The Library, the Witch, and the Warder

by Mindy Klasky

  O’Rourke wouldn’t be as picky. David added some packaged almonds, a few pieces of fresh fruit, a box of cookies… In the end, he spent close to a hundred bucks.

  Something about the purchase felt like a ritual of atonement. But that was ridiculous. David hadn’t done anything wrong. Not exactly. Not like O’Rourke. Haylee’s practicing dark magic was nothing like Maggie Hanes’s committing suicide. David had never officially been burned.

  He barely resisted the urge to reach for the Torch he knew wasn’t there.

  He was exiting the store, juggling two bags of food and a sealed coffee mug, when an incoming customer bodychecked him. Barely managing to keep the mug from crashing to the sidewalk, he scowled in annoyance. The kid who’d almost bowled him over was glued to his phone and barely looked up.

  Barely. But the guy did glance up from his screen for long enough to stammer, “M— Mr. Montrose!”

  David tried to place the red hair, the freckled face, the wide green eyes that looked like they might belong to Jimmy Olsen of Superman fame. No luck, even though the kid had jammed his phone into his pocket and was frantically, desperately trying to shuffle left, right, left again, intending to give David the right of way but matching him step for step in some sort of crazed ballet.

  “Stop!” David finally barked, and the kid froze. David maneuvered out the door, only to have Jimmy follow him onto the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Montrose. I should have been looking where I was going. My mother always tells me—”

  “No problem.”

  “But Mr. Montrose—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Can I help you carry your…lunch back to the office?”

  Office. That meant the kid worked for the court. Not that David cared. “I’m fine,” he said, but he wondered if the boy really thought he could eat all that food in one sitting.

  “It’s no problem, really. I don’t even need a cup of coffee. I just came over here because I’m waiting for the D1000 update patch to load onto the 703A system.”

  A connection finally clicked inside David’s mind—a tiny spark of peppermint oil across the back of his throat as he recalled emails he’d received from the Help Desk. There’d been instructions about new systems, reminders about security measures, apologies for outages. “Kyle,” he said. “Kyle Hopp.”

  A blush started at the tips of the kid’s ears, quickly flooding down his face to the V of his shirt. “Yes, sir. Mr. Montrose, sir.”

  David interrupted the enthusiastic reply. “David,” he said.

  “D— David.”

  After that, Kyle seemed out of inane things to babble. David finally nodded toward the office. “I’ll just be getting back—”

  “You don’t want to do that s—, David.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Pitt came down to the Help Desk about fifteen minutes ago. He asked me to track you down through your cell phone’s signal, and he didn’t seem to be in a very good mood.”

  As if Pitt was ever in a good mood. Well, so much for going back into the building. The last thing David wanted was to lose what remained of his Saturday doing Pitt’s make-busy work. But that meant he had no way to get his over-priced coffeehouse fare to O’Rourke.

  “And what did you tell Pitt?” David asked. The kid had warned him off going back into the building. Maybe he could actually be trusted as an ally.

  “I told him we weren’t allowed to use Help Desk resources to track down a warder. Not without a completed Real-Time Resource Monitoring form, submitted in triplicate with counter-signatures from at least two court judges.”

  “I’m sure he loved that.”

  Kyle looked uneasy. “He threatened to report me to my boss. And he demanded to talk to someone else on duty. But there wasn’t anyone else. Not on Saturday.”

  Aren’t you a little young to be left in charge?

  Something in his expression must have given away his thoughts, because Kyle said, “I’m allowed to staff the Help Desk!”

  David lied. “I didn’t think—”

  “I got permission from the headmaster to work at the Help Desk on weekends.”

  So, the kid was still in the Academy. Most boys his age spent their weekends working on fighting forms and swordplay, maybe even memorizing a few rituals. They played pranks on each other and whichever teachers they thought they could harass without incurring overly egregious penalties.

