by D. G. Swank
I was trembling, trying to keep my breaths calm. What the hell? What was this guy’s problem, and how had I given us away?
“I’m not with the Council,” I called after him.
“Then why do you smell like their police force?”
Well, crap.
Less than a minute later, the mage on my other side finished his drink, slapped cash on the weathered wood bar, and exited the bar as well.
“Shit,” I said under my breath, staring into my drink. Cinnamon tea could sometimes calm my stomach; maybe cinnamon liquor would also calm my nerves.
Despite my shaking hands, I lifted it to my lips and took a long sip. I was paralyzed on that bar stool, not sure what to do next, too desperate for more information to retreat.
Markus Bieler had left town with a woman—an “old-world broad”—possibly running from something, since the mage had called him a coward. Not a neon arrow pointing the way to the man, or Celeste, but not nothing. Still, I needed something more solid to go on.
The seat next to me wobbled and creaked as someone else took it. I looked up, half-expecting to see a gloating Brandon, and instead found myself staring at one of the ugliest men I’d ever seen. His face was covered with burn scars and his head was covered in thatches of bristly hair. His full attention was on me.
“I can see you’re new about these parts, so I’ll give you some free advice,” he said in a gruff tone. “Lotta hate for the Council among the mages in this town. Given the current state of things… it’s not smart to walk around here asking questions. Smells like the Protective Force. Town’s rotten with Dark Set mages. Lurkin’ in every corner.”
I recoiled, trying to make sense of anything he’d said. Dark Set mages were an ugly relic of the past. They were men from the Valeria community willing to do anything, even call forth the dark powers of the Book of Sin, to wrest control of the world’s magical power away from the witches. They’d believed mages were more deserving, and believed it so zealously, they’d revolted against the Council and murdered several powerful witches. Their entire goal had been to enslave the witch population and siphon off their magic for their own. They’d failed, but stories about them were nightmare fuel for young witches.
But the last Dark Set mages had died hundreds of years ago. Sure, the fact that Artemis had been elected to office proved some of the sentiment behind the group’s rise to power still existed, but we were beyond that.
Weren’t we?
“No, that’s not—” I sputtered.
But he looked me steady in the eyes and said in a voice so quiet his words barely registered, “It is. It’s real, and it’s alive, and if the Council don’t know that already, I’d be surprised.”
Then he finished his drink and slid the cup forward, indicating he wasn’t planning on another. It was starting to look like I was on track to run off every single drinker in the bar.
His big eyes shifted back to me. “You got a ride home, miss?”
The kind look in his eyes assured me he was genuinely worried for my safety.
And he was right to be. Seconds later, a seething mage with lots of facial hair stalked toward me from the other end of the bar. “Did I hear there were fucking Council spies here?” he shouted.
I was terrified, but I had two choices—hide in fear and hopefully make it out of here unscathed or confront the bastard. The old Phoebe would have gone with the first option in a heartbeat, but the Phoebe who was looking for her sister was determined not to leave this bar without more information about Markus Bieler.
“Who said I was a Council spy?” I demanded as I spun around on my seat to face him, acting like it was the worst insult he could have bestowed on me.
“You’re claiming you’re not?” he asked in a low growl.
“I don’t have to claim anything,” I said, lifting my chin and hoping it didn’t tremble with fear. “I don’t see any signs stating Council spies aren’t allowed in here.”
“She’s right,” the bartender said behind me. “There ain’t no sign.”
I felt a little too smug at having won that argument because the next thing I knew, he’d leaned over and was grabbing my hair. The roots burned with a sudden, agonizing ripping pain as he dragged me off my seat and across the bar’s splintery floor. When my attacker lifted me, I caught a glimpse of a freakishly tall woman quickly approaching who was gearing up to smack my body into the wall like a wrecking ball. Before I could react, my attacker half roared, half screamed, and dropped me.
I tumbled ass over elbows across the floor, mercifully thudding into a jukebox after two full-body rolls. Groaning, I propped myself up on my elbows and lifted my head despite the pain still burning at the root of each and every hair. Brandon had the short mage who’d attacked me by the throat, dangling a foot off the ground at the end of his strong arm.
“You okay?” he growled in my general direction.
I cleared my throat to respond, and at the same time the mage Brandon held muttered something under his breath, then spat in my direction. If I were any closer to him, the bubbling iridescent wad of saliva would have hit my jeans and likely left an impressive hole. What kind of magic was that?
Powwow magic.
I wondered if the leather pouch hanging from his neck could be the source.
His attempted attack reminded me that I had magic of my own—or, more accurately, my ancestors’ magic. I focused on the bones hanging at the base of my neck and, using my telekinesis, picked up a bar stool and slammed it into the back of a mage who was lunging for Brandon. The man crumpled to the ground.
The Amazonian witch headed toward me with a glare in her eyes and fire on her fingers. I scrambled to my feet, fighting the urge to run as the distance shortened between us. As she closed in, I held my ground, bracing myself, and just inches from me, she swiped at my hair with her flame-tipped fingers.
