Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) (12 page)

BOOK: Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL)

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“Hey,” he screamed in my ear. “Did you see what the special was tonight?” The special at Marduk’s was never food. “Fireballs!” Fitz hooted. I glanced over at the bar. Lined up at the edge were at least a dozen flaming shots. I now noticed little “fireballs” all over the room. I groaned, but even I couldn’t hear it above the din.

“If this place burns,” I yelled to Fitz, “it won’t be my fault.”

He grinned and grabbed my arm, pulling me through the crowd. He led me to a table near the back where Ivy and Ari were waiting. Ari stood up as soon as I was in view.

I swallowed.

Luck, he was good-looking. I suppose it was an odd time to notice it, but it was something that hit me every now and then, especially when I was feeling vulnerable. Ari had changed too. His gray tunic and black leather vest was gone, replaced by faded, fraying black pants and a white shirt that showed off his deeply sculpted muscles. His dark gaze caught mine and he stepped toward me, his signature as hot and viscous as molten glass. He wrapped one arm behind my back while the other cradled my neck. Always in these moments he seemed much bigger than me. I am not a small person, nor (as today’s events revealed yet again) am I timid or frail. That said, my
Primoris
ranking didn’t mean I was the stronger magic user. Quite the opposite. When I first came to St. Luck’s, Ari had been
Primoris
. He was one of the most powerful Maegesters-in-Training Rochester’d ever taught. He lost his top ranking because of me. He’d almost died last semester trying to protect me from my murderous client.

Trapped by Ari’s overpowering embrace and ensnared in his all-consuming signature, I went limp and willingly let him tip me back over his arm. But it wasn’t fear that made me go soft. It was love.

“Aristos,” I whispered. But who could hear in here?

He kissed me then, a deep, thorough kiss that said he didn’t care how many people were watching or what they thought of us. Fists were gleefully pumped into the air around us amid woots and whistles and further shouts of encouragement (none of which Ari needed). I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around him, succumbing to the bliss of having nothing on my mind but
him
.

Well, him . . . and me . . . and the things we might do together later . . .

I broke off the kiss and turned my head. Ari laughed, a low rumbling sound I felt rather than heard. “I can feel your blush in your signature,” he said. “I don’t need to see it.” He released me and I stood up. Ivy (good Hyrke that she was) seemed charmed by the romantic tableau we must have presented. Fitz just looked wistful. Someone fired up the jukebox and Fitz recovered, yelling for a round of boilermakers. Everyone started singing:

Gaudeamus igitur iuvenes dum sumus.

Let us rejoice while we’re young.

Ari grabbed my hand in his and led me over to the table. We sat down and joined in and raised our glasses and our voices with the rest.

Vita nostra brevis, est brevi finietur.

Our life is brief, soon it will end.

Venit mors velociter.

Death comes quickly.

Rapit nos atrociter.

Snatches us cruelly.

Nemini parcetur.

To nobody shall it be spared . . .

* * *

I
awoke the next morning, my bare legs entwined with Ari’s. Everything throbbed, my body (bacchanalian pleasure had been the order of the night), my demon mark (
still
glowing faintly from Ari’s firebrand touch), but, most of all, my head (post-
voluptatem
, boilermakers sounded like a horrible idea!). I flung Ari’s possessively wound hand off of me and sat up, clutching my head and moaning. Ari continued sleeping, his tousled hair and untroubled countenance suggesting only one of two choices: (a) crawl back under the covers and curl up beside him; or (b) smother him with my pillow. I chose (c) get up, get dressed, don dark spectacles, speak to no one, find shot of espresso ASAP.

I walked to Marduk’s and got the A.M. Grab Bag #5, which was a double shot and dry toast. Cradling my paper bag like it was Luck’s lost heir, I pulled two pieces of mail from my mailbox and slowly ascended the stairs to my dorm room.
How was I ever going to make it through
Voir Dire
today?

