Dead Magic (18 page)

It came to him then, the memory of bone-aching cold and empty hunger. The scent of death was distinctly different from the mere unclean, and it could be smelled even in frigid weather. At nineteen years old, Dorian had never truly faced a dead body, at least not a day-old dead body, and the shock of it had been seared into his memory. It had been somewhere in Feverrette lands, he knew. Two years after discovering he'd been targeted for death, knowing the Bedim Assassins hunting him would not care about killing his family just to get at him, Dorian had exiled himself from his home. But he'd gone back often, in secret, just to see for himself that his family still lived.

Somehow, he'd thought that the Untalented were better cared for in Feverrette lands, that there were no starving people so close to the manor he'd called home. But he had been wrong.

For a long time Dorian had tried to justify the suffering. He knew his mother to be a good woman, gentle and kind, and perhaps the need was too great for even a House Witch to fix. But then, Dorian had no recollection of his mother being concerned about the problem, either. She had officials for that sort of thing.

His stomach knotted and he closed his eyes, suddenly far removed from Tourney Street. He did not smell the crisp air or the horses five steps away. No. He smelled the decay of that dead man he had found, saw the tight way rigor mortis had frozen the man, curled against himself in a desperate attempt to stay warm.

No. As good as his mother was, as good as many of the Witches were, the wretched of their society were a clear sign that something had to change.

"Dorian, are you all right?" Bartholomew exited the carriage as well and moved to stand beside him.

"I'm perfectly all right." Dorian shook off the thoughts and flashed his friend an encouraging smile. Or at least he hoped it was encouraging. When Bartholomew didn't smile back, he knew it had failed and he dropped the smile. "I'm as all right as a man who has been shot in the back and nearly abducted can be."

Turning together, they both faced the two-story office building of the Warders of Lorant. It looked like every other building lining the circumference of Tourney Street, with its pointed rooftop covered in snow and its tall, skinny frame. All of the windows were open, but morning frost painted chilly patterns across them, hiding everything save the glow of lights inside. There was one difference in the building that distinguished it from its neighbors-a sword mounted on the front door. It was a decorative thing, far larger than the rapiers polite society utilized, and it was the only object on the building not covered in frost or snow.

Dorian stared at it for a moment as he and Bartholomew climbed the steps to the wooden porch. The point of the sword was directed downward, putting the hilt and pommel at eye level. He felt his Talent withdraw just at the sight of the large green Remora stone set into the pommel. Though he knew it to be a trick of the light, the stone seemed to be perpetually glowing, and Dorian had to suppress a shudder. Swirling patterns ran the length of its forty-inch blade, colored that same Remora stone green. He'd seen swords like it ever since his father had been appointed head of the Warders, but it still jarred him to look at it.

They'd traced Lord Rorant Orzebet to Lorant.
Well
, Dorian thought with a frown,
we practically chased him here
. Rorant had been in Three Points but departed just hours before they'd gone to the Warders Office there, heading for Lorant to prepare security for Winter Tournament. After much deliberation. they had come to the unified decision that Winslow would discreetly escort Miss Quinlan home so that she could attend matters there, while Bartholomew and Dorian tracked down Rorant in search of answers to the botched abduction.

"Do you think he'll know anything?" Bart asked.

Dorian gave him a sideways look. "Do you really think it's a coincidence that he happened to be in Three Points at the same moment someone attempted to abduct me?"

"He could have been there to investigate the train accident," Bart said. Shrugging, he reached out and pulled on the bell cord. "It's just possible that he could be as surprised as we were."

"Possible," Dorian conceded. "But I doubt it. My father is almost always five steps ahead of everyone else."

The door swung open and a sour-faced girl glared at them. Sharp brown eyes glanced them over once and she glared harder. "Witch-Born."

"Good gracious," Bartholomew breathed the words, clearly surprised.

It was painfully evident that his friend had never visited a Warders office before. Dorian spoke before Bart could remind the woman of their rank in society, which he no doubt would have done. Bartholomew wasn't vain, but he had clear societal boundaries.

