Dead Magic (15 page)

"And you're expected to keep one of them private," Agoston said. "Just like you keep your arrangements with Elsie Delgora private."

Frowning, Valeda crossed her arms. She didn't like the arrangement, but she had to know what was going on. She suddenly missed doing trade reports and interviewing the Untalented in her home town. Everyone had secrets, to be sure, but none of them came with the underlying threat that emanated from these two men. Still, she found herself nodding her acceptance.

There wasn't really a choice in the matter. Valeda needed to know how she had somehow become Talented. It was no small amount of magic, either. She could feel it just under her breastbone, an ever-present, ever-moving companion. In her mind. she could almost visualize it: a golden cord, coiled and ready to be stretched and used. She couldn't determine its length, but it wasn't little, and she had the strange sense that it was introducing itself.

"Very well then," Winslow said, gesturing to the chairs in the coffee nook, "it's best if you both sat down for this."

Dorian hadn't been apart from Elsie in eight years. The lack of her voice, the yawning distance between them, and the empty half of his bed in the morning pounded her absence into his awareness. He felt a growing sense of anxiety the longer he stayed away and yet, he could not go home. Not before he'd seen Winslow. Fear for his friend mixed with fear for his wife put him even more on edge. He wondered if this was how Elsie felt all the time, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it. Her nightmares had become less frequent as the ark got closer to completion, which he might have seen as a good thing if she hadn't shared that vision with him. Dorian couldn't shake the feeling that those canine creatures from her dreams were more than extensions of the Wild. They felt angry and intelligent to him.

All of his instincts were on high alert. It had been eight years since he'd been hunted by the Bedim assassins and, yet, he felt that same itch between his shoulder blades; the sensation of being carefully watched.

Frowning, Dorian glanced surreptitiously down the street. It was full night in Three Points and damned cold. His joints ached with the frigid air, despite three layers of coat, vest, and shirt. Dorian muttered his displeasure and wished fervently for the Delgora Tropics.

Wrought-iron street lamps made pockets of light down the curving sidewalk, illuminating chill fog and the occasional passerby. People were hurrying home, closing little shops that lined the main thoroughfare of town. Dorian could see the welcome sign of the Pinnacle and Pyre just across the street and paused to let several carriages go by.

His last telegram from Bartholomew said that Winslow was still bereft of Talent but was no longer crouching on death's doorstep. While he was grateful that his friend would survive, Dorian had no idea how to address a man who had lost his magic. Witch-Born magic wasn't just a series of spells to be cast; it wasn't found in chemicals or nature or any other sort of substance. The Talent was a part of each individual-a quiet, constant companion dwelling at the core of every Witch-Born. Dorian couldn't fathom the idea of suddenly being without it.

By Fates! What am I supposed to say?

He couldn't just charge in there and berate the man for his actions. According to the papers, Winslow had acted heroically, rescuing the lives of some woman and her daughter. Still, all Witch-Born were trained to know their own limitations. Winslow had to have known he was crossing the threshold. He had to have sensed it. So why in Fates had he done it?

Scowling, Dorian stepped into the road and started to cross, determined to find out. As he reached the other side, a gunshot cracked through the street. Instinct grabbed him and he ducked, but he knew it was too late. He hadn't been expecting an attack, hadn't been prepared. Something slammed into the back of his left shoulder and he staggered forward. He felt jacket, shirt and flesh tear under the assault as several jagged items embedded themselves into his skin and muscle.

Shouting, he spun but the ground was icy and he lost all footing. He hit the ground hard, barely managing to keep from face-planting in the cobblestone. An instant later, a carriage screeched to a halt beside him. Two men barreled out of it, intent on his person.

"My Lord!" one of them said and for a breathless moment Dorian thought they meant to help.

Then a sack looped over his head and he was blinded. Recognition came fast and Dorian swung his fist. He tried to summon his Talent, tried to heal his shoulder and prepare for the fight, but his magic couldn't respond. As his fist met with open air, throwing his body to the right, Dorian understood: he'd been shot with Remora stones.

