“Come on,” he said, still watching me carefully. “We’ve got a heist to get ready for.”
14
The three of us gathered in Alvin’s room, the doors to our adjoining rooms propped open as a precaution, even though I’d taken care to leave the chain off my door and keep my key with me.
“So,” I said. “I spotted a ward on the door and a ward on the stair railing, but if they do anything, I didn’t feel it.”
“Those were anti-civilian wards,” said Caryl. She’d given Elliott a break, so she was at about a 5 or 6, visibly nervous but still focused.
“Anti-civilian?” I echoed. “To keep out non-Project people?”
Caryl nodded. “The London office receives a great number of visitors. They cannot simply incorporate exceptions for each individual, as we do for some of the wards at Residence Four, for example. Though it is slightly more difficult, a ward can be constructed that will only take effect in the presence of someone without clearance. Usually we use those wards for Gates, since such a wide variety of Project members need to access them. But it appears the London office makes use of them throughout the building.”
“So, wait,” I said. “I didn’t feel anything from those wards, so does that mean I have clearance? Here?”
“Among other things, the contract you signed in October makes you recognizable as a Project member to anti-civilian wards. That is, essentially, what ‘clearance’ means.”
Just how many spells had I bound to myself by signing that thing? Even if I’d known, I still wouldn’t have had much of a choice, but it was distressing to think about. I raked both my hands back through my hair, pushing it away from the little beads of sweat that were suddenly breaking out on my forehead.
“Millie,” said Alvin. “Is that a bruise?” He tapped his hairline at the mirroring spot.
I touched my forehead, found a tender, slightly squishy area. “What the—oh, right. That’s where I hit my head on the bathroom tile.”
I watched Caryl shoot straight to a level 7. “Millicent Roper,” she said. “You fell and hit your head, and you did not notify someone immediately?”
“It was just a bump.”
“A bump on—on a head that has a steel plate in it from—from prior traumatic brain injury,” Caryl said. Level 8, actually, to judge by her stammering and the shaking of her hands.
Alvin rose from his chair to come peer at my bruise, smoothing my hair away from my forehead in a way that made me sleepy.
“Maybe a concussion,” he said grimly. “That would explain a lot. Goddamn it. We can’t send her in there.”
“It’s not a concussion!” I said.
“You’ve been forgetful, groggy . . .”
“I have jet lag!”
“We shouldn’t take chances,” said Alvin. “You should be trying to keep your blood pressure down.”
I pushed him away gently. “In an ideal world, sure. I’d lounge in bed and eat bonbons for a week or two, just in case. But have you forgotten we’re on the edge of an apocalypse, here? Dame Belinda might think she can stitch things back together the way they were, but there is no way in hell Queen Shiverlash is going to allow that. All that’s keeping her from burning both worlds to the ground is the idea that I have a plan.”
“Surely,” said Alvin, “there’s a plan that doesn’t involve someone with a concussion trying to pull off a heist.”
“We’ve minimized the risks,” I said. “It’s not Fort Knox. And we have no way of communicating a change of plans to Claybriar. Plus, I’m already broken in a thousand ways; let’s not pretend a bit more damage is going to matter.”
“You could die,” Caryl said, her eyes filling with tears.
“Pull yourself together,” I said, more harshly than I’d meant to.
She flinched. “But you could,” she said, not looking at me.
“I’ll be fine,” I said more gently. “But more to the point, this is war. We can’t be precious about our soldiers. What about Tjuan? He can’t hide forever. Dame Belinda has no reason to call off the dogs, not as long as she holds the cards. And her cards happen to be heavily warded, so unless you have another Ironbones on call, I’m what you have to work with.”
The grim silence told me that I’d made my point.
“I will, however, concede that I need sleep,” I said. “Wake me before we have to leave.”
“Or every two hours,” said Alvin dryly, “to make sure you haven’t slipped into a coma.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said. “Concussion or no concussion, jet lag is a bitch. If I manage to sleep longer than two hours, you’d better damned well let me.”
