by Megan Crewe
Ruthless Magic
Conspiracy of Magic #1
Megan Crewe
Copyright © 2018 by Megan Crewe
Cover design by Jennifer Munswami, J.M. RISING HORSE CREATIONS
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2018
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-989114-02-5
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-989114-00-1
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-989114-01-8
To Lucas, the best kind of magic I know
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Next in the Conspiracy of Magic series
A Mortal Song excerpt
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Chapter One
Finn
When I’d rehearsed this conversation with my father in my head, I’d been a shining example of wit, passion, and the famous Lockwood composure. Unfortunately, my imagination had lied. I was on the verge of pacing a hole in his study’s Persian rug, and I appeared to have lost my ability to string more than three words together. All of which was extremely bad timing, given that the course of my future as a mage might be decided in the next half hour.
I managed to partly untangle my tongue. “What I mean is, no official decisions have been made yet. For what track I’ll be put on at the college. Right?”
Dad nodded. He’d shut his laptop after he’d welcomed me in, and now he stood by his broad mahogany desk. Behind him, the drapes were pulled back from the tall windows. The warm sunlight pouring in caught on the distinguished sprinkling of silver in his light brown hair.
“The placement committee won’t meet until the letters have all been sent and the acceptances received,” he said.
I drew in a breath. The smells of Dad’s study were a mix of intimidating and comforting: all those ancient leather-bound magical texts on the shelves at my left, the lingering hint of woodsmoke from the fireplace at my right. “And Granduncle Raymond will have some say in my placement. That’s what he’s coming to talk to you about.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Dad sounded calm enough, but that impression wasn’t the whole story. My right thumb spun in a rhythmic circle against my fingertips—a simple casting I’d used so often it’d become automatic. A dissonant ripple of tension sharpened amid the ever-present whisper of magic against my skin. Dad didn’t think Granduncle Raymond was going to have anything inspiring to say about my abilities either. It was scarcely a secret that I was the least favorite grandnephew.
“You will be Chosen, Finn,” Dad added. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“I know.” The fact of it didn’t settle my nerves. It was one small certainty leading to a vast unknown.
“Of course you’d like to have some say in your career. I’ll try to see that you’re offered a few options.”
My throat constricted. What I’d like was to be able to conduct the magic around us as easily as I could breathe—to conjure and ’chant so well that the College of the North American Confederation of Mages would be begging for my attendance rather than squeezing me in as a token to appease my family.
I’d tried. O gods, how I’d tried. I’d memorized so much ancient Greek and Latin I dreamed in it. I’d pored over texts on technique until my eyes felt ready to bleed, and I’d performed the scales until my voice was hoarse. I’d spent years practicing the meditations and calculations that were supposed to hone the mind and attune it to the magic. So what if none of it had been quite enough? I would keep trying, all the way through college and every day after.
“I’m aware I’m barely ranking above the bottom quarter of my class,” I said—flippantly, to offset the uncomfortable twist in my gut at the admission. “I realize I won’t end up as advisor to the Director of the Joint Staff like Margo or as chief whatever-it-is-he-does-in-that-penthouse-office like Hugh. I just want to be doing something real. Something useful.”
As Dad had done when he was little older than me, campaigning for mages to finally step out of the shadows and fully contribute to society. We have a gift, he often said. It gives us a responsibility to help everyone, not just the magical.
“I want to get on track to enter the National Defense division,” I went on.
Dad’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That work requires a significant measure of applied magic.”
“Yes, and I know I’d have to settle for a minor position because of that. But I’d rather be doing what I can to preserve the country than be head inputter of tax records or secretary of office supplies.”
“I don’t have any direct sway. It’s your granduncle who’ll make the recommendation.”
“Right. So I thought, when he arrives, I could perform a demonstration. Show him how I’ve advanced my skills in a relevant area. To help... inform his recommendation.”
“Hmmm.” Dad rubbed his jaw. “What sort of demonstration are you planning?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I was hoping you could advise. I’m reasonably competent at locating and tracing, though I still need to work on my range. I’ve been building my shielding abilities, and I think I’ve found an enhancement to standard practice that might be useful in certain scenarios. And—”
Interest lit Dad’s face. He leaned back against his desk, his hand resting beside the obsidian paperweight I’d made him when I was seven. He’d kept the damned thing all this time even though the ’chantment on it was so weak that disturbed papers would merely coast more slowly rather than holding in place—unless they were actually beneath the weight, which defeated the purpose of having ’chanted it. I could do a proper job of it now, but it seemed embarrassingly childish to offer.
