Dead Magic

by A. J. Maguire

  He stopped by the balcony doors and lifted his eyebrows at her.

  "Almost convincing, Lord Agoston, but you have one glaring hole."

  He looked taken aback, "Oh?"

  "If you lost your Talent in the middle of the train accident, how did you heal Mrs. Cornelius?" Valeda smiled at his flustered expression. "Little Miss Mirabella Cornelius made certain that everyone knew of your heroic efforts toward her mother. Which means you had your Talent when you left the train but lost it somewhere else. Something else happened on the road to Three Points, Lord Agoston. Something that took your magic and nearly your own life. What exactly happened out there, my Lord?"

  If he thought he could distract her with a half-truth, then he'd seriously underestimated her professionalism. Valeda had been doing this sort of investigating since she'd been able to put two words together in a sentence. Witch-Born or not, Winslow Agoston would give her the interview she needed. She'd keep her job, report to Lady Delgora, and find Magic, the man-god, before Winter Tournament was done.

  "Well, answer the lady, Winifred," Lord Feverrette said from the corner. "We're all in suspense."

  "Bart." Agoston's voice was full of relief as he moved to see to his friend. "How do you feel? Are you all right?"

  "I'm whole and hale, Winslow. You needn't fuss."

  "But your magic is still intact?"

  Valeda perked up at this. Lord Agoston feared transferring his ailment? That was interesting.

  "Of course it is." Feverrette glanced at her. "I'm rather astounded that you would think otherwise."

  "But there was the . . ." Agoston looked at her too. "The struggle."

  Valeda squirmed under their scrutiny. Deciding it was best that she get out of Lord Agoston's bed, she moved to stand up. The pleasant mahogany floor seemed to tilt under her, and her head still throbbed but she stayed upright.

  "Indeed." Feverrette stood as well. "At first I was confused by the fight. It seemed quite rude of you to take me on in an elemental battle like that. But then I remembered that our magic doesn't work that way without a conduit."

  Both men continued to stare at her. Valeda felt as though she'd missed something vastly important. Her mind was trying hard to process all of the information. The noble Witch-Born tended to guard the secrets of their magic, so she wasn't certain what Lord Feverrette meant. Common sense, however, told her that every Witch-Born's magic was constricted by the flesh around it. Nobles fought each other hand to hand; they didn't pit their magic against one another. It wasn't done because it couldn't be done.

  "What exactly is your relationship with House Witch Delgora?" Lord Feverrette asked her bluntly.

  ***

  "The exact terms of my arrangement with House Witch Delgora are private. Suffice to say, she sent me on an errand to locate Lord Winslow Agoston." Valeda managed to sound prim, her stature suddenly rod-straight, and her chin lifted at an obstinate angle.

  Winslow glanced at Bart, who looked mildly amused at the Untalented woman before them. To Winslow, Valeda Quinlan seemed frightened. Oddly enough, the emotion had a scent to it. Salty, he thought, like he'd been submerged in the ocean.

  As a tense silence permeated the room, Winslow tried to guess at what was scaring the skittish girl. He imagined there was a natural fear in being with a Witch-Born. Being Untalented, it was against the norm for her to be in such an intimate setting with two nobles. Not to mention the gender issues apparent-it was highly improper for an unmarried woman to be in the company of a bachelor. And there was, of course, the fact that she'd been trampled by his own sick form and rendered unconscious.

  No, he thought. She has every right to be upset. And she's handling the situation with a commendable amount of decorum.

  "After having located Lord Agoston, what was your task?" Bart asked.

  The girl flushed and looked away. "Only to report to the Lady as to his whereabouts. It was my hope to garner a favor off the gentleman."

  This caught Winslow's attention. "A favor?"

  "I am a newspaper woman, Lord Agoston. To be frank, my recent travels to Delgora have placed me in a precarious situation with my employer." Valeda looked up again and met his gaze.

  She had the most peculiar shade of light-gray eyes. Like a cloud heavy with rain, he thought.

  "The interview," Winslow assumed.

  "Indeed."

