by Stark, Jenn
“Furthermore, we—”
“Sara—what the hell. That’s you.” Nikki’s bark of surprise drew everyone’s attention, and with a stab of her finger, she switched the projected image onto the wall. We were looking at live feed of a busy Parisian square, which I knew at a glance was the exterior of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And the woman holding an ice pack against her face…
I stood up. “What the hell is happening here?” I asked sharply, bolting up from my seat. “What was this attack? Who’s involved?”
“Perhaps the better question is why does that woman look exactly like you?” Gustaf snapped back. “Who is she?”
“Emma Fearon. She’s a volunteer. Who is putting the camera on her?” I demanded, pointing at the second image in Simon’s collage of input feeds. “That is not standard video feed. That’s the feed from a scope, like from a sniper rifle or a—”
Even with the sound turned down to a bare murmur, the sound of a rifle shot was unmistakable in the primary feed, and the camera slewed away crazily as a spray of blood blanketed the face of Emma Fearon. The scope camera remained trained on her forehead as she jerked back, stumbling away from the first cameraman, who had clearly been shot directly in front of her. She turned her startled face toward the camera, the glamour of my face now wiped from her image, and her own glamour barely remaining intact, such that I could almost see her one working eye going wide with horror…
The screen went blank.
“What the hell.” I took several steps toward the wall, which suddenly went blank. Meanwhile, the phones of every single operator including Brody started a cacophony of buzzing, whirring, and rings.
Gustaf stood. “As you can see, the situation in Paris has escalated. We are leaving now. There will be no further action on the potential charges in Hamburg unless and until something else happens here. You are welcome to join us in Paris should you feel your presence will be a help and not a hindrance, but make no mistake, you are civilians and will act as such.” He stared at me. “The young woman possessed your face, Ms. Wilde. Clearly with your awareness. There will be an accounting for that, you can rest assured.”
“There’s definitely going to be an accounting,” I said. I looked at him sharply and then at Kreios. “Is she dead?”
Kreios shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“That’s a negative,” Nikki said as her fingers raced over the keys. “The cameraman is critically injured, but officers on scene believe that was intentional, that the sniper was not shooting to kill but to make a statement. The shot is too precise in too narrow a space for it to be anything else.”
“Right.” I scowled at the wall, now only covered with three separate feeds instead of five. I barely kept from crawling out of my skin as Gustaf went through the rest of his notes, asking questions about the Hamburg operation, the families involved, and constantly receiving updates from Paris. Finally, they stood.
“We’ll be in touch. If we receive word that there is any change at this location, we will notify you and return. Until then—do not interfere.”
Brody didn’t even bother making eye contact with me, for which I was grateful. He would keep me up to date on anything that was necessary, and he’d remain safe in his cocoon of Interpol agents. I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Except being able to do something.
“You cannot seriously expect us to sit around and wait for something bad to happen before we do anything,” I accused Armaeus, who rematerialized the moment the agents had cleared the room. “The Shadow Court has done everything but send us an engraved invitation to sit ringside as they turn the technoceuticals up to full blast.”
“We’re operating within the system,” the Magician said. “The system is not always as efficient, but it’s run by mortals. They have the right to self-determination.”
“You mean they have the right to get dead. You know the Shadow Court was well aware of who we were with and what we were talking about that whole time. They were also on the ground in Paris, ready to pull a trigger at the exact moment it would have caused the most damage. Once Interpol gets to Paris, they won’t find anything. The action will have moved on. We’re wasting our time.”
“We cannot move against the Shadow Court without proper information, and that’s coming,” Kreios said. “We’re too close to learning the truth about what Abigail did and how she did it. Once we have that, the memories will be restored to those who matter, and we’ll be at full strength to act. Other truths may come out as well. Important truths.”
