by Jayne Faith
This man was a mage.
“She’ll live,” he said, blowing beef-jerky scented breath over my face.
I pushed slowly up to my elbows to discover I was on a cot in a one-room rustic log cabin. Rogan was hunched under an army blanket near the fireplace. He was half-turned toward me, and the look of relief on his face was evident, but he appeared haggard and exhausted.
“This is Switchboard,” Rogan said, his voice hoarse. He tipped his head toward the bearded man, who’d moved to the potbellied stove where he sipped something from a steaming tin cup and regarded me with his pale eyes. “He saved your life.”
I wanted to stand, but I was already shaking with the effort of holding up my own head. My temples throbbed, and my entire body ached as if I’d spent the day inside a rock tumbler. Even my skin hurt.
“Pleased to meet you, Switchboard. I’m indebted to you,” I said. “How did you do it?”
Switchboard jerked his thumb toward Rogan. “He did mosta the work. Blocked off the magic himself, holding it all the way here.”
My eyes lingered on Rogan again. No wonder he looked so awful. Magical exhaustion.
Thank you, I mouthed.
He lowered his eyelids and nodded once.
“I managed to tie off what he did,” Switchboard continued. “But if you lose that ring, you’re up shit creek, young lady.”
I rubbed my thumb over the charm on my right index finger. Switchboard looked like a caricature of an Old West gold prospector. Not at all like my mental image of a mage. Not that I’d ever been in the presence of one, but every so often a mage appeared in news footage. They were usually polished and stately looking. Dignified.
“So which one of us is going to fish the other ring out of a pile of troll crap?” I asked Rogan lightly.
A smile cracked through his exhaustion.
There was a scratching noise and a yip at the door, and Switchboard went to open it. Loki trotted in. Seeing me awake, he bounded over and started bathing my face with his smelly tongue.
“Glad to see you too, boy,” I said, petting his head and at the same time trying to fend off his slobbery affection.
I sat up and turned so I was sitting with my back against the wall, and that small movement just about did me in. I closed my eyes briefly and let my full weight sag against the support of the rough-cut logs.
“Drink this, you’ll feel better.” Switchboard held out a second dented tin mug. When I brought it to my face and inhaled the aroma of strong coffee, my head seemed to clear.
He moved away to perch on a stool that was basically just a two-foot-high cut chunk of log. Loki went to lie on the dirty, faded rag rug spread in front of the fireplace. He curled up and rested his head on his paws, his eyes trained on me.
“Atriul tells me he wants ta be called Rogan now,” Switch said, propping one fist on the top of his thigh. “Says you’re the only other person he’s found walking around with a reaper in this world.”
I nodded. “Lucky me, I died and came back, and now I’ve got a reaper. It’s trying to take over, and I need to stop it.”
There was no reason to keep anything secret from Switch. I was desperate to reclaim my magic, so I had no reason to hold anything back. Besides, if he was really a telepath, he could probably see inside my head, anyway.
He barked a rough laugh. “Doesn’t quite work that way, young lady. I can only see the thoughts you leave open for me to see.”
“Oh,” I said sheepishly.
I held up my right hand and wiggled my fingers. “Mostly I was hoping you’d be able to tell me how to get rid of this thing and start crafting again. You know, without either the magic or the reaper killing me immediately.” I gave him a droll look.
He let out another grunt of a laugh. “Tall order.”
I waited for more.
“I suggest you go see the dragon,” Switchboard finally said.
I started to glance at Rogan in question, but then a memory jolted through me. The huge creature that had loomed behind Lynnette during one of the coven rituals. At the time, I had assumed it was a giant demon. My mouth went dry.
“I think he already paid me a visit,” I said. “Scales, hellfire eyes, leaking rip magic? And he called me by name.”
Switch’s bushy brows shot up. “Well, now, look at you. You’re a step ahead.”
“What is he, exactly?” I asked.
