by Evelyn Snow
“Time to come out, little mouse.”
Chapter 5
A wave of something I couldn’t name swept over me, pulling me to my feet.
Later, I learned it had been a compulsion spell wielded by a wizard named Sullivan Shield. At the moment, all I knew was that I had no hope of resisting.
I jumped down from the truck to see we hadn’t made it far. We’d been stopped less than a mile from the bridge. Instead of allowing us to pass on through, the scanner on the bridge had triggered a silent alarm.
Holden had parked in the middle of the lanes of a wide roundabout on the main road. Official-looking buildings faced in brick and pale stone surrounded the roadway. One was taller than the others by several stories. It featured a spire reaching into the sky topped by a silvery rod that glinted in the sunshine. Beyond, an imposing stone tower rose in the distance over the treetops.
Bright banners hung from the windows of almost every building in the immediate vicinity. People crowded together on balconies. In the center of the roundabout, more onlookers clustered in the broad grassy area. Flowerbeds planted with roses of every variety lined the space. In the green's center, a large white gazebo doubled as a stage. They had set up temporary seating around the gazebo with quadrants roped off for walkways between. Counting the watchers in the surrounding buildings and those already seated, there had to be hundreds in attendance with more arriving every minute.
Men and women in black uniforms with the look of soldiers raised large wands to turn back the crowds that surged toward the truck. Two of the soldiers stood on either side of Holden. Silvery rope coiled around his chest, pinning his arms against his body. He was shaking his head, his mouth working like he was trying to tell me something. Too bad I couldn’t read lips.
The whole scene was like watching a video where the visuals were out of sync with the sound—except it was all too real.
At least the wizard in black leather was ignoring me. His gaze focused on the center of the garden where a young woman stood alone in the gazebo. She was tall and blond and wore boots and leggings under a blue tunic. Standing with her hands on her hips, she looked like her day wasn’t turning out the way she’d planned. No kidding.
A man and a woman stood at the bottom of the steps with their backs to the blonde. The woman had long silver hair and wore white from head to toe. The man was older, wearing a floppy hat and a long, dark green robe.
A clock somewhere struck noon. The booms sounding the hour seemed to have flipped a switch. The blonde ran down the steps. She bent her head, murmuring to the woman in white. People in the audience talked once more and conversations rippled through the crowd. Onlookers on the other side of the security line pressed forward in curiosity, halted only by warnings from the soldiers in black. Bright sparks jetted from their wands.
The man in the green robe started forward, gesturing for everyone to be silent. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Vigilance is our watchword!” A woman in the back stood and raised her fist, “Vigilance!” Others repeated the word. The volume grew into a deafening chant.
The woman in white raised her hands. Without a command or another gesture, the chants slowly subsided. She said, “We have contained the threat.”
What threat? I looked around, confused, until I realized she was referring to Holden and me.
“We will proceed,” she said. “Anyone who wishes to leave may do so. If you leave, please be advised we have reinforced the wards. Cross them at your own risk.”
She may have continued speaking. Or not. Honestly, I don’t remember. That was because a nearby rose bush had grabbed my attention.
It was growing.
Forget anything you’ve seen on the gardening channels. I don’t mean this thing was growing like an ordinary plant. It shot up and out like a mutant in a time-lapse video. Vines thickened and separated, formed massive arms and legs. One large bloom bobbed around the top of the plant, suggesting a freakish head. The rose bush monster grew and grew until it ripped thick roots out of the earth and took a step.
I shrank against the side of the truck.
My memory is that no one else seemed to notice what was going on. Surely others had to have noticed…
In what world did shrubs turn into thorny monsters? No matter how crazy people were on this side of the bridge, a hulking rose bush on the march could not be normal, right?
All I knew was that this thing was advancing toward me with long, floppy strides of roots that had become feet.
What happened next was instinct; that’s what I was told later, and I have no reason to disagree. I wasn’t aware of previously being taught how to create a fire spell or what to do with one. My magical education in Serenity Point had ended abruptly before I finished second grade.
