I was still five minutes early, although Annalise had warned me that for many Portuguese, it was common to be late—sometimes very late—and he’d be insulted if I complained. Luckily, I’d bought a new crime novel on my way out of the First Palace, and I never cared about insulting people.
The seats outside were crowded and the day was bright. I sat inside, against the wall near a freezer full of soft drinks. I looked them over. Not only were the labels in another language, the shapes of the bottles were new to me. I figured the freezer would cool me down every time someone opened it, and I was right. The waitress approached. I looked down at the text João had sent me and read, as best I could, the words there: “Bom dia. Queria um café, faz favor.”
When I looked up at her again, her lips were pressed together tightly.
“That was my first attempt,” I said.
“Before you try this,” she added, gesturing toward my phone, “you should say Fala Inglês? It means ‘Do you speak English?’”
“Falla Inglaysh?” I repeated, copying her the best I could.
“I do,” she said pleasantly. I ordered a coffee and she brought me the tiniest cup of coffee I’d ever seen in my life. It was barely larger than a shot glass.
Annalise was right, as she often is. João didn’t show at nine AM as planned, and he didn’t show fifteen minutes late. Or twenty minutes. I ordered another mini-coffee and read my book.
Our meeting was “too important to miss,” wasn’t it? So, was the guy late because something happened to him or because he was showing me disrespect? I didn’t like to think about it. Annalise had called him a pest, but I sorta hoped it was disrespect.
If he’d found out something important and gotten himself eaten, well, cops would start poking around and Annalise might want to burn down his house just in case he kept a spell book there. Then we’d have to dig up his friends and family so we could track down whatever it was that he was so worried about.
In all, a lot of extra work for me.
My phone buzzed. There was a text from João that read: MY FRIENDS ARE THERE. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean.
A cell phone two tables over rang like an old-fashioned corded line, the noise sharp and annoying. The man who answered it was just under forty, with a broad nose, thinning hair, and the complexion of a California surfer. He heard something alarming over the phone and jolted ramrod straight in his chair. Then he glanced nervously around the room.
He stopped looking when he saw me.
For a moment, he just stared. I had no idea what was going through his head, but he had obviously recognized me, and he was not pleased.
The only problem was that no one knew I was here except the people in the Twenty Palace Society. This was Portugal, for fuck’s sake, a place I couldn’t point to on a map. Unless this dude singled me out because I was the only guy in the place without product in his hair, this had to be João’s friend.
I stood.
My new buddy didn’t like that. He caught the waitress and spoke to her in a low voice. I dropped a ten the color of spilled wine on the table. My new buddy looked like he was about to run, and we hadn’t even been introduced.
“Hey, are you the friend João told me about?” It was only after I heard myself say the name that I remembered I was in a foreign country. The waitress had told me how to ask if someone spoke English, but I suddenly couldn’t remember it. “João?”
My buddy glanced at me in recognition then looked away. Maybe I wasn’t saying it right. Maybe he knew ten guys with that name. The waitress’s words came back to me as I said them: “Fala Inglês, man?”
He twitched but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I wanted to snatch the phone out of his hand to see who had called him, but somebody would probably call the cops.
Buddy pivoted and pushed through a fire door right beside his table. I’d picked a seat because it would be comfortable, but he’d picked one with an easy retreat close by. I still had a lot to learn.
I shouted, “Yo!”
Everyone looked at me, but the only one who mattered was Buddy. I snapped his picture with my phone.
He rushed into the alley.
Before I could follow, my waitress barred my way. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you must speak to the manager.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m afraid you must. There is a problem with your bill.”
“No, there isn’t.”
Her face turned red. If the locals would get pissed off because I complained about them being late, imagine how they’d feel about being called a liar, whether it was true or not. I tried to step around her but she intercepted me.
“You must—”
I lowered my voice. “You have no idea what kind of man you’re protecting.”
She stepped back, disengaging with the whole situation. The truth was, I had no idea who she was protecting either, but João said there was a job here, and that was all the motivation I needed.
The alley surprised me. The whitewashed buildings meant it was brighter than a summer day in Seattle, but there was very little clutter. It was paved with brick, not the diamond-shaped yellow rocks of the sidewalk. The calçada.
Buddy had turned right when he went through the door, but I couldn’t see him. I’d wasted too much time with the waitress. The brick alley sloped upward, and there was a short flight of stairs at the far end. Before I did anything else, I sent the photo of Buddy to Annalise. If I caught a bullet in my head, I wanted her to know who put it there.
I jogged up the alley toward the stairs. I was armed, but not with a gun. In my back pocket was my ghost knife, the only spell I carried that I had cast myself. It was just a few lines of ink on a small sheet of notepaper, reinforced with mailing tape and laminate, but to me it felt alive, like part of my own body.
It could cut ghosts, magic, and dead things, which meant, in reverse order, that the laminated edge of this sheet of paper could split an I-beam in half, destroy anything with magic in it like a sigil or a predator and, when I used it on the living, it cut their spirits—their souls—and made them as docile as a well-fed baby.
It was my only real weapon, and I loved it.
