“We’re going to meet, in person, in the Eververse.”
I halt with one hand on my closet doorknob. “Come again?”
“More specifically,” he continues, “inside the Eververse Bridge that exits near your apartment.”
The term “Eververse Bridge” strikes a familiar chord, and I dig up the memory of my talk with Lucian a few weeks back, after Foley stumbled into my apartment, bleeding from a gory gut wound that would’ve killed a human being. Lucian told me that Eververse Bridges were space-bending pathways between two points on Earth that were built by the fae a long time ago and were largely abandoned when most of the faeries moved back to the courts. He also claimed that he and some of his associates use the Bridges only as a last resort in times of great need. Because there’s a chance the fae might notice their paths being used without permission and dole out punishments to trespassers the way only faeries can punish people.
“Uh, is it safe?” I ask.
“Given the circumstances, it’s the safest option.”
“I don’t like that answer.”
“Me either,” he admits, “but that’s how dire the situation is.”
“You mean my situation?”
“Unfortunately.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and bite my tongue, hard, as I process this scenario I’ve somehow gotten myself tangled up in. Apparently, something regarding this case with the probable magic hitman is even more dangerous than I previously understood. And Foley is so paranoid about the intel he wants to pass me regarding this danger that he refuses to speak it over the phone for fear that someone might overhear him via some kind of listening device or spell that may have been placed in my apartment, presumably while I was out chasing cloaked phantoms and invisible monsters today.
Yeah, so, I’m going to thoroughly check every nook and cranny of this apartment.
I finally put the phone back to my ear. “All right. I’ll meet with you.” I tug open my closet door and collect some clothes. “But you’re going to have to tell me how to enter the Eververse Bridge, and I’m going to need really clear step-by-step instructions. Because at this point in my magic studies, I’m good at blowing shit up and pretty much nothing else.”
In the background on Foley’s end, someone snickers.
I snap, “Fuck off, Lucian.”
Lucian just laughs louder.
“Don’t mind him,” Foley says. “He’s had a long week, and he needs some humor in his life.”
“Well, I’m not going to be the butt of his jokes. Tell him to watch a damn comedy sketch or something.”
“Real-life stupidity is always better than make-believe,” Lucian drawls.
“Do you want me to zap your ass? Because I’m sure if I can kill Lizzie Banks that I—”
Foley clears his throat. “We’re on a rather tight schedule today, so if we could hurry up…”
I snort. “Fine. How do I enter the Bridge?”
Foley explains it as three simple steps. First, I need to reach out with my magic sense and find the distortion in the veil between Earth and the Eververse. Second, I need to firmly “grasp” it with a thread of magic energy. And last, I need to “tug” that thread until I tear a hole in space-time, which will appear as a ripple in the air that distorts the view of everything behind it.
After that, it’s merely a matter of stepping into the ripple, which should lead to a somewhat psychedelic-looking tunnel that appears to be roughly a quarter mile in length. Foley explicitly warns me not to touch the walls or ceiling of the tunnel, because then I’ll get sucked out of the Bridge and spit into faerie territory in the Eververse. And faeries do not like intruders. At all.
“As long as you avoid that blunder,” Foley finishes, “you should be fine.”
“Thanks for the reassurance,” I reply, not at all reassured.
“We’ll be waiting for you in the Bridge. See you soon.”
He hangs up before I have a chance to voice my many, many, many concerns.
Chapter Twelve
Not that my concerns matter.
I need to hear Foley out.
So I toss my phone on the bed, tug on some jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of boots, and then grab a gun and a couple of knives and shove them into my waistband. Because you can never be too careful in my line of work.
On my way out the door, I intentionally ignore my discarded DSI coat, in which I tucked my spare set of suppression rings. Foley and Lucian already know about my magic, and if I do end up goofing and getting dragged into fae territory, the last thing I’ll want to do is make myself weaker.
I step out into the hall, looking both ways to make sure nothing is lying in wait to attack me. When no poison knives come flying at my head, and no invisible tentacles try to spear me through, I lock the door, tuck my key securely in my pocket, and head to the stairwell. The Bridge is located on the landing that lets out on my floor, so no one should see me coming or going this time of night.
Shutting the stairwell door softly behind me, I reach out with my magic sense and hunt for the disturbance that indicates a weak point in the veil. Foley said I would know it when I saw it, and he was right. The distortion appears to be a piece of the air about six inches in width and twice that in length where the light in the hall is reflected backward, creating a strange “cutout” that doesn’t match the rest of my surroundings.
Step two seems relatively straightforward now that I can see the distortion. I funnel a small amount of energy down the length of my arm, into my finger, and then whip it outward into the air and hook the end around the edge of the distortion, sort of like I’m casting a fishing rod. With the hook firmly caught in the distortion, I roughly yank my magic thread backward, and before my eyes, the tiny distortion tears wide open with a rush of air and a shift in pressure that makes my ears pop. The rippling portal in space that forms in the small distortion’s place is about two inches taller than me and just wide enough to squeeze through. Clearly, the fae are not a particularly large species.
