Wizard Squared (22 page)

“And they want you to unpickle them? Well. It’s a compliment, I suppose.”

Monk snorted. “Some compliment.” With a flourish he finished his brandy. “You won’t have heard, Plummer and his lot are playing their cards close to their chests, but whoever this black market wizard is? Seems he’s not pussyfooting around. That tycoon the other day—Manizetto?”

He had to think for a moment. “I don’t—no, wait. Yes, I do. The man who tripped and fell in front of the bus in Central Ott?”

“The man who
appeared
to trip,” Monk said darkly. “Turns out he was hexed, courtesy of our mystery wizard—and you did
not
hear that from me. I’m telling you, mate, whoever this bastard is he’s got to be stopped. Which means
I’ve
got to unbind the shadbolt on Plummer’s prisoner without harming a greasy hair on his head.”

Gerald whistled. “You’re right. I take it back. It wasn’t a compliment. What are you going to do?”

“Well…” Monk tossed his emptied brandy glass from hand to hand, frowning. “As luck would have it the weasely little minion was carrying a spare shadbolt on him—of course, he won’t say why—but the only way to unravel the incant’s matrix is to muck about with it while it’s active. And as hard as this might be to believe, I couldn’t find anyone who was willing to let me shadbolt them so I could play.”

Even though this wasn’t funny, he still had to chuckle. “No, really? Mr. Markham, I’m shocked, I tell you.
Shocked
.”< {hocn t/font>

“Yeah, well,” said Monk, and pulled a face. “Smart ass.”

They grinned at each other, and for a moment the shadows seemed to lift.

“So,” he said, spuriously casual, “I don’t suppose you brought the spare shadbolt home with you?”

Monk contrived to look outraged. “Mr. Dunwoody, how can you even
suggest
such a thing? Removing a sensitive piece of evidence from Department premises would be against the
rules!
” He put down the empty glass and slid out of the chair. “Don’t move. I’ll just nip upstairs and fetch it.”

But he did move, to the drinks trolley, and splashed a little more brandy into each of their glasses. Monk returned to the parlor soon after, carrying a small, innocuous-looking wooden box.

“Blimey,” he said, still holding the brandy glasses, as Monk unlocked and opened it. A sick, protesting surge in the ether churned echoes in his gut. “That’s
nasty
.”

“Told you,” said Monk, staring at the shadbolt-crystal
nestled in a cradle of old lamb’s wool. “Have a read of it, Gerald, and tell me what you think.”

But before he could put down the glasses and take the small box, the parlor door flew open and Bibbie rushed in. “What
is
that? Monk, what the devil are you playing with?”

“Oh,” said Monk, blankly. “Bibbie. I thought you were mucking about with your silly ethergenics.”

Bibbie had changed out of her lovely peach-colored muslin day dress into a shapeless green cotton shirt and baggy tweed trews—
curse you, Melissande—
and had covered up most of both with a stained and slightly charred thaumaturgist’s apron. Her long golden hair was bundled haphazardly into a scarf.

“Forget it, Monk,” she snapped, her glorious sapphire eyes alight with temper. “You’re not going to distract me with a cheap shot like that.” She pointed at the hex box. “Powerful witch, remember? Etheretic sensitivity rating right off the charts? Now
what
is that abomination doing in this house?”

Monk dragged his fingers through his floppy hair. “Rats,” he muttered. “Bibbie—go back upstairs, would you? Please? And forget you ever saw this.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” she said, folding her arms. “Perhaps if you’d been a
little
less sarky about my ethergenics—”

“
Please
, Bibbie!” said Monk, alarmingly close to desperate. “This isn’t a joke. It’s bloody dangerous. I can’t have you—”

“You’re telling
me
it’s bloody dangerous,” Bibbie snapped. Nose delightfully wrinkled, she stepped closer to the hex-box and stared at the hazelnut-sized black crystal inside it. “And more than
that
it’s
familiar.” She looked up. “This was made by the same wizard who made Permelia Wycliffe those fake jewels
and
the hex she used to kill her horrible brother.”

“Come on, Monk,” said Gerald, as Monk gaped at his sister. “Did you really think she wouldn’t make the connec {akefontion?”

“I was hoping all those ethergenics had scrambled her brain!”

“Well, that was ridiculously optimistic of you, wasn’t it?” said Bibbie, poisonously sweet. “If eleven months of Reg’s lectures haven’t sent me doolally then what makes you think ethergenics could make a dent? Now, Monk, for the last time—
what is going on?
”

She even had a beautiful scowl. Watching her as Monk quickly explained his dilemma, Gerald felt his heart thud painfully against his ribs. It wasn’t only her beauty, though that tended to strike him dumb. No, it was her wit and her audacity and her brilliance that seduced, leaving him weak at the knees and struggling for breath.

Cold, damp misery settled over him like a cloud.

Forget it, Dunwoody. You and Bibbie can never work out. Not unless someone finds a cure for being a rogue wizard.

“Right,” said Bibbie, when Monk finished his tale. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. In order to catch the black-hearted wizard behind all kinds of nefarious, murderous and wicked skulduggery, you need to find out how to unbind
that
shadbolt. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Monk, nodding. He looked distinctly harassed. “But you can’t help me, Bibbie. This is supposed to be a secret. I’m not supposed to have this hex. I’m not even supposed to have told Gerald about
it, and
he’s
a government secret all by himself. If anyone finds out I’ve told
you
then trust me, my head will not only roll, it’ll get stuck on a pike and paraded through Central Ott.”

Bibbie smiled at him brightly. “Don’t be silly, Monk. Of course I can help.”

And before they could stop her she snatched up the shadbolt-crystal and popped it in her mouth.

“Oh, Saint Snodgrass,” Monk said, breathless. “Emmerabiblia Markham, what the hell have you done?”

Ignoring him, Bibbie pulled a face and flapped her hands. “Ew—ew—it tastes
disgusting
!”

“Bibbie,” Gerald whispered. Mouth dry, heart thundering, he took a step towards Monk’s crazy sister then stopped. “Bibbie, what’s happening?”

“Nothing yet,” she said. “The wretched thing’s still dissolving.” She pressed a shaking hand to her middle. Beneath the bravado she was horribly afraid, he could see it. Feel it.
Bibbie
. “Honestly, boys, when you catch this dreadful man can you take a moment to explain to him the many and varied uses of sugar?”

Monk was standing so still he might’ve been nailed to the floor. Looking at him, Gerald realized this was the first time he’d ever seen his friend terrified.

“Monk,” he said urgently. “
Monk
. It’s all right. We’ll get her out of this. She’ll be fine.”

Slowly, painfully, Monk dragged his agonized stare away from Bibbie. “You don’t know that.”

He grabbed Monk’s arm and shook it. “Yes, I do.
I do.
Now pull yourself { pu

get focused.”

Bibbie nodded, her face still twisted with revulsion. “He’s right, Monk. It’s starting to unfurl. I can feel it. So get cracking on a way to release me once it does, otherwise I’m going to be late to the office in the morning and I’ll be stonkered if I have to put up with a lecture from Melissande
and
Reg!”

“Right,” Monk muttered. “Right.” He shook his arm free. “Gerald—we’ll read it together. Compare notes afterwards. On three. One—two—
three
.”

In the weeks since he’d moved into the old house in Chatterly Crescent, he and Monk had spent quite a bit of time in thaumaturgical tandem, cautiously testing the ether and each other to see what was what. They weren’t evenly matched; his transformation into a First Grade wizard with extra oomph meant he out-powered even the renowned Monk Markham. But even so they’d managed to pull off some impressive feats of metaphysics—and that now proved to have been most seren-dipitous, because their mucking about had shown him how to comfortably adjust his own thaumaturgic intensity to match his friend’s impressive but still lighter punch.

Eyes closed as he navigated the agitated ether, he was acutely aware of Monk and Bibbie and the imminently-activating shadbolt. Its incant was foul, corrosive, blooming like a rancid rose.

Nearly… nearly… hold on, Bibbie. Hold on.

The incant ignited and Bibbie screamed.

“No, don’t touch her!” Gerald said, holding Monk back. “You might contaminate its thaumic signature.”

