Dead Magic (16 page)

"-thought he'd lost his Talent."

"That ain't Agoston, that's the other fellow-"

"Saw him go under the carriage! A regular man would be dead!"

She almost paused at the last comment, her stomach knotted with the images that brought to mind, but Valeda focused instead on reaching him. She didn't know exactly why, but her Talent needed to get to him, to make sure he was solid and real and whole. Pushing her way to the front of the crowd, Valeda was forced to step onto a slat of broken carriage, where she paused.

Winslow had managed to drag Lord Delgora out of the wreckage. He stood atop the rubble with his unconscious friend hanging off one shoulder, his clothes just as ragged as Bartholomew's, and bleeding substantially from the mouth. He looked formidable and heroic, and what was more, he had stopped to stare directly at her. Moonlight flinted off the green in his eyes. His mouth twitched into that wicked smile of his and Valeda realized all of a sudden that she'd been holding her breath.

Breathing again, she hiked her skirts and climbed the rubble to get to him. She still didn't know why she had to reach him. Getting to his side at last, her ankle rolled on a loose bit of the carriage frame and she nearly fell. Winslow, however, caught hold of her elbow and drew her closer to his side.

"Careful now, Vee. I'm holding Dorian just fine right now, but I've no idea if I can carry you both down." He half whispered the words, but she heard him clearly. Heard him and felt the purr of his magic because her own Talent seemed suddenly euphoric.

"Mother, Maiden and Crone, Winifred!" Lord Feverrette shouted up at them. "Quit making a spectacle of yourself. Poor Dorian needs our attention."

He'd had nightmares before. Prior to marrying Elsie, Dorian had spent much of his life being hunted by assassins, so he was quite used to the weltering churn of worry in his gut. However, his nightmares were normally restricted to the general fear for his own life or the lives of his closest family. The current nightmare-the one he was fairly certain was still a dream and not a reality-was a haunting of Elsie's vision.

There were jumbled voices around him. Voices that didn't belong to the sights of wolf-like creatures and bloody assault in the vision, and that was how he knew he was still dreaming. Frustratingly enough, Dorian couldn't summon himself awake.

Someone was prodding at the wounds in his shoulder, digging the Remora stones out of him. That alone should have roused him, but try as he might he could not open his eyes. He wondered if this was how it was for Elsie. There had been many times he'd caught her pacing and tried to talk to her, only to be given that glassy, blank stare of half-sleep.

Trying to ignore the chaos of the nightmare, he thought of Elsie. He felt stronger by thinking of her, so he focused. The attacks presented in the vision had failed to show where Elsie would be during all of this.

Do you really want to know?

The voice startled him. It was familiar and foreign at the same time, not a part of the regular vision.
Magic
, he realized. The same voice that taunted Elsie, the voice that had been missing from Magnellum for eight years.

Dorian wanted to say yes, but didn't know how. Dreams were not like reality. He had very little control here. But it didn't seem to matter. Magic understood him.

The haunting stopped. The scene changed, pulling him to the base of the ark. It was closed; he noticed that straight off. Great vines pounded at the curved iron structure, trying to break through. There were large dents in the ark but Dorian didn't see any tears. Not yet, anyway. He knew, however, that it would only be a matter of time before the Wild got through it.

His heart sank at the sight.

What was the point of all their years of building, of preparing, if they were destined to fail?

There is more at play than you see, Dorian Delgora-Feverrette.

His focus switched to Elsie. In the vision, she wore her assassins garb again. The last time he'd seen her in the black, loosely fitted pants, she'd been killing the man who murdered her sister. He remembered that more clearly than he liked; the way she'd slammed the assassin into a building so hard the foundations shook. In the vision, she was sitting, looking dazed rather than fierce.

Dorian watched as she reached for the base of the ark with her tattooed arm.

"How many more?" Winslow's voice snapped the dream away.

"One," Bartholomew said with a grunt.

Pain pierced through his shoulder and Dorian woke up.

