“What part of ‘Enforcer holding space’ did you miss?” he snapped.
Okay. So. That was more emotion than I’d seen from him since I thought he was going to shoot Ritter in the face. That picture had hit a nerve.
He reached for the handle, and a soft pink mandala flickered to life, power tripping from the outer glyphs and spilling toward the center. I saw little arcs of pink magic sneak out, connecting with the pulse-points in De Vries’s wrist and elbow, encasing his arm in a net of lightning.
I stepped back a bit, giving the magic room to do its thing with Officer Blue Eyes. I watched it sneak across his collarbone. It was looking for something. There were elements of the mandala I didn’t recognize at all, though I saw now that it targeted anyone with magic who touched it. I’m not sure what might trip that outer ring, but I took another step back from De Vries, just in case it went off.
The seeking arcs seemed to find what they wanted halfway down the sorcerer’s rib cage. I watched in fascination as a second, smaller mandala lit up beneath his shirt in that same soft pink. It rolled through the air like a penny, then spun, circled, and fit itself into the center of the large mandala on the door.
Lock and key. Now that was cool. Especially since I could now draw up a perfect image of that key in my mind.
De Vries relaxed, which was the only thing that tipped me off to the fact that something had been weird. The way he twitched each limb and shifted his weight made me think that spell had probably immobilized him somehow.
Then he opened the door and, annoyingly, held it open. I had to duck beneath his arm to go inside, which I did as quickly as possible.
And there, inside, stood a petite, middle-aged black man wearing only a scowl and a pair of eye-wateringly yellow boxer-briefs.
Chapter 21
helena
“FIVE MINUTES!” The scantily-clad Enforcer Sergeant shouted. “I told you I needed FIVE. MINUTES. What the hell are you doing inside in under—what—three?”
De Vries checked his watch, looking unconcerned. “Four.”
The man, whom I assumed was Enforcer Randolph, put his hands on his hips and glowered up at us both.
He couldn’t have been five-foot-four, but even in miniature, every inch had been sculpted into the rugged contours of a perfect masculine physique. As the girlfriend of a ballet dancer, I was something of an expert on incredible thighs, and though they might have been tiny, this guy definitely had them.
The sight of a man in underwear was not enough to make me stare. But beauty was. Beauty seared itself in my brain. And this man was a pocket-sized Idris Elba.
Also, he was covered in tattoos—a thousand tiny mandalas layered down his torso like scale armor. There was a warlike beauty to that too.
Enforcer Randolph clocked me staring, gave a slow, irritated blink, and returned his wrathful gaze to De Vries.
“In the field. When I say ‘five minutes’ in the field, I mean three. When I say five minutes in my own goddamn house, I mean ‘give me a few fucking minutes to put on some clothes’! But no, Mr. Overzealous’s gotta come inside in three.” He pivoted and waved us into the narrow home. “You better have more patience than this in the streets.”
The living room stood directly ahead, and transitioned into an indigo-tiled kitchen. There was a floating staircase at this split, and another going down.
I wasn’t sure how anyone could stand living in a place so narrow. De Vries could have just about touched both walls if he stretched out his arms. It would have been cramped if the living room had a normal amount of furniture. But the golden hardwood floors were bare, and besides a mustard yellow sofa pushed against the brick wall, the only other pieces were a glass side-table, a tall metal stool, and a massive potted fern.
Enforcer Randolph leaned one DayGlo butt cheek on the metal stool. It had to be cold, but he didn’t even flinch as he glowered at Officer Blue Eyes. “Okay, I’ve gotta ask,” he said. “Sirens? The hell are you thinking, Vreez? You’re supposed to be the one who isn’t a constant thorn in my ass.”
Feeling a little smug, I glanced up at my escort. A slight flare of the nostrils betrayed his otherwise stony features.
“The sirens were Ritter’s idea,” De Vries said.
Enforcer Randolph snapped and pointed at the couch. De Vries obeyed the command, and the cushion made an undignified noise as he sank into it.