“But why would they let that happen?” I protested. “Think about it. They’ve been ahead of us at every step. They have to know we’re close to unraveling whatever spell Abigail put in place. So then what? The Council’s going to remember what the Shadow Court is, but so what? How many people would that be? Two? Three?”
Nikki leaned back in her seat. “The Magician. Death. Eshe. The Hierophant. And, technically, your dad.”
“Fantastic. Five people on this planet who might care, and let’s face it, the Hierophant, Death, and Eshe won’t give a crap. And Dad probably was barely aware of them when they did exist. Which leaves only one player who could cause them problems.” I turned and looked at Armaeus. “You. Why aren’t they trying to take you out? Why are they messing around in Paris?”
“Even compromised, I’m hardly an accessible target.” Armaeus steepled his hands, resting his elbows on the table. “Still, it’s an interesting point. If I’m the only one who knows the history of the Shadow Court after all these years, what relevance is that information? Why are they concerned about me unraveling Abigail’s spells? If they drew no attention to themselves, they would earn me as an enemy, but not a focused one.”
“Unless…” I frowned. There was one part of this that’d never made sense to me. Abigail had been a very conflicted soul, sure, but the nature of conflict was, well—conflict. We knew that she’d taken the Shadow Court from Armaeus’s memory, but had she taken something else too, much as he’d stripped away the harsher elements of his personality in his bid to become a better Magician for a changing world? Something that would keep the Shadow Court in check? A last-ditch protection to help her sleep at night after her betrayal of the Council?
And did the Shadow Court know that bomb was still out there, waiting for someone to detonate it?
“Um…those spells that you stuffed into the In Between,” I said, turning to Armaeus. “Were they all intact when we encountered them a second time? Did you recognize all of them?”
He frowned at me. “Those spells were the sum total of every failure I ever encountered as Magician. Those I made myself, and those I’d liberated from other souls. I could not take back all of them. You removed me from the In Between.”
“But you recognized them. All of them. You were able to say, ‘Oh, that one, yeah. You bastard, I got you.’ Every single time? There weren’t any that should’ve been there but weren’t?”
He glanced toward the wall, clearly thinking. “I fail to see the relevance…”
“You think Abigail Strand removed certain broken magic from Armaeus along with his memory of the Shadow Court?” Kreios asked. “Magic relevant to constraining the Shadow Court?”
“I mean, it’s possible,” I hedged. “She had to have done something as a backstop in case she was making the wrong choice. She was a good person who had a very healthy dose of self-doubt. She would’ve had something in place.”
Nikki made a face. “But will that help now? I mean great, you’ve remembered the Shadow Court existed, and maybe there was something back in the day that could stop them, but let’s face it, this intel is a hundred and fifty years old. We still can’t find the Shadow Court even though we know they exist. What’s to say the old trick to box them up still works either?”
“Fair,” Armaeus allowed. “But even if it doesn’t provide the whole answer, it could provide clues to that answer. I need to return to the—”
“No.” Kreios and I respond
ed at the same time, but it was Kreios who kept talking. “You collapsed, Armaeus. Simon could see the whole thing, even compromised as he was. You are not strong enough to take on the sum total of your broken magic. Not yet.”
“Miss Wilde is not going back there alone,” Armaeus argued. “She’s not—”
“That’s not necessary either.” I cut him off before he could remind me again of my lack of skills and force me to throat-punch him. What was his deal, anyway? I needed the old Armaeus back who thought I could do anything. He’d been pushy, but he wasn’t infuriating. “We don’t need the In Between. We need the library at Justice Hall. That’s where Abigail would have stored information about a spell that would stop the Shadow Court even as she cut the Court out of your awareness. That may even have been how she learned about such a spell. Are there any complaints against you, Armaeus, that you know of?” I’d actually never considered the possibility of the Council behaving badly and drawing the ire of an abused Connected before. It…certainly bore looking into.