"Oh dear," Miss Quinlan said. She was sitting just in front of him, holding a little jar that contained four small green stones in it. He was slightly disconcerted at her presence, but too focused on the sharp pain to mention anything. "He's awake."

Movement beside him and suddenly Winslow crouched into view. "Fates be praised." Winslow gave him a cocky grin. "He really is."

"He should stop tensing his shoulder," Bart said from behind him. "It'll hurt more when I pull this last bit out."

"
He
would love to but is in a cursed lot of pain," Dorian half-growled at them. Still, he made a conscious effort to relax. He felt the metal tool Bart had shoved into the wound. It slid damnably slow on its way out of him, but he could feel Bartholomew's steady hand because it didn't shake and disturb more of the wound than it had to. The final bit of Remora stone popped out of his shoulder and all at once Dorian felt his Talent burst to life. Without having to command it, his magic began mending the holes in his body.

Sitting up carefully, Dorian glanced between Winslow, Bart and Valeda, trying to think of something appropriate to say.

"Who have you gone and pissed off now?" Winslow asked.

"Winifred!" Bartholomew threw a bloodied towel at Winslow. "There is a lady present!"

All eyes turned to Valeda, who looked a good deal healthier than she did when she'd visited Delgora. That wasn't to say that she'd been sick in Delgora, but there was something extra in her glittering gray eyes. Her cheeks tinged a rosy pink at the sudden attention but she managed not to squirm. Dorian wondered how long she had been in Winslow's company and why his friends had suddenly opted to trust her in such an intimate setting.

For that matter, he wondered why the hell his wife trusted her. He couldn't see anything that would mark the woman as Fated.

"This
lady
has been helping you pluck stones out of Dorian's shoulder. She has blood on her boots and grease in her hair from carrying the poor bastard in here." Winslow pushed to his feet again. "If she can withstand all of that, I imagine she has the constitution for a bit of foul language."

"That's hardly the point." Bart moved to a side bar set into the west wall and proceeded to collect crystal glasses for use.

Still a little rattled, Dorian chose to wait and watch.

It appeared that they were in the front vestibule of a rather luxurious room. Brightly lit by candelabra, brass fixtures and a blazing fireplace, the place spoke of wealth and comfort. The velvet upholstery of the settee underneath him was printed in flowery patterns that reminded him of Delgora House in Lorant. Valeda sat in a matching armchair, quietly sealing the stones inside a glass jar and setting it aside. Winslow, curiously enough, moved to lean against the arm of her chair, scandalously close and deliberately protective. Dorian watched as his friend crossed his arms in a belligerent display of possession.

A moment later Bartholomew shoved a glass of brandy into Dorian's hands, meeting his eyes long enough to let Dorian know that he was also aware of Winslow's strange behavior. There was something familiar about the sight of Winslow and Valeda together, but Dorian was hard-pressed to define it.

"The real point," Winslow said as Bart handed him a drink, "is that someone just tried to abduct Dorian. And I would dearly like to know why."

"You never were very well liked, Dorian," Bart said, settling in the settee beside him. "But I never imagined someone would try this."

"The people who don't like me try to have me killed, not taken," Dorian said.

Winslow snorted a laugh.

"The real question," Valeda said with a pensive frown, "is where they got their Remora stones. If we can find that out, we might be able to discover who did this."

Faltering, Dorian looked at her again. Leave it to the reporter to connect the dots so succinctly. "The Warders guard the stones."

"Well, yes, but are they the only ones who can get them?"

"Technically no, but it is illegal for anyone except the Warders to possess them," Bartholomew said.

"And it's damned dangerous to try and get one on your own," Winslow said.

Valeda frowned some more and stared at her own feet. Dorian looked up at Winslow, who took a sip of his brandy and frowned as well. The room fell silent, each lost in their own musings, and Dorian tried to will the memory of the nightmare away. He needed to concentrate.

"What if someone stole the stones from the Warders?" Valeda asked. "Would they ever report such a thing?"

"Fates, no," Bart said. "A report like that would set the Witches into a panic."

"So the only people who would actually know would be the Warders themselves," Valeda said quietly. "How many Warders do you know?"

