Longbranch tilted her head back, studying Jonah like she was hungry and he was dinner. “Brodie wasn’t much help, even after hours of torture. In retrospect, I’m thinking that maybe she didn’t actually know anything. You, on the other hand . . . you’re much more promising.” Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming faster. Like most wizards, she took pleasure in inflicting pain.
Jonah, on the other hand . . . not so much. He pushed back his sleeves. He had to try to come away with something, anyway. Something that would convince Gabriel to act. Easy questions first. “You’re Jessamine Longbranch, Sright?” he said. “And you’re Geoffrey Wylie?”
“Shut up,” Wylie said, motioning with the gun. “Put the sword on the floor and step back from it.”
“No,” Jonah said.
“No?” Wylie looked down at the gun in his hands, as if to make sure it was still there. Then back up at Jonah. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I’m keeping the sword. It was a gift,” Jonah said.
Fragarach, was one of the Seven Great Blades made at Dragon’s Ghyll. Gabriel had given it to Jonah when he signed on with Nightshade. It was ensorcelled bright metal, good for killing both gifted and Anaweir, for cutting up cadavers to free the shades inside. Ideal for multitaskers like Jonah.
“Now,” Jonah said. “What did you want from Jeanette?”
“Drop the sword or I’ll shoot!” Wylie roared, his face going purple.
Jonah sighed. Fine. He needed to make an example of one of them. “So shoot me,” he said, feinting a move.
Wylie fired, but Jonah was already across the room. He disarmed the wizard before he could get off a second shot. It was as if Wylie were moving in slow motion, his eyes widening, his mouth opening, and words rolling out slowly, along with drops of spittle.
Jonah closed his bare hands around Wylie’s neck. A light touch, a gentle kind of violence, but enough. Wylie’s eyes went wide with wonder, and then his face took on a familiar, blissful expression.
He crumpled, and Jonah let him go, his still-open eyes glazed over before he hit the floor.
This was how Jonah’s interrogations tended to go, since he couldn’t deal with the blowback associated with inflicting pain. Still, killing wizards was so much more satisfying than killing shades. Especially these particular wizards.
Jonah stepped over Wylie, advancing on Longbranch. Her eyes had gone round with horror, her complexion dead-fish pale. Her mouth opened and closed, but it took some time for words to emerge. “Who are you?” she croaked. “And what are you? An enchanter with a sword and a deadly sting?”
“Me? I guess you could say I’m kind of a monster hunter.”
“M-monster hunter? I don’t understand.”
“You know how in the movies the monster turns on theevil scientist who created him?” He shrugged. “That’s me. I’m a monster who hunts monsters.”
“Look,” she said. “I have lots of money. You want this house? You can have it. There are five cars in the garage. Choose any or all of them.” When that didn’t draw a positive reaction, she added, “I—I have a boat.”
“I’m not a thief,” Jonah said. “I’m more of an assassin, really.”
“You’re the one who’s been killing wizards!” Longbranch took a step back.
“No,” Jonah said, with a sigh. “Actually, I’m not.”
“Of course not,” Longbranch hastened to say, “but if you are, you should know that I don’t have a functional Weirstone.” She paused. “So, technically, I’m not a wizard.”
“Not a problem. If you’re not a wizard, you’re definitely wizard-ish.”
Longbranch licked her lips and said, “You mentioned— weren’t there some questions you want to ask me? Before—before you—”
“Why did you kidnap Ms. Brodie? What did you think Sshe could tell you?”
“We were hoping to get files and records from Thorn Hill. Information about the weapons they were working on.”
“Weapons? You mean like perfumes and skin creams and medicines?”
“Oh, come on,” Longbranch snapped. “Don’t be naive.”
She really believes that Thorn Hill was the center of some kind of antiwizard conspiracy, Jonah thought. “What do you need weapons for?”
“To protect ourselves.”
Why are there ever wars? Jonah thought. Everyone only needs weapons to protect themselves. Jonah noticed that the ex-wizard had moved three or four feet to the left over the course of the conversation.