Despite my brain yammering that my eyes had to be mistaken, I could have sworn the giant walking shrub was about to wrap thorny vines around my neck. I knew one thing for sure: If I let that happen, it would squeeze until I was deader than day old clippings.
Without conscious thought, I launched the mother of all fire spells.
I burned that sucker to the ground.
Then all hell broke loose.
A great deal later, Holden and I learned we had interrupted a qualifying exam for the Magical Bureau of Investigation. In those days, exams were an event with an audience (banners and audience optional). The homicidal rose bush had been part of the test. It should have been the person taking the test—the blonde—who dealt with the threat instead of yours truly. Interfering with her spell and her exam was a crime. How was I to know? Turns out, ignorance was no excuse.
Our attempts to explain our actions fell on deaf ears. Not a witch or wizard believed a word either of us said. We had a credibility score of zero. Who didn’t know certain rose varieties harbored violent tendencies? Why else would they be planted along fences and in front of homes if not for protection? In some circles, shrub roses ranked more valuable than guard dogs.
Tell you what, when I was finally released and returned to Montemar, I gave Aunt Phoebe’s prized Charlotte Armstrong roses a wide berth.
In the aftermath, Holden and I stuck with our defense of ignorance. While it didn’t do us much good, happily, it was the truth. I also learned that clinging to the truth was less consoling than one might assume when locked in a nasty dungeon that hadn’t seen a good scrubbing since the Thirteenth century. The rats turned out to be surprisingly good conversationalists, so there was that.
The investigation conducted by a joint task force of agents from both Rhiannon’s Wheel and the MBI found no weapons or bombs or evidence of terroristic intent. The truck’s cargo comprised ordinary household items in keeping with our story of being merchants.
After several days of interrogation, Holden’s father appeared to collect his truck, plead our case, and beg the authorities to let us go, and they did. Rather, they released Holden.
I remained incarcerated and faced one final charge—disrupting and subverting the work of the MBI, which counted as a magical felony, second degree.
My rat companions in the dungeon helped me concoct a strategy for my defense. Again, it was the truth. The reason the simple truth rose to the level of strategy was because my uncle had warned me to never discuss my history or how my parents died. The rats argued—what did I have to lose that I hadn’t already lost?
When I appeared before Rhiannon’s Wheel to account for my actions, I explained who I was and why I had inadvertently broken the magical wards protecting both the bridge and the town.
It didn’t go well.
Fiona Storm, the first chair of the Wheel and the most powerful witch in all the Nightingale Lands, labeled me a liar. Worse, I was a dead liar. She meant literally, as in Evangeline Jinx, beloved daughter of Derek and Jasmine Jinx, was deceased.
Fiona Storm had peered down at me from her high seat at the huge round table and asked, “Who are you? Unless you tell the truth, you have no hope of freedom.”
“And with the t
ruth, what then?” I asked.
“That depends,” she said. “Long ago, my family created the Pale. Do not assume I take threats lightly. All available evidence shows Derek Jinx was behind the bridge collapse. As his daughter, you may pose a new and equally intolerable threat.”
It went downhill from there.
You’d think witches and wizards capable of wielding magic and who lived with the daily reality of a paranormal fault in their backyard would be more understanding of how things might not be what they seemed. But, no. The only discrepancy the powers that be in Serenity Point cared about was my existence and the danger I obviously represented.
No matter how many times I told my story, no one believed me. No one cared. Holden and I should not have been able to cross the bridge. I should not have been able to throw a fire spell in the middle of a qualifying exam. Worst of all, a succession of soul readers—devices that detected the magical orientation of any entity—sparked and fizzled and broke every time I touched one.
There was no other explanation—I must be a demon or a new and frightening variation on the undead.
I protested, loud and long.
Fiona Storm dragged me to an elegant stone plaque on a monument in front of the town hall. There, she made me read aloud each of the one-hundred-and-three names of those who’d lost their lives in the bridge disaster—mine included. The irony of the performance was lost on her.
