Seraph of Sorrow (16 page)

CHAPTER 8

Tested by Faith

What to make of this,
Glorianna wondered after she slapped the latest issue of the
Winoka Herald
onto her mahogany desk. The headline and content of the article—NEFARIOUS SPIDER PLOT HATCHED!—matched the warnings in the letter she had received from Elizabeth herself, a bit more than a week ago.

The news was eye-catching. Libby’s daughter, Jennifer, now fifteen years old, had foiled a werachnid plot to twist the universe. Four werachnids, a so-called “Quadrivium,” had changed the course of history, starting with the murder of Glorianna Seabright herself. Jennifer had gotten caught up in the sorcery somehow and had managed to set things straight. Details were sketchy. How had she succeeded? Were there any residual effects? And who were the four?

The newspaper and Libby’s letter identified two—the late Otto Saltin, and Winoka High’s most recent addition, Edmund Slider. The other two were unnamed. The idea that reality hung on such a fragile thread, and that the persons responsible, known and unknown, were still possibly at large . . . It all had Winoka in an uproar.

Was it true? Had such a thing happened?

Probably, for at least three reasons. First, it was the sort of things werachnids would do. Glorianna thought back ruefully to Esteban and his letter. These monsters thought ahead, it was true. They were excellent plotters, if mediocre warriors.

Second, the plot made sense, because it focused on her. Who else would they target? Not only was she the leader of beaststalker nation; she was also Esteban’s murderer. He had been powerful, and no doubt had friends or disciples who would take years to plot revenge.

Third, all of this had happened on the heels of two unusual arrivals—first, the half-dragon, half-arachnid spawn of Jonathan Scales (“Evangelina,” Libby called the thing in her letter); and second, her old acquaintance Edmund Slider. This could not be coincidence.

If it was true, and young Jennifer had stopped it, then the girl would be a more impressive warrior than her mother.
Or she’s a co-conspirator.

Glorianna shook away the paranoid thought. Libby was a pacifist fool, but she was no traitor. She would not raise a daughter to plot Glorianna’s murder—and accept the annihilation of all dragonkind, which had also happened in that universe. It made no sense.

No, without clear contrary evidence, she had no reason to think either Libby or Jennifer was lying. So the age-long war continued its course—dragons still set against arachnids, and beaststalkers hunting them both. The alliances and creatures the Scales family bred were anomalies, nothing more . . . but what anomalies!

Thank heavens for Libby’s hysterectomy,
she told herself with a hard heart.
More like Jennifer Caroline Scales we could not take.

Anyway, all of this—the Quadrivium, the plot, the role Jennifer Scales played in foiling it—were all moot. None of this had Glorianna upset today. After all, Libby had told her about it.

What upset Glorianna today was seeing it on page one of the local paper.

She had tried hard to avoid this. Certainly, she took Libby’s warning seriously. After informing a small circle of trusted agents to watch Edmund Slider and Tavia Saltin closely, Glorianna threw a blanket of silence over the whole matter. What good would it do to tell the public their entire world may get obliterated? There was no point. Protection was a job for those who knew the dangers and had the strength to do something about them.

Now the whole town would be in a useless panic. The city would demand “action,” as if its mayor hadn’t been taking action for decades to shield them from the monsters of the world. They would demand reassurances and platitudes, as if words could hold enemies at bay. Worst of all, they would demand intervention from outside—the governor or the National Guard.

Glorianna had respect for these institutions, but she was a realist. Their involvement would mean open acknowledgment, in the media and everywhere else, of dragons and arachnids who walked among people. These monsters’ true shapes would be frightening—but their human faces would mean others would start demanding
rights
for them. Activist groups would arise, and before long there would be lobbyists lurking through state and national capitals with wings or eight legs, and talk of “mainstreaming” in schools and workplaces. Beaststalkers like her would be looked upon as dangerous throwbacks—or worse, laughed at as irrelevant.

She slammed her fist on the paper. At the same time, a knock came at the office door.

“Come in.”

Henry “Hank” Blacktooth, member of the city council and husband to Wendy Williamson Blacktooth, entered her office.

