Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) (9 page)

“Love the shirt,” said the Angel, smiling. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe anyone would wear anything so stupid.

“My friends are none of your business, spellcaster,” I snapped.

“Probably not,” he said, looking down at my bound copy of CVs. “Have you picked out which one of us you want to work with yet?”

Ugh. Us?

“
You’re
in the pool?”

He nodded and exhaled while looking straight at me. It wasn’t quite blowing smoke in my face.

“No worries, firestarter. It won’t be me. I’m ranked dead last.”

I yanked open the door again and disappeared inside.
Whatever.

*   *   *

I
hadn’t been in the Joshua School since last semester, before my ex–best friend, Peter Aster, had betrayed my trust. Peter wouldn’t be here this morning (he was completing his studies off campus, in a place even more prestigious than the Joshua School), but the place still made me feel queasy. Like no one could be trusted, like everyone was wearing a glamour, like what you saw
wasn’t
what you’d get.

The Joshua School was amazingly contemporary looking for folks who made their living off of ancient knowledge. The whole place gleamed with bubbled glass, oiled iron, and bleached wood. Odd, funky furniture covered with slim cushions in block patterns were tastefully arranged throughout the room. One entire wall (the one behind the Angel’s gatekeeper, the building’s security guard) was lined with square cubbies full of mail, letters, scrolls, feathers, ink pens, and leather pouches, all likely full of charms, both ensorcelled and not, and myriad other things people had left for the Angels and that the Angels had left there for themselves. It was their equivalent of a post office and locker all in one. But locks weren’t required for the “lockers” because no one in their right mind would steal from an Angel. You’d likely be poisoned, cursed, or worse.

Joshua School’s lobby was crowded with groups of twos and threes. There was a hum to the place and a general mood of excitement. I gathered
Voir Dire
was as much of a big deal to the Angels as it was to the Maegesters-in-Training.

I knew immediately that Ari was somewhere in the lobby because I felt his signature. It felt reassuringly warm and vibrant, like sunshine.
This
must have been what the person who first used the term “sun kissed” had been feeling.

I smiled to myself and moved through the crowd, following Ari’s strengthening signature, until I found him at the far end of the room, talking to an ethereally beautiful woman. I knew instantly that she was an Angel. Angels loved three things: ancient languages, history, and telling a good story. They were natural poets, bards, and actors. Grand spellcasters cast their spells as if all the world was their stage. This confidence, combined with the strength of their beliefs, was what separated the mediocre from the erudite, the middling from the transcendent.

This woman held herself as if she were ringmaster for every beast in Halja, and since Halja’s beasts were mostly demons, just the act of portraying such confidence was in and of itself quite a feat. She had long, flaxen hair and moss green eyes. She didn’t smile, nor did she frown. Her gaze was focused intently on Ari in a predatory, almost raptor-like way. Only when I was within a few feet of them did she break eye contact with him and glance over to me. Her gaze was arresting. Even I, who viewed this whole Angel selection business with a gimlet eye, couldn’t help wondering for a moment what sorts of spells this girl could cast. She simply radiated faith magic. I was almost afraid to touch her.

“Nice glamour,” I said.

“‘Truth has no face but that which we give her.’ The Book of Joshua, seventeen, twenty-one.”

Her voice was scratchy, like she’d just gotten over a bout with pneumonia or was suffering from laryngitis. I gaped at her for a moment, realizing who she was.

Fara Vanderlin—the Angel Fitz thought I should work with.

She murmured one word and changed her glamour (it was as easy for her as trading one hat for another, which was impressive) and stood before us as a mousy-looking, bucktoothed, pimple-laden, glasses-wearing girl of about fifteen or so. The effect was almost too perfect, too stereotypically bookish.

“Do you prefer this?” she asked. Her voice didn’t match this new glamour any better than the last.

“Actually, I prefer no glamour,” I said.
I prefer “no Angel” too,
I thought, but kept that thought to myself.