"Lord Delgora and Lord Feverrette to see Lord Orzebet, if you please."

It felt funny calling Bart "Lord Feverrette." Growing up, he'd been Lord Bartholomew Kelemen, or just Bart, but now he was married. Dorian still didn't know how he felt about one of his closest friends marrying his sister, but in the grand scheme of things he imagined the alternative was worse. Caresse could have married Ibolya Clenci, and then Dorian would have had to murder the wretch, which would have spiraled into a House War.

"Lord Orzebet is not taking visitors today," the girl replied.

She was far older on second glance than he'd first thought. Under the ivory head cap, her hair was dark, with streaks of gray at the temples. She had a long, bony face, a nose so large and flaring that it would have been better suited for a man, and her mouth twisted with such contempt that Dorian was flustered for a moment.

"This is Saldorian, Lord Orzebet's son. I imagine he will make the time to see us," Bart said.

"You keep imaginin'. See if it comes true, eh?"

Bartholomew stepped back at the waspish remark, looking stung. For a baffled moment they exchanged glances. No one spoke to the nobility that way. Suddenly concerned for his father's welfare, Dorian nodded silently at Bart, who nodded back at him in agreement. They turned back to the woman and surged forward in unison. She gasped and tried to slam the door closed, but Bart blocked it with his shoulder.

Grabbing the woman by the elbow, Dorian pushed his way into the front vestibule, dragging her with him. He stopped short as three pistols were leveled at him. Bart paused beside him, just as startled at the display as he was.

"What in Fates . . ." Bart started to say, but trailed off as one of the weapons shifted to aim at him.

They were all three Warders, Dorian knew by the white chain mail tunics, and he recognized the eldest man. "Victor. How pleasant."

"Go home, Dorian. Your father has no time for you today." Victor's dark, rough-hewn features were passive, but there was a flash of fear in his hazel eyes.

Glancing at the other two men, Dorian frowned. His father always had time for him. Something was dreadfully wrong and he had the sinking suspicion that if he pushed the matter, these men really would fight. For whatever reason, he and Bartholomew had to leave.

"Did he say when he might have a moment for me?" Dorian asked.

"Lord Orzebet will be leaving tonight on the train to Fairbridge Tormey. Regrettably, he had not thought to see you here, my Lord." Victor's weapon never wavered. "Better luck next time."

The edge in Victor's voice amplified the need for them to go. Dorian released the hissing doorwoman, tugged once on his jacket, and turned to Bart. "Right," he said. "Next time."

Bart met his gaze with a baffled look but managed to compose himself. They retreated out the door only to have it slam behind them. Gritting his teeth, Dorian stormed down the porch steps and headed off for Delgora Winter House. Bart kept pace beside him but seemed to understand that they could not discuss the matter in public. Something was going on, something that had Rorant Orzebet frightened of being watched. Dorian had never known his father to be frightened of anything.

The Wild was coming. Elsie was barely holding on to her sanity. The ark was in a constant state of being almost done. Winslow had some malady from the train accident that couldn't be explained and their entire society was built by a cursed woman and stolen magic. Scowling, Dorian wondered what the hell else could go wrong.

Being followed left her with a very strange sensation right between the shoulder blades. Valeda wasn't certain if this unsettled feeling had more to do with the man following her or with her newly hatched Talent; and she didn't care to speculate. Lord Agoston had not shown any inclination to repeat the actions taken on her balcony in Three Points, and for the most part, she was grateful. Apart from formalities arranging travel back home and the assurance that he would be nearby, Valeda hadn't seen Winslow since boarding the train home.

She knew he was there somehow, and not merely on account of feeling constantly watched. Her Talent told her of his nearness in a quiet, instinctual way.

Trudging up the cobblestone steps to her apartment building, Valeda felt the sludge of half-melted snow seep into her boots. Silently cursing Graham Fey, the building's keeper, for not shoveling the path, she fumbled with her key and unlocked the front gate. Gusts of sleet buffered against her shivering form, whipping her hood away from her head. She pushed the front door open and hurried inside, thoroughly chilled.