“Let’s see this shield of yours,” Dad said. “Innovation counts for a lot.”
I straightened the collar of my linen button-down, willing away my nerves. Then I inhaled deeply. The quiver of magical energy tickled over my tongue. If time hadn’t been of the essence, I might have reveled in it for a moment.
With every thought trained on my intent, I rolled the words over my lips at a lilting cadence: “Qua requieverit herba, moenia...” The magic trembled through my muscles and bones as the rhythm of my voice twined with the energy’s innate melody. Some shuddered away from me, as always, but I felt a significant portion resonate in harmony.
Modulating my poetic phrase at a steady volume, I directed the rising hum of magic into a shimmering barrier between Dad and me. My
hands lifted with it, guiding my focus. I had to pitch the vibration perfectly so that any offensive casting would bounce off rather than shatter the shield. When I’d asked Prisha to test my last attempt, my construction had held up to a good battering.
I slid into a new phrase, calling a glinting play of light into the shield’s surface—a pattern to soothe the minds of anyone observing it. The effect wasn’t entirely my own invention, but I hadn’t read about it being put to this use before. In the midst of an attack or a bomb scare, presumably reducing panic would be a valuable feature.
My view of Dad had blurred. A smile crossed his lips. He was impressed.
I sang the poetic lines again in a crescendo and pushed the conjured shield up to the ceiling and out to the walls. The energy raced through me, piercing the roots of my teeth and the bases of my fingernails, but I could carry it farther. I’d never cast a barrier much bigger than myself before, but protecting only one person was hardly the scale National Defense required. I should at least—
I pushed a little too hard, too fast, and the magic I’d managed to bend stretched too thin. A tear opened in the shield. It gaped wide before I could catch it, as swiftly as the bag of winds loosed by Odysseus’s sailors. A groan escaped my mouth.
The glittering mass crashed to the floor and shivered away into the air.
Dad’s face fell with it. His shoulders drooped for an instant before he suppressed his immediate reaction.
A hot burn formed behind my eyes. I blinked quickly. The only thing that could make this disaster worse was him witnessing me break into tears.
“Well…” I began. My voice came out a croak. I cleared my throat, my thoughts darting to Granduncle Raymond’s periodic reminiscences of the city’s “golden days.” “Perhaps a cabaret show instead?”
Dad’s lips twitched with amusement: a tiny consolation for my crushing failure.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “I know how hard you’ve worked.” He rested his hand on my shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. The gesture only twisted me up more.
Before I could hit on some way to salvage the situation, the doorbell chimed. Granduncle Raymond had arrived early. I trailed after Dad into the hall, but I didn’t quite trust my composure enough to follow him downstairs.
Dad’s smooth tenor and my granduncle’s dry, gravelly bass carried up the stairwell. As always, Granduncle Raymond got straight to the point.
“It’s time we talked about Finnegan.”
“He’s right upstairs—”
“Just the two of us.”
Dad couldn’t argue with that laying-down-the-law tone, not when Granduncle Raymond literally did lay down the laws across all the Confederation with the other nine members of the inner Circle. There were some lines even family didn’t cross.
Their footsteps approached, along with the intermittent tap of Granduncle Raymond’s walking stick. Just for show—the old man’s stout frame still carried him without a hitch. To spare myself being dismissed directly, I ducked into the adjoining guest room.
At the click of the study door shutting, an impulse struck me. It would be a simple thing even for me to ’chant the plaster a touch thinner, temporarily, so the voices would travel through. Normally I wouldn’t have considered listening in on a private conversation, but it was my life they were hashing out.
I sat on the bed’s goose-down duvet and pressed my pale hands to the maroon wall. After riffling through my mental compendium of memorized verses, I settled on a line from a Greek play. I murmured it to send the magic wriggling through the particles of plaster beneath the wallpaper. A chalky taste crept into my mouth.
Granduncle Raymond’s voice filtered through the wall. “...certain expectations of magical performance. We don’t want to put him in a position where he’ll cause us embarrassment.”
I winced.
“I don’t believe that will be a problem,” Dad said tightly.
“He’s your son. I understand. But we need to be realistic. The committee will examine his Academy records and propose a career based on those, within my guidelines. And I expect that proposal to go unchallenged.”
“There isn’t any chance we could arrange a special curriculum for him, to see if his abilities could be further extended?”
Granduncle Raymond guffawed. “Have you denied him any opportunity in the last sixteen years? He’s had his chance to shine if he were going to.”