Dorian felt the attention of the room settle on him. "Just one," he answered and drank his brandy in one burning swallow. His voice was hoarse when he finished. "But he'll be enough."

***

Winslow crouched on the rooftop of the Pinnacle and Pyre, far too restless to sleep. Dorian's near abduction had been traumatic enough that he'd managed to avoid Bartholomew's questions, but he knew he'd have to answer in the morning. Bart was too quick by half and always had been, so there was no way his friend had missed the fact that his Talent was suddenly alive and well.
Albeit slightly altered
, he thought.

He could feel it pulsing through him, this new Wildness. Combined with his magic, Winslow felt new and sharp, like a blade come right out of the forge. The cold did not bother him because something deep within kept him warm. And yet, when he stood next to a fire he was comfortable. From his perch he could see the whole of Three Points, clear in spite of the late hour, and tried to remember if his Talent had been capable of so much before.

No
, he decided. His Talent had been able to enhance his natural abilities, but not to this extent.

"What have I become?" he whispered.

He thought of the great cat. How many of them were there? Based on Fayree's story, he imagined quite a few, but a deep part of him hoped he was wrong. The odds were already against them and he wanted to believe the people of Magnellum had a chance of survival. But he could sense the Pillars were failing. Magic was unraveling, and he knew why. Magic had placed those Pillars. Without Magic bodily present, they couldn't sustain themselves, not even with the help of their assigned Witches.

It was too cold for snow. His breath puffed out before him, catching the distant street light with the icy shimmer of crystal. He had confided in Valeda and Bartholomew about the verue plant and the existence of the Tre`ow. They'd been surprisingly accepting of his story, even with the moderately heretical points. He imagined his talk of the predator cat bought him some leeway. People were always reporting such sightings on the other side of the Pillars. This was just the first attack inside Magnellum borders.

He had left out the peculiar reactions his body was undergoing. He'd left out the heightened senses, his ability to hear and smell things that the average man could not. He supposed he could tell Bart that his Talent had just come back, but he didn't like the idea of lying.

He wondered suddenly what Bryva would think of him now.

Conjuring an image of her in his mind, Winslow smiled to himself. It was his favorite memory of her, sitting beside him, curled up against him as she used to. His arm was around her, making a light stroke up and down her spine, and he could almost feel the solid weight of her. Bryva Gelgova had never been a small woman. She was tall and toned, all of her body fit from years of wielding a sword.

Would she have rejected him for his sudden Wildness?

Below him, a balcony door opened and his image was shattered. Winslow opened his eyes, resenting the sudden call back to reality. Valeda Quinlan stepped onto her balcony, wrapped in layers of dressing robe and blanket. Winslow felt his Talent perk at the sight of her and frowned.

What in Fates was going on here? His magic had never dictated attraction before and yet he could feel himself being drawn to her.
Lured like bait
, he thought with a scowl. Could it be possible that Miss Quinlan was doing it on purpose? She seemed too genuine for such a thing but he had to test the theory.

Rising, Winslow stepped to the edge of the rooftop and let himself drop down to her balcony. She gasped when he landed, dove-gray eyes widening in surprise. Her hands pinched the blanket closer to her body, but he could see the way her pulse quickened; it fluttered, light and quick, just under her jaw.

"Win-Lord Agoston," she gasped, bowing in a curtsy.

"You had it right the first time. My name is Winslow."

"Propriety . . ."

"I'm standing on your balcony in the middle of the night. Unless I miss my guess, you're in your night shift under that blanket. Propriety is already to hell and gone, Vee."

She frowned. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Vee?"

She nodded. She looked uncomfortable and Winslow decided that she could not be the source of his sudden attraction. A woman trying to win a man would display more sultry seduction and less quirky anxiety.
One mystery solved
, he thought and leaned against the railing.

Her mouth pursed into a deeper frown and she met his eyes. Winslow struggled against the sudden desire to touch her and tore his gaze away from her mouth. It took him a moment to find his place in the conversation again.

"It's easy to remember," he said at last.

"And 'Valeda' is difficult?"