“I don’t care if it wasn’t your idea,” Enforcer Randolph said. “It was a dumbass idea and you let it happen.” Those sharp, dark eyes flicked to me, to the couch, then back. “You like standing or something?
I crossed my arms and leaned my hip against the sofa. The ‘sit’ joke was getting old, and I was determined not to provoke an opportunity for anyone to use it.
Enforcer Randolph tilted his head back and addressed the ceiling. “Fuck me, if I’d known it was Silent White People Day I would have made a playlist.”
He pivoted toward the floating staircase. “Alright. Just don’t do anything incompetent while I get my gear on. Think you can handle that?”
De Vries crossed his arms. Randolph twisted back. “Not a rhetorical question.”
“I’ll keep him in line,” I said.
It earned me another one of Enforcer Randolph’s slow, annoyed blinks, but he didn’t wait for De Vries’s answer. He climbed the stairs, bare feet slapping every step.
After a moment, De Vries spoke quietly. “Don’t bait him. He’s one of the most powerful sorcerers you’re likely to meet”
“And I met him in his underwear,” I said. “It’s hard to be intimidated by someone in boxer briefs.”
I didn’t think he was going to respond, but a second later, De Vries gave a soft snort. I took that as an acknowledgement of my point.
I was still pissed at him, still feeling the hate swirling in my head like a red mist, but part of me hoped he didn’t leave me alone with Enforcer Randolph. De Vries was a threat, yes, but at least he was a familiar one. And so far, he’d kept me safe. That was more than I could say for pretty much anyone else.
Which was not a comforting thought.
“Behave while you’re here and the jury will take that into consideration.”
The advice was both irritating and weirdly welcome.
“You’re really using the word ‘behave’?” I said, but my voice didn’t have much bite. “I’m not seven.”
“Any seven-year-old who grew up with Guild Sorcerer parents would already know far more than you seem to,” he said.
I glanced down past my folded arms to find him glaring at the wall. His attention seemed to be focused on the indigo paint, and when I followed his gaze, it took me a moment to realize what he was looking at. There was a subtle pattern of mandalas on the wall. The magic circles were only a shade or two darker than the base color, and so intricate I couldn’t make them out without getting closer.
They were probably wards. Or defense spells, if this house really was some magical equivalent of a maximum-security prison.
I snorted. “Why does my lack of knowledge offend you so much? Doesn’t it just make it easier for the Guild to put me down? I thought that was what you wanted.”
He didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink. His expression didn’t even flicker. But somehow, the moment of stillness and silence unsettled me.
I wanted you to be a monster.
He’d said that to me, before, in the police station with Eric. I hadn’t thought too hard about what it meant, because it didn’t change the outcome. It still didn’t change the outcome. But for some reason, it felt like it mattered.
He’d wanted me to be a monster, but he knew I wasn’t. Since turning me in, he hadn’t been treating me like one. If I wasn’t a monster to him, what was I? A threat, clearly, or he’d never have turned me in. Or stayed in Minnesota.
Maybe he thought of me as some ignorant, uneducated kid with her hands on nuclear codes—someone who had to be put down for the greater good. Or maybe he simply wanted me held accountable for m
y actions while under Gwydian’s control, or for Isaac’s death, or for breaking the law.
I would probably never know. His motivations were as opaque as the brick wall behind us, and none of them really made a difference.
He’d reported me. I was facing a losing trial and a losing appeal. All I could hope for was a lenient sentence.
…which was possibly why he was giving me advice.
“Are you coaching me?” I said. A mixture of wonder and rising indignation made my voice weirdly high, and breathy.
“I’m telling you the facts you would already know if you hadn’t been raised by a Rogue,” he said.
“And why would you do that,” I said, “unless you were feeling guilty?”
“It isn’t guilt,” he said, and looked up at me. Some of the tension was gone from his features, replaced by a hollowness I almost recognized. “It’s pity.”