  But Kyle Hopp preferred to spend his weekend staffing the Help Desk. He must be finding Academy life…challenging.

  The kid’s phone buzzed. David glanced down in time to catch the flash of a crimson notification on the screen. He recognized the form immediately, although he’d received his by email back when he’d been in school.

  Clearly embarrassed, Kyle jammed his phone into his pocket. He looked like he might cry.

  “Demerit?” David asked sympathetically, because he’d served enough hours when he’d been a student.

  Kyle nodded.

  David cocked his head. He couldn’t imagine what Kyle had done to earn the punishment. He certainly didn’t seem the trouble-making type. Except…

  “What class are you failing?” David asked.

  “Swordplay,” Kyle answered, whispering like it was a filthy secret.

  And David suddenly saw a solution to his own dilemma. “Here,” he said, shoving the bags and the coffee mug into Kyle’s surprised hands. “Take these back to the office for me. Then we can meet tomorrow afternoon, in the Academy gym. I’ll give you a lesson in swordplay.”

  The boy’s eyes were larger than the sandwiches he now held. “You’d do that? For me?”

  David shrugged. “You warned me about Pitt.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet. Peeling off a bill for the kid, he said, “Buy yourself a cup of coffee. Then drop those things off at the door of the library.”

  “The library?” From Kyle’s tone, David might have been speaking Egyptian.

  “In the basement. End of the hall. Can’t miss it.”

  Clearly awed, the boy shifted the bags and the mug, managing to clutch the money. “And you’ll really do that? Help me at the gym?”

  David remembered what it was like to get a demerit. His had been in penmanship, before George had finally convinced him that warders needed to write like gentlemen, as well as fight like them.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll help you out.”

  Once Kyle was headed into the Starbucks, David decided to make his own timely escape. The last thing he needed was to run into Pitt by accident on the empty DC sidewalk.

  Hurrying, he made his way to a break between buildings, a narrow alley sheltered by high brick walls. He ducked behind a Dumpster, taking care to look left, look right, then study the windows overhead. When he was certain no one was watching, he closed his eyes and reached toward home.

  He materialized on his driveway. He never reached directly inside the house. That was a holdover from one of his earliest lessons as a warder—never place yourself directly in the path of a prepared enemy without a clear path to escape. By long-standing habit, he appeared in the shadow of his garage. The shelter gave him a chance to look over his property and make sure nothing was out of place.

  Nothing, like the low-slung sports car that hulked in the center of his driveway.

  Nothing, like the leather-clad salamander standing on his porch.

  21

  To the salamander’s credit, he hadn’t burned the house down.

  He hadn’t even singed the swing on the front porch.

  But David could hear Spot barking behind the front door, his voice hoarse enough that David suspected the salamander had been in place for quite some time. Apparently that was the advantage of wearing a leather jacket—even a cold-blooded, dead-eyed killer dispatched by Apolline Fournier didn’t get chilled.

  Rosefire was such a comfort in David’s hand that he didn’t remember reaching for the sword. Ward-fire flickered along its edge, coruscating in the twiligh
t.

  The salamander immediately held up his palms in the universal signal for innocence. “No need for the sword, Mr. Montrose.”

  David planted his feet, regretting that the salamander had the literal high ground of the porch. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was sent to bring you to an important meeting.”

  David let the sword’s rippling flame burn higher. “I don’t have any meeting scheduled.”

  “You won’t want to miss this one.” The salamander took a step toward the edge of the porch, but he stopped when Rosefire’s tip angled to meet his heart. “You won’t be alone,” he said, his voice slick with amusement. “Your shifter friend is already there.”

  Not taking his eyes from his enemy, David reached inside his pocket for his phone. With his left thumb, he placed a call to Connor. “What color is the moon?” he asked, the instant the shifter answered.

  “Silver,” came the immediate reply.