“Do you have anybody else on your list? People to torture, I mean?”
Longbranch shook her head.
“That DeVries that was here—tell me about him.”
Longbranch seemed more than happy to give up her co-conspirator. “That’s Rowan DeVries, an American, of course. Very wealthy. He’s a new member of the Interguild Council, but he’s also the principal in a syndicate of assassins for hire.”
“The Black Rose?”
Longbranch looked thunderstruck. “You’ve heard of it?”
“The Black Rose has been around for a long time,” Jonah said. “Do you think Madison Moss is behind these killings?” When she hesitated, he took a step closer. “Tell me.”
“She could be. She’s certainly capable of it. Only . . .” She paused. “Why would she? She’s got all the power. Moss disabled my Weirstone, but I’m still alive—if you can call it that. If it’s her, then why are these wizards dead? If it’sher, why doesn’t she just do everyone at once and get it over with?”
“It’s not just wizards,” Jonah reminded her. “Other mainli—guildlings are dying as well.”
Longbranch snorted. “What happens to the other guilds is no concern of mine.”
She was still moving, and now Jonah could see that she was headed toward a desk at the side of the room.
Jonah watched her inch along with part of his brain while the rest wrestled with Longbranch’s revelations. “And it’s happening all over?”
“Everywhere,” Longbranch said. “Starting about two years ago.” She’d reached her goal. Now she stood, her hips braced back against the desk, leaning on the heels of her hands. “May I ask you a question?”
“You can ask. I may not answer.”
“Who sent you? If you’re not working for Madison Moss, then who are you working for? McCauley?”
“McCauley?” Jonah shook his head. “No.”
“Hastings? Hastings, then?”
“No. Not Hastings.”
“I have it!” Longbranch said. “You’re working for DeVries. You were sent to find out how much we know. And then to kill us.”
“I told you. I came for Ms. Brodie. But you tortured her, and then you murdered her.” He paused, long enough for his words to register, then said, “I want to know why. Specifically. Who’s working with you, and what are you planning to do?”
Just then Jonah’s secure cell phone went off. Incoming Stext from Charlie Dugard, head of Nightshade’s European operation.
He scanned the screen. Slayer down. Regent’s Canal, near Camden Lock. All hands.
That would go out to any slayer within range.
Taking advantage of Jonah’s momentary distraction, Longbranch scooped a dagger off her desk, turned, and lunged at him, attempting to bury the blade beneath his breastbone. Jonah intercepted her hands, gripping both wrists, and slammed her up against the wall.
Longbranch looked down at the dagger between them, just pricking his sweatshirt, at his hands gripping her bare wrists. Then looked up into his eyes.
“Oh,” she said, her lips curving into a dreamy smile. “My dear. You are such a pretty one.”
Jessamine Longbranch died happy. Now Jonah Kinlock had someplace he had to be.
Chapter Three
Slayer
Jonah took the Northern Line to the Camden Town stop. It was likely the quickest way to get there, but still—it seemed to take forever.
Slayer down. Was it someone he knew? He’d heard that Charlie’s gr
oup had been investigating shade activity along the Regent Canal. An eighteen-year-old warrior savant, Charlie was tall, buff, and totally bald, with the gift of picking up any language within a few minutes of hearing it. That made him a good choice to head Nightshade’s European operations.
Exiting the station, Jonah veered right, up the Camden High Street toward the lock, following the signal from Charlie’s cell phone. Crossing the canal, he descended the steps to the towpath, turning toward Regent’s Park. The breeze blowing down the canal brought with it the stink of mischief, the mingled scent of free magic and rotting flesh that signaled that hosted shades were nearby. “Where are you, Charlie?” Jonah said into the phone. “I’m close. Talk to me.”
“On a boat,” Charlie gasped. “The one being foundered Sby shades. Can’t miss it.”
Rounding a curve in the canal, Jonah saw, up ahead, one of the narrow cruise boats that plied the canal. It sat low in the water, drifting nearly crosswise in the channel, as if it had lost its rudder.