I was seriously contemplating how I could realistically work my pullover and spectacles into a professional-looking indoor ensemble when I realized, with mixed relief and horror, that I needn’t worry. I stared down at the first piece of mail, which was a typed postcard from the Joshua School:

T
HE
J
OSHUA
S
CHOOL

FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY

NOUIOMO ONYX

NEW BABYLON, HALJA

ST. LUCIFER’S LAW SCHOOL

MEGIDDO, ROOM 112

THE HOUSE OF METATRON IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING NECESSARY RENOVATIONS. ACCORDINGLY, THE THIRD AND FINAL DAY OF
VOIR DIRE
HAS BEEN CANCELLED. GUARDIAN/WARD PAIRINGS WILL BE MADE BASED ON PRELIMINARY INTEREST AND OTHER FACTORS. THE FINAL LIST FOR THIS ACADEMIC YEAR WILL BE POSTED ON QUINTUS ROCHESTER’S DOOR BY CLOSE OF BUSINESS TODAY.

I stopped for a moment in Megiddo’s stairwell and leaned against the stair railing. Was Friedrich making the final pairings? Luck, I hoped not. My own shrill voice mocked me:
I don’t want a Guardian. I don’t want to work with an Angel.
Jeffries might be out of the question now, but maybe I’d be paired with Melyn Danika. She’d seemed unremarkable yesterday, but today (viewed through my sobering morning-after perspective) she seemed downright perfect.

I tore open my second piece of mail, a sealed letter with no return address. By the second sentence, I was sitting on the stairs and the letter was shaking in my hands. I wasn’t sure if my shaking was due to anger or fear. Either way, this second piece of news was even worse than the first. Luck, I’d been so
stupid
. I took my espresso and toast out of the paper bag. In between dry bites and forced swallows, I thought, not for the first time, how amazing it was that, in Halja, it took only seconds to go from contemplating your wardrobe to contemplating your own death. The letter was from Friedrich:

Ms. Onyx,

While my daughter, Fara, had been looking forward to working with you, I think it is in her best interest that she be assigned to someone else. You indicated yesterday that you did not desire a Guardian, therefore none will be provided.

Your father has been contacted regarding your destruction of the invaluable and irreplaceable Angel artifact, “Metatron’s Justica.” We will discuss appropriate reparations. In the meantime, you are no longer welcome at the Joshua School.

Venti secundi;
daemones pauca,

Friedrich Vanderlin
Archangel, 5th District

I crumpled up the postcard and ripped up the letter and stuffed them both in the paper bag with the rest of my trash. Friedrich had signed his note, “
Venti secundi; daemones pauca
” or “Fair winds; few demons.” On the eastern Lethe? Not likely. Guess I was on my own. It could be worse (although not much). I could have ended up with Raphael Sinclair. I shuddered. Luck forbid.

Wouldn’t dream of casting a spell over you . . .

Grim determination (and not a small amount of caffeine) kicked in. I stood up. I didn’t need Angels to survive. I had Luck, right?

Luck loves his own, firestarter. Never forget it.

I gritted my teeth. If only I could.

After a scalding hot shower, a vigorous tooth scrubbing, and a change of clothes, I walked over to Corpus Justica. It was rare to have a Friday with no scheduled classes or activities, but I was glad to have the day to prepare for our trip to the Shallows. Once I was safely sequestered away in the stacks of the library’s tithing and tax section, I pulled out our case file and thumbed through the information. The file included the names of two possible witnesses (Thomas Stillwater, outpost gerefa, and Meghan Brun, outpost cearian), a copy of Athalie Rust’s bold complaint against her outpost lord (“Vodnik is the one who killed those men”), our scheduled departure place and time (New Babylon, dock twenty-three
E
; Saturday, the sixth day of the sixth month, at 8:30 a.m.), letters of introduction for us to give to Captain Delgato and to Lord Vodnik (not that any diplomatic protocol could spin Ms. Rust’s complaint into anything other than what it was: a murder accusation). Finally, there was a suggested packing list: