THE ENCLAVE

I woke to another hot morning. Moaning my complaints, I got up, turned on my old, rattling air-conditioner, then lazed on my bed for nine more snooze alarms.

Before I could hit the tenth, Brand poked his head over the edge of the spiral stairway. “Will you get the fuck up already?”

“I’m reviewing the case in my head. I’m strategizing.”

“Strategy doesn’t give you fucking pillow creases,” he said. With a snort, he stomped the rest of the way into my bedroom and went over to the window. His baggy white bathing suit turned translucent against the roaring sunlight.

“Can you get me some vitamin water from Queenie?” he asked.

“Why can’t you?”

“She’s mad at me. I think she hid them.”

I opened my mouth to ask the obvious, but he waved me off. “I may have used the dishwasher without asking her.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You put your socks and underwear in it again, didn’t you?”

“The washing machine is broken,” he said defensively.

“Oh, wonderful.” I threw a forearm over my eyes. We’d have to take turns schlepping to a laundromat until I could call a repairman. Between that and property taxes, the Tower’s two checks would all but evaporate.

“Stop that,” Brand said. “You’re going to give yourself frown lines.”

“And that bothers you because . . . ?”

“Because you’ll get old faster than me, which means you’ll get rejuvenation treatments before I need them, and through the wonder of the Companion bond, I’ll fucking end up looking twelve.”

“Did you come up here for a reason?”

“The water. And to tell you I pulled the research on the idiot scions.”

I’d asked Brand to look into their school records. Most scions were educated at the Mangus Academy; and Brand and I had a backdoor into their servers. I’d hoped it would give us an idea which of them might have the ability to summon a gargoyle—let alone to summon whatever had taken Addam from his office.

“I got their grades and course loads,” Brand said. “You already knew about Geoffrey. Top of his class, lots of academia and theoretical magic—as opposed to those practical courses that support the idea of theoretical survival.”

“Geoffrey has what it takes to work a summoning,” I said. “What about his brother?”

“While it’s possible Michael’s spent his life masterminding the image that he’s dumb as tar, I’m betting that’s just an insult to tar. He’s got some training in aggressive magic—enough to fucking cheat at rugby—but the chance he’d be able to pull off a big ritual? No.”

“What about Ashton?” I said.

“Ashton did post-grad work in Poland.”

Well, that snagged my attention, as Brand knew it would.

Two of the biggest human casualties of the Atlantean World War were magically radioactive zones in Poland and America’s Pacific Northwest, both sites of battlegrounds. Very little lived in the fading blast radii, which made it perfect for spell training. The camps had very good PR staff. I knew this because the human world never asked what they were training for.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Ashton’s father is old guard. He’d expect his kids to do tours of duty.”

“So maybe he’s not the useless fucking dandy he wants us to believe.”

I thought about Ashton’s parting words and said, “Maybe he’s not.”

The Surfside Beach Enclave sat at the western end of Nazaca Road, the priciest real estate on the island. The Enclave was originally part of a ruined resort built in the 1920s for pampered French colonials looking to escape the crushing poverty of Cambodia’s Phnom Penh. Thousands of Cambodians lost their lives building Bokor Hill Station, not to mention those that died during the resort’s final abandonment at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. The building was baked in their misery.

The jungle’s rust-red moss still clung to some of the stonework, giving it a decrepit allure. Brand, Matthias, and I entered through one of the side doors and worked our way through carefully extravagant security points. My footsteps got heavier the higher I climbed, until finally we stopped before the doors of my father’s suites.

I raised my hand toward a stylized sunburst emblem. Sealed wards within the doors recognized my presence and opened on oiled hinges.

The Sun Throne’s rooms were decorated in wicker and driftwood, with powder-blue walls and lots of windows. The living area led to an outdoor terra-cotta balcony. Off the balcony, a narrow stairway merged with other narrow stairways, down to a private, heavily guarded beach.

It’d been years since I’d been back. I’m not sure what I’d expected. There were no cobwebs. No haze of dust. No sheets sagging off furniture like folds of dead skin. The rooms were so close to memory that my father may have just stepped outside to have a drink, or to watch me hunt for sand dollars in the tidal pools.

In some ways, it was easier to look at the ruins of Sun Estate than it was this deceptively whole memory.

I closed my mind against the images.

“We could spar,” Brand said.

I frowned at him.

“It’ll make you feel better. We could go outside and spar, if you want.”

“Sparring means something different for me than it does you,” I said. “Sparring is getting hit in the face a lot.” But I smiled and started unpacking my beach bag with a little less morbidity.