“He’s an oracle. He likes to think he’s the oracle,” Switchboard said with a snort.
“He can tell me what to do about the reaper?”
“Eh, maybe. If he feels like it. Gotta bring three for backup. Two darks and a light.”
I looked at Rogan for a translation.
“The dragon is indeed an oracle,” he said, hitching the blanket higher around his shoulders. “You ask the oracle a question, but it can’t be any old question.”
“Nope, gotta be something from the heart,” Switch chimed in. “Don’t screw it up, or you’ll get fire-roasted like rabbits on a spit.”
I looked at Rogan in alarm.
He brushed a hand through the air. “It’s only happened a few times, and they deserved it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
I didn’t feel terribly reassured.
“The bigger worry is getting in. An audience with the oracle isn’t guaranteed,” Rogan continued. “For some reason he likes it when you bring three others with you, and this ups your odds of his cooperation. Two people who are death-touched, and one who isn’t. Some people say the dark-light thing is symbolic, that even though you may be death-touched, there’s a part of you that remains light. Or, at least it should.”
“You’ve paid a visit to the oracle, I take it?” I asked.
“Decades ago, yes.” He peered at me, his eyes seeming to glow in the firelight. “I didn’t know the dragon had already sought you out. That’s . . . unusual. Normally Switch here has to go and make an offering before the dragon will even acknowledge a person.”
“Oracle must be curious about you, young lady,” Switch said. He almost seemed a little insulted, as if I’d somehow undercut his authority because I hadn’t required his intervention. “That means you ain’t gettin’ out of a visit to him.”
This was all interesting in its own way, but I didn’t really have time for dancing through a bunch of ceremony.
I turned to Switchboard. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for what you’ve already done for me, but Rogan seemed to believe that you’d know how I could—”
“Get yer magic back and turn off the reaper,” Switch cut in. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re eager, girlie. Everybody knows you’re chomping at the bit.” He spread his arms wide, his coffee sloshing, as if to indicate a room full of people.
I bit back a smart-ass response, trying to keep my edginess from spiraling out of control.
I took a quiet breath before opening my mouth. “I’m impatient, I know that. I apologize.” I clamped my teeth together, fighting the urge to plead my case.
Switch wagged a finger at me. “And that’s going to get you killed, if you’re not careful.”
“Is there anything else I can do, or someone else I should talk to?” I asked with as much humility as I could possibly muster.
“Dragon,” Switch said shortly.
He stood and went over to the kitchen area. From a few feet away, he tossed his tin cup into the sink, where it rattled against other dishes and flatware already piled there. He shambled to the pegs near the door and reached for a worn knee-length leather coat lined with sheepskin.
“I expect you to be gone by the time I get back,” he said. He grabbed the shotgun leaning against the wall and opened the door but then turned to me as if remembering something. “Bring your hellhound mongrel along with your crew. The dragon’ll like him.”
He disappeared outside as a billow of winter air swept into the cabin.
I turned to Rogan, my brows lifted. We both laughed at the same time.
He shook his head. “I know. He’s
a lot to deal with.”
“Did he heal you?” I asked. “Are you okay to leave?”
The color had returned to Rogan’s face, but fatigue was still settled deep in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, but I wasn’t completely convinced.
He pushed the blanket off his shoulders, wincing as if it hurt to move. He must have been in very bad shape to still look so pained after a mage’s healing.
I steeled myself, scooted to the edge of the cot, and dropped my feet to the floor. My head swam. I gripped my hands into fists, waiting for the swaying sensation to clear.
Rogan moved to my side and offered his hand. I took it and hauled with all my strength to try to get myself up onto my shaky legs. Still unsteady himself, I nearly pulled him over. He found his balance and caught me around the back with his free hand, pulling me against him to get me upright.
Suddenly I was practically nose-to-nose with him, our chests pressed together and his arm around my waist. For one crazy moment, it almost felt as if we were slow dancing to some unheard tune. His gaze seared into mine, sending my pulse jolting.