What was it about Hank Blacktooth that irritated Glorianna? Over the years, she had devised a list—his temper, his lack of subtlety, his naked ambition, the way he patronized and dominated his wife, the lack of skill he had shown in training his awkward son, Edward . . .

In the years since she’d first met him, Glorianna hadn’t gained much more than a grudging respect for Henry Blacktooth. He was skilled, no doubt. But he was as irritating as an ugly groin rash, and much more dangerous.

“Mayor Seabright,” the rash was saying now. He dipped his head in the barest of deferential nods. “You called for me.”

She pointed at the newspaper. “Explain this.”

“Nothing I can’t imagine you don’t already know, Your Honor. It says some spiders—”

“I don’t mean the story. I mean why it’s plastered on page one of the
Herald
!”

He glanced at the paper. “I would assume someone talked to a reporter.”

“Obviously. Who?”

“Most likely Lizzy Georges-Scales.” A brief scowl crossed his face.

“Libby isn’t the leaking sort. She sent me a private letter—that was the end of the issue, for her. If she wanted to go around me to the media, she would have done that in the first place. No, the source here was someone more secretive. Secrecy suggests a goal. A goal suggests ambition.” She bit her tongue before she made the direct accusation.

Hank blinked. “I don’t see where you’re—”

“If you’re going to tell me you don’t know the source, then I see no point in arguing with you. Perhaps we should change the subject. Have you heard from your wife or son lately?”

She knew immediately from his pause he was about to lie. “Not since I threw them out.”

“Yes, you threw her out while she was still in the hospital,” Glorianna recalled. “A true class act you are, little Henry.”

He wrinkled his nose at the name, but she wasn’t going to offer an apology. The decline of Wendy Williamson Blacktooth since her marriage to this man would be the biggest travesty of Glorianna’s life were it not for the more severe example of Elizabeth Georges-Scales.

“Do you have any idea where they are?”

“They’re both staying at Lizzy’s house. They were all recently out of town. No one knows where. Lizzy, Wendy, and Eddie returned last night.”

“So Libby and Wendy are becoming best friends again.” The thought warmed her heart, even though she knew what it meant. It recalled a happier time, when the girls leaned on each other, and on the woman they both called Mother. “I assume their children are also getting along.”

“I have seen Eddie and the Scales girl-thing together,” he admitted through tightening lips. “Holding hands.”

“Romantic. Wasn’t she the one you told him to kill, for his coming-of-age ritual?”

He didn’t answer.

“That was incredibly stupid. I wouldn’t send my best student against a dragon of Jennifer’s caliber. Not to mention the fact she’s Libby’s daughter.”

“That girl-freak is a danger to us all!”

“Yes, she did quite a number on your family heirloom. Though I suppose we should be fair to her point of view: Young Eddie tried to stab her with it three times first.” She whistled. “Are you sure his future is in swordplay? Perhaps he’s better suited to the bow, like his mother.”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my son.”

She waved her hand in mock agreement. “So as we were saying, you have no idea where your son is. Probably off somewhere with the girl you fear the most, along with the wife you’ve estranged. I think that wraps up the topic of family in a tidy package. Say, on your way out the door to receive your Father of the Year Award, will you do me a small favor?
Stop leaking stories to the press in an effort to undermine my authority. Instead, spend some effort finding out who the other two members of the Quadrivium are!
”

He stepped back, as if she had dealt him a physical blow. There was still a sneer that would not come off his face. “Why the urgency? Need new friends?”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

He ignored her question. “I’ve already attempted to find out what I can about the Quadrivium. I can’t find many people willing to talk to me about it.”

“Oh, little Henry. You used to be so good at this sort of research! I suppose I’ll have to go out and do it myself. I’ll start with some of the students in Eddie’s class.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. I haven’t been out of this building in days. It will be good for the citizens of this town to see their mayor taking charge of the situation.”

His expression was inscrutable. “I could give you a list of students who—”

“That won’t be necessary, little Henry. I think I know the players here.”

“But there’s someone you may—”

“Stop pretending to help.”