  "I see," Bart said with a hum.

  A knock at the door startled them all. Winslow blinked, acutely aware of the food just outside the room. He moved to the door briskly, explaining as he went: "I'm damned starving. That'll be my order."

  He saw Valeda reposition herself to the coffee nook, out of sight of the curious servant. Bartholomew came to help move the trolley of food in, tipping the servant before shutting them all into privacy again. Winslow's stomach growled again as he uncovered the plates. Heavy peppers, garlic, buttered potatoes and beautifully seared meat hit his senses full force and his mouth watered. Without a thought to his guests, Winslow filled a plate and took a silver fork from the trolley.

  He sat on the foot of the bed and began to eat. He might have moaned a little as the first forkful of potatoes melted in his mouth, but he wasn't paying attention. For a long minute, nothing existed but the peppery grain of red meat, the warm comfort of buttery garlic, and the strange purr of Wild in his bloodstream.

  "Your father isn't a Warder, is he?" Bartholomew asked.

  Though the question was directed at Valeda, Winslow was startled at the sudden conversation. He looked at both of them, who were watching him with cautious stares. Winslow gestured to the trolley with his fork: "Have some. I ordered plenty."

  "No," Valeda responded to Bart. "He's an editor."

  "I see," Bart said with another frown. "Were either of your grandfathers Warders?"

  "No." This time Valeda frowned. "Why do you ask?"

  "Well," Bart took a deep breath, a sign that he was about to lecture, and Winslow contented himself with his food. "Warders are tasked with the protection of Magnellum. They have authority equal to and sometimes over the Witch-Born."

  "I know who the Warders are, Lord Feverrette."

  "Yes, but did you know that most, if not all, of the Warders harbor some magic?" Bart picked up an apple from the trolley. "Not as much as a Witch-Born, mind you, but enough that they can recognize the Talent in other people."

  Valeda frowned a little more, her mouth puckering into a little bow as she watched Bart shine the apple on his lapel. Winslow continued to eat, waiting for his friend to come to the point. He assumed that Bart had a reason for interrogating the girl, anyway. For his part, he couldn't remember anything beyond his ill-fated attempt at walking prior to passing out.

  "I had heard rumors," Valeda said cautiously, "but nothing substantial."

  "Indeed, and it should probably stay that way," Bartholomew said. "The Warders guard their secrets very well. But the reason I ask is because you, Miss Quinlan, are Talented."

  Winslow forced himself to swallow a large hunk of potato before he spoke. "You're joking."

  "No, I'm not." Bart glanced away from Valeda with a smug smile. "Whilst you were busy passing out, Miss Quinlan and I were forced into an elemental battle with your inner self. As I said before, this sort of thing can only be accomplished with a conduit. More often than not, a House Witch serves as such, but I've only ever heard of it being done a handful of times in the last millennia."

  "Fates alive, Barty! You sound like a history professor when you talk like that." Winslow set his plate aside and stood up.

  "Yes, well, the University of Lorant has made several offers to me," Bart smiled again, "but I simply can't be parted from my wife for the entirety of the school year."

  "You're wrong," Valeda said quietly. "I'm the only daughter of Jeremiah and Marissa Quinlan. I have three brothers and a moderately successful career. The only thing I am talented at is writing."

  There was steel in the woman's voice. She continued to stare at them from her corner, bu
t she no longer seemed frightened. In fact, Winslow thought she looked very angry.

  "I'm not disputing your parentage," Bart said gently. "But something happened this morning that you can't deny."

  "Lord Agoston fell on me, that's what happened."

  "And what did you see just prior to passing out yourself?"

  "I saw . . ." Valeda paused and scowled. Her eyes slid to the left and she looked as though she were remembering something. Her frown deepened and she looked back up. "I saw Lord Agoston's body crashing into me. Nothing more."

  Winslow rocked back on his heels and whistled lowly. "That's either first-class denial or the worst lie I've ever heard."

  Valeda flushed a deep crimson, squared her shoulders and stalked toward the door. "My business here is done. I will inform Lady Delgora where she can find you. I wash my hands of this incident."