Eventually, the nightmare resolved itself, but not before the woman in white pitched a fit and threatened to rain curses on the mayor, the board of supervisors, the ranks within the MBI, and upon every impressive personage who sat at Rhiannon’s Wheel. She even went toe-to-toe with Fiona Storm.
The woman in white was Devi Talbot. While she admitted to harboring some private doubts concerning my identity, she wasn’t about to let her best friend’s daughter rot in a dungeon just because a stormbringer had her nose in a twist about the precious Pale.
Thanks to Devi’s intervention, I was released and placed on probation.
Today, many remain in Serenity Point who doubt I am who I say I am. Ballard Kepler led the charge to lay responsibility for the bridge collapse at my father’s feet. On the stone monument, I’d read the name of the younger sister he’d lost that day, Rebecca. He had also never forgiven me for breaking forty-two expensive and difficult to make soul readers.
Recently, I’d received a letter confirming the end of my official probation. The concluding paragraph added a final kick, stating that due to my unusual life circumstances my life and freedom would remain conditional, under review, and subject to executive action by Rhiannon’s Wheel at any time.
Why?
Evangeline Jinx must be dead. No one could have survived the utter destruction of the trans-dimensional bridge. Only demons lived in the abyss between the worlds. What did that make me?
No one ever filled in that blank.
At eighteen, stuck in a dungeon with my parents gone and my aunt and uncle beyond reach, I was utterly alone. Even if I could have spoken to my aunt and uncle, I don’t know what I would have said. What could they have done? I bowed under pressure and accepted probation as the best way out of a bad situation. Devi tried to convince me I was doing the right thing. It felt like a betrayal. As if I agreed that my father was the murderer who’d destroyed so many lives.
When I could finally return home three months later, all my uncle had to say was, “If you break the rules, you have the accept the consequences.”
The last five years had taught me a different lesson: If you can’t accept the consequences and still need to be able to live with yourself, maybe it’s time to break some rules.
With Fiona Storm’s ongoing threats hanging over my head, I refused to live in endless jeopardy. I needed answers about what happened to the bridge and my parents and why I alone had survived. I refused to accept my father was the monster others described. To get answers, I’d need access to people and places unavailable to the average witch. Devi agreed, and that was why she’d sponsored my candidacy for the MBI.
Today, I would find out if everything I’d been through in the last few years had been worth it.
When I reached the park with my backpack and Marley bobbing on my shoulder, only a few onlookers clustered near the sidewalk around the edge of the roundabout. That was another thing that had changed in recent years—they had banned large crowds from qualifying exams.
I saw the change in terms of good news/bad news. Good: I wouldn’t have to worry about potentially messing up in front of an audience. Bad: It was proof many people believed the odds makers’ take on my chances. That or they were worried something terrible might happen—like I’d rip a hole in the Pale and the world would collapse. As if. Only stormbringers had magic that powerful.
I was just Evie, a girl who wanted to become more than a footnote to a tragedy.
Three people waited by the gazebo. They were the judges Holden had predicted: Devi Talbot, Sullivan Shield, and the blonde from five years ago.
If she wanted revenge, today offered Cassandra Storm the perfect opportunity.
Chapter 6
Sullivan Shield smiled as I dropped my backpack on the grass and mouthed, good luck, little mouse. Despite my attempts to get him to drop it, the nickname had stuck.
Most of the time, I felt my five-five wasn’t short unless I was standing next to him. It put me at eye level with the Rhiannon’s Wheel logo emblazoned on his leather jacket. He was not only an agent with the MBI but also the chief enforcement officer for the Wheel in both realms. If I could earn his stamp of approval today, it would go a long way; maybe far enough to counter what was sure to be opposition from Cassandra, regardless of how well I performed during the test.
I trotted up the steps of the gazebo and placed Marley on the floorboards. It was time—a few minutes past, actually—for the animation spell to have kicked in. He looked no livelier than he had in the shed last night. I nudged him with my foot, and whispered, “Marley?”