“Okay, Kinsey,” I murmur. “This is just like that time you jumped into the Etruscan Underworld. Nothing more complicated. So hop on in there and be done with it.”
I inch toward the portal. I can’t make out anything on the other side—the face of the portal looks all too much like the endless void of space—but, trusting Foley, I reach forward and slowly stick my right hand inside. A tingling sensation encompasses everything up to my wrist, but it’s not uncomfortable in any way. Taking that as a good sign, I adjust my position until I’m aligned with the direct center of the portal, so I don’t accidentally bump the walls of the tunnel when I—
Something grabs my hand and yanks me through the portal.
I pop out the other side screaming and smack the ground face first, almost breaking my nose. Immediately, Lucian fucking Ardelean, the phantom hand grabber, doubles over in laughter. Foley, who’s standing about ten feet behind Lucian, plants his face in his palm and shakes his head. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed in me or Lucian, or both of us, and I don’t particularly care. I command my pounding heart to calm the heck down, peel myself off the ground, and wind back my fist so I can ram it into Lucian’s jaw.
It’s the wild view that stops me from imprudently starting a fistfight with a vampire.
Standing inside the Eververse Bridge is like being inside a kaleidoscope, the curved wall and ceilings a mosaic of ten thousand different shapes, each one shining brightly with the glow of midday sunlight. Upon closer inspection of the nearest shapes, I find that each one shows a sliver of a colorful early autumn landscape, patches of trees with changing leaves, babbling brooks, fields of mature wheat and corn. It takes me a minute to decode what exactly I’m seeing: the sections of the Eververse realm this Bridge burrows through, compressed around the structure of the space-bending tunnel.
Comprehension dawns. I’ll get spit into fae territory if I touch the walls or ceiling because I’m already standing inside fae territory…just slightly ou
tside the physical plane. Awe sweeps through me, leaving a shiver in its wake. Because this sort of mastery over the fabric of reality indicates an understanding of both science and magic on a level so far beyond my own that I can’t even convince myself for a fraction of a second that I would stand a fighting chance against one of the creatures who built the Bridges. Thank god the fae don’t operate on Earth much anymore. If they were involved in DSI cases…
“Are you going to hit me or not?” Lucian teases.
I lower my fist, tug the wrinkles out of my T-shirt, and hunt for dirt on my jeans. There is no dirt, owing to the fact the floor of the tunnel is nothing but a transparent piece of what feels like glass separating me from an endless black abyss.
Comforting.
I drag my gaze away from the infinite blackness and glare at Lucian. “That was uncalled for.”
“On the contrary, kid, that was hilarious.” He claps, grinning up a storm. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”
I have the urge to continue arguing with him, but it’s pointless. He’s an asshole through and through. “Whatever. But fun time’s over. Tell me what you want to tell me, and let me get back to sleep. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, because as you seem to already know, someone’s having a blast committing a murder spree in Aurora.” A look over my shoulder tells me the entry portal closed of its own accord, so none of my neighbors are liable to fall into it by accident. I guess I have to constantly supply it with magic to keep it open longer than a few seconds. “So, what’s the big deal?” I add, turning back to face Lucian and Foley. “You made this sound important.”
They share a glance, and Foley says, “Our sources in Aurora say that Alexander Targus visited the DSI building today.”
“This is about him?” I ask, surprised.
Lucian nods, his mirth fading. “Tell us about your encounter with him.”
Unsure where they’re going with this, I recall the brief meeting with Targus, and explain we guessed that he was feeding us false leads to throw us off course so the ICM could pursue the murderous sorcerer without DSI interference. By my last few sentences of the story, both Foley and Lucian are nodding along, like they accept the theory as valid, but they both wear troubled expressions that clue me in on the fact there’s a greater mystery afoot. I wrap up with, “There something about Targus that we should know?”
Lucian shoots Foley a scowl that clearly says, Told you so.
Foley waves off his concerns and moves closer to me. “There is something you should know. But what we’re about to tell you cannot be repeated outside this Bridge. To anyone. Anywhere. Anytime. Ever.”
My brows draw together. “But if it’s relevant to how DSI handles Targus—”
Foley raises his hand, cutting me off. “Cal, look, I owe you about a thousand favors after what you did for me last month, and that’s why I’ve decided to give you this information against Lucian’s advice.”
Lucian throws up his arms, as if to show that he believes Foley is making a huge mistake. But he doesn’t open his mouth to try and sway his lord’s decision. He has too much respect either for Foley himself, or for Foley’s new role as the elder of House Tepes. Lucian’s an advisor, as a member of the house’s intelligence network, but he’s not Foley’s boss in any capacity. And he won’t act like he is, even if Foley suffers a few blunders due to his naïveté.
“But it’s imperative,” Foley continues in a deadly serious tone, “that you share this information with no one. You can use it to protect yourself and others, but you can’t give away to anyone that you know it.”
“This sounds like one of those things I don’t want to know.”
“It’ll be a burden to carry the secret, for sure, but it’s one House Tepes has carried for centuries.”
“Centuries?” I roll the word around on my tongue. “Now you’ve got me intrigued.”