Mr. Fey had not bothered with lighting the front vestibule fireplace. Staring at the cold cast-iron hearth in disdain, Valeda thought again about writing to the superintendent. But it would be pointless. Mr. Marsh Attlewood was not particularly concerned about the comfort of his residents. The place was clean and quiet, and she doubted he would spare the expense to have the building stocked with coal and lumber.

Still clutching her keys in icy fingers, Valeda moved into the tight hallway just beyond. Stomping the snow from her feet, she veered for the stairwell and began her climb.

"That you, Miss Quinlan?" Fey's nasally voice called from the first door.

She paused, peering over the railing and at the office. It was situated just past the front vestibule, the only door that never seemed to be closed, and from the parallel staircase she could see inside. Fey was leaning back in his chair, squinting up at her. Although he was only five years her elder, Fey was already balding. The feathery brown wisps of his hair made a valiant attempt to hide the growing spot at the back of his head. He had a paunchy face, the evidence of an easy life with little care, and she knew him to be a relative to Mr. Attlewood.

"Yes?" she asked, suppressing a groan.

He made daily attempts at trying to charm her and she had truly hoped to escape unscathed this time.

"Oh, good!" Fey smiled, displaying an awkward number of teeth. He stood, reaching for something out of her line of sight. "You had a delivery today."

A moment later, he was striding through the door, carrying a large envelope. Valeda's stomach knotted. Recognizing the envelope as one Lady Elsie would use, she tried to hide the anxiety from her face as he reached her.

"The messenger was adamant that it had to be hand-delivered to you," Fey said with another broad smile. He winked at her. "Have I got competition for your attention now?"

Quelling her growing annoyance, Valeda reached for the envelope. "Don't be silly, Mr. Fey. It's likely just business."

"Good then." He handed the package over and leaned against the banister. "You know, I've got a nice fire going in the office. You could come in, enjoy the light, and I could fix . . ."

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Fey, but I must pack tonight." She tried for an apologetic smile. "I leave for Winter Tournament tomorrow."

His smile wavered, but he gave her another insolent wink. "Perhaps when you get back, then."

Not for all the House Seats in Magnellum
, she thought, already turning away. "You flatter me, Mr. Fey. Do be well."

"I try," he called after her.

With her back safely to him, Valeda allowed herself to frown in distaste. He was such an impudent toad. She wondered if there was a spell she could cast to send his attentions in another direction. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she frowned some more. Maybe she could cast the same spell on herself. That would solve the problem of Winslow Agoston.

He's probably shocked and disgusted by your actions on the balcony. Why in Fates did you kiss him?

Reaching her apartment door, she fumbled with the keys again, this time fighting off a supremely embarrassed flush. It took every ounce of her willpower not to linger on the memory. Pushing the door open, she entered the little apartment and flipped the heavy switch for the lights. Only one of the four ceiling lamps hummed to life, dimly illuminating her beloved home, and it took several seconds before she realized what was before her.

Her apartment had been completely tossed, ransacked with uncaring violence. It looked like someone had picked it up and shaken it about, rolled it over and on top of itself several times. Stuffing littered the floor from her pansy-printed sofa, which lay gutted on its back, great slashes rent through the fabric. Her father's oak desk-given to her when she'd first been hired at the
Regular
-had all three of its drawers removed and their contents spilled onto the floor. Paper and ink scattered across the apartment, and Valeda stood frozen in the doorway.

Fingers tightening on the envelope in her hands, she rushed for the back bedroom. Here, the light turned on brightly, giving her an instant to view the continued carnage before it snapped out again. She turned back to the switch just as a shadowed figure detached from the wall beside her. Her scream was smothered in a tight grip, an unnaturally quick movement spinning her around until she was full length against the wall.

"Vee. Be quiet."

Too startled to recognize the voice or the familiar nickname, Valeda bit down hard on his palm, tasting sweat and flesh. He yelped in surprise, but instead of jerking back as she'd hoped, he pressed more firmly against her. Pinned to the wall by the solid length of him, Valeda's eyes adjusted to the shadowed room and she finally recognized who it was.