Nothing. The name might be too new for him to recognize.
Who was I kidding? The ends of the fabric strips I’d wrapped around his stick arms had escaped the mud plaster. They fluttered in the light breeze. He was looking like less of a pirate and more like an organized collection of trash. My uncle was right. Trying to make a place for myself in this world was asking for trouble and almost-certain embarrassment.
All I wanted was for this day to be over—one way or another. Years of probation, study and practice, plus months of scrutiny and suspicion had been nothing short of grueling. Whatever came after today had to be better than that, no matter what happened.
I turned around and took a deep breath along with a moment to collect myself, forcibly evicting from my head any thoughts about the depressing odds. It was too late to turn back.
Devi Talbot stood on the other side of Sullivan. Like the wizard, she’d made a name for herself as a bounty hunter in the bring-‘em-in-dead-or-alive tradition. She didn’t give a rip what others thought of her, which was a handy quality to have since tracking magical criminals who liked to play dirty wasn’t a job that lent itself to magical correctness. She was thin and wiry and, despite the silver of her hair, had an ageless look. As always, she wore white—boots, jeans, shirt, even the belt at her narrow waist was white, although it was studded with slivers of obsidian. Comparing Devi and Sullivan, I’d calculated she would be the hardest to impress if I wanted a high score. Actually, forget about impressing her; I’d settle for squeaking by.
“Good morning,” Devi said. “You’ve no doubt noticed we’ve had a change in the judging roster.” She gestured to Cassandra who stood on her left. “Professor Ashmore who normally judges for us could not attend. We’re happy to welcome Miss Storm.”
Cassandra was a willowy five-eight, a couple of years older, and came from a famous family. Old money and status as the youngest witch of the stormbringer clan had greased her way into the ranks of the MBI at a youthful age. As much as I disliked her
, even I had to admit she’d earned her place. Cassandra was smart. Although, according to her mother, she’d emerged from the womb reciting the ABCs of spells and incantations—like that was a good thing.
I must have sighed while Devi had been speaking. She glared at me. Still, it wasn’t an angry glare, if that makes sense; it was reassuring. My eyes flicked to Cassandra who was staring right back at me. Her gaze was dead level and layered with a cool assessment that clearly found me deficient. No surprises on that score.
Holden had been right. If Cassandra Storm had anything to do with it, I would never, ever hold a Magical Bureau of Investigation badge. The animosity ran in the family because Fiona Storm was her mother.
Devi looked right and left, taking in the gaggle of ten or twelve onlookers who had drifted closer during the opening remarks. She opened her hand and whispered. A small black rectangular box appeared in the air before her. Wings on either side fluttered, keeping it aloft. It was a Seezall that would record the test. “Today, we have the qualifying exam for Evangeline Jinx. Are there any objections?”
Cassandra shook her head from side to side. “I have no objections.” She punctuated her statement with a smile that struggled to be pleasant, but failed utterly.
I planted my hands on my hips, marshaling my determination.
It was pure chance I caught Devi giving her head a micro-shake followed by a brief narrowing of her gray eyes. What? Then it hit me there might be another reason they had dumped Professor Ashmore as a judge in favor of Cassandra—a reason that had nothing to do with the professor’s busy consulting schedule.
While Devi was the head of the MBI, she’d also gone to bat for me five years ago, taking on the covens and Rhiannon’s Wheel, to have what many viewed as reasonable concerns about me dismissed. Now that I’d applied to join the agency she headed, she needed to avoid even a whisper of impropriety or favoritism.
Cassandra could barely say my name without snarling. She was here to confirm a judgment handed down five years ago. In the court of public opinion and the odds board down at The Demon’s Horn, she’d already cast her vote I was unsuitable, unworthy, undeserving—all the uns. As long as Cassandra was one of the judges, no one would question today’s results, or by extension, Devi Talbot’s judgment.