We had a couple hours to kill before I was due in Lady Justice’s suite, so Matthias and I changed into two bathing suits from a supply kept in the suite. I didn’t like the speculative looks Matthias was giving me, though. Especially when I took off my pants.

Matthias squinted at me and said, “Is that a—?”

“No.”

“But it looks like a—”

“It isn’t,” I said.

Brand started to open his mouth, so I pointed at him.

Not all sigils were lucky enough to be shaped as jewelry or weapons. Sigils are tools for the manifestation of our magics, and our magics are driven by human appetites—aggression, sex, defense, shelter, and so on. Considering that, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that some sigils would be shaped as marital aides, like the one threaded through a leather strap and tied around my thigh.

“It’s a cock ring,” Brand told Matthias.

“Godsdamnit,” I said. “It’s a sigil. I have a Shatter spell in it. Do you know how few scions can pull off Shatter?”

“His magic cock ring,” Brand said.

Almost none of my sigils had been given to me. Most were scavenged from the haunted ruins of Sun Estate. I tried, on a daily basis, to forget I’d pulled this one from my old seneschal’s nightstand.

“Lord Tower makes his Companion work in a basement office all day,” I told Brand. “I take you to the beach.”

“Mayan’s basement office is an armored vault with a hundred security personnel,” Brand told me. “You probably won’t be able to tip the towel boy.”

I lifted my long-suffering gaze to the ceiling and said, “Let’s go swimming.”

I got some sun. Brand threw wooden practice knives at seashell targets. Matthias spent most of the time standing and staring into the ocean, moving his eyes from one point of the horizon and back. After a while, he came over to us and said, “Are there really krakens out there?”

“Young ones,” I said. “The adults hang out near the whirlpools off Smith’s Point in the Westlands. The babies are dangerous as hell, though. Don’t go swimming past the wards.”

Brand said, “Every year there’s at least one stupid American college that tries to make New Atlantis a spring break destination. The newspapers have a field day when they get eaten.”

Max spent the next fifteen minutes splashing in the shallows—the only part of the cove protected against predators. When a wave knocked the back of his knees, he fell on his ass, swallowed ocean water, and burst into laughter.

“So how is it,” Brand asked, “that the grandson of an Arcana is acting like it’s his first day at the beach? What the hell is his story?”

Later, a servant invited us inside for refreshments. I was sweating heavily by then. It soaked my hair, beaded my sunscreen, pooled in my ear canal. I tilted my head and shook it out while Brand and Matthias piled into the room around me.

Enclave staff swept through the doorway and deposited sandwiches and frosted pitchers. The last one to leave stood rigidly at attention, waiting for a tip. I said, “Do not remove a fly from your friend’s forehead with a hatchet.” The young man hesitated, bowed, and departed.

“You’re not as funny as you think, Lord Sun,” Brand told me. He grabbed a soft drink, went out on the balcony, and slouched into a chaise lounge to take a nap.

Matthias wandered, snooping in drawers and cabinets. He was wearing a pair of my old flip-flops, so thin that he looked barefoot. It made me think about his wardrobe, and everything else he needed to become a normal person again.

What was I going to do with him? Did he really have a way to land on his feet? Nothing I’d seen yet had shown me that he had friends, contacts, support networks, funds—anything.

“I wonder what’ll happen with the Lovers’ rooms,” Matthias said. He was staring up at an arbor watercolor. The Tower had painted it for my father, well before I was born. Matthias said, “They have rooms here too, right? All Arcana do? Will they save them, like they did with your rooms? Will someone else come along and run the Heart Throne? Or will there be no more Heart Throne? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know, Matthias. The old rules don’t apply. Things are so different since the Unsettlement. The world is so different. Did you spend much time here growing up?”

“The beach? Never.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t come with your grandmother. I read somewhere that Elena loves the ocean.”

“That . . . wasn’t the type of relationship we had. I didn’t spend much time with anyone in my family.”

“Except your uncle?”

Matthias was by a mirror, and his reflection was at an angle to me. As I watched, his face transformed. For a second I thought the emotion was grief; but the thing about genuine grief is that it can look an awful lot like fear. Matthias was afraid. Glassy-eyed, pale-skinned, lip-trembling afraid.

Cold realization swamped through me. I was beginning to suspect what sort of life Matthias had lived. I was beginning to think maybe he had some experiences like mine.

I closed my eyes and put the worry away for the moment. “Matthias, I’ve got to change, and then go see Lady Justice. Do me a favor and stay close to Brand, okay?” I glanced over at Brand. He was dead to the world. He’d curled into an S, dimpled ass cleavage sticking over the side.

