Stolen Magic (Shadows of the Immortals Book 1)

by Marina Finlayson

  Which would give him plenty of time to set his own trap, the backstabbing bastard, and not much time for Steele to put his plans into motion. There wasn’t much I could do on my own, unless Anders happened to choose the city zoo as his location. I should be so lucky. So I was relying on Steele to pull a rabbit out of a hat, and somehow swing it so that Holly and I both lived through the experience. Just thinking about it made me sweat even more.

  Like I said, I hated relying on other people. It had rarely worked out for me in the past.

  The car turned into a laneway that ran behind a high stone wall. We stopped at a large wrought-iron gate long enough for Steele to press a remote control and the gates to swing open soundlessly. I barely even noticed them closing behind us. I’d already seen it earlier, but the house that stood at the end of the long sweeping drive was no less imposing the second time around.

  “I can’t believe this place.” It was two storeys, with the curved roof that the shapers all seemed to favour, and lit up like a Christmas tree. Glad I wasn’t the one paying the power bill. “How many people live here?”

  It was bigger than Alberto’s pub, and looked as though it could easily house just as many people.

  “Just me, and the couple who look after the place when I’m not here. Mandy cooks and cleans and David looks after the gardens.”

  David certainly had a full-time job on his hands. Tiny waterways snaked across the property, forming pools here and there. Bridges of stone and of wood arched prettily over the streams at intervals, and paths wound off under the trees invitingly. To my mind’s eye, little sparks of life glittered here and there: birds sleeping in the trees, mostly, and a possum roaming the treetops. Some fish dreaming in the dark ponds.

  The moon, almost full, sailed out from behind the clouds as Steele held the front door open for us. Worry for Holly distracted me as I walked in. She wouldn’t shift until she’d given birth, but the moon being almost full would be like an itch she couldn’t scratch. Last full moon, she’d been so fretful that Joe had forgone his own change to stay home with her. Anders couldn’t have picked a worse time. As if she needed any other problems right now.

  The foyer was large and glowed with the warmth of natural timber and woven rugs in deep shades of red and burgundy. This afternoon we’d pored over floorplans in Steele’s office at the back of the house, but now he led me through to a lounge room, Syl padding silently at my side, and gestured at a couch covered in a rich brocade. Also red. After my visit to the Ruby Palace I was beginning to suspect it was every fireshaper’s favourite colour.

  “Take a seat,” Steele said. “Are you hungry?”

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, and I was sick with worry for Holly. The very thought of food made my stomach churn in protest.

  “No, thanks.” I sank gratefully into the cushioned depths of the couch and Syl leapt up and settled herself in my lap.

  “Wait here. I’ll get some gold.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll need some metal if I’m going to make a copy of the ring.”

  I frowned. “But you don’t need a spark to make fire. It just bursts right out of you.” How come he couldn’t just magic metal out of the air too?

  “That’s right.” He gave me an odd look, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t know this. “That’s one of several reasons that fire and not metal is my primary.”

  He held out his hand, and it took me a moment to realise he wanted the ring. Reluctantly I placed it in his open palm. He examined it minutely, almost reverently, turning it this way and that so that it flashed in the harsh overhead lights. There was a look on his face that I’d never seen there before, almost childlike in its wonder. When he realised I was watching him, the look disappeared, replaced by his usual world-weary expression.

  I let my head fall back against the couch, though I was too keyed up to sleep, and stared unseeing at the ceiling, idling stroking Syl’s silky head as Steele left the room. He was back a moment later, carrying a gold bar that looked big enough to make fifty rings. Too bad you couldn’t just slice a piece off.

  Unless you were a metalshaper, apparently. Steele pinched one corner of the bar, and a piece peeled off in his hand as if it were soft clay. He rolled the gold between his palms until it formed a small ball.

  “Catch.” He threw the ball to me, then took the rest of the bar back to wherever it had come from. I was left staring at the golden marble in my hand.