  The question was thirty years old; he and Connor had used it as boys. A silver moon meant the coast was clear. All was well. A blue moon would have warned David that the situation was unclear—a parent might be angry, but no immediate punishment was forthcoming. A crimson moon meant danger—ongoing parental inquisition, imminent grounding. Or, now, death at the hands of the salamander queen.

  David thumbed off the phone and gestured with Rosefire, ordering the salamander off the porch steps. The imperial slithered to the ground, letting the motion carry him over to the sports car that crouched in the driveway. From this vantage point, David could see it was a Dodge Viper.

  “Come on, Warder,” the salamander said. “Don’t make me tell my boss you’re afraid to take a ride.”

  He wasn’t afraid. He was rightfully cautious. But Connor had just told him he’d be safe enough—at least for now. And in a pinch, he could reach his way out of a moving car, back to the safety of home, or anywhere else. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it. He slung himself into the car.

  The salamander drove fast. He’d clearly studied the local roads, and he made it to the interstate without attracting any small-town law enforcement intent on meeting month-end quotas for speeding tickets. He opened up the throttle on the highway, edging close to ninety miles per hour.

  David bit back a hundred questions as they hit the Beltway and were slowed by traffic. Chances were, they were heading back to DC. But they didn’t strike out for downtown. Instead, they crossed into Virginia. Cut through the suburb of Arlington. Ended up at the cemetery of the same name.

  The salamander pulled into a low parking garage, gliding the Viper into a slot in the shadows, farthest away from the entrance to the burial ground itself. David followed the imperial up the stairs, past the Visitor’s Center and onto one of the wide paths that cut through the bright green grass. Row after row of white tombstones marched across the hillside in hypnotic order.

  He couldn’t summon Rosefire in the middle of a public place, especially not in broad daylight. He had to trust to the crowds to keep him safe. Even if the salamander wanted to cause him grievous bodily harm, it wouldn’t be worth the unrestrained wrath of the Empire Bureau of Investigation for revealing magic in a mundane setting.

  Those reassurances gave David a semblance of calm as they climbed the steep footpath, passing the occasional funerary monument and equine statue. He only came to a stop on a grey stone platform, beneath the watchful eye of Robert E. Lee’s Greek Revival home, where Union soldiers once buried their dead in the rose garden.

  Here, in the heart of Arlington, broad flagstones were surrounded by grass. Individual markers lay flat on the ground, etched with names, birth dates, and death dates. John F. Kennedy. Robert F. Kennedy. Patrick Bouvier Kennedy. Arabella Kennedy. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis.

  Above them all, a flame burned in the center of a circular stone, flickering pale in the afternoon sunlight. As David approached with the salamander, the color gradually intensified, darkening from salmon to tangerine to a vibrant, blaring orange.

  The handful of tourists gathered around the memorial didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy panting for breath after the steep climb, or taking selfies against the backdrop of Arlington House, or turning around to capture the Washington Monument and the Capitol in the distance.

  But David understood the power being exerted over the living fire. He saw the striking figure in front of the burning bowl—not Apolline, as he’d expected. Rather, John Brule wore a full-length trench coat, as black as the soot around the eternal flame. His silver hair caught on a breeze, flaring around his face like a halo.

  “Well met,” Brule said. “I thank you for indulging my…passion.” He inclined his head toward the fire. At the same time, the flames brightened another notch, transforming from orange to liquid gold.

  “What do you want?” David asked, fighting a visceral reaction against such a public display of magic. “Why did you bring me here?”

  Brule spared him a smile, his onyx eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight. “I thought you’d be more inclined to meet me in a public place. But let us join your friend. We can talk away from the crowds.”

  The “crowds” were a family wearing University of Montana gear, burgundy and silver emblazoned with grizzly bears. But another cluster of tourists was approaching from below, and a uniformed soldier stood almost within earshot.

  Brule gestured toward the left. David followed the salamander’s open hand and saw Connor. The shifter’s feet were planted on the white stone walkway, his shoulders set as if he were barely restraining himself from taking his lupine form.