But I left it in my pocket. If Buddy knew about me, he might know about my magic. Either he was João’s “friend” or he was João’s mission. I didn’t want to run him off before I either talked to him or murdered him.
Besides, I was getting pretty good with my ghost knife, and I was feeling cocky.
The alley was narrow, but someone had driven a tiny grey car into it. The fit was so tight, I couldn’t see how the driver had gotten out, although the car was empty. The sun roof was open.
I hopped onto the hood. The thin metal folded under my weight with a sound at least as loud as my Yo. On the far side of the car, the alley sloped downward again, and there was Buddy.
He had a woman with him. She had his same surfer complexion and wore her hair in a simple ponytail. And while Buddy’s expression was fearful, she narrowed her eyes at me.
I had no faith that the windshield would support my weight, so I hopped over the sunroof, landing hard on the tiny trunk. I was trying to avoid an embarrassing fall, and barely succeeded.
“Hey,” I said, “be cool.” Maybe he couldn’t understand me, but I hoped my tone and body language would get the message across. The two of them looked sorta harmless, but in this foreign place, I couldn’t trust my instincts. “Are you João’s friends? João?”
Their expressions made it clear they knew who I was talking about. Buddy’s wife laid her hand on her husband’s chest and pushed him back. She advanced on me.
There was no mistaking that expression. I reached for my ghost knife.
The world seemed to slow down. My thoughts raced ahead of what my body could manage, and I urged my arm to move faster. Faster.
It wouldn’t. At the same time, the alley grew darker, and the daylight became reddish. None of the sigils on my chest or arms reacted to it, bu
t this was magic. Buddy seemed to be frozen in place, but his wife was raising her fist toward me.
She wasn’t holding a gun or a knife—as far as I could tell, she wasn’t holding anything—but she didn’t have to be. I could feel magic coming off her like sound booming out of an amp.
There was no way I could reach my ghost knife before she raised her hand. While I struggled to make my body move, my thoughts raced through the possibilities: Would she throw something? Would she reveal a spell on the palm of her hand? Either way, her skin or the object she was holding would have a sigil inscribed on it, just like my own ghost knife, and it might do anything to me. Set me on fire. Put me in a coma. Turn me inside out. Anything.
I had too much time to think about the hurt that was about to hit me.
Still, the muscles in my arm would not move faster. And the ghost knife, which was as much a part of me as my thumb and fingers, lay inert in my pocket even when I tried to call it.
There was nothing I could do except watch, and it was my own fault.
She spread her fingers with excruciating slowness. There was no enchanted item in her hand and no sigil on her skin. Instead, a pair of lines emerged from her palm like the point of a spear. The lines were reddish silver, and the space between them as pale as ice.
The point kept coming, the lines growing wider and wider, until they were no longer coming from her hand but from the air around it. More lines appeared, and the spearpoint became more complex. It was like a crystal lattice, and as it entered this world, it seemed to press against the air, squeezing it the way a body presses on a mattress. The thing grew larger and larger, warping the space between us. The crystals began to reflect light, multiplying the number of faces I could see in front of me.
And there, emerging from the woman’s hand, was a faceted structure in the shape of an eye, tinged as red as the day.
A predator.
It came near me with all the speed of an overfed snail, but my own body was even slower. My muscles were so sluggish, it was almost like being frozen in place.
The farthest point of the lattice touched my left wrist on the outside, where the spells Annalise had placed on me made my flesh impenetrable. I felt nothing, not even a slight pressure.
Then the crystals began to multiply, as though cracking and growing at the same time—as though those were the same things. The angles flashed silver as they appeared, then turned red, wrapping themselves around my wrist.
It was engulfing me. It was searching for a way in. I wanted to shout a curse or hit back. I wanted to do anything to stop it. I also wanted Annalise to show up suddenly and save my ass at the last possible moment.
None of that happened. The crystals curved around my immobile wrist, until they came to unprotected flesh. Then one of the shards pricked my skin—just barely enough to draw blood.
That ruby eye rolled backward like a shark biting down, and the whole elaborate lattice withdrew with a suddenness that shocked me. All I could see of it was a single red drop of my blood on the silvery tip of a crystal, and then it was gone.
I could move again. My hand slapped onto my back pocket. Before I could draw my ghost knife, I collapsed.
My strength was gone. I hit my knees on the bricks, my body still twisting from the leftover momentum of my attempt to draw my weapon. I fell onto my shoulder, my left arm flopping up against my face. My head didn’t hit the ground hard, but I fell into unconsciousness anyway.
The last thing I saw was a tiny crystalline scar where the predator had stuck me.
Before:
“Secret passageways are cool and all, but we’re just passing under the street, right?”
“Right. Those abandoned apartments you were bitching about are not as abandoned as they look.”
No sound penetrated the solid rock above us. I heard no cars passing overhead, nothing. The air was damp and rancid. Secret underground passages are cool as a concept, but being inside one was sort of gross.
If this was the way to the First Palace, they were clearly not interested in good first impressions.