Pity. I kept my gaze locked on his, emotions cracking around inside my chest, even as my head replayed the Sanadzi’s voice.
…just too dangerous.
Poor thing.
I wanted to throw up. I wanted to punch him in the face. I could see the pity now, growing like tiny vines through concrete.
God, poor thing.
I was standing there, accused by him, facing execution, wearing his goddamned shirt, and he had the nerve to pity me. Fury took up so much room in my chest I could barely draw breath.
“You know where you can shove that pity?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“I can guess.” He clasped his hands loosely and shook his head. “I suppose last night’s fight gave me the impression you wanted to survive. If that impression was mistaken, then by all means, continue snarling at every Guild member you meet.”
My fists were tight enough to stop circulation in my hands. “It’s not every Guild member. It’s just you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Good. Because you need to stay far more focused and calm than you’ve been with me, because it won’t take more than the wrong facial expression for them to assume you’re too much of a risk.”
“And have me executed. Yeah.”
He frowned. “Not immediately. Sentencing you to execution requires overturning Sorceress Iyengar’s protection order. That decision can only be made by the international tribunal. Otherwise, the decision would be up to the Twelve.”
“So?”
“So, the National Guild will not take chances if they believe you’re dangerous. Thanks to you, the Enforcers at least have a peaceful means of restraint.”
I went still, searching my brain for his meaning. I’d given them all the mandalas in Gwydian’s grimoire. All except for one—the enslavement spell my former master had used on my family. The very spell I’d used to capture him, and turn him over to the Guild.
They couldn’t have that spell circle. They’d seen it, sure, but that didn’t mean…
My eyes snapped to De Vries.
“I didn’t give you the drawing order.” My voice was barely a ghost.
“The mandala was right there on Gwydian’s skin,” he said. “Once you know some theory, it’s down to experimentation to discover it. Especially since you transferred power to Sorceress Iyengar—all she had to do was trace the power backwards through the circuit. I think it took her about a week.”
The enslavement spell. The Guild had it. Deepti had given it to them.
And they were going to use it on me.
A wall of panic hit me. For a moment, my body didn’t exist. I was pure, electric panic, and I was falling.
Run. It was all I could think. Run!
I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t feel that helplessness again. The feeling of the knife in my hands, the life extinguished beneath it. Dad, screaming. Mom and me, unable to look away. Toy soldiers in Gwydian’s army.
I couldn’t go back. I couldn't. Couldn’t. I’d rather die.
I didn’t know I was changing until I was on four legs, fur shooting from me, fighting the confinement of clothing. De Vries was on his feet, his pistol crackling white with magic and aimed at my head.
Half the mandalas on the wall had lit up. I didn’t care. I had to get out. Get out, get out, get out, get out.
A lightning-bolt of pink magic slammed into the floor. I leapt back, growling. Then Enforcer Randolph leapt from the stairs, landing in the center of that lightning blast, crackling pink with magic. Tethers arced from his hands to the mandalas on the wall.
I bolted for the door.
“No,” he said. A magic circle exploded beneath me in a cymbal crash of power, riveting all four paws to the floor. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t summon a single mandala. I struggled, howling and wrestling. “No, no, no, and hell no.”
Each no was accompanied by a new mandala, a new effect. My tattoo seared hot, and I shot upward, fur sucking back into me, skin going pink and freckled and scarred. I let out a choked scream as the transformation refused to obey me.
How the fuck was he doing that? I didn’t know it was possible. It shouldn’t have been possible.
But I was crouching naked in that narrow living room, pink electricity shackling my wrists and ankles, my Spellhound tattoo a riot of battling pink and turquoise energy.
“Sir, she’s panicking,” De Vries said, stepping toward Enforcer Randolph. His eyes were wide, and I could see in them his fear that Randolph was about to use the deadly pink mandala now glowing at the end of his palm.
“I don’t need your advice, De Vries.”