I turned my face to the side, focusing on Loki who stood expectantly near the door.
“Thanks,” I said. I shifted back, opening some space between me and Rogan. “Look at us. A couple of invalids.”
I could still feel his eyes trained on me. He let go of me slowly, his hand trailing around my back and side before dropping away. Last, he released my other hand.
I wasn’t sure if his lingering gaze and touch actually meant something, or if I was imagining things. Either way, I wasn’t looking for anything to happen between us and hadn’t sent any inviting signals. Things were rocky with Johnny, but that didn’t mean I was going to do him wrong.
“I’m good to drive,” he said. “But we’re going to have to hike to the Jeep. Are you up for it?”
I nodded and called to Loki, unnecessarily, but it was an excuse to avoid the intensity in Rogan’s eyes.
The three of us went out into the dingy winter cold. I had no idea where we were. Aside from Switchboard’s cabin, there was no other sign of humanity within sight. It was too gloomy to see much beyond the immediate grouping of tall evergreens surrounding the cabin. Not pitch black yet, but if the sun wasn’t down yet, it would be soon.
Rogan took the lead, aiming us to a barely-visible path through the trees. He turned on his phone’s camera flash, using it to light our way. We passed a very old pickup truck with cinderblocks where the wheels should have been. I was grateful to find the ground was level. I didn’t think my legs could handle any inclines yet. It took all of my focus to stay on my feet, and it seemed Rogan was absorbed in his own trek, too.
When we finally reached the Jeep, I turned to him. “You hauled me all that way while you were holding some kind of magical barrier together to keep me from frying?”
Not only that, but he had to have already been fairly drained from slinging magic at the troll.
He shrugged modestly, and I just kept staring at him.
“Let’s just say it’s a good thing someone like Switch was waiting for us at the end of the path,” he said. “Otherwise we’d both be in trouble.”
I shook my head in awe, and he got in the driver’s seat.
I let Loki in the back. I retrieved my phone from the foot well below the passenger seat and then got in. With my arms clamped to my sides, I tried in vain to stop my shivering. I was feeling something similar to magical exhaustion, though it was obviously not due to crafting. Maybe Switchboard had rigged my new charm to draw energy from my own vitality, the life force that even non-crafters emit. Rogan started the car and then reached behind him and dragged a thick wool blanket into the front.
“I keep this in here for emergencies,” he said, pushing it toward me. “Sorry it’s a little grimy.”
I settled part of the blanket over my lap and reached to spread the other end across his. He started to protest, but I pushed his hands away.
“I’ve never seen you react to the cold, except back there,” I said. “You’re still drained. I don’t want you going into shock.”
I checked my phone, but there was no service so I turned it off to preserve the little bit of juice left in the battery. Once we were back on the highway, I powered it up. It pinged repeatedly as text messages piled in.
Most of them were from Damien, with a couple from Deb. One from Johnny was an apology, ending with, Can we meet up tonight when you get back?
I paused but then scrolled on without replying.
The last text from Damien caught my eye. It started with three shocked-face emojis.
We have our first prospective client, but it has to be a joke. Claims he’s Phillip Zarella.
Chapter 9
I CALLED DAMIEN.
“How did he contact you? How did he even know we’re hanging out our shingle? What did he say exactly?” I fired off questions as soon as he picked up, bypassing any pleasantries.
“Hello to you, too,” Damien said. He sucked in a breath and paused dramatically. “I’d just started setting up a website and barely had an email account established when the message came through. It said, ‘I have a job for you. P Zarella.’”
Well, that was a little anticlimactic.
“You really think it could be him?” Damien asked.
“Did you put my name on the website or associate my name with the business in any way?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Both our names are on the website.”
“It’s him.”
There was a moment of silence. “We’re going to say no . . . right? I mean, with his history as a murderous psychopath and all, we couldn’t possibly take him as a client.”