Strong arms took him, wrestling him up and into the carriage. Dorian fought all the way, shoving elbows and knees anywhere he thought his attackers might be. He struck the side of the carriage with an elbow and felt his arm suddenly go numb.

"Dorian!" He heard Bartholomew's voice come from somewhere high.

Pain exploded through his skull as something hard hit him in the side of the head.

***

Bartholomew flung the window wide and leapt out, causing several of the dining room patrons to gasp in alarm. Winslow himself might have been startled if he hadn't seen what had caused his friend to make such a dramatic exit. As it was, Winslow couldn't tear his gaze from the sight of Dorian's limp body being shoved into the awaiting carriage.

"Fates have mercy," he breathed, watching as Bart landed roughly on top of the carriage.

"What is it?" Valeda asked.

"Someone is attempting to abduct Lord Delgora." Winslow got to his feet and leaned out the window.

"What?" She sounded more than a little startled.

"Not to worry," Winslow said, inwardly trying to calculate if he could make the three-story jump safely. He'd never tried something so brash without his Talent and he highly doubted his legs could survive the feat. "Lord Feverrette will handle . . ."

Three shots rang out in succession, stopping him mid-sentence. Bart dodged the first two, but the sudden noise spooked the horses and the carriage jolted forward, throwing him off balance. The third shot struck Bartholomew in the thigh and Winslow hopped onto the window sill.

"Lord Agoston!" Valeda cried just before he leapt.

It was a terrifyingly long drop and he thought he'd resigned himself to a fracture or two, but then
it
came alive. Like flint igniting flame, his Talent burst awake, wrapping itself around that Wildness inside him, fusing the two powers together in a disorienting and overwhelming way. Every sense he had flared to life. He saw the porous grooves of frosty cobblestone rapidly approaching him, felt the sting of frigid air rushing past his body as he descended. He smelled the acrid gun smoke on the air and could taste Bartholomew's blood in the wind.

Winslow landed with unnatural grace-feline grace-and charged forward. Bart fell backward as the carriage continued to flee, but he managed to grab hold of the edge before toppling to the ground. He hung there, flopping awkwardly against the back of the carriage as it bounced down the street. Winslow ran faster, praying Bart would keep hold long enough.

Someone shot at him but Winslow ignored it. He got close enough to the carriage that he could see the panicked expression of one of the inhabitants through the back window. A second later, the man's face was replaced by the muzzle of a pistol and Winslow jumped, shoving forward with a Talent-propelled push that sent him straight up and onto the carriage roof.

Landing lightly, he managed to balance on the jostling roof and reached instinctively for Bartholomew. Bart sent him a surprised look, but collected his wits enough to climb back up and onto the roof. Grinning, Winslow winked at his friend and turned toward the front of the carriage. The driver took a sharp turn to the left and they both had to hold on with all their might to avoid being thrown off.

"I've been shot with a Remora stone!" Bart shouted above the clop of hooves and ballyhoo of speeding carriage.

Still clinging to the roof, Winslow glanced at him. His friend's expression was a mix of rage, pain and resignation. They both knew that Bart could be of no use here. Until the stone was removed, Bartholomew would be unable to access his magic and therefore be unable to fight. Winslow nodded once in acknowledgment of the problem.

"Try not to break your neck when you get off!" Winslow shouted.

A sword pierced through the wood directly between them and Winslow cursed. Bart rolled to the right just as a muffled gunshot reported from inside the cab. The bullet missed Winslow's arm by an inch and he was forced to roll away as well.

Darkness swallowed them as the carriage careened through a tunnel. Winslow held his breath, praying the occupants inside didn't try anything more while he was blinded by shadow. He could hear them arguing, muffled at first, but when he focused his Talent he could distinguish the argument.

"The assignment was for him to be taken alive!"

"I ain't dying here for no Witch-Born! Leave him!"

Lamplight came again as they emerged from the tunnel. Winslow spotted that Bartholomew was missing, then turned back to the driver. The man snapped the reigns, driving them off the street. The wheels hit the curb and Winslow found himself airborne, scrambling for a desperate hold on the lip of the carriage. Then he crashed into the roof again, his mouth smashing into the unforgiving surface with bruising force. For a dazed second he tasted his own blood, and then he spotted the driver leaping from his seat. Two other bodies flew out of the passenger compartment, each hitting the ground in a jumble of limbs and movement.