Monk’s breathing was harsh and ragged, like sobs. “Bloody hell, Bibbie,” he said, his voice strangled. “When this is over I’m going to bloody kill you.”

“Provided one of you doesn’t kill me sooner,” said Bibbie, through clenched teeth. There were tears in her eyes. “Just—hurry up, will you? Please? This thing is horrid.”

“Come on, Monk, concentrate,” he said. “Our window of opportunity’s slamming shut.”

Linking
potentias
for the second time, he and Monk plunged themselves into the etheretic maelstrom surrounding Bibbie. Tainted by the fast-maturing shadbolt, it seethed and surged, protesting against the dark magics Bibbie had unleashed in the parlor.

Bloody hell, I hope this doesn’t set off an alarm somewhere in the Department.

His belly churned frantically, the brandy he’d drunk fighting to come back up again. Grimly he fought just as hard to keep it down.

Beside him, Monk grunted. “I can see it. Can you see it, Gerald? What do you think?”

I think that shadbolt’s a bloody monstrosity.

Unshackled, Bibbie’s etheretic aura was pure and clean and colored a faint golden-rose, like fresh snow at sunrise. Looking at it now, though, {t ns e all he could see was a filthy, festering tangle of corrupted magic that strangled Bibbie’s aura like diseased barbed wire. The worst of it was centered around her head, her face, the shadbolt’s purpose to keep her mouth shut, her mind imprisoned. To keep all her secrets from spilling into ears not meant to hear them.

As though a giant fist punched him, he remembered the dream—the illusion—created for him by Monk’s
delerioso
incant. Remembered that wizard who’d never existed—what was his name? William?—and the shadbolt he’d been asked to break as part of
his final janitor’s exam, and how it had felt to smash the binding hex. Pretend-William had howled like a dying dog.

But lord, this is real. And I hate it.

Even as he railed against the horror smothering Bibbie, a part of his mind, the detached, wizardly, rogue agent part, was admiring the shadbolt’s ruthless complexity. Was memorizing its blueprint, the way its confining strands thickened and twisted and looped themselves in such knots…

Monk’s furious distress was growing, reverberating through their linked
potentias
. Any minute now it would be a real problem because that distress was threatening to disrupt any useful reading of the shadbolt—and without an accurate reading, without discovering the key to its disarticulation, Bibbie would remain trapped within it as securely as Mr. Plummer’s prisoner was trapped.

“Monk!” he said. “Don’t you
dare
fall apart on me now. Come on, get a grip. If a slip of a girl can stand this, so can you!”

With an effort that sent waves of pain rippling through the ether, Monk throttled his anguish and regained his balance. Their thaumic link held. Breathing hard, they continued to examine the cruelly constricting shadbolt.

“Gerald—Monk—not to be a nag, but would you mind getting a move on?” Bibbie whispered, her voice small and close to breaking. “Only this isn’t quite as much fun as I thought it would be.”

Choking, Monk let out a long, shaky breath. “Gerald—can you break this damned thing?”

He felt his heart sink.
Yes, Monk, of course I can.
But what use would that be? He couldn’t march into Mr. Plummer’s office and break the one on his prisoner, could he? Monk had to do that. And he had to do it without help. No one could know about Gerald Dunwoody’s unauthorized, unsanctioned thaumaturgical assistance.

“Gerald!”

He eased himself out of the ether, drawing Monk with him. Drained and shaky they looked at each other. Monk’s face was chalk-white and sweating, the habitual manic amusement in his eyes chased away by stark fear.

As for what Monk could see in his eyes, he didn’t want to know.

They looked at Bibbie, transfixed before them. She was chalk-white too, tears trickling down her cheeks. But as they turned to her she smiled. She was so brave. So wonderful.

“You can do this,” she said, her hands clenched to fists by her sides. The pain of the shadbolt shuddered through her. “You’re the best wizards in Ottosland. In { Ots c the world. When you two work together there’s nothing you can’t achieve. All right? Do you believe me?”

Gerald nodded. “Of course. Only—” He turned back to Monk. “Look—”

“I know,” Monk said, grim. And of course he did. He was a very, very smart man. “So what are we going to do?”