On all sides of the boat, the water teemed with hosted shades, swarming up the sides, boosting themselves up and over the rail. Organized, coordinated, planned. This wasn’t a mob—it was an army.
Shades were lone wolves, notorious for squabbling with one another, competing for fresh meat, and backstabbing, so to speak. This was something new.
Unhosted shades were nearly invisible to the naked eye, seen as a flicker of movement or a thickening of the air, like one of those transparent jellyfish in the ocean that you never notice . . . until you get stung. Shadeslayers wore Nightshade amulets to make unhosted shades easier to see.
Though they weren’t substantial enough to physically attack anyone, unhosted shades might startle someone into falling, or jumping out into traffic. Every shade’s goal was to acquire a host—to possess a fresh cadaver to walk around in. To experience the world in. To kill the next host in, since fresh cadavers never stayed fresh very long. So even hosted shades were always hunting new hosts.
Up ahead, a bridge arched over the canal. Jonah put on speed, threading his way between late-night joggers and bicyclists. He sprinted up the stairs to street level and crossed to the center of the bridge. Ripping off his gloves, he drew Fragarach. As the stricken boat passed beneath him, he leaped onto its roof, flopping down on his stomach so he wouldn’t be raked off by the low bridge.
When they were clear of the bridge, Jonah vaulted down to the deck. Some of the shades had been scraped off by the narrow channel, but others were still attempting to clamber aboard. He ran the perimeter of the boat, swinging Fragarach, scything through corpsy arms, allowing the bodies to drop into the river. There was no time to finish the free shades now. He had to get below.
He threw himself down the stairs. The main cabin looked like a fancy party turned into a drunken brawl. Tables were overturned and broken glass and bodies lay scattered over the floor. Charlie and Thérèse had herded the dozen or so survivors into a corner, forming a bristling wall of blades between the shades and the civilians.
Jonah launched his attack from the rear, cutting four cadavers in half before they knew he was there. Free shades escaped their hosts, fleeing in all directions as their hosted comrades turned on Jonah.
We can’t finish them when they come in numbers, he thought. Clever. Who thought of that?
After that, it was a matter of slash and dismember. The shades wielded a mixture of weapons—everything from swords to iron bars. Some may have been crude, but they were still deadly if they connected. Jonah was everywhere, cutting down bodies until there wasn’t enough left to come back at him.
Suddenly, as if they’d heard a signal, the shades abandoned the attack and swarmed back up the stairs. Jonah walked among the bodies, looking for survivors, while the other two slayers kept the civilians penned up and out of the way. One of the downed civilians—an elderly lady in a Tower Sof London sweatshirt—was moving, struggling to sit up. Jonah crossed to her and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She looked up, and that’s when he smelled the free magic and noticed that the back of her head was entirely gone. Right before she tried to take his head off with a knife. He gripped both her hands to keep her from having another go. There ensued a deadly wrestling match. Hosted shades were uncannily strong, and not even Jonah Kinlock could kill a cadaver. He couldn’t get at the shade as long as it was hosted.
Happily, Thérèse rode in on her white horse and sliced the shade in two, the tip of her blade slicing through Jonah’s sweatshirt. The free shade emerged from the corpse, trying to escape, but Jonah pinned it to the floor. It shrank, dwindling under his bare hands until it disappeared.
“Thanks, Thérèse,” Jonah said, looking up at her.
“I didn’t know you were in London, Jonah,” Thérèse said shyly, wiping blood from her face.
That brought it all crashing in on him again—Jeanette and the rest.
You need to grow a thicker skin, Jonah. That’s what Gabriel always said.
Jonah shoved to his feet. “Charlie said somebody was down?”
Thérèse pointed to a crumpled body against the wall. “Summer.”
Jonah hurried over, but he could see already that he was too late. “She’s gone,” he said. “She must have split in the confusion.”
“Damn it!” Charlie kicked the wall in frustration. They both knew that, by now, the undead Summer had joined the army of free shades, relentlessly searching for a new body.