  "What's so bad about being Talented?" Winslow asked at the same moment that Bart intercepted her at the door.

  "I did not mean to upset you, Miss Quinlan." Bart held his hand out to her. "Do accept my apologies."

  Valeda stared at his hand for a moment and Winslow almost called out a warning to her. Bartholomew really was too clever for his own good. His long, slender hand looked bronze in the dim lighting of the room, but Winslow saw it for the trap that it was. The moment her skin touched his, she would feel the power in him, and she would be forced to see the power in herself.

  Reaching out, Valeda grasped Bartholomew's hand in a firm grip.

  ***

  She'd never felt anything like it in her life. Inhaling sharply, Valeda reeled at the sudden tingle that passed through her arm. It was like she'd smacked a hard surface and a hand-numbing blast of force pulsed through her. Her fingers felt as though many pins and needles prodded her just under the skin. The sensation continued up to her shoulder before disappearing.

  Jerking her hand back, Valeda fell against the door.

  "Forgive me," Lord Feverrette stepped back. "It was the only way I could think of to show you the truth."

  "That has never happened before, I'm quite certain of it." Valeda found the strength in her voice curious. Her entire world felt rattled and off-kilter, and she sounded more like she was getting ready to order tea than break down and cry.

  "Yes, well, I think that has more to do with Winslow than he cares to admit," Lord Feverrette said.

  "Oh, yes. Blame it on me. Glorious!" Lord Agoston said.

  Valeda looked to Winslow, who hadn't moved from his position beside the bed. She had an overwhelming desire to run over and embrace him, and nearly took a step forward, but stopped. This is insane! she thought. She didn't know this man and yet, something deep in her core recognized him. Perhaps it was her newfound magic, or the strange circumstance they found themselves in, but she knew better than to act on it.

  "I imagine we've come to the point where I must explain myself," Agoston said wryly.

  "Is it possible that I have somehow stolen your Talent?" Valeda asked.

  "No. I can still feel my Talent. I just can't access it."

  He was telling the truth, but she couldn't define how she knew that. She could somehow sense his magic, and felt its deep slumber. But she could also sense something else in him, something feral and dangerous.

  "Miss Quinlan," Lord Agoston said, holding her gaze, "nothing that I am about to say can leave this room. We will come up with a story for your paper, if that is what you truly want, but it won't be the one you are about to hear."

  "I can't lie, Lord Agoston. My reputation could be ruined."

  "It's not a lie if he gives you his formal testimony," Lord Feverrette interjected. "There are always formal versus informal interviews, Miss Quinlan. Lord Agoston is simply offering you a chance to hear them both."

  "And you're expected to keep one of them private," Agoston said. "Just like you keep your arrangements with Elsie Delgora private."

  Frowning, Valeda crossed her arms. She didn't like the arrangement, but she had to know what was going on. She suddenly missed doing trade reports and interviewing the Untalented in her home town. Everyone had secrets, to be sure, but none of them came with the underlying threat that emanated from these two men. Still, she found herself nodding her acceptance.

  There wasn't really a choice in the matter. Valeda needed to know how she had somehow become Talented. It was no small amount of magic, either. She could feel it just under her breastbone, an ever-present, ever-moving companion. In her mind. she could almost visualize it: a golden cord, coiled and ready to be stretched and used. She couldn't determine its length, but it wasn't little, and she had the strange sense that it was introducing itself.

  "Very well then," Winslow said, gesturing to the chairs in the coffee nook, "it's best if you both sat down for this."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dorian hadn't been apart from Elsie in eight years. The lack of her voice, the yawning distance between them, and the empty half of his bed in the morning pounded her absence into his awareness. He felt a growing sense of anxiety the longer he stayed away and yet, he could not go home. Not before he'd seen Winslow. Fear for his friend mixed with fear for his wife put him even more on edge. He wondered if this was how Elsie felt all the time, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it. Her nightmares had become less frequent as the ark got closer to completion, which he might have seen as a good thing if she hadn't shared that vision with him. Dorian couldn't shake the feeling that those canine creatures from her dreams were more than extensions of the Wild. They felt angry and intelligent to him.

