She touched the door and didn’t sense any protection hexes. The door itself was hewn from heavy oak and iron, banded three times to keep out Fae. The door wasn’t locked, and the hinges screeched again as Pete pulled it open, using small and cautious movements as she stepped into the hall. She checked for cameras, and found nothing obvious, but she figured a group like the Prometheans wouldn’t need to nip out for a microphone and recorder if they wanted to listen in on her.
Still painfully aware of the geas, Pete moved slowly down the hall, trying to act as if she were just going for a stroll. No hexes snatched at her, no curses bit into her flesh.
The Prometheus Club wasn’t just devoid of spells, it was devoid of magic, full stop. She’d rarely sensed a place that was such a dead space in the invisible tides of the Black. It felt like there was a tiny empty spot in her skull, setting up an echo and throb.
This would all be right in the end, she told herself. Lied, was more like it, but she needed to stop herself from doing anything rash while the Prometheans could still hurt her or, worse, hurt Jack. This wasn’t the first time she’d been on the wrong side of magic, with just her wits and whatever she happened to have in her pockets.
She kept going, walking through hallway after hallway done in the same monastic dark wood and plaster. The Prometheus Club was kitted out with flourescent lights and ugly, dank carpeting, but otherwise was very much as it must have been when the mages took up residence. She navigated narrow hallways that doubled back on one another and locked doors that slowed her down every time she had to use her bank card to slip the antique latches. There was a complete absence of other people.
She hadn’t thought this out before leaving her room to wander about like a simpleton trying to find Jack. And then what was she going to do? Stroll out the front door? There was no way that bint in the good suit was letting her go until she’d had her say.
Desperation breeds sloppiness, Connor Caldecott would have told her. She’d learned that before she was even aware of it, watching her father get ready for work every day, double and triple check his gun and his kit, make sure his warrant card was in full view, the simple laminated slip displaying his narrow face and combed-back hair, raven black above a brow that she couldn’t remember ever not being furrowed.
At last, Pete found a stairwell and felt her stomach unknot just a little. Stairs at least meant she was going somewhere. She took them two at a time, forcing herself to be slow and quiet as she opened the door at the bottom. A long, narrow hall greeted her, lit only by the flickering glow of candles set into notches in the wall. Pete reeled as all at once the magic absent from the upper floors launched at her like a flood tide. So much power it nearly took her feet out from under her, made her grab the wall to stay upright. Pete gagged. This wasn’t right. The Black here was too strong, too overwhelming. She’d crossed a barrier and triggered some kind of terrible drowning trap made of magic.
Forcing herself to stand and move, Pete kept walking. She wasn’t sure if it was the overwhelming pummeling of the Black on her talent or simply exhaustion and fear, but the hallway seemed to expand and narrow as she approached the far end. Though she knew it was only an optical illusion, Pete shivered. It was cold here, and damp, and the magic still howled and scraped at her talent, begging to be let in, be eaten up and absorbed and allowed to unleash whatever the Weir might desire.
Pete fell against the far door, which was mercifully unlocked, and stumbled through it. On the other side, the darkness was absolute, except for a thin beam of light from somewhere that reached the surface of the earth. Pete stared. There was no way—no way she could have descended one staircase from an upper-floor and suddenly be meters below the earth, in a basement.
She heard the click of stiletto heels on the stone floor. The beam of light illuminated a pool of water lapping at the edge of slate tiles, a black plinth rising from the depths, covered in centuries of moss and grime, but little else. Pete stayed still, tracking the sound, until the woman came into view. She’d changed her clothes and wore a smart gray blazer, denim, and pumps that would have set Pete back five or six exorcism jobs—and that was just if every client paid.
“I did tell you if you decided to play the clever game, you’d lose,” the woman said, cocking an eyebrow at Pete. She wasn’t pretty, but she had the sort of face you couldn’t look away from, and a few spun-copper curls had worked their way free from her pile of hair.
“Sorry,” Pete said, acutely aware of her slept-in clothes and the mess of tarry black hair falling in her eyes. “That’s a bit like asking water not to be wet.”
