by Kat Howard
“I am. The only circumstances in which the requirement is waived is if a member of the House has perished in a Turning—the spell is set up to recognize that as a sacrifice as well, the idea being that their magic returns to that waiting pool.”
“That’s why no one treats any of this like a big deal,” he said. “Because losing a challenge is some fucked up get out of jail free card.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Otherwise, buying a child is not only an option for those who can’t or don’t wish to have biological offspring, of course. It’s also an option for those who want to guarantee both their bloodline and their access to comfortable magic. With enough money, you can buy anything.”
“But you said ‘sacrifice.’ ” Horror in every word.
“I did.” Quiet, even. The voice in which the doctor tells you that she’s very sorry but the tumor is malignant and surgery is no longer an option.
“You don’t mean they actually kill the kids, do you? You can’t mean that.”
“The sacrifices aren’t killed immediately or directly. It’s a process. An extraction, or distillation, to choose the most clinical terms. Clinical terms make it easier to talk about, and ease is needed, at least in polite company, as most sacrifices don’t survive the process.
“The place those sacrifices are sent, it pulls magic out of them. Through pain, through suffering. Through everything the magicians of the Unseen World should have to endure themselves to access power.
“Does it hurt, Laurent, when you cast spells?” Gentle, the words so gentle, as if he might break when she spoke them.
“It used to,” he said. “When I first started. Before I met Grey and started going to school here. I’d get headaches. Migraines. Nausea, auras, the whole thing. I figured they stopped because I’d learned the right way to do things.”
“No,” Sydney said. “That’s not why they stopped. They stopped because someone else started paying your price.”
“Oh God.” Laurent clutched his hand over his mouth and stumbled from the room.
Sydney sat, unmoving, on the barstool, looking out over the city as she listened to the sounds of retching, of the flush of the toilet, the running water. Laurent was red-eyed and ashen when he returned.
“Not all of the children die of it,” Sydney continued as if there had been no interruption. “Most do, yes. But some very few of us come out of it quite well. For a certain definition of quite well, anyway. We learn to use our own power, and to wield it in ways most of the Unseen World can’t imagine.”
“What’s a—wait. You said ‘us.’ Sydney, you said ‘us.’ You weren’t—” He looked sick again.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors by now, the things people are saying about me.”
He nodded. “Something about you being a Shadow. I figured it was another thing like being an outsider.”
“It’s called the House of Shadows, the place we’re sent. And yes, I came from there. I was the sacrifice of a House.” She almost, almost told him which one then, but bit the words back. Too soon to ask him to process that as well. Too much was still uncertain. And he was still asking questions. “I earned my way out. Only one other has in living memory—Verenice Tenebrae.”
Laurent nodded slowly. “I knew she was a big deal, that people talked about her. I didn’t really pay attention to why. Wait—only you two? Out of . . . ?”
“A lot,” Sydney said. “More than either of us want to count. Shadows has been around for more than one hundred years. Long enough for people to be used to the idea, for this to be the way it’s always been done. For people to feel sad, a little, if they actually think about it, but goodness, the way things were before must have been so much worse.”
He shuddered. “But if it’s so rare, how did you get out? Are you okay? If you’re not a sacrifice anymore, what are you now?”
So she told him. Told him about Shadows, about learning magic, about learning to conceal every part of herself. About the contract that kept her in bond. Showed him the ragged edges of her shadow, where she had cut bits away to make payments. Took a cloth and scrubbed off the makeup that covered the scars on her hands and arms that magic didn’t hide.
Laurent winced, then said, “Okay. How much?”
“How much what?” Puzzled.
“To pay off your contract.”
“What does it matter?” The reason for his curiosity wasn’t any clearer to her.
“Because I’ll buy them out. This hold they have on you is bullshit. You’re a person—you shouldn’t be fucking owned.”
Sydney looked at him, long and steady. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
She closed her eyes. Kept them closed for almost a minute while she steadied her breath, until she was sure no tear would fall. Opened them. “That is possibly the single kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. But that’s not how this works. They take payment in magic. In results. And they have something they want me to do.”
She told him about the latest order from Shara. Most of it.
“But you wouldn’t be fighting Miranda. Not directly. You’d be dueling Ian. He’s the one magician in this who could maybe kill you. I mean, I know you’re good. Brilliant. But so is he—he was a couple of years ahead of us at school. I know what his magic is like,” Laurent said.
“A month ago, maybe it would have been close. But now, no.” The deep greenness of the strange new magic crinkled and whirred beneath her skin. “Trust me. I know what my magic is.”
“Yeah, but Sydney, you guys are—not to be in your business, but aren’t you guys a thing?”
“I knew what I’d be asked to do before the Turning started,” she said, sidestepping the question.
“What would those—the Shadows—what would they do if I refused to challenge him?” Laurent paced in front of the long line of his windows.