“If you’d give her a moment to calm down, she just-”
A mandala erupted off the wall and hit De Vries in the chest, pinning him to the brick. Officer Blue Eyes was so startled by this, he let out an actual yelp.
De Vries lit up like a Christmas tree. Twelve identical mandalas appeared, around his chest and hips, and his face collapsed into a grimace of pain as the outer rings twisted, and the spell circles riveted down like bolts.
Magic poured from the rivets like he was a tapped barrel. He went limp, gray and practically bloodless. His lips looked vaguely blue.
Enforcer Randolph paced toward him like a cat. De Vries’s magic arced around him in a storm of electric starlight, illuminating the deadly serious expression on his face.
“I said,” he whispered, reaching for De Vries’s face and grabbing his chin in those petite hands. “I didn’t need your advice. I also said not to do anything incompetent. Letting her hellhound it up in my living room falls into that category. You want to make me look bad?” A beat of silence. “Still not rhetorical.”
De Vries shook his head, but it seemed to take monumental effort. His face was going even paler.
Enforcer Randolph gave him a cool smile and patted his cheek. Then he clapped his hand, and the white magic cracked open the room.
The pink mandala disappeared and De Vries slid down the wall, catching himself on the arm of the couch. His power crackled back into him through the twelve mandalas. By the time it was done, he’d doubled over, sweat pouring off his face and neck. His hands shook, but through it all, he’d managed to keep ahold of his gun.
Enforcer Randolph pursed his lips, and then he turned to me. I watched his gaze flick over me, taking in muscle, scars, and finally, the messy twist of tissue that had once been my enslavement tattoo. If he looked at any of the usual points of interest, I didn’t notice. He seemed more interested in assessing exactly what kind of threat I posed.
It took him four steps to reach me, and only when he crouched before me did I realize I was straining back against the grip of the mandala beneath me.
He reached for my shoulder, the one with the Spellhound mandala still battling turquoise and pink.
“Stop fighting,” he said.
I fought harder. I would not go back to enslavement. I. Could. Not. Go. Back.
For just a second, turquoise tripped down the circuit, and I felt my bones go hot.
Our gazes snapped together. For just an instant, I felt a swoop of hope.
I was s
tronger. I had more power. I could beat him. Pink crackled around his hand, ruthless. The killing spell was back.
Then a gunshot cracked through the air, and my Spellhound tattoo shattered.
Chapter 22
jaesung
Back when we first got to America, my mom used to tell me we flew through a hole in the sky. She didn’t mean it literally, of course. She’d gotten the proverb a little mixed up. It’s supposed to say, “even if the sky collapses, there’s a hole to escape from.” Sort of a ‘one door closes’ thing, meaning there will always be another path.
I’ve gone through most of my life with this mixed up idiom in my head, picturing a black hole-esque opening in the sky. Every time I hit a roadblock in life, that image flashes into my head.
As I drove the last six hours to Baltimore, accompanied by Eric’s chainsaw snore, I felt like I was chasing that hole in the sky, waiting for it to open up. We had to find a way to save Helena. What none of us were talking about was our total lack of a plan.
By the time we got to the hotel in Baltimore’s inner harbor, it was early evening and I was ready to sleep for a month. The room wasn’t $200 a night comfortable, but after almost twenty hours in a car, none of us were going to complain about the price tag on sleep.
I’d finally managed to doze when Krista let out a wolf-whistle. I grunted awake, lifting my head from the scratchy comforter to find Eric stumping out of the bathroom, all clean-shaven and sports-coated.
He thrust a crumpled tie out toward us. “Either of you know how to make one of these damn things look not like a disaster?”
Krista looked at me.
Normally, I’d have made fun of someone for being almost forty and not knowing how to do a tie, but the glint of anxiety in Eric’s eyes sapped that desire.
With a sigh, I rolled off the bed and staggered to Eric. I didn’t bother to retrieve my glasses; I could whip out a double Windsor drunk, concussed, and mirrorless. Blind wasn’t going to be a problem. I knotted it around my own neck and handed it over.
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