  “All right,” David said, when he and Brule had joined Connor. He could spot at least four salamander guards stationed on pathways in each of the cardinal directions. “You’ve got us here. What do you want?”

  “Such haste!” Brule exclaimed, his sharp laugh sounding like the collapse of logs in a bonfire. The lilt of his French accent became more pronounced as he crooned, “Relax, messieurs. I owe you both an apology. Things at the lair became far more…heated than I’d planned. My men were understandably distressed when they learned you could not produce the karstag in a timely fashion. I’d only intended for them to…detain you momentarily. Not to harm you in any way.”

  Connor made a spitting sound, a blatant expression of disbelief. David had to agree with the sentiment—he could still feel the heat of the salamanders’ fire pit against his cheek, and he’d had nightmares about that lizard-chased poker. But he’d been trained to keep calm when all was collapsing around him. He understood how to project steady confidence when an allied witch—or a shifter, for that matter—was on the edge of losing composure. So he kept his voice perfectly level as he said, “The karstag is safely in one piece. Which is more than I can say for the Collar.”

  At the mention of the wolves’ relic, Connor growled but Brule was the first to reply with words. “Ah yes,” he said. “One of my colleagues became a little…overzealous with regard to your Collar. I explained to her the folly of breaking that link.”

  Connor growled, “You can tell your colleague—”

  Brule wasn’t saying Apolline had done the breaking. But how many female salamanders could there be in DC? Everyone knew the females were as likely to poison each other as they were to say hello.

  Brule was throwing Apolline under the bus.

  David flicked his hand in a horizontal gesture, just enough to capture Connor’s attention. The shifter cut off his spluttering protest in time for David to say, “What do you want, Brule? What’s so important that you called us here on an autumn afternoon, in front of the entire mundane world?”

  The salamander shook his head, issuing a trio of soft hisses like a dog owner calling off a puppy from a particularly appealing toy. “Such haste…” He offered another Gallic shrug. “We must work together, soldiers like us, on the front lines of war.”

  Connor balled his hands into fists. “We wolves work with allies. Not with yellow-bellied—”

  Bru
le directed his next words at David alone. “The salamander who broke the Collar wasn’t working alone. She had certain…encouragements to complete her work. Certain people who told her our nest would benefit from keeping you busy. You, specifically, David Montrose. You seem not to have many… allies…in that court where you work.”

  Hints and suggestions, that’s all Brule offered. But David understood the story behind the salamander’s words, the conclusions he was supposed to draw. A warder had spoken to Apolline. David was willing to bet his next year’s salary that Norville Pitt had engineered the breaking of the Collar.

  “Why would Apolline trust Pitt?” he demanded, using the words to tamp down his reflexive rage against his boss. It was one thing for Pitt to manipulate David’s professional career. It was another for him to move against the shifters.

  “Ms. Fournier,” Brule corrected. “Yet we understand each other, you and I.”

  Connor bristled. “You two may have a perfect understanding, but I’m the one trying to keep the Washington Pack from breaking ranks. I need some show of good faith, Brule. I need to let my pack know there’ll be a Collar left to trade for, come the next full moon.”

  Brule studied the shifter for a full minute before reaching some decision. Taking a single step back, he raised his chin, letting his coat fall in uninterrupted lines from his shoulders to his knees. He looked first at Connor, but he addressed his words to David. “The breaking of one link was just the beginning. You should know that Apolline Fournier is convening a Grand Congress.”

  That was the last thing DC needed, a gathering of all the salamander groups on the eastern seaboard. Before David could make some diplomatic response, Connor growled, “It’s a free empire.”

  Brule raised one eyebrow. “You should exhibit greater concern, Wolf. At least about this Grand Congress.”

  “Stop playing games,” David said, as much to irritate Brule as to remind Connor not to be sucked into the charade. “What is Apolline planning?”