whatever they were. Is everything contained?” I brushed the dust off me. Magic still wafted through the air, strong and potent. I frowned at it, hating the weighted feel of residual stygian magic that they had left behind.

  I studied Gareth, a scowl etched over his features, his nostrils flaring. His eyes lowered as he studied the area. “Did you get a good look at them?” he asked as he continued to scan the area. If by chance I had forgotten he was a predator, it was abundantly clear at the moment. Fear and apprehension rose in me and I gripped my sai tighter. I assumed he sensed the change in my mood because he took a step back and made an attempt to relax his frown. His effort at a smile failed. His lips were now pulled into a taut line. “Describe them.”

  “Three, two men and a woman. The men were tall, a little over six feet, thin—very lanky in build. One was a little broader and a little heavier than the other, maybe by ten pounds, and his hair longer slightly. The broader one had a scar—”

  “Left cheek, just below the eye,” Gareth offered. “The woman: was she about five eight, sandy hair like theirs?”

  I nodded. And he continued, “Odd-looking eyes, green, nearly fluorescent, and their magic feels like a strong wind. And dark. Deadly—that’s the way mages describe them.”

  “You’ve met them before?”

  “I gave him the scar.” He pulled out his phone, punched in one number, and then turned and started walking and talking. He walked so fast that I was at a slow jog trying to catch up with him. There were very few words that I caught, but I didn’t need to hear the whole conversation to get the gist of it. The havoc triplets had escaped. I assumed from the Haven, the superna
tural prison. Not only was it surrounded by enough magical flowering vines climbing up the wall to sedate anyone if they tried to escape out of a window, there were sigils and runes on many of the rooms to restrict magic.

  Gareth leaned against his car, waiting for me, assessing the area. Usually a clean and pristine area, it was now in a state of disorder and disarray with extensive property damage: shattered glass from broken windows and bottles littered the streets, clothes were scattered over the sidewalk, the doors of several stores were barely holding on by their hinges. Trails of blood covered the cement, food was everywhere. It was a chaotic mess, and as ambulances took away people who’d suffered more than just a minor cut or bruise, Harrah stood in the middle of it, her face flushed.

  Behind her soft amber eyes I could see the PR representative’s mind working. This would have to be handled, reduced to something that could be explained away by banality rather than the abuse of powerful ominous magic.

  Find them, she mouthed. Gareth responded with a simple nod.

  “Who are they and how did they escape from the Haven?” I asked as I dropped into the passenger seat after he’d gotten into the car.

  “They didn’t escape from the Haven.”

  He sighed and considered my question for a while. I thought he’d known the answer all along, but it seemed like he was trying to decide if he should tell me or not. When he finally spoke, it was slow and restrained as he chose his words carefully. “Not all people who are imprisoned are in the Haven. If we suspect they can escape and are a big enough danger, we send them somewhere else, to Baratrum.” His voice was low, grave.

  My Latin was rudimentary, but as a magic user I knew the basics. They were housed in a place whose name was Latin for hell. How bad were the terrible triplets that the Haven wasn’t even enough for them and they’d been sentenced to such a place?

  “Technically it’s not hell. We don’t know what that is. It’s a prison in a veil that we use. It’s very strong but requires a lot of manpower to open and to keep closed—and apparently the use of darker magic. Opening it is so difficult that it’s the last resort of use. But for the Maxwells we felt it was necessary. They are chaos mages.”