He straightened his jacket. “I’m trying to tell you, someone is—”

“Do you need me to validate your parking?” she asked sweetly.

He flushed, his neck going the color of old brick. She could see he wanted to raise his hand to her. Watching with sour amusement as he swallowed that suicidal impulse, she nodded back when he finally inclined his head a fraction of an inch and marched stiffly out the door.

After he was gone, she sighed, sat down, and leaned back in her chair. With a flick of her wrist, the newspaper skidded off her desk and into the leather-lined wastebasket.

Where would she go from here? How did you fight a war against an enemy that could warp the entire battlefield? How long would it take before another werachnid concocted a new scheme to wind back time, or summon another half-bred insult to nature, or have the trees in town covered with cobwebs and producing poison instead of sap? For all of Glorianna’s disdain for dragons, the emerging threat seemed far more likely to run on eight legs.

Or roll on two wheels.

The next day, she was walking down the halls of Winoka High with its buffoon principal scurrying to keep pace.

“—highly irregular,” he panted.

“I’m aware, Mr. Mouton. It shouldn’t take long.”

“You’re always welcome to talk with any of our teachers, of course. But in the case of the students, shouldn’t their parents be present for the—the—”

“Questioning?” Glory suggested. “Interviews? Water-boarding? Call it what you like. I’m only going to ask them each a couple of questions, Mr. Mouton; I left my cat-o’-nine-tails at home.” As he opened his mouth to protest, she added, “Your teachers’ lounge should do nicely. Keep everyone else out. You had no trouble finding everyone on my list?”

“Jennifer Scales has been on excused absence for the past couple of weeks. Her mother called me again this morning to say it would be at least a few more days.”

Excused absence! Is that what we’re calling slinking around on a lizard’s belly nowadays?
“I’ll speak with Ms. Scales some other time.” Her long, muscular finger stretched over the piece of paper she had given him. “Bring me the first on my list.”

The first was Edmund Slider. The geometry teacher rolled in, a fine dusting of chalk powder sprinkled all over the front of his black mock turtleneck and jacket. She was already seated at the head of the crumb-strewn table in a cheap folding chair. She waited patiently for him to roll himself into position opposite her. Her hands were folded in front of her; her expression, she knew from decades of practice, was carefully bland. “Tell me,” she began, “about the Quadrivium.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What is it you think you ought to know?”

“Start with names. You were one. So was Otto Saltin. Who were the other two?”

His fingers smoothed his blond hair, and he searched the stained ceiling tiles for an answer. “Let’s see . . . unfortunately, practicing sorcery tends to dull my memory . . . If I think hard, I can remember . . . Yes, I can! It was Raggedy Ann and Andy. No, wait. It was Romeo and Juliet. Hang on, I’m getting another vision: It was you and a sock puppet. Good heavens—that sorcery must have been amazing to hit my memory this hard!”

“Edmund. Your life is hanging by a thread.”

Looking at her directly, he pulled up his shirt, revealing a remarkably toned torso. “Please, Your Honor. Have the guts to pick up your sword and do your own dirty work.”

She did not answer. It took all of her energy not to take him up on the offer.

“Or perhaps,” he suggested, “you should go back to your home in city hall and get some sleep. You seem out of sorts.” He yawned. “I know I could use a nap myself.”

“Aren’t we both too old for these sorts of verbal games, Mr. Slider?”

“I couldn’t agree more. Since Mr. Mouton tells me you have a list of students to bore, I should let you get to it. By the way,” he added as he backed up his chair with a twinkle in his eye, “I never got a chance to tell you how fun it was to plot your murder. Despite my disappointment that it didn’t work out, I’ve found I can’t stay angry at Ms. Scales for unwinding the whole thing. She assured me it had nothing to do with loyalty to you. Your survival, it seems, is the unhappy, unintentional byproduct of her success. Perhaps someday, I can fashion a universe that will both meet the modest needs of my favorite student, and still see you dead.”

After Slider’s departure, it took only a minute for the next person on her list to arrive. Mouton had specific instructions from her to keep those on the list at the ready, in other rooms, separate from each other. She wanted no delays, and no coordination among interviewees.