“You’re cute, aren’t you?” the woman said, with a twist of a frown. “How’s that worked out for you so far?”
Pete felt the hand with the geas prickle, cat claws scraping across her flesh, and forced a smile. “I’ve had better days.”
“I know you don’t believe me,” said the woman. “But we did bring you here for something other than locking you up and then watching you try to escape.” She closed the distance between them and extended her hand to Pete. “I’ll make you a bargain—you stay and listen like we asked, and I’ll take the geas off now. I’ll extend my trust to you, because I see our usual methods just won’t work, and I’m smart enough to adapt. Deal?”
Pete regarded the hand. Small and soft, nails done in a red just slightly more luminous than blood. Hands that had reached for Preston Mayflower as he flew into traffic, hands that had searched his pockets in the moments after, only to find nothing.
“Deal,” she said, and grasped the woman’s flesh. She got nothing. Not power, not an abscene of it. A brick wall—one, she was sure, carefully constructed to avoid the problem of skin contact with other mages. It was a good trick, one Pete freely admitted that she’d kick a sweet old pensioner to learn.
“I’m Morwenna,” said the woman. “The fellow who was with me last night is Victor. You’ll meet the others who’ve arrived tomorrow at supper.”
“You all just got first names?” Pete asked. “That part of being a Promethean—you all go the Cher route?”
“Being a Promethean is many things,” Morwenna said. “But no, I have a proper name.” She turned Pete’s palm over, caressing it with her fingers, and a hot pain seized Pete, making her gasp and grit her teeth. After a moment, the geas crawled up through the layers of her skin and into Morwenna’s flesh, where it vanished.
“There,” Morwenna said. “I’m a woman of my word. Are you a woman of yours?”
Pete regarded her. The Prometheans were rough in their methods, it was true, but her choice was to listen to Morwenna’s spiel or get trapped in here again. And there was Jack to consider, who’d undoubtedly do something boneheaded and guaranteed to slag off the Prometheans if left to his own devices.
So she smiled, and nodded, and told Morwenna, “I always am.”
“I’m relieved to know that,” Morwenna. “Come with me, then. We’ve a lot to talk about.”
9.
As Pete walked with Morwenna, halls straightened and doors appeared. When the two women reached a set of stairs, they behaved as they should, and Pete let out a deep breath when the pressure of the Black against her mind and body eased. Morwenna favored her with an amused glance. “Sorry about the hex. It’s for everyone’s protection.”
“If you want to protect your floors from puke, you might reconsider that one,” Pete muttered.
“We’re very proud of it,” Morwenna said. “The illusion will go on forever if you’re not welcome here. Why have cameras and thugs when you have magic? Anyone we don’t want to come in, or to leave…” She spread her hands. “They’re stuck in the loop, forever.”
Pete shivered, which Morwenna clearly mistook for awe. “I think it stands as a testament to the power of the Prometheans—each of us contributing our talent to keep our most sacred space safe.”
On the main floor, she led Pete into a music room hung with musty silk drapes. A piano sat dust-covered in one corner, and an assortment
of staring, stony-eyed mages sat on an assortment of sofas, all their glares trained on Pete.
The one bright spot was Jack, slumped against the arm of the nearest sofa, holding a glass of scotch as if he wanted to choke the life out of it.
“You see why I didn’t want to come here?” he asked Pete. Morwenna went to a side table set with bottles and plates of tiny desserts and poured her own tumbler.
“You didn’t have to convince me,” she said. “Only here because they tricked me.”
The man Morwenna had identified as Victor grunted.
“Why are we pretending this is a dinner party? Morwenna, did you speak to her about Preston?”
“I’m getting to it,” Morwenna said, in a tone that could have formed ice across the top of her drink. “Miss Caldecott and Mr. Winter are not suspects that you are interrogating for the FSB, Victor. We do things differently here.”
Victor glared at Pete and Jack in turn, but he retreated to the table of food and sank his teeth into an apple tart. Pete kept her eyes on Morwenna, but she didn’t forget about Victor. He was definitely the one in the duo familiar with violence.