  It was a perfect sphere, completely cold and hard as rock. I squeezed it as hard as I could, but couldn’t mar or dent it in any way. I was still marvelling at it when Steele returned and took it from me.

  He sat on the opposite couch and held his hand out between us. Flames flickered in his palm around the golden ball. It melted like ice cream on a hot day and he tilted his hand, letting the gold coat his skin.

  *Nice party trick,* said Syl.

  I folded my arms. “Now you’re just showing off.”

  He grinned, the dancing flames reflected in his eyes. “Just trying to impress the pretty lady.”

  He said it as if he were joking, but it occurred to me that he could have broken the chunk of gold off the bar in the other room and saved himself a trip. He probably was trying to impress me with his shaping prowess by letting me see him snap it the way a normal person would break a square off a block of chocolate. A part of me preened at the idea that this undeniably gorgeous man was trying to impress me—a small part. The other part, the part that wasn’t hotwired to my hormones, reeled in horror. I was not going to start flirting with a shaper.

  *He’s talking about me, right?* said Syl.

  I’d almost forgotten she was there. Now she abandoned me and leapt up onto the opposite couch next to Steele. Curiosity and cats: it wasn’t just a saying.

  *How would he talking about you, furball? You’ve been a cat so long even I’ve forgotten what you look like.*

  Not getting any response from me, Steele focused on his hands, turning all professional again. I ignored the unreasonable surge of disappointment, and watched as the flames and the metal began a kind of dance above his outstretched hands. How was he doing that?

  *I never thought that fire could be so … pretty,* said Syl.

  The original ring lay on the couch, not far from Syl’s furry haunches, but Steele rarely glanced at it. His hands moved slowly, gracefully, through the air, as if in some slow motion martial art. The golden ball rotated slowly above them, wreathed in fire. Sweat broke out on Steele’s brow as the ball spun, flattened, became first a disk, then a ring of molten metal. The flames distorted my vision of it, but I thought I saw spikes forming through the shimmering heat. How could he hold fire like that in his bare hands? The burn on my wrist throbbed in sympathy, despite the healing cream Steele had applied earlier.

  I would never tell him so, but I was impressed, just a little. I’d seen fireshapers hurl great bolts and sheets of flame before, and been unmoved by the spectacle, but this delicate control spoke more to me of power than that kind of display, though it seemed to require just as much effort, judging by the sweat glistening on his forehead. As the flames died away, the ring, still glowing with heat, dropped to his naked palm. He never flinched, though he was breathing hard.

  When he offered it to me it was cool and golden again.

  “There. Gets harder all the time, but a perfect copy.” He gazed on his work with a troubled look.

  “Really? It gets harder? I would have thought practice made perfect.”

  “When the god of metalshaping dies, trust me, metalshaping gets harder and harder.”

  I stared back at him, hardly knowing what to say. It was no surprise that he believed in the gods—he was a shaper, after all. But to hear him speak of them as if they were real and present, not just some amorphous idea of a benevolent force watching over us, still seemed strange, despite my conversation with Alberto.

  “Who is the god of metalshaping? How do you know he’s dead?”

&nb
sp; “Hephaistos.” The blacksmith of the gods—the one who’d sneaked fire to Prometheus, so that mankind wouldn’t die. “And I know he’s dead because I saw the shadow shapers kill him.”

  I stared at him, my whole worldview challenged by the pain in his eyes. He believed every word he was telling me, and if this was the truth … I recalled the terrible scars on his back. I’d wondered who could possibly damage a fireshaper that way.

  Perhaps a god could—or the people who had stolen a god’s power.

  He laughed—a short, humourless bark. “Maybe one day metalshaping will no longer be possible. But for now, I’ve still got it.” He held the ring out to me. “No one will be able to tell the difference.”

  Really? I glanced between the ring in his palm and the one on the brocade couch. The one he had made was every bit as beautiful as the original, and faithfully reproduced every detail of the golden sunburst. But I could tell. To my mind’s sight, the real ring glowed with an inner fire that tugged at wisps of memory.