Armaeus inclined his head. “I can’t imagine any, no. Nor would Justice keep them on hand if there was. There would be no value.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
I thought about the pitch Jarvis Fuggeren or his doppelgänger had made to me. He couldn’t seriously think that I’d come over to the dark side, but what if that wasn’t his play to begin with? What if his entire point was to sow discord between me and Armaeus, and…then what? Kill Armaeus? I’d like to see him try. Kill me? That also seemed like a less than brilliant move. I’d helped push the gods back into their places, and I had the weight of the Arcana Council behind me. While no one was untouchable, I’d give anyone a run for their money these days.
“Sara.” Nikki’s voice recalled me to the room, but she wasn’t looking at me—or at her screen. She was looking at the wall. The wall which was once again filled with images of people milling through the courtyard of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Only the view of these cameras wasn’t at all from the nearby handcams of news outlets or video streamers. It was an image from a rifle scope, like the one we’d seen fixed on Emma’s face.
Only it wasn’t solely on Emma’s face anymore.
A large, hulking Mongolian in military gear stood talking with police officers just outside the main steps to the church, imposing in his might. His face was careworn, his expression grim. It was the head of security of the House of Swords, General Ma-Singh, whom I’d requested to come and provide security. Beside him, half blocked by him, stood Emma, wrapped in a silver reflective blanket.
A second scope image turned on, both the enormous Mongolian and the petite Frenchwoman directly in its sights. Until Ma-Singh shifted his position, placing his body fully in front of Emma’s. He was protecting her, as I’d asked him to do, unconsciously creating a barrier of perfect safety between her and the rest of the—
The violent report of guns firing echoed loud enough to be heard on the other side of the veil.
“No!” I gasped, my hands going out as horror rocketed through me. No one—no one—Could be hurt again because of me. No one!
But I was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I want it. All of it. Now.”
I didn’t even try to temper the rage in my voice as Mrs. French scurried away. I was left staring at the trio of Abigail Strand’s young librarian assistants. They had no idea what they were looking for. To them, it was a game. To them, after living in this library year after year, decade after decade, century after century, the world on the outside must have taken on an ephemeral meaning, abstract.
I hadn’t told them their search was a matter of life or death. They wouldn’t know what that meant either. But the fact of the matter was, Ma-Singh was in critical condition in a hospital because I’d sent him into a battle I hadn’t fully understood, and Emma Fearon was one room over, traumatized to the point of immobility. They’d both recover—Armaeus had assured me of that, had sworn it to me as if his own life depended on it—but I’d failed them both. Again.
I wasn’t going to fail anymore.
“We have found several mentions of rogue power, ma’am.” The tallest boy, Bobby Haymoor, said, his eyes wide beneath his mop of unruly hair. “And I do know there are complaints against the Magician—this Magician, anyway. The one in office now. I’ve only seen him a few times…”
I grimaced. Something else I would be taking care of, but I couldn’t focus on that right now. I couldn’t focus on much of anything beyond the face of young, brave Emma Fearon and the irrepressible, larger-than-life Ma-Singh. Two people who’d believed in me. Two people I’d—
Stop it. I pushed the useless thoughts away. Back in the conference room in Hamburg, I hadn’t waited for anyone to act, to talk. I’d simply returned to Justice Hall to finish what I’d started but had left to other hands to complete. As I did everything. As I refused to do anymore.
“Here we are, here we are,” Mrs. French called out, announcing her return before she opened the door of the library and stepped through, her arms full of cases and books. Three more assistants followed directly behind, a wagon trail of information. “There’s quite a bit, though. We’ve read through it, but nothing popped out.”
“If she left it, she wanted it to be found, whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not,” I said. “Spread it out on the floor, nothing overlapping.”