Winslow looked back to the front of the carriage, to the speeding horses and curving street ahead. Scooting as fast as he dared, he flung himself toward the driver's seat and discarded reigns. Half in the seat and half on the roof, he grabbed the leather straps and yanked back. But his nearness only managed to spook the creatures more. Winslow smelled their fear, knew instinctively that he was the cause, and recognized that he had to think of something else.

Spotting the steering pin that connected the horses to the carriage, Winslow forced himself to move again. He let go of the reigns, fell to his knees on the footpad of the driver's seat, and leaned over. It was an unfair distance between footboard and steering pin. He had to stretch and lean, but finally managed to grasp the pin. Shouting, he yanked it up, freeing the carriage from the horses.

The horses tore off. The front of the carriage dipped down, metal and wood scraping across the ground before the triangular tip of the steering mechanism hooked into a groove and the entire carriage pitched forward. Ducking, Winslow tried to cover his head as the whole thing tilted, rolled and crashed to a halt.

***

Valeda ran as fast as her pointy-toed boots would let her. She could sense the spark of her newly gained Talent yearning to be utilized, but truly had no idea how to access it. Unlike her impetuous companions, she'd been forced to use the stairs to get to the street level rather than leap the
three stories
down. She'd been more than a little surprised that Winslow-Lord Agoston, she firmly corrected herself-was not wounded by the feat.

Left with no other options, Valeda had decided to chase the ill-fated carriage in its misadventure through Three Points.

Panting, feet aching in the silly boots, Valeda stopped half inside a long tunnel. Her chest was painfully tight and her heart thudded so loud in her ears that she didn't hear his approach.

"Think of your Talent as a friend, Miss Quinlan," Lord Feverrette said, with a pained grunt. "A relationship. Let it go. Stop holding it back."

Valeda yelped in surprise and squinted into the shadows. A moment later, she found Lord Feverrette limping toward her. He'd tied a strip of his torn shirt around his thigh and his fine blue dinner jacket was limp and ragged, hanging from his torso in defeat. A deep, jagged scratch flayed open his left cheek and as he came into the light, she swore she could see the paleness of bone through blood and tissue. Her yelp turned into a gasp and she hurried to his side.

"My Lord Feverrette, you're hurt!"

He waved her off. "It'll keep. We should get to Winslow."

"But . . . why don't you just . . ."

"Heal myself?" Feverrette's mouth twisted into a scowl. "Because they used a damn Remora stone as a bullet and it's currently so deep in my leg that it's inspecting my femur. Now," he paused to take a deep breath, "let your Talent go. You'll be more useful if you let it help."

Frowning, Valeda looked away from him. It sounded sensible enough but at the same time, she hadn't been aware that she was suppressing it. There was that image of a golden cord again, coiled at her center, waiting to be stretched, but she didn't know how to reach it. For a moment she imagined that she could touch it, and to her surprise it reacted. The little hairs on her arms stood suddenly stiff as an unnatural warmth tingled over her skin, blocking out the winter's chill. She did it again, imagining herself stroking the golden coil, and all at once her heart stopped pounding, resuming a natural pace, and her lungs quit aching, and even her toes ceased their throbbing.

"There you go," Feverrette said. "Now come along. I think I heard them crash not far from here."

He began limping forward and for a moment she hesitated. Then she remembered Winslow and the carriage and decided she could ask them later about the nuances of magic. She hurried to catch up and then matched his pace through the tunnel. They emerged on the other side to see the wreck. The road made a curve, but it was obvious by the tracks that the carriage had not followed. It had proceeded through a grassy bit of park, managed to avoid several trees, and finally crashed several yards back on the road again.

A growing crowd was converging on the wreckage, but Valeda managed to spot Winslow as he climbed into the splintered and ruined carriage. She quickened her pace and wove through the gathering of people. There were several exclamations from the unwitting audience, most of them having to do with the sight of Lord Agoston.