At the instant stench of burnt hair, I jerked and, pulling power from Imogene Booker’s elemental magic in the ring on my finger, coated my hair with a fine layer of ice, then sent the hair icicles rocketing up through the witch’s fingertips.
She jerked her hand back, screaming, “The bitch froze my hand!”
Something heavy hitting the floor with a loud thud, accompanied by an agonized scream. I whirled around to see Brandon standing over one of the mages, arm outstretched, fingers working the air. The mage cried out, which sounded like a cacophony of out-of-tune screeches.
Brandon’s face contorted in what could only be pain. A second later, though, he shook it off and bent down to where the mage’s body thrashed against the worn hardwood floorboards.
“Say that again,” Brandon said, his voice low and bulging with malice.
With his other hand, he grabbed the mage’s shirt and twisted it in a solid grip, dragging the mage’s head up off the floor so his face was just inches from his.
“Say. That. Again.”
The mage screeched a second time, and I realized with amazement that every other patron was frozen in place, staring at the spectacle. No one was making a move to stop him.
Brandon abruptly dropped the mage’s body. The sound of his skull smacking against the floor sent a shudder through my aching limbs.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Brandon said, arriving at my side with almost uncanny speed. I, like everyone else in the Cauldron, was frozen in place, but Brandon gripped my arm and ushered me back into the too-bright afternoon.
As we crossed the threshold, whatever spell he’d set, magical or otherwise, was broken. Shouts erupted, along with the sound of heavy boots stomping our way.
Harnessing Grandma Corlew’s magic, I slammed the door in their faces and held it closed.
We bolted for his car and hopped inside. He didn’t waste any time in getting the hell out of there.
After he’d driven a few blocks, he asked, “Have you changed your mind about the benefits of letting big, muscly men lurk behind you?” He was trying to joke, but his eyes were angry and the words
were clipped.
“I’m sorry. Did someone knock you upside the head and give you a concussion?” I demanded. “I held my own pretty well.”
“Gods, Phoebe, were you actively trying to get yourself killed?” He was roaring now, his entire body pulsing with rage. “What the hell were you thinking, telling them you were with the Council after I’d expressly told you to keep it a secret?”
“Excuse me?” I repeated with plenty of venom. “I never said I was with the Council. That asshole smelled you on me.”
His anger bled away. “What?”
“Yeah,” I said, slamming my fist into his arm. “I would have been just fine if you hadn’t stomped in there and escalated everything.”
He looked taken aback, then snapped, “Let me guess, you didn’t get any information.”
“As a matter of fact, I found out that Markus Bieler skipped town with a woman. Possibly because he was running from something. Oh, and then I heard something crazy about the Dark Set being back.”
He looked stricken but didn’t try to argue the point.
“If the Dark Set were back, the Council would know, right?” When he didn’t answer, I sucked in a breath. “Right?”
“Every few years there’s talk of the Dark Set rising in power. It’s a conspiracy theory that runs its course then dies out. An urban legend.” He almost sounded convincing.
I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t call a mage-supremacy group that tried to destroy the Council and most of the witches on Earth a few hundred years ago a conspiracy.” Something flickered through his eyes—guilt—and I stared at him in horror. “You knew.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—”
“Cut the damn bullshit, Brandon.” Suddenly it all made sense. The hooded figures that had assaulted both Caroline and Rowan and me. The strange cult-like symbols they wore. Markus Bieler, with his aggressive personality and roots in powwow and potion making. Someone stealing the Book of Sindal. The one thing I couldn’t figure out was why they’d want Celeste. Did they want her for her expression magic? “They’re actively planning another uprising.”
His lack of protest was all the confirmation I needed. This was what connected all those strange cases he’d mentioned.
Oh my gods. The Dark Set was back. And they had my sister. And the book.
This was worse than anything I’d imagined, and I struggled to control my hysteria. But freaking out would serve no purpose. I needed to focus my energy on the task at hand.
“Did you find out anything in the bar?” I demanded.
He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck, focusing his attention on the road. “I did, but not enough to act on.” He was silent for several seconds, then caught me completely off guard with his next words. “I think we should go back to the Council, call another Protocol Thirteen, lay out all the—”
“No!” I said, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. “No. That’s going to take forever, Brandon. Every day—hell, every hour my sister is out there, lost, she is in more danger of being seriously hurt. Or worse.”
He gave me a sidelong glance but kept his lips sealed when he saw the tears pooling in my eyes. I was more angry and desperate than sad, but he couldn’t know that.
“You know where he went,” I accused in an icy tone. I wasn’t just mad—I was seething. “Tell me right now.”
“Kansas City,” Brandon said, as if he’d spoken the words against his will. “But, Phoebe, trust me on this. They said—listen, it’s just not something I feel comfortable dragging you into.”
“Spit out the rest, Brandon,” I said, trying to inject every bit of anger and frustration I felt into my words. “I assure you that I’m going to find her with or without you. Your choice.”
Brandon’s shoulders slumped forward, and all of a sudden his whole body looked tired, like I’d somehow defeated him.
The Dark Set may have failed in their first revolution. But this time… oh gods, this time they had a powerful witch and a book full of evil spells…
“They can’t get it open,” I said, more to myself than to Brandon, but then I turned to him to make sure he understood. “They can’t get it open with just Celeste. One of the spells keeping it closed requires the blood of all three sisters.”