  All of his instincts were on high alert. It had been eight years since he'd been hunted by the Bedim assassins and, yet, he felt that same itch between his shoulder blades; the sensation of being carefully watched.

  Frowning, Dorian glanced surreptitiously down the street. It was full night in Three Points and damned cold. His joints ached with the frigid air, despite three layers of coat, vest, and shirt. Dorian muttered his displeasure and wished fervently for the Delgora Tropics.

  Wrought-iron street lamps made pockets of light down the curving sidewalk, illuminating chill fog and the occasional passerby. People were hurrying home, closing little shops that lined the main thoroughfare of town. Dorian could see the welcome sign of the Pinnacle and Pyre just across the street and paused to let several carriages go by.

  His last telegram from Bartholomew said that Winslow was still bereft of Talent but was no longer crouching on death's doorstep. While he was grateful that his friend would survive, Dorian had no idea how to address a man who had lost his magic. Witch-Born magic wasn't just a series of spells to be cast; it wasn't found in chemicals or nature or any other sort of substance. The Talent was a part of each individual-a quiet, constant companion dwelling at the core of every Witch-Born. Dorian couldn't fathom the idea of suddenly being without it.

  By Fates! What am I supposed to say?

  He couldn't just charge in there and berate the man for his actions. According to the papers, Winslow had acted heroically, rescuing the lives of some woman and her daughter. Still, all Witch-Born were trained to know their own limitations. Winslow had to have known he was crossing the threshold. He had to have sensed it. So why in Fates had he done it?

  Scowling, Dorian stepped into the road and started to cross, determined to find out. As he reached the other side, a gunshot cracked through the street. Instinct grabbed him and he ducked, but he knew it was too late. He hadn't been expecting an attack, hadn't been prepared. Something slammed into the back of his left shoulder and he staggered forward. He felt jacket, shirt and flesh tear under the assault as several jagged items embedded themselves into his skin and muscle.

  Shouting, he spun but the ground was icy and he lost all footing. He hit the ground hard, barely managing to keep from face-planting in the cobblestone. An instant later, a carriage screeched to a halt beside him. Two men barreled out of it, intent on his person.

  "My Lord!" one of them said and for a breathless moment Dor
ian thought they meant to help.

  Then a sack looped over his head and he was blinded. Recognition came fast and Dorian swung his fist. He tried to summon his Talent, tried to heal his shoulder and prepare for the fight, but his magic couldn't respond. As his fist met with open air, throwing his body to the right, Dorian understood: he'd been shot with Remora stones.

  Strong arms took him, wrestling him up and into the carriage. Dorian fought all the way, shoving elbows and knees anywhere he thought his attackers might be. He struck the side of the carriage with an elbow and felt his arm suddenly go numb.

  "Dorian!" He heard Bartholomew's voice come from somewhere high.

  Pain exploded through his skull as something hard hit him in the side of the head.

  ***

  Bartholomew flung the window wide and leapt out, causing several of the dining room patrons to gasp in alarm. Winslow himself might have been startled if he hadn't seen what had caused his friend to make such a dramatic exit. As it was, Winslow couldn't tear his gaze from the sight of Dorian's limp body being shoved into the awaiting carriage.

  "Fates have mercy," he breathed, watching as Bart landed roughly on top of the carriage.

  "What is it?" Valeda asked.

  "Someone is attempting to abduct Lord Delgora." Winslow got to his feet and leaned out the window.

  "What?" She sounded more than a little startled.

  "Not to worry," Winslow said, inwardly trying to calculate if he could make the three-story jump safely. He'd never tried something so brash without his Talent and he highly doubted his legs could survive the feat. "Lord Feverrette will handle . . ."

  Three shots rang out in succession, stopping him mid-sentence. Bart dodged the first two, but the sudden noise spooked the horses and the carriage jolted forward, throwing him off balance. The third shot struck Bartholomew in the thigh and Winslow hopped onto the window sill.