“How much do you both know about the Prometheus Club?” Morwenna asked, and Jack snorted.
“Is this where you tell the origin story and we get all wide-eyed and slack-jawed?”
“You know something, Mr. Winter,” Morwenna said, fixing him with a glare. “If you’d just joined with us the first time we approached you, all of this would be far easier to explain.”
“First time?” Pete’s stomach dropped. Then again, she didn’t know why she was so surprised. Jack wasn’t forthcoming about anything in his youth—why should he throw out the small detail that the Prometheans had approached him before?
If you must go, don’t take the crow-mage with you.
“Dammit, Jack,” Pete mumbled so only she could hear. Morwenna and Jack were still engaged in a staring contest.
“We would have loved to have had Jack from the start, when he first came into his talent,” Morwenna said. “But as it turns out, good things come to those who wait, because we were able to access Miss Caldecott as well.”
Pete gritted her teeth and pointed at Morwenna. “You. Stop talking about me like I’m a piece of fucking furniture. You.” She turned her finger on Jack. It shook a bit, the anger coursing through her like a fever. “How could you not tell me? I asked you, Jack, and you lied. To my face. That’s low even for you.”
“Luv,” Jack said, holding up his hand. “Listen, I was fifteen, and my answer to them’s going to be the same now as it was then: Fuck off and leave me alone.”
“I wish we had that luxury, believe me,” Morwenna sighed. She drained her coffee and set the cup down with a clack. “We’re not in the habit of coercing those who don’t carry the same values as the Prometheans.”
Pete gave a small, involuntary snort. “Yeah, I see how not in the habit you are.”
“I took the geas off,” Morwenna said. “And I promise you, this will be a lot easier for all of us to get through if we resolve to be civil.”
“Sorry,” Jack said, putting his feet on the table and knocking aside several small decorative figurines. “Civil’s never really been my bent.”
He was showing off, and in that moment Pete didn’t know who she was more irritated with. Morwenna made her choice swiftly, though, and moved to Jack, standing over him like a teacher catching a pupil texting dirty notes. She stared him down until he looked up at her and moved his feet off the table with an elaborate sigh.
“We’re wasting time,” Victor spoke up. “If you can’t lay it out, Morwenna, then I’m going to do what we should have done in the first place—compel them to do what needs to be done and dispose of them when it’s over.”
“Here’s a tip,” Pete said. “If you want my help, don’t imply that’d you’d rather murder me, all right?”
“Both of you shut up,” Morwenna snapped, never taking her eyes from Jack. Pete had to admire her intensity—she never blinked, like a shark in expensive shoes. “You know that the Black is in turmoil, Mr. Winter.”
He smiled up at her. “We’re trading threats, might as well call me Jack, luv.”
Pete watched the muscles of Morwenna’s face tighten and relax. She was good at hiding things—almost as good as Pete herself.
“Hell,” Morwenna continued, “most of it is turmoil you caused. Because of your inability to toe the line and play the role you’re going to fill, one way or another. Instead you fight it, and the rest of us suffer.”
“Got a question for you, luv,” Jack said, lacing his fingers behind his head. Only Pete saw the wire tension in his limbs. “What makes you think I give a shit about anyone but meself?”
“If not us, very well,” Morwenna shot back. “But somehow I think even a stone-hearted bastard like you might care when his daughter is a demon’s slave and his wife is a corpse roasting on a spit in Hell.”
Pete started to move, the reflexive rage at the mention of Lily moving her before her higher brain realized what was going on. The lizard one knew what it wanted to do, though—slap the smirk off Morwenna’s face.
Victor had his hands on her before she could blink, and she gasped as his hand closed around her throat, bony fingers digging into her windpipe as his other hand pulled her left wrist into a submission hold common to cops and soliders. Pete could feel that he was faster and stronger than she was, and in a pure physical match he’d shred her. Though her animal instinct rebelled when she did it, she relaxed under Victor’s grip.
“You’re a cunt,” she muttered.
“You have no idea,” Victor murmured against her hair. “Be still now, girl. I’d hate to have to hurt you.”