I closed my eyes as hot shame washed through me. Dad’s reply was too quiet for me to distinguish the words.
“Keep in mind we have a delicate situation to maintain,” Granduncle Raymond said. “The mage-averse factions within the Dull leadership are making noise again. We haven’t brought any decisive victories abroad in too long. It’s vital that the Confederation as a whole, and the families in the Circle in particular, appear competent to anyone looking on. Before this... intermingling, a more flexible solution might have been possible.”
“We failed society much more often when we were working in secret,” Dad said with the flatness of an argument he’d made too many times before.
“But at least then the Dulls couldn’t hold our failures against us. Or attack us for faults they merely imagine. Your father...”
I pushed off the bed before Granduncle Raymond could finish his sentence. My grandfather was his trump card in any political argument with my father. Shortly after the Unveiling, Granduncle Raymond’s younger brother Edward had been killed at a public conference turned anti-magic riot.
Dad spoke of him as a hero. Granduncle Raymond made him sound like a victim of misguided principles.
As I wandered across the room, a flash of unnatural color outside the guest bedroom window caught my eye. Frowning, I stepped up to the glass.
Partly hidden by the branches of the elm outside, a spiral of colorful sparkles gleamed against the muted blue of the sky. The image was clearly magical.
I didn’t recall hearing plans for an official display. Technically, all noncommercial magic usage was legal as long as it didn’t break any other laws, but large-scale, amateur public conjurings were rare. What was this?
Any excuse to leave Granduncle Raymond and his disparaging remarks behind seemed like a good one. I hurried down to the front door and out into the August heat. The intersection where 81st Street opened up to Madison Avenue would give me the best view.
I stopped on the corner amid the acrid tang of car exhaust and craned my neck. My jaw went slack, and the twisted feeling inside me was swept off by a wave of awe.
The unwinding spiral I’d observed from the window was merely the tail—the tail of an immense serpentine dragon soaring across the sky. The rich green-and-blue speckles of its scales darkened to violet along its belly and blazed orange at the tips of its wings and the crest of its head. The illusion swerved around a puff of cloud, and the hues shifted as if reflecting the sunlight.
The vibrations of the magic tingled in my ears, on my tongue, and over my skin, pulsing in time with the dragon’s dance. The sensation drew an ache like homesickness into my chest.
Such a conjuring required not only power but meticulously controlled skill. Hearkening the magic, I knew I’d never cast anything even half that potent.
The Madison Avenue traffic had slowed. Astonished faces peered through windshields at the sky. If I found the dragon impressive, I couldn’t imagine how it struck the magicless.
None of their heads turned at the flit of a smaller conjuring that streaked past me: someone’s letter of evaluation. A shiver of anticipation shot down my spine, but there was no telling whom it was meant for. This segment of the Upper East Side had been an enclave for mages since well before the Unveiling, and all of us who’d turned sixteen in the last school year would receive our letter today.
After Granduncle Raymond’s comments about what awaited me once I received mine, I’d rather look at the dragon.
A bright voice rang out behind me. “There you are!” Prisha slung a slim brown arm over my shoul
ders. “Gawping at the sky?”
I elbowed my best friend lightly. “I’d say that’s worth gawping at.”
Prisha tilted her head to contemplate the dragon. “Ah, I could pull that off if I really wanted to.”
“I’d like to see that,” I said, keeping my tone light. Prisha liked to act as if she didn’t attempt major castings because she simply didn’t care to, so I might have been the only person who knew she cared very much—about how people saw her, about their expectations of her. Although the Mathurs were old money, they were the newest of new magic. Prisha was the first to show any talent. Everyone else in our year at the Academy had magic intertwined through their ancestry, like I did.
Better to do a lot of little things very well, Prisha had told me in one of her rawer moments, than to try something big and bungle it and watch them sneer as if they knew all along that I’d never measure up. Given the number of textbooks I’d smuggled out of the Academy library to page through in secret in my bedroom—because everyone at the Academy expected a Lockwood to come by his talent effortlessly—I had no trouble sympathizing.
“Probably a Chosen, right?” I said with a nod to the sky. “That’d be one way to celebrate.”
“I could think of a few better,” Prisha said.
At the slight edge in her voice, I glanced over to search her face. Was she worried? She ranked in the upper half of all our classes, even if not by a large margin. The college accepted a varied number of novices each summer, but they always took about two thirds of any academy year. She was a shoo-in.