  My brother’s face, laughing. Sunrise on a beach, the wind tossing my hair around my head in blinding strands, low clouds scudding across the sky, blanketing the rosy glow to the east. Deep in the woods, the curve of my bow a familiar weight in my hand, watching the leaves shake as my quarry moved behind the bushes.

  The fake was just a ring. A beautiful ring, but no more than that. Could he really see no difference?

  “As long as Anders can’t tell, that’s all that matters,” I said.

  15

  There were always pigeons in the Plaza of the Sun, and the whirring of their wings formed a constant background like the shushing of the waves on a beach. This early in the morning there wasn’t much traffic to drown out that sound, though there were enough people around to satisfy my requirement for a public place. I’d agreed to meet Anders here at seven.

  It was ten minutes to seven, and I stood behind one of the mighty pillars of the grand post office building, watching people hurrying across the plaza on their way to work. Some tourists had arrived earlier, too—the maps they carried a dead giveaway—to see the sunrise spark on the upraised spear of Apollo.

  His golden chariot was the centrepiece of the plaza, and the reason for its name. In another city, the statue would have been a grand fountain, but here in the city of the fireshapers, their homage to their god spouted flame from its wheels, and from the tip of that spear. The flames roared forth the minute the rising sun kissed the point of the god’s spear, and didn’t fade away again until nightfall. There was always a gaggle of tourists waiting for the sunrise with their cameras ready to catch the spectacle.

  Predictably, the pigeons had lurched skyward as the flames burst forth. You’d think they’d have grown used to it after so many years, but pigeons weren’t exactly mental Einsteins. They made handy little spies, however, and I’d been using them since the daylight began to grow in the plaza.

  I was fully expecting Anders to have some kind of double-cross planned, so I sent the birds down every street surrounding the plaza, searching for signs: gatherings of hard-faced men, or cars that lurked suspiciously, their occupants never moving.

  *Anything?* Syl asked again.

  *Nope.*

  Her tail twitched fretfully. *I don’t like this.*

  That made two of us. I’d have been much more comfortable if I could see where the blow was coming from. The plan was for Syl to leave as soon as I’d identified the threat, and take the news to Steele, who was waiting several blocks away with his men. Our great counterstrike wasn’t going to be very effective if he had to come in blind at the last minute.

  *Wait. Is that them?* I straightened, peering out from behind the pillar as a car pulled up outside the City Library opposite. A man and a woman got out. The woman’s head was down, her long hair loose across her face, and she leaned against the man as if she were very tired, or perhaps drunk. *That’s Holly.*

  *And that’s that lion loser with her. What’s wrong with her?*

  Another man got out of the car and followed the other two across the plaza to the edge of the chariot. Anders. God, I’d like to punch that smug face. Syl hissed, the hairs on her back standing up like spines. She had even more reason to hate him.

  It was only five to seven, but I knew Anders had seen me, though it was still dark in the shadows of the post office’s long colonnade. I couldn’t loiter here any longer.

  *Go,* I urged Syl. *Are you sure you can handle it?*

  She’d promised to turn human so she could communicate with Steele.

  *I won’t let you down. But what will I tell him?*

  I did a last scan of the surrounding streets, swooping dizzily from one pigeon mind to another. Still nothing. Now I wished Steele was waiting much closer, but we’d been so sure Anders would have men in the streets, and we didn’t want to tip our hand too early.

  *I don’t know. Just tell him they’re here, and he’d better get his arse over here. I’ll stall as long as I can.*

  I started the slow march down the post office steps and across the plaza as Syl slipped away. My shoes made no noise on the rough cobblestones. Half my attention was still with the birds, trying to see in every direction at once. The other half was on the face of my enemy.

  Last time I’d seen Anders had been the interview where he’d made me the classic offer-you-can’t-refuse. No one said no to a shaper, especially not when that shaper was on the ruling council, however junior a councillor he might be. He’d worn his robes of office then, trying to intimidate me into agreeing. And of course I had.