“Listen, miss,” Jack drawled, crossing one booted foot over his thigh and looking up at Morwenna, seemingly ignorant of the struggle going on between Pete and Victor. “You seem to have forgotten that I was the one put Abbadon back in the box, and Nergal, too, if we’re counting. Wasn’t my fault they got prison-broke in the first place, was it?”
“If you’re looking for a pat on the back, you’re barking up the wrong fucking tree,” Morwenna said. “You have a destiny, Jack, just like we all do, and the longer you fight it the more situations like Abbadon appear. You muck about with demons like they’ll protect you, but they can’t. Not from the Morrigan. Not from what you were born to do for her, and by extension for us.”
Pete saw Jack’s expression slip, just for a moment. If there was one thing he was afraid of, Morwenna had just ripped off the lid and exposed it to the light of day.
Jack met her eyes for a moment, and Pete raised her eyebrow. She’d toe up against Victor if he needed a distraction, odds be damned. But Jack shook his head minutely. He looked back at Morwenna and forced a smile that was as cheerful as rigor mortis.
“Don’t know if your memory is shoddy or just selective, luv, but the Hag was the reason for that whole mess with Nergal. Biting off more than she could chew, like the bitch she is. Trying to throw her weight about and start a war with the daylight world. Typical of her, really. Always did have a bit of a one-track mind, that broad.”
“I understand your reluctance, believe me,” Morwenna said. “But ask yourself, Jack, what would be better for our world: an infestation of demons and creatures like Abbadon, or the Morrigan continuing as she always has, as the bride of war? Doing what she has always done to balance the Black and the daylight world—muster her army of the dead and winnow the world when it becomes too crowded?”
“’Cept this time she’s going to cut down the whole world, not just the bits in the Black,” Jack said. “Need I mention that she was all for Nergal pillaging his way through the daylight side, creating enough souls for her to march against anyone else who stood in her way on her crawl to the top of the corpse heap?”
“Need I mention that if you had performed your duty as your station requires, you could have influenced the Morrigan to stay her hand against innocents?” Morwenna ask
ed, low. “You fight so hard to stay in the mud, Jack—one would almost think you liked it there.” Piece said, she retreated to a wing chair, sitting and crossing her legs primly at the ankle.
Victor grunted a laugh at Jack’s gobsmacked expression, and Pete felt her desire to hit him in the throat redouble. Morwenna shot him a glance.
“Victor, for fuck’s sake. We’re not the mafia—let go of her.”
Victor released Pete, although his expression betrayed great disappointment. Pete rubbed her throat, feeling the tender lines where she’d sport bruises in a few hours. She owed Victor for that, but she filed it away for now. What would a dust-up accomplish, besides putting her in hospital? She could be patient.
“Next time,” she told Victor, “you and I are going to have a discussion about why you don’t put your hands on me.”
“Like there will be a next time.” He snorted and went back to the tray of pastries.
“So you actually think Jack can convince the Morrigan to flit around like a pet parakeet, doing just as you say?” Pete asked, turning her attention on Morwenna. That was pure mad talk. The Morrigan was a force, not a person, a thing that could not be bought or reasoned with.
“On the contrary,” Morwenna said. “You aren’t prisoners. You aren’t subjugated. We want Jack to join us of his free will. There’s a place for him at the head of our table.” She tapped her fingers against the chair arm and smiled dreamily. “The crow-mage and the Prometheans were one and the same, until that insufferable lowlife Seth McBride broke the chain.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “And every crow-mage before who died horribly because he couldn’t serve two masters, that had nothing to do with you lot.”
“Membership in the Prometheus Club offers great rewards, but those come with great risks,” Morwenna said. “We all assume them when we accept membership, but together, we are protected. Alone, Jack…” She sighed. “Your skin tells the story. She’s got your scent now. You know it’s only a matter of time. If you’d just gone with her willingly, you’d be in a position of unimaginable power. No demonic price on your head. No primordial monsters sniffing after your blood.” She stood and walked to a bell pull, yanking on it. Far away, a clang sounded. “Honestly, the fact that you’ve made it to forty is impressive,” Morwenna said.
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