“There would be consequences. To me. They would likely be . . . painful.” The layers in that last word not something to be considered too closely.
“Okay, so you said they take payment in magic. What if I offered some of mine? I’m a good magician. I have power. I can fight.” The pain in his voice had turned to fury.
“Any contract you made would be your own. This plan, this thing that Shara wants done, she will make sure that I do it.”
Laurent stopped. Turned. “This is really the most fucked up day. What do I do?”
“Issue the challenge to Prospero, and trust that I can take care of myself.”
“Are you sure? What if I just say fuck all of this? Withdraw from the Turning, withdraw from the entire Unseen World. How do I even use magic anymore, now that I know where it’s coming from? I can’t. I won’t.” He scrubbed his hands against his jeans as if wiping filth from them.
“I can teach you. You had access to your own power before, and that power is still there. As for the rest of it—the one thing you can do for me now is to stay in the Turning.”
“Are you absolutely sure that’s what you want, Sydney? Because if it isn’t, I will do everything I can—everything—to get you away from that place and out of this.”
“Thank you. Truly. But there are bigger things at stake than just what I want,” she said.
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face, over his hair. “God, I have to tell Grey. He needs to know.”
“Laurent.” Her voice was kind. “Grey grew up in the Unseen World. He was the heir of his House. He knows. He’s known for years.”
“Oh,” Laurent said. Then, “Oh,” again.
Sydney sat with him on his couch as his world reshaped itself. After some time, he shook his head. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Sydney said. “Let me be the one to deliver the challenge to Miranda. In person.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.” He paused. “Did you have a choice in representing me, or was accepting the contract something they made you do too?”
<
br /> “Shadows wanted me involved in the Turning,” Sydney said. “But working for you was my choice. I wouldn’t change it.” She stood up to go.
“Can you leave that unfindable spell running when you go?” he asked. “I think I want to be very alone for a bit.”
“Sure.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for the space of a breath. “Take care, Laurent.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Working in Special Projects wasn’t what Harper had expected. In fact, although theoretically this huge and all-consuming magical battle was happening across the entire Unseen World, she hadn’t seen one actual magician in the offices. At least, she was pretty sure she hadn’t. Except for the recent emailed wards—which were spectacularly cool and didn’t even give her a headache like most magic did—she hadn’t come across anything even remotely magical. Working in Special Projects was just like working in her previous firm: long hours and lots of writing. She was currently redrafting a will. Then she had to turn in time sheets. Wild excitement.
“Harper, do you have a minute?” Madison paused in her doorway.
“Sure.” She mentally raised a brow when Madison pulled the door closed behind her. Something serious, and secret, then.
“How do you feel about doing some work in the archives?”
The archives. The place where the documents pertaining to the Unseen World were kept—the ones too full of magic to leave on the computers. The place Harper had wanted an excuse to get into since she had started working here. “I feel like it would be more interesting than redrafting form documents.”
“Possibly. There’s a strong chance that it would just be an exercise in a different sort of frustration. Are you game?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I need you to be discreet about this, even within the firm. It involves a case where enforced silence was part of the settlement.” Madison looked drawn—her concealer didn’t quite hide the dark circles under her eyes. Harper knew how tired she was from the hours she’d been keeping in the past few weeks. She also knew that Madison had been in the office before she arrived and had left work after she did every day that she’d been working at Wellington & Ketchum.
“Like an NDA?” Harper asked.
“No, like a binding spell that will physically prevent them from doing so. The attorneys who were directly involved in negotiating the terms would have also been bound, and I’m not sure whether or how far the binding extends.”
Okay, that was kind of cool. “So I might not even be able to tell you about what I find. Is what you’re saying?”
“In an extreme case, you might not even be able to read what you find. The file might look like blank pages, or poetry, or gibberish. And because of the binding, I can’t even tell you how extreme a case this is.”
“Got it. So what case has all these secrets?”
“The disinheritance of Grey Prospero. Time is of the essence, so send me a memo of your ongoing projects and I’ll have them reassigned. When you’re done with that, come by my office and I’ll give you what you need to actually get into the archives.”
Harper doubted she meant a key.
“Is there anything in particular that I’m looking for in the file?” Harper asked.
“No, I just need the file itself when you find it. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that this will be a quick or easy job because that’s all it is. The archives are . . . strange.”
It took Harper two hours to write up the memo on her ongoing projects. She hit send and then walked back to Madison’s office.
“The first thing you need to know is that the magical archives are separate from the mundane ones. They’re up on the thirty-ninth floor.”
Harper took the bait and made the obvious statement. “This building only has thirty-eight floors.”
“Most of the time that’s true.” Madison handed Harper a piece of plastic that looked like someone had taken an electronic access card and cut it into the shape of an old-fashioned key. “Use this in the elevator, and it will have thirty-nine.”
She slid a small clear box and a white candle across her desk. “When you get off the elevator, tap the top of the box three times. That will activate the spell that gives you safe passage in and out of the archives.”