• • •
The London office closed at eleven p.m., unpopulated but for the lone third-shift Gate guard on the far side of the third floor. By that time Carlisle Street was mostly deserted.
Soho wasn’t silent at that hour, but there was a simmering quality to the darkness that night, sporadic drunken forced cheerfulness that seemed ready at any moment to erupt into anger. I wrapped my coat around myself tightly, tried to look unremarkable.
We arrived precisely three minutes late, and Claybriar was waiting on the other side of the door. He let us in so casually that any passerby would have to assume that the business going on at this office at midnight was perfectly legitimate.
All the lights were off inside; I pocketed my fey glasses and gave my eyes a few moments to adjust.
“Fred okay?” I whispered.
“He’s sound asleep,” said Claybriar, stopping to stroke my hair away from my face with a gloved hand and frown at my bruise.
“Asleep? Awesome! How did you manage that?”
“By tiptoeing quietly and not waking the lazy bastard up.”
“He knew you were coming, right?”
“Apparently he wasn’t all that excited about it. I still locked him in there, just in case.”
“Nice work,” I said. He touched his lips to my injured forehead, feather light. I started to melt but steeled myself. Serious business at hand.
“Okay,” I said, pulling away, still keeping my voice down. “Alvin said the artifacts are off the same hallway that leads to the Gate, but at the other end. If you could lead us up there, Claybriar, that’d be great. And can you take my coat? It’s like an oven in here.” At least I hoped that was why I was sweating.
Claybriar relieved Caryl and me of our coats, held them close as though they were in terrible danger. We followed him up the cramped, creaky staircase, which I was no fonder of in the dark than I’d been during the day. I’d thought my nice long nap would fix me up, but my battery drained rapidly from the mental and physical effort of coordinating my steps up the stairs in the dark with two people crowding me and vibrating the floor at every step.
By the time I got to the second landing I was wobbly, and near the top my vision started to gray out at the edges. Before Caryl could move fast enough to steady me, I pitched forward.
I managed to catch myself with a forearm on the railing. But my forearm was bare, and the railing was laced with spellwork.
Or had been, anyway.
I sank down onto the steps, putting my head in my hands.
Claybriar hovered, mostly concerned about my physical well-being, but Caryl had Elliott on emotional duty and instantly grasped the repercussions.
“This is bad,” she whispered.
“No shit!” I hissed.
“We have a choice to make, and we must make it quickly. This was an anti-civilian ward; replacing it will be complicated. We dare not take enough time for Caveat to replace it and replace the spell protecting the Medial Vessel.”
“Abort,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” Caryl argued gently. “We can either reconstruct the spell on the staircase and hope that no one notices that the Vessel’s protections have been disturbed, or we can reconstruct the spell on the Vessel. That will make it clear we destroyed the staircase, but they may assume that it happened while we were here looking thr
ough files.”
“Is there anyone other than Millie who could have destroyed that spell?” Claybriar said with a gesture toward the railing.
“Aside from the caster?” said Caryl. “No. Unless it were someone else with steel in her bones.”
I looked up, dubious. “What if someone hit it with an iron crowbar or something?”
“Inanimate iron and norium simply do not interact,” said Caryl. “They repel one another on a molecular level, creating a barrier. Living flesh and blood—they buffer and complicate things. A crowbar could dispel an enchantment on a person. But not a ward.”
“So it’s a dead giveaway Millie was here,” said Claybriar. “We have to fix the staircase.”
“I should have had a contingency for this,” I said, head still in my hands. “I’ve fucked this up six ways from Sunday.”
“You are burning precious seconds,” said Caryl. “Decide, or I shall decide for you.”
“Please do,” I said. “You’re the only one not freaking out. Thanks for that, Elliott.”