“I know,” she said, frowning, glancing at Ari. “He said you wouldn’t like working with someone who’s constantly veiled. But you’ll need to be veiled from time to time in your work and I wanted you to see that I am capable of putting on a good glamour. After all, ‘An investigation requires many tools, but a glamour is the handle which fits them all.’ The Book of Joshua, twelve, eighteen.”

I snorted. “Maybe,” I said, “but I always liked, ‘We must look demons in the face.’ Joshua, one, twenty.”

I expected her to look annoyed. Angels usually didn’t like it when you quoted the Book back at them, but instead she positively beamed.

“You’ve read Joshua!” she squeaked excitedly. “I just
knew
we’d be a good match!” She hopped up and down and squeezed Ari’s arm. I stared at Ari. He stared back. Finally, Fara’s smile disappeared.

“Well, I’ll see you both inside, then,” she said nervously and let go of Ari’s arm. With one raspy word, she switched her glamour back to “Halja’s Reining Ringmaster” and sauntered away. Now I knew why Ivy had reacted the way she had when Fitz had mentioned Fara’s name. I could never work with her. Nothing about her was real. Her face changed with the snap of a finger and her thoughts were regurgitated from a book. Who knew who Fara Vanderlin really was? Did she? I doubted it.

“You too, Ari? Fara Vanderlin? I’d sooner work with a demon. At least then I’d know what I was getting.”

“Fara can be anything you need her to be. That’s why she’s a great choice for you.”

“Yeah, well, I need her to be paired with someone else.”

“You know you’ll need to pick someone, right?”

“What about you?” I countered. “Who would be a great choice for you?”

He shrugged. “That depends on who you choose.”

“You know you’ll need to pick someone for
you
, right?” I said, my tone mimicking his earlier one.

Before he could respond, a gong sounded. Its initial metallic zing tweaked my nerves and the lingering hum of it made my hair stand on end. I wasn’t the only one. I felt the collective signature of the other waning magic users in the room expand. For a moment, it felt like the whole room was the inside of a balloon that was about to pop. But then I heard the bang of heavy doors and that expansive feeling seemed to be sucked into whatever portal had just been opened. A sonorous voice boomed from the other end of the lobby:

“Welcome, Maegesters. The House of Metatron is now open for this year’s
Voir Dire
.”

Immediately the twenty or so people in the room queued up in front of the two giant wooden doors that had just been opened. The doors were carved mahogany, the only dark thing in the room. Near the front I saw Rochester standing with a man I didn’t recognize. He must be the Angel emcee. He looked downright jovial next to Rochester. He was average height, slightly paunchy, with curling gray hair. From my place at the back of the line, I couldn’t see his eye color or distinguish any other features. In front of me, two Angels I didn’t know—a man with an egg-shaped face and hair shaved so short he was practically bald, and a woman with angular features and long light-bright flyaway hair—were whispering to each other. They glanced back at me and I debated introducing myself, but then I noticed that the Angel in front was passing something out at the door.

Shades of last semester!
I thought.
What was up with the Angels and their damned door prizes?
Last semester, at the entrance to a ball held upstairs on the thirty-third floor, seraphim had handed out lilies. Real ones. The kind that wither and die instantly when waning magic users touch them. One of the seraphim had been very insistent that I accept his “gift.” I’d had to threaten to burn the whole place down before he backed off. I wondered what they were passing out now and whether I’d want it and, if I didn’t, whether I’d be able to refuse it.

No one was talking much in line (hard to openly discuss possible pairings with everyone standing twenty feet or so from one another) so I flipped open my CV book to review some of the candidates we’d missed this morning. Lambert Jeffries, the number two Angel, was probably worth taking a closer look at.

Yep, I had squawked up a storm about this whole Angel-selection business—and it was true that, given my druthers, I really would prefer
no Angel
to working with one of these strangers—but the plain simple truth was . . . I doubted I’d survive my upcoming trip to the Shallows without a Guardian. So it was time to shed the histrionics I sometimes allowed myself and get serious.