“What about them?” Thérèse asked, pointing her sword at the huddled survivors, who shifted nervously under their scrutiny.
Gabriel’s rule was—slayers don’t leave witnesses. Secrecy was their best protection. But it was one thing to slay one shade in a back alley and keep it quiet. It was another to fight off an army in broad daylight.“Leave them alone,” Jonah said. “It makes no sense to stop a bloodbath and then riff the survivors.”
Chapter Four
Lies and Secrets
Mickey didn’t ask any questions when Emma showed up at the club teary-eyed and told him she needed a place to stay. He agreed to let her bus tables and wash dishes in trade for a meal and a bed to sleep in. He knew that squabbles between Emma and Sonny Lee never lasted very long.
She’d decided to keep the news of Sonny Lee’s death to herself for as long as possible. There was too much chance she’d get tangled in the county welfare web. But word would get out quick. She needed to move fast and have a plan before it did.
Late that night, after the final table of poker players had left, Emma locked the door to the spare room over Mickey’s bar. She slumped down onto the bed and pulled the envelope out of her jeans pocket.
She traced the words on the outside. Memphis Slim. That had become her grandfather’s nickname for Emma during those wary, standoffish days when she’d first come to stay with him. When he didn’t really want to admit he was a grandfather at all.
You’re all eyes and hair , he’d say. You have to stand twice to cast a shadow.
A lump formed in her throat, and she blinked back tears. She tore open the envelope and unfolded the notebook paper inside. A wad of crumpled bills dropped onto the bed. She spread the creased paper over her knees.
Dear Memphis,
If you’re reading this, then likely I’m dead. I want you to have my guitars, my tools, and all my wood and supplies. I filed papers down at my lawyer’s office saying that. Anything you want to sell off, go ahead. It won’t hurt my feelings, since I’m dead. I just wish I had more cash money to leave you. I’ll be straight with you: I wasn’t happy when you first came to me. Now I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. You’re the best (only) apprentice I ever had. I should have kept a better eye on you, should have made sure you spent more time in school, but you turned out pretty good anyway. So far. If I was murdered, or might of been, you’re in danger, too, because of some of the bad things that went down when you were a child. None of it was your fault, but if I was murdered, you need to get out
of Memphis.
So call this number and ask for Tyler Boykin. He’ll look out for you—he’s got to, now.
Love, Your Grandfather, Sonny Lee Greenwood
A phone number was scribbled underneath. It had been erased and rewritten, crossed off and changed, so often the paper was worn thin.
She flattened out the money and put it in a little stack.
Two fifties, four twenties, two tens. Two hundred dollars. With what she’d saved from the sale of the guitars, that made . . . $3,200. Walking-around money for a while.
Tyler Boykin. Who was he, and why would he look out for Emma? And why would she want him to? Maybe she could stay in Memphis. She had a little money, and a roof over her head, and all the music she needed within a city block. If she stayed, she could pretend like Sonny Lee was still around. He’d might be just around the corner, or down the block, his whiskey voice and slide guitar leaking out of some after-hours club.It wouldn’t seem so much like she’d lost everything.
The question was—would Mickey let her stay? Could she stay out of the way of the police and the county?
As if called by her troubled mind, Emma heard footsteps on the stairs. She hurriedly stuffed the money under the mattress.
Someone pounded on the door. “Emma!” It was Mickey.
“Come on in,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed.
Mickey pushed open the door and closed it carefully behind him. When he turned back toward Emma, his face was taut with worry. “Emma,” he said. “The police was just here, looking for you.”
Emma’s heart sank. “Looking for me?”
Mickey nodded. He crossed the room and gripped Emma’s hands. “They said Sonny Lee’s dead. Did you know that, honey?”
Emma looked up into Mickey’s kind face, and her control crumbled. “I—I f-found him in the shop, on the floor. I guess he fell, and hit his head.” Then she let go and cried, big, heaving sobs that shook her whole body.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” Mickey said, enfolding her in his meaty arms. “What a world this is. Why didn’t you tell me?”
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