“I say we focus on hiding the theft of the Vessel. I would rather Barker suspect you were here with Claybriar to look at your file than have her wander into the relic room for something else and immediately spot a ward missing.”
“I don’t want her targeting Millie,” said Claybriar. “Period.”
Elliott popped into view, and Caryl drew a shuddering breath as she snapped immediately to stress level 8.
“Apologies for interrupting again,” the little dragon chirped.
“Goddamn it, Elliott!” I hissed.
“This is important,” he said. “Caryl, if you can hold yourself together, I may be able to help. Caveat could focus on the anti-civilian ward. I may not be able to duplicate the ward protecting the Vessel as Caveat could, but I can cast a spell that will discourage people from investigating it.”
“Good enough,” I said, exhaling with relief as I levered myself to my feet. “Caryl, can you manage without him?”
“I—I think so,” she said in a tremulous whisper.
“Claybriar,” I said, “This is too many people, too much noise. Wait down below.”
“Fine,” he said.
Now it was Caveat’s turn to pop into view. “One problem,” she said.
I nearly let out an explosive barrage of profanity, only remembering in the nick of time that Caveat was shy. “Yes?” I said between gritted teeth instead.
“The spell on the rail’s the same as one of the anti-civ wards at Residence Four,” she said, “but I didn’t see the name of the spirit before Millie touched it.”
“Which means?”
“We’d have to bring in a new spirit.”
I let that sink in for a moment. “Enslave one, you mean.”
Caveat looked back at me. She still hadn’t learned how to make the construct show facial expressions, but I was pretty sure I could guess her thoughts on the matter.
“Wait,” said Caryl. She sounded better now, her voice steadier. “Caveat, you have studied the wards in Residence Four, have you not? Perhaps there is a ward we can do without.”
Caveat turned her construct’s gaze toward Caryl. “You’re asking me to free one of the Residence spirits . . . and bind it in a new ward here?”
“Well,” I said, “Isn’t it already . . .” I couldn’t finish.
“Dead,” Caveat finished for me. “I’d be taking a dead spirit from its resting place and dragging it across the world.”
Caryl wrung her gloved hands. “You’re right,” she said, tears glimmering on her lashes. “It was a horrible idea—I’m sorry.”
Elliott appeared between her and Caveat, as though prepared to physically defend Caryl. “The spirit has already been sacrificed,” he said. “At least this way, its sacrifice will mean something.”
Caveat and Elliott seemed to stare at each other in silence for a long time, but I had the distinct feeling there was an entire conversation going on that we weren’t privy to.
At last Caveat said, “I’ll do it, then. Go upstairs. Please make sure this is worth it.” With that, she vanished.
15
After the exhausting climb to the third floor, I arrived only to realize that there was nothing there at all—the important business all took place on the lower floors. I turned and bumped into Caryl, who was climbing the stairs behind me. As I tried to push past her, she snaked out a gloved hand to catch my wrist.
Startled, I turned to look at her. The sly half smile I could see on her face in the darkness was just enough to distract me from my intense desire to return downstairs.
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “Another ward?”
“This one is clearly meant to keep out anyone who does not work in this office.”
“I guess I didn’t get to check this floor, since the meeting was below.” Then I tried to go downstairs again. Once again she grabbed my wrist.
“Have you truly not developed the slightest resistance to psychic spellwork after all this time?” Caryl said. Her amusement seemed to have dialed her stress down to a level 6, maybe even 5. Good that my incompetence could serve a constructive purpose.
“So what now?” I said. “Am I going to have to destroy and recreate another spell? Caveat’s a little busy.”
“Just ignore the ward,” Caryl said. “Now that you know it’s there.”
I gave her what I hoped was a withering look, then sighed and turned to climb the stairs, even though there was nothing up there.
Of course there was. The Gate, and the Medial Vessel, among other things. I had all the intellectual knowledge of the floor’s contents, but the parts of me that usually drove my decisions were screaming at me that this entire floor was a dead end, that I had important things to do and limited time.