“Safe passage?” Harper asked.
“Trust me. The files that we store there are the most important documents the firm possesses. It is imperative that they not be seen by anyone without permission. The Unseen Archives are on the thirty-ninth floor because the floor is equipped with a magical self-destruct that will destroy it if there’s a breach of access. Use the spell.”
Harper felt her knees actually go weak and was glad she was already sitting down. “A magical self-destruct.”
Madison nodded. “It will take out the entire archive and everything—and everyone—in it. In theory, the rest of the building will be fine, but we don’t have offices on thirty-eight. Just in case.”
Harper considered the cost of an entire floor of Manhattan real estate left empty. “I . . . Are you sure you don’t need someone more magical to do this?”
“The spells I’m giving you are set up like the self-triggering wards. You don’t need magic. You just need to follow instructions. But if you don’t feel comfortable, I’ll pass this to someone else.”
Secrets were in the archives. Which meant that if there was anything in this building that would help her find out what actually happened to Rose, this was where it would be. “No, I can handle it. Tap the box three times for safe passage. And the candle?”
“Light it magically once you’re in there, and it will trigger the room’s lights and help you find the files. Good luck.”
The key worked easily enough. The elevator rose smoothly to thirty-eight, then paused and hopped up one final floor. There was no number in the display, but a symbol of a box, like the one Harper held in her hand.
She stepped off the elevator into a grey concrete room that was—as far as she could tell—empty. She tapped the top of the box three times.
Pink cotton-candy-scented smoke curled out of the box and thickened. For a very long minute, while Harper prayed not to be vaporized, the smoke was all she could see. Then it disappeared, and she realized that she was not in a grey concrete room at all. She was in a room that looked like an elegant library. A very large, elegant library. Windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and green plants vined down the walls. There were worn wood floors and long tables, and there were files. Shelf after shelf after shelf of files.
Harper braced for the headache and lit the candle. As she did, lights flicked on—wall sconces and an enormous chandelier. She looked around for a reference, a card catalog, anything that would let her know where to begin looking. Nothing. She walked over to the closed shelf and pulled down a file—no name and blank pages. She looked again at the candle—Madison had said it would help her find the files. She held it up—there. Where the light from the candle shone, the file was illuminated.
It was not the Prospero disinheritance. It was something to do with the purchase of the land underneath what was now House Dee and whether magic could be used as consideration in the sale. The next file was also not the Prospero disinheritance. Neither was the next. Nor were they in any order that she could figure out. Contracts were next to divorce proceedings were next to wills were next to intellectual property licenses. Apparently, it was possible to patent a spell.
She picked up her phone to text Madison, to see if there was any other spell she was supposed to use to figure out the filing system. “That can’t be right.” The time on her lock screen was the same as the time stamp she had put on the memo she’d sent to Madison earlier that day. Her stomach rumbled, suggesting that a significant amount of time had passed since lunch.
“This is too weird.” Harper blew out her candle and got back on the elevator. As it descended, her phone recalibrated. 7:47 p.m. She’d been in the archives for almost four hours.
“Sorry about that,”
Madison said. “Time is . . . weird up there. We keep watches—ones you actually have to wind. I’ll get one for you to use. And go ahead and order in food tonight and expense it. I should have remembered to warn you.”
“Thanks,” Harper said. “And the filing?”
Madison looked away. “I’ll see what I can do, but it might take some time. I’ll need to consult outside the firm. For now, keep looking and hope you get lucky.”
• • •
It was the first of the challenges that were required to invoke mortality—Lara Merlin casting against Bryce Dee—and the room was packed full of magicians who resembled nothing as much as circling sharks. The failures of magic had continued, had—it seemed—increased. Not just during challenges, but simple spells, casual magics, glamours and illusions simply deciding not to work. And as the failures continued, the speculations over their causes increased. One of the louder theories was that things were somehow Miles Merlin’s fault—that his magic had grown weak, that his control was slipping. As the head of the Unseen World went, so did magic. It would balance things out, the whispers went, if his daughter died to pay his debt.
Sydney wanted to spit. She had no patience for Miles, but even less for those who would visit the sins of the father onto his child.
“I hear this is your fault. You stole our magic when you snuck out of that place.” An older man, face red enough to suggest he’d been drinking for quite some time, stepped in front of Sydney. She stepped around, then found herself yanked back, his hand squeezing her arm. “I’m talking to you, bitch.”
“I have no interest in listening.” She bent the index and ring fingers on her left hand, and the man yanked his own hand back, as if from a hot stove. He continued to mumble slurs and rage as she walked away but had enough self-preservation not to follow.
Had tonight’s duel been between almost anyone else, Sydney would have stayed home. She had no great desire to watch people destroy each other for the amusement of a crowd. But Ian, she knew, loved his sister.
She continued through the room, and stopped when she reached him.