Foley holds out his hand. “If you’re willing to accept me passing this knowledge to you, then you’re going to need to swear a formal oath that you’ll keep it secret from everyone except those already aware of it.”
I drop my gaze to his outstretched hand. “And what happens if I break the oath?”
“You authorize House Tepes to take out against you whatever retaliatory actions we see fit.” The words fly off Foley’s tongue like he practiced saying them in a mirror, and given his insecure disposition, he probably did. “Do you agree to this stipulation?”
I mentally waver back and forth. Foley wouldn’t decide to share this information if he didn’t believe I’d really need it sometime in the near future, but if I can’t pass it on to anyone else, I’ll be severely limited in how I can act on the information if whatever issue it addresses does arise.
Ignorance is bliss, says an authoritative voice in the back of my head, but you can’t afford to be caught unaware when there are serious dangers lurking around every corner.
Unable to find a flaw in that logic, I reach out and take Foley’s hand. “Is there something specific I need to say?”
“Repeat after me,” he says. “I swear to uphold all stipulations, limitations, and conditions relevant to the conveyance of highly classified information from agents of House Tepes to myself, as formally outlined by said agents of House Tepes prior to the passing of this information.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I repeat him word for word.
“Accepted.” Foley shakes my hand once and lets it go. “Lucian?”
Lucian wipes the last vestige of humor off his face, though he retains that little quirk in the corner of his lips he always wears when talking down to me. His amber eyes scour me from head to toe, either making some kind of judgment about my appearance or searching for some physical difference I’ve developed between now and the last time we met.
Lucian’s obviously interested in learning more about my heritage, since he couldn’t identify what creature the nonhuman half of my bloodline belongs to, but he feigns indifference at the close of his once-over, no obvious conclusion splashed across his face. He tucks his hands into his coat pockets and says, “So, how much do you know about the ICM’s official stance on war?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
Lucian tugs on the rim of his hat, annoyed by how slow I am on the uptake. “Their policy regarding their members engaging in violent conflict, organizing attacks against their enemies, and the like.”
“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck, picking through my knowledge of the ICM, until a memory from last year floats to the surface. Erica and me, sitting in the mom and pop diner, her stirring a cup of coffee while she explains to me why the ICM prefers to snub DSI most of the time. Her words slip out of my mouth: “Officially, they take a stance of nonviolence. They aren’t an army of witches and wizards on the prowl, hunting down the ‘naughty monsters.’ They’re only supposed to fight in defense of themselves, their peers, or those under their protection and purview.”
Lucian cocks his head to the side as he dissects my statements. He must figure out who I’m quoting, because a little smile crosses his lips before he replies, “Exactly. The official line of the ICM is that they’re an organization focused on promoting safe magic practices across the globe by offering robust education programs to major practitioners and fostering cross-border cooperation and ‘friendship’ among practitioners to prevent the formation of ideological factions resulting from international political conflicts.”
“Okay,” I say. “And?”
“And it’s a load of bullshit.” He stomps his foot on the ground, and I tense up reflexively, expecting his vampire strength to somehow crack the glasslike floor. But it doesn’t even quaver. “Unbeknownst to most, if not all, of the regular members of the ICM, that so-called commitment to nonviolence is a complete and utter lie. Behind the scenes, and with the express approval of the High Court, the ICM maintains a secret army of highly trained witch and wizard soldiers.”
My pulse quickens. “I don’t understan
d. If the ICM has a standing army, wouldn’t they deploy their soldiers to handle major threats like the Methuselah Group?”
Lucian shakes his head. “The High Court doesn’t use this army in the traditional way. They’re used more like spies—operatives sent on individual missions—than a singular fighting force. As far as I know, the Court has never deployed all of them, or even a quarter of them, to resolve any one issue. Most of the time, they send exactly one.” He lets out a breath that I’m tempted to call “shuddering,” though I know Lucian would never admit to being nervous. “And most of the time, one is all that’s required.”
“How’s that?” I dare to ask, my stomach in knots.
“Because,” answers Foley in a small voice, wringing his hands so hard they’re lily white, “every member of the Choir of Rooks is nearly equal in magic strength to the High Court practitioners.”
A painful memory surges up from a dark place in my mind and strikes me so hard I nearly stumble to my knees. The memory of me in the old DSI garage, slowly bleeding to death from gunshot wounds while I watch Omotoke Iyanda of the High Court take down Delos like he’s nothing but an unruly child and then cast a counter-curse—over the entire city at once—to destroy Delos’ contagious curse and cure all those dying from its insidious symptoms.
Erica would’ve needed several practitioners helping her to cast that same counter-curse, which was the reason we’d broken into the DSI office that day, to ask for help from the minor practitioners on DSI’s payroll. But Iyanda? She didn’t need anyone to help her. And more than that, she didn’t even break a sweat slinging magic on a scale that Erica Milburn, the most badass witch I knew at the time, couldn’t fathom performing on her own.
I try to imagine an entire army of practitioners like Iyanda, but it won’t compute. Because the level of havoc such a force could wreak is beyond a scale I can picture.
“Tell me about them,” I say breathlessly, “the Choir of Rooks.”
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