At the far end, Annalise used her thumbprint to open a heavy steel door. On the other side stood a well-dressed woman of about fifty. She was tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, with very dark skin and a shaved head. Her left ear was missing a few pieces, and a nasty scar crossed her throat. “Welcome, Ms. Powliss. Mr. Lilly.” She spoke with the same accent that African characters in the movies used, which made me think it was fake. “So good to see you again, ma’am. Elizabeth apologizes that she could not be here in person.”
“But she’s on her way.” Annalise didn’t sound pleased.
“She is, ma’am.”
We entered a room that looked like a lobby for a small, exclusive hotel. A single leather couch rested against one wall, and an unmanned front desk stood opposite. The walls had been painted gold, and a gleaming crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.
But of course, there were no windows. We were underground. There were no bellhops or no guests, either. The room was clean, but it felt unused. How often did the peers come here, anyway?
“Sorry!” came a voice from the hall. The woman speaking bustled around the corner into view. She was about five-ten, large-framed without giving an impression of strength. Her curly chestnut hair was rigid with some sort of product, and she’d done up her face like a forties movie star, with bright red lipstick and mostly pseudo-natural color around her eyes. “Oh dear, thank you for stepping in, Anita. I’m so sorry. I don’t remember a time when we’ve hosted so many peers at once, and it’s not like we can hire temporaries. Hello, Ms. Powliss. I apologize for my delay.”
“It’s fine,” Annalise said. The flat tone of her high, tiny voice suggested that it should not happen again.
The woman had a British accent of some kind. It made her sound fancy. “And you must be Mr. Lilly. I’m Elizabeth Tredwell.”
She extended her hand and I shook it. “Call me Ray.”
“Excellent, Ray. I’m Elizabeth. Can I take your jacket? And Ms. Powliss?”
Despite the summer heat, I’d worn my windbreaker. I’d found it useful over the years, especially for covering up stolen guns stuck into my waistband, but I didn’t think I’d need it here.
Of course, if I gave it to her, I’d have to ask for it back. I didn’t like asking for my own things. “Nah.”
“All right, then.” She seemed surprised by my response but not offended. With a little clap of her hands, she said, “Well, then. Everyone who was planning to come has arrived. They’re all waiting.”
They had to be the peers. The ageless, barely human sorcerers of the Twenty Palace Society I had come to meet.
Annalise stepped impatiently toward the hall. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Elizabeth stepped back, ready to lead me wherever I needed to go, but Anita stopped us all by clearing her throat.
I noticed then that Anita and Elizabeth were wearing the same charcoal pinstriped pants suit. Where Anita’s was buttoned up, Elizabeth wore hers more loosely, with an open collar and pockets bulging with little devices. “Of course,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for reminding me, Anita. Mr. Li—Ray, I’m afraid I can’t let you into the meeting until you surrender your weapon.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what she meant. I wasn’t carrying a gun—they weren’t always useful against predators, and I have a bad history with them. Besides, I had just gotten off an airplane.
Then I understood what she meant. She wanted my ghost knife.
I glanced at Annalise, hoping she would say something like Fuck that, Ray, you can keep it. She didn’t. In fact, she wasn’t even looking at me. Her expression was the usual one: impatient and annoyed.
“It’s a standard procedure,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing personal, I assure you. Anita and I wouldn’t be doing our jobs properly otherwise. Never fear. It will be returned promptly.”
I drew my ghost knife from my back pocket. I wondered what I could really do wit
h it against a roomful of peers, each carrying dozens of spells more powerful than this one. I knew my ghost knife wasn’t as destructive as the spells Annalise carried, but it wasn’t nothing.
If I gave it up, then I’d have nothing.
I gave it up. Anita accepted it, wisely holding it between thumb and forefinger to avoid the edges. I could feel it there, in her grasp. If I’d called to it, it would have come to me like a faithful pet.
But if I had a reason to call for it here, in the center of the society’s power, I was fucked.
Elizabeth said “Right!” and led us into the hall. The walls here were also painted gold, and the carpet looked clean and unused, but the door at the far end was so old, it sat warped in the frame.
“I’d hoped you would have time to meet the Council first, so we could brief you—or debrief you, I guess—but of course the peers don’t wait on us, we wait on them. They’re here right now, so you’re going straight to the top.”
“How many?” Annalise asked.
“Five, and we’re not sure about Dmitry.” She turned to me. “Dmitry Ilyich Gerasimov is the oldest surviving peer in the society, and he seems to live in Lisbon, although we’re not entirely sure where. He simply turns up when things become interesting. But he hasn’t appeared today, so who knows?”
“Still,” Annalise said, “five?”
The surprise in her voice made me nervous.
We stepped through the door into another lobby, but there were no fancy chandeliers here. Directly in front of us was a pair of elevators. To the left was a heavy double door, and I could hear people moving and talking on the other side. To the right was a short hallway that ended at a room with lots of plastic chairs and a counter with railings on the outside. A cafeteria.
As if she could read my mind, Elizabeth said, “After your meeting, perhaps the Council could sit down with you over lunch. Sound good?”
I nodded. Anita stepped forward and pressed the elevator call button. “I’ll have Hayes accompany you—”
The Twisted Path, a Twenty Palaces Novella Page 2