  Foolishly, I hadn’t realised he’d have me followed. The instant he knew I was running, all hell had broken loose. We’d only just managed to make it out the window of our apartment before the flames he’d sent after us destroyed the whole building. I still heard the frightened screams of our neighbours in my dreams sometimes, a shrill counterpoint to the crackle of flame. We’d been in hiding ever since, drawing the small town of Berkley’s Bay around us like a cloak.

  And now here we were. It hadn’t taken him that long to ferret us out after all. He watched me cross the plaza toward him with his hands in the trouser pockets of his expensive suit. No council robes today. He looked like any of half a dozen businessmen who’d already passed us, briefcases in hand. I’d wondered if he would even come, or whether he’d leave it all to Mason. Apparently the lure of the ring was too strong—or maybe he just didn’t trust Mason enough.

  Holly suddenly lurched to one side, almost doubled over, and Mason pushed her roughly down onto the low stone wall that kept the tourists from getting too close to Apollo and his flaming chariot.

  “What have you done to her?” I snapped.

  Anders spread his hands, a look of mock innocence on his face. “I? I’ve done nothing. This was done some months ago—about nine, most likely.”

  I glanced sharply at Holly, who met my gaze through the sweaty strands of her hair. She clutched her enormous belly, a strained look on her face.

  “You’re in labour?”

  She nodded, and bit her lip.

  “When did it start?”

  When she didn’t answer, Anders shrugged. “Some time in the night. For your sake, I hope it wasn’t too long ago. I certainly wouldn’t want to be midwife at a werewolf birth. You’re liable to get your head bitten off. Literally.”

  So he was still pretending I was going to walk out of here alive. Could he possibly be sincere? A little bubble of hope rose inside me. I hadn’t seen any sign of the anticipated double-cross.

  But this was the man who’d set fire to a whole apartment building, knowing full well that there were innocent people inside, knowing and not caring in the slightest whether they made it out alive. The bubble burst as swiftly as it had formed. I was no child, to believe in happy endings. I knew better than to trust the word of shapers.

  “I heard all the commotion last night at the palace,” he continued conversationally, as if we were two old mates who’d just happened to run into each other b
eside the chariot. “I’d heard you were good, of course, but I must admit I’m impressed you managed to pull it off.”

  “All part of the service.” I had to force myself to speak politely. I’d rather have spit on him than spend another minute in his company, but the pigeons showed me a convoy of provost cars on their way here, and I was supposed to be stalling him.

  “Let’s see it, then.”

  His eyes, reflecting Apollo’s flames, were alight with hunger. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the ring, holding it up to catch the light. Flames seemed to dance across the golden surface. He held out his hand, imperious.

  “Nuh-uh.” I shook my head, backing away. “Not so fast. Holly, can you walk?”

  For answer, she shook off Mason’s restraining hand and lurched to her feet. She was panting, and her eyes had a faraway look, as if all her energy was focused inward. Her hands rested lightly on her belly, and I saw it ripple with the power of her contraction. Exactly how far away was that baby?

  “Go join that group of tourists.” A dozen or so people still lingered on the other side of the chariot, taking group shots with the flaming Apollo in the background. Holly circled obediently around the low stone wall.

  Anders clicked his fingers at me. “My patience is wearing thin.”

  “Then it’s all yours.” I tossed the ring into the flames and ran to join Holly. He cursed and hurdled the wall to save it. A fireshaper like him wouldn’t be hurt by the flames, though the ring might. Hopefully he’d be distracted long enough for us to get away.

  “Hurry,” said Holly. “I’m between contractions.”

  She headed for the closest side street, setting an impressive pace for a woman in labour, and I ran after her. We earned some curious glances from the tourists.

  I looked back. Mason was watching us, but hadn’t moved. Strange. I’d expected him to give chase, even if Anders was busy. We were almost to the edge of the plaza when three provosts in riot gear burst out of the side street. More came from every street that opened onto the plaza, until a force of about twenty loosely circled the chariot. The tourists stirred in alarm, as flighty as the pigeons. Anders and Mason stood rooted to the spot.