I thought about what I knew about Abigail Strand as the boys and Mrs. French scrambled to complete my request. The last Justice of the Arcana Council had endured a condition once known as multiple personality disorder, now known more commonly as dissociative identity disorder, brought on by the trauma of her young life. She was a gifted Connected and had been cruelly used in experiments by a Connected she’d trusted. A doctor of science, a man of refinement and good manners. He’d been so much better educated than the young Abigail, so much more sophisticated, that she’d been out of her depth, willingly submitting to his experiments to tease out greater and greater abilities from her, abilities that lay beneath the fragile crust of her mental barriers.
In some ways, she and I were all too alike. But while I’d drawn the interest of Armaeus, who’d only wanted me to reach my highest potential, Abigail had drawn the attention of a predator. And while I’d been able to keep people from crawling around in my mind, once I made up said mind to do so, Abigail had been forced to slip into other identities to cope, always deferent, always hiding. Until she’d turned on the bastard and killed him flat.
Armaeus was the one who’d discovered her that day. He’d felt the disturbance in the psychic balance on the planet, and he’d investigated. By the time he’d reached Abigail, her tormentor was dead, and the Magician was left with an unreasonably powerful Connected whose mind was barely intact. He’d elevated her to a role on the Council to give her the protections she’d needed, and to protect the world from her. The accession had been good for Abigail, he’d believed. She’d seemed far happier, balanced, and productive. Right up until she died three years later, under circumstances that no one to this day fully understood.
“Who got to you, Abigail?” I murmured, staring at the cases before me. “And what did they convince you to do?”
Mrs. French, eyeing me worriedly, started speaking. “Justice Strand was a good woman, a brave woman, Justice Wilde. She wouldn’t willingly harm anyone. She only wanted to protect them, she surely did.”
“Protect them.” I nodded, my gaze still on the cases as I continued murmuring my thoughts aloud. “And the Shadow Court could do that, couldn’t they, Abigail?”
“Well, I do say she didn’t tell me much about the—oh, my head.” Mrs. French murmured, lifting a hand to rub her temple. I didn’t miss her pained sigh, and as I studied the cases and coffers, I flicked my third eye open and braced myself for the light show.
I wasn’t disappointed. A clear third of the cases were shooting off rockets like the Fourth of July, and the rest of them glowed with barely suppressed power.
&n
bsp; “What am I looking at?” I asked more loudly, pointing to a set of the brightest boxes, all crowded together.
Mrs. French dropped her hand from her temple and obligingly sank to the ground, her heavy Victorian skirts billowing out around her as she picked up the first box. “These are complaints that came in during Justice Strand’s time here. It’s why we set them aside like that. But the boys couldn’t open them, the dears. They thought they could at one time, were sure of it, but they might as well be solid blocks of lead now. I mean, good luck with it yourself, but—oh. Oh, well, then.”
The case now lay open on her lap, surrounding her with a corona of light.
“Ahhh…how’re you doing over there, Mrs. French?” I asked as the light flared, making me take a step back. The shard of Nul Magis in my hand throbbed, and I wondered, fleetingly, if I could quell Abigail Strand’s wards on these boxes. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to do anything to harm Mrs. French—and there was too little I knew about the nature of Abigail’s abilities. She already appeared to be far stronger than we’d given her credit for. If my attempts to remove the boxes from Mrs. French or open them on my own triggered some other fell magic…I wanted no part of that.
I closed my fist around the Nul Magis, willing it to simmer down.
Meanwhile, Mrs. French fished a delicate scroll out of the case and squinted at it. “Quite all right, quite all right,” she said absently. “This one is centered in a small town in Austria near Salzburg and dealt with—well, a rather unfortunate incident, a little hamlet that had been quite completely burned to the ground by the Magician.”
I blinked. “Burned to the ground?”
She nodded, still seeming totally distracted, almost mesmerized by the contents of the case. “Very sad. The complainants weren’t Connected, but they were entering their plea on behalf of the Connecteds who’d died, it seemed. One of the richest families in the area, known for their largesse, helping the community thrive, and all that. So…so very tragic. To see them go up in flames like that was devastating for everyone, and they begged for help.”