As Ivy had said, Jeffries’ scores and rankings were impressive and he spoke Aquaian. But some of the best things about Jeffries were things I hadn’t noticed earlier: his specialty was
lex talionis
, or “adjudication,” and one of his noteworthy spells was Discernment, which could really help us during our investigation. The other was Reciprocity. I hadn’t heard of that one and wasn’t sure of its value. Was it some sort of magic Golden Rule? If so, I could probably work with him. After all, “do unto others” wasn’t such a bad motto, right?

I glanced over at Ari, who was staring at Jeffries’ page with narrowed eyes. He looked up at me and gently shook his head. I frowned. I hated it when Ari tried to push me to do something (or, in this case, not to choose someone), even if it was supposedly for my own good. Did he still think Fara was a good pick just because she was a gap filler? I switched to her page. It was mostly stuff we’d already discussed but I noticed her other noteworthy spells were an AIR boost and Ascendancy. I bristled.

AIR boosts gave Maegesters greater accuracy and increased range. Ascendancy was known as a spell for weak Maegesters. Ones who had control issues. I clenched my jaw and flipped the page, willing myself not to think about my melted alarm bell.

On the next page was a name I didn’t recognize: Raphael Sinclair. I skimmed his bio. Parents were Roderick and Valda, his grandfather had been Guardian to the seventy-fifth executive (mildly impressive), and his younger brother was deceased (that gave me pause; I had a twin brother and didn’t want to contemplate what experiencing a loss like that must have been like). But then I saw the rest of his CV. It was absolutely preposterous. His
curriculum vitae
, or “course of life” was practically blank. His
potentia
and noteworthy spells were “TBD,” he had no declared specialty, and both his defensive and offensive ratings were “Unknown.” He’d gotten Cs in Spellcasting and Post-Apocalyptic History and—I almost laughed out loud—an F in Transcription. His only redeeming mark? An A in Linguistics, which, for an Angel, was like saying he knew how to read. He was ranked eleventh out of eleven. Suddenly, I knew exactly who this guy was.

No worries, firestarter. It won’t be me. I’m ranked dead last.

This was the taupe-eyed Angel’s page. The one who smoked and asked all kinds of unwanted questions. He was right. I wouldn’t be choosing him. Then I did laugh out loud and looked up at Ari. He shrugged and rolled his eyes.

About half the line had gone in already. I saw now that the Angel emcee was offering everyone a sip of wine.
To steel our nerves?
Doubtful. The last thing an Angel would want to do is to decrease tension about an upcoming “show.”

Finally, we moved close enough for me to get a good look at the Angel at the door. He held a silver chalice to the lips of the nearly bald Angel in front of me and murmured some words. The student Angel swallowed and accepted the white linen napkin that Rochester offered. After wiping his lips, he looked down at the napkin, peering closely at it. Was it my imagination or did his pale, egg-shaped face get even paler? After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped into the darkened room of the House of Metatron.

The process was repeated with the Angel with the flyaway hair. The only difference was that she frowned when looking at her napkin and then stepped through the doors immediately. Finally, it was my turn. I nodded politely to Rochester and turned to face the Angel. He peered at me through eyes that were so milky white I wondered if he was blind. He cocked his head as if he were trying to get a better look at me, his gaze not quite focusing on me. A small fissure of alarm pierced my belly and I was suddenly glad Angels couldn’t sense signatures.

“Welcome, Ms. Onyx,” said the Angel. “I’m Friedrich Vanderlin, today’s master of ceremonies. We’ve heard a lot about you since your declaration.”

He smiled when he said it, but his smile was as empty as his gaze. I couldn’t help wondering if what he’d heard about me had come from Peter, which probably meant he thought the worst of me.

“I’m happy to be here,” I said. Even I could hear the false note in my voice. Friedrich’s mouth quirked crookedly.

“My daughter’s looking forward to working with you,” he said. “Like father, like daughter, eh?” He reached out to give me a friendly pat on the shoulder and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to back away before he touched me. My reaction was overblown and didn’t make sense.
What was he talking about anyway?