I bit back a grin. Damien was dying to find out more. So was I.
“We should at least ask him what the job is,” I said. I adopted an airy tone. “For the sake of professional courtesy and whatnot.”
“Right, right,” Damien said. “Professional courtesy. Because we’re professionals, and professionals should always be courteous.”
I snorted a laugh. “Seriously, he wants us for a reason. I have no intention of helping him, but I do want to know what the hell he’s up to.”
Even as I said the words, I felt a tiny cold pebble of uncertainty rattle through me. It wasn’t that I wanted to help Phillip Zarella—no moral person would want to do anything for the man. I’d once read an article about Zarella that labeled him the figurative unholy demon child of Hannibal Lecter and Angel of Death Nazi doctor Josef Mengele. His was a rare and atrocious brand of evil. But even locked up on the Gregori Industries campus, Zarella had reach.
“We’re headed back home,” I said. “Let’s talk first thing in the morning.”
We ended the call, and I turned to Rogan.
“Phillip Zarella,” I said.
I watched Rogan’s face. His gaze skittered a little, dodging over to me and then returning to the road.
“What about him?” he asked apprehensively.
“I know he’s alive. I’ve seen him in person twice, so there’s no need to pretend he was killed trying to escape max security. What kind of sway does he have in your so-called underworld network?” It was a bit of a shot in the dark, but from what little Rogan had mentioned about the “underworld,” I figured Zarella was probably connected to it in some way.
Rogan’s jaw tightened.
“More than you want to admit, I’m guessing,” I said.
His shoulders shifted under his duster. “I don’t want to give the impression that underworlders are bad. Some are bad, sure. Some are downright evil. But the majority isn’t. Most of us are like you and me, when it comes to a moral compass. It’s a mixed bag like any slice of humanity. But Zarella is one of the world’s most powerful necromancers, so because of that he has . . . influence.”
“So there’s some kind of hierarchy in the club of the underworld?” I asked.
“Of course. Every organized subset of human society has a hierar
chy.” He wanted me to drop the subject, that was clear enough. “And it’s officially the Society of the Underworld.”
“What’s Zarella’s position?” I pressed.
He glanced at me again, pausing. “There’s a council. Zarella is on it.”
I stared out the windshield at what little the headlamps allowed me to see on the dark highway. “You all must be a loyal bunch to not rat out someone like Zarella to the public and the press. You wouldn’t even have to murder him. If it got out that he was still alive and living in comfort on the Gregori Campus, someone would do it for you. How did he get on the council? Did you all vote him there?”
“The three most powerful necromancers have automatic placement on the council,” he said stiffly. “But rest assured that most underworlders have no reverence for Zarella.”
The conversation was obviously making Rogan uncomfortable, but if he had any relevant info on Zarella, I wanted it.
I drew a long breath in through my nose. How did I keep getting mixed up in crazy shit? Fending off a reaper soul, getting coerced into Lynnette’s coven against my will, and now a mad man who was supposed to be dead wanted to hire me.
I just wanted to get Evan back. Maybe then I’d find a little cabin in the middle of nowhere like Switchboard and live out my hermitage in peace.
I tried to ease the tension from my shoulders.
“How does he attend council meetings if he’s stuck on the Gregori campus?” I asked, forcing a lighter tone. “Wait, don’t tell me. He sends a demon in his place.”
“Close,” Rogan said. “He uses a zombie.”
I whipped around to see if he was kidding. “What?”
“He uses necromancy to drive a zombie. Watches through its eyes, listens through its ears, and speaks through its mouth.”
I recoiled. “That’s just . . . ew. You underworlders and your creature pets. For the love of the universe, can’t you just use cell phones or set up some video conferencing or something? Maybe Skype like normal people?”
He snickered at that. “Just wait. Soon you’ll be one of us, and you’ll send out demons with notes instead of texting.”