His eyes widened. “I never heard of that. Are you sure?”
“We kept it a secret. One more layer of protection.”
“You’re sure? Because that could buy us some time.”
I nodded. “Positive.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that I knew it firsthand from Celeste. Always curious, last year she’d tried to open it on her own and failed. The only reason Rowan and I had found out was because she’d confessed with one breath and begged us to open it with her in the next.
“Come on,” Celeste had said. “We’re devoting our entire lives to this thing and we don’t even know what’s in it. What if it’s one big joke?”
Rowan had looked tempted, just like I’d felt, but I’d put a stop to it. In the end, I’d worried about the evil we might let loose upon the world.
As long as the Dark Set didn’t figure out they needed blood from all three of us, we’d be safe and they would never crack it open.
But I kept the story to myself, because it certainly didn’t look good for my sister. Perhaps Celeste was guilty, but I needed more evidence before I betrayed my sister, because no matter how angry she was at us, she would never betray us either.
He was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I knew there were pockets of people who resented the Council, but I didn’t expect the kind of anger we saw at the Cauldron. It worries me.”
“It makes sense if you think about it,” I said. “Their type of magic was built around powwow and potions. If the Council took it from them and weakened them…” I let that set in, then said, “If history’s taught us anything, it’s that oppressed people become angry and rise up. They revolt.”
Chapter Twelve
We were silent until Brandon pulled onto the highway, heading west. I couldn’t be sure if he was heading back to Columbus or going straight to Kansas City, but if I’d learned only one thing throughout the day, it was that I wasn’t as much of a weak-willed rule-follower as I’d thought. If he tried to dump me off somewhere, I’d go to Kansas City on my own.
“What did you do to that mage?” I asked, partially to fill the silence and partially out of curiosity.
“I can sense auras to help me track spells, but I can also control them to make people feel like they’re in danger. Basically, I gave him an intense panic attack.” He shrugged. “Pretty useless, on the surface, but when it feels like you can’t breathe, it’s more effective than most methods of torture the nonmagicals have been able to dream up.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t imagine that feeling. Couldn’t bear the thought of someone dreaming up ways to torture my sister. But I was also trying to figure out how to counteract his magic if he ever decided to try it on me. Probably ram something really hard into him. (Thank you, Grandma Corlew.)
“Then, of course,” he continued, oblivious that I was preplanning a possible attack on him, “I pulled a simple stunning spell on everyone else in there so we could get out. Never been in a room that full of witches and mages wanting to pummel me.” His eyes flicked my way, then back to the road, as though trying to read my silence. “I’m not proud of it. I try not to use that panic-attack technique, trust me. It’s no excuse, but I wasn’t myself in there. I just…couldn’t let him get away with saying shit like that.”
His grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“Like what?” I asked as gently as possible.
“Either someone on the Council isn’t adhering to the magical secrecy clause, or whoever took the book is out there bragging. Those assholes in the bar were going on about a power shift in the magical world. They’re practically fucking drooling for it.”
“I still don’t understand why you punched
him.”
“Because he called you a stupid, meddling cunt, okay?” His face was red, his eyes apologetic when they looked into mine, like he was pissed off he’d had to repeat the words and ashamed they’d come out of his mouth, all at once. “Sorry.”
Anger and embarrassment heated my cheeks, but I forced my breathing to stay even. “Can’t you get reprimanded for that?”
He scowled. “Probably. A lot of people hate the Protective Force, so we prefer to save the violence for more important things.”
“So then why’d you do it?”
He shot me a dark look. “I really wish I knew.” But the protective look in his eyes said he knew exactly why.
Was this another trick to get me to trust him? Would he really risk his reputation and his career like that?
He swallowed, then said in a grudging tone, “I know I need you to help me find Celeste and the damn Book of Sindal, but you’re more than an investigation to me, and I don’t know what to do about that.”
I gave him a look that suggested I wasn’t buying it, even if my heart tripped at his declaration.
“I know you don’t trust me,” he continued. “Hell, your aura screams it, but I’m not feeding you bullshit, Phoebe. I swear on my father’s grave. I had a thing for you back in high school, but your sister threatened to de-man me if I so much as touched you.”
“She did what?”
He shook his head. “Look, I get why she did it. I had a new girlfriend every two weeks. She was looking out for you, and maybe it was because I liked you so much that I obeyed her and kept it to flirting. I was nowhere near ready for anything serious, and you, Phoebe Whelan, are the kind of woman a man wants to spend the rest of his life with.”
My mouth dropped open in shock.
His hand gripped the steering wheel so tightly I was surprised it didn’t snap in two.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this now. The timing couldn’t be worse, but when I saw that mage manhandle you…” Rage covered his face. “I lost my shit.” He cast me a quick glance, then turned back to face the road. “I handled everything wrong back there because of my feelings for you, and if I’m honest, I’m worried they’re going to continue to get in the way of this investigation. I’ll keep worrying about your safety instead of focusing on finding your sister and the book.”