I forced my legs to do the opposite of what instinct was telling them to do; I continued from the top landing, turned left down the hallway. There were no doors in the hallway, but I kept walking anyway, because the door that I knew should have been there was at the end, on the right.
“Allow me,” said Caryl, her eyes taking on a subtle greenish luminescence in the dark as she shifted her perception to the arcane spectrum. I found this strangely, unaccountably hot.
After a moment she reached toward the wall and drew a door out of it as though the wall had been a thin layer of mud, the door lying just beneath its surface.
“Damn,” I whispered.
She gave a modest little shrug and preceded me through the dark doorway.
I let my eyes adjust to an even deeper level of darkness. The room had a deceptively dull office-style layout and the same monochromatic color scheme as the rest of the interior, but even with virtually no light I could tell that many of the “everyday” objects were not what they seemed. I recognized the disc-shaped “tablet” that was actually a dish of arcane liquid, used in various scrying procedures. A two-handled coffee mug, on closer inspection, was not quite touching the desk it appeared to rest on. One shelf was lined with small glass vials and flasks whose nefarious purposes I could only imagine. I tried not to touch anything.
Caryl scoped out the room with her eerie, otherworldly gaze, carefully peering in drawers and opening sleek black cabinets above desks. At last, drawing out the bottom file drawer on the far wall, she made a soft sound of discovery.
“Here,” she said.
“Found it?” I moved toward her but stopped a few feet away as a precaution.
“The spellwork on this box,” she murmured in a tone of sudden dread. “I don’t know if it’s right to destroy it.”
“Uh . . . except that it’s the whole reason I’m here?”
“I know,” she said. Her voice shook, barely perceptible. “I just—I feel conflicted.”
“Ignore it,” I said. “Pretend it’s a ward.” I edged carefully closer, peeking into the drawer she’d opened. All I saw was an old battered cardboard box that had once contained copy paper. It gave off a vague impression of fetid neglect that suggeste
d its current contents were more likely roaches or maggots.
“I hadn’t thought of treating emotions as hostile spellwork,” said Caryl. “For the most part I—I have been trying to condition myself gradually, calling upon the construct when—”
“Caryl,” I said. “Focus. Tell me about the ward on the box. What’s freaking you out about it?”
She was tense; her hands clenched and unclenched. I laid a hand on her shoulder, just a ghost of a touch, and she seemed to relax.
“First,” she said, “it’s a charm, not a ward. But an extraordinary one. From what I can read of the charm’s structure, it is designed to exude a sense of unimportance and uncleanliness. More importantly, anyone who pushes past this impression to touch the box must be protected by a certain enchantment, or the charm will trigger a curse of its own. Paralysis, I think.”
“Leaving the thief stuck here, red-handed.”
“A charm that casts a curse.” She looked at me, clearly upset, clearly waiting for me to understand something.
“So do I touch the box or not? Is it going to curse me?”
Caryl exhaled with frustration, stress level rising. “Vivian’s metaspell on—on soundstage 13. It was constructed in a similar fashion. Your touch simply dispelled it; you were not cursed. Somatic enchantments have no effect on you.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“It’s a metaspell, Millie. One spirit nestled within another, working voluntarily in harmony. This was not cast by a warlock, or a sidhe.”
Suddenly I understood. “It was cast by a spirit,” I said. “Fuck. Still alive.” I turned, addressed empty air in a whisper. “Elliott, are the spirits in it alive? Can you confirm?”
Elliott popped into view. “They are,” he said. “But they are too dazed to cast any spells in their own defense, so do not let that concern you.”
“Why so callous?” I said. “If the spirits are in this spell voluntarily, and they’re alive, then what we’re planning to do here is torture and eventually murder them, right? How is that okay?”
“You’ve met them,” said Elliott. “The wraith that possessed Tjuan for months, and the one that possessed Claybriar.”
Impostor Syndrome Page 11