Matthias wiped at his eyes before turning around to face me. He nodded and went to the lounge chair next to Brand. In that awkward way that teenagers have, he took a minute to get situated, ultimately positioning himself in an exact imitation of Brand’s casual slump.

Shit, I thought.

Lady Justice’s rooms were in the middle section of a divided second floor. She shared the space with the other Arcana who formed the Moral Certainties.

It would be impossible to enter one of the residences undetected—they were too heavily warded. But security in the hallways was a little more lax, which I exploited.

Just off the second-floor landing, I bent to tie a shoe. While squatting behind a plant, I rubbed a finger over my gold ankle chain, and its sigil spell released. Magic dripped down my body in vaguely electric trickles. When I stood, I had turned the color of the speckled white walls. Camouflage was a thrifty magic—not as intensive to store as a genuine invisibility spell, but just as resourceful if you knew how to use it.

The Moral Certainty wing was a short, fat corridor that opened into four sets of rooms. Three of the four suites were thrown open. Servants made their way in and out with food, drink, towels, and toiletries. I hung around for the better part of ten minutes, spying on what I could.

Ashton Saint Gabriel was in Lord Strength’s rooms. He was dressed in boating shorts, with bare feet propped on a coffee table as he reviewed the contents of a manila folder. There were several piles of paper spread on surfaces around him.

Michael Saint Talbot and his younger sister, Lucie, were throwing a Frisbee inside Lady Tolerance’s rooms. Michael laughed, while his sister glanced around anxiously and cast apologetic looks at the servants. The servants dodged to and fro to pick up overturned vases and straighten tilted portraits. After a few minutes, I realized Michael was using a sigil spell to make his sister fumble the Frisbee.

Thing was, Michael wasn’t even a particularly bad example of a scion. Most scions were just as wasted and wasteful. Few appreciated the power they had at their fingertips, or how lucky they were to have a family armory. They stored priceless, irreplaceable sigils with spells that cleaned cigarette smoke out of their jacket, freshened their breath, or made their eyes glow in black light—or to make their lips slide over their teeth into constant smiles, to increase the size of their dick, to throw laughter behind them when they told bad jokes. I’d even known a scion who regularly stored a spell that made the snap of his fingers more crisp and sharp than he could make them sound on his own.

After a while, I got bored and angry with spying, and moved toward Lady Justice’s quarters. I had to step aside to avoid a departing group of men and women. They were young and beautiful, and they appeared to be familiar with each other. Justice’s consorts, maybe. I’d heard she had a sweet tooth for pretty and politically disinclined spouses.

I stood in a nook and dissipated the Camouflage. My skin pinkened to normal. I finger-combed my bangs and headed to my appointment.

Justice’s apartment was now empty except for two people. The first was a middle-aged woman dressed in comfortable robes cut low in the cleavage. She stood by the side of a much younger woman.

The younger woman had the makings of a phenomenal beauty—honeyed hair, gold-green eyes—but she was thin to the point of disfigurement. I could have circled her biceps with my thumb and forefinger. Her cheeks were so concave that her entire face shuddered when she swallowed.

As soon as the older woman registered my presence, she released a spell from a sigil pendant. The girl became plumper, face fuller, hips more shapely. The older woman turned on me and said, with glacial and imperious disapproval, “Sir.”

“Rune Saint John to see Lady Justice.”

She hadn’t recognized my face, but my name made her blink. “Preposterous. Your name isn’t on today’s list.”

“Really. I spoke with one of Lady Justice’s assistants earlier. I’m here to ask after Lord Addam. Excuse me, but I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure?”

The nudge for manners put her on autopilot. “Apologies. This is my niece, the Lady Ella Saint Nicholas, daughter of Lady Justice. I am Diana Saint Nicholas, Lady Justice’s sister.”

Addam’s younger sister said, “You’re here about Addam—why?” She had a high voice sharpened with a Slavic accent. I’d read somewhere that the Justice clan had strong Russian ties.

“Regarding his disappearance, Lady Saint Nicholas.”

Ella dropped to the sofa. I didn’t get the idea it was from shock; she was just so damn unhealthy. “Addam hasn’t returned calls. Mother said we may have to make enquiries if he doesn’t contact us soon. Did she ask you to make enquiries?”

“Actually, I’m looking into Lord Addam’s whereabouts on behalf of a colleague. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“When you say disappearance,” Ella went on, “what does that mean? We assumed Addam flew off on one of his whims. That’s not uncommon.”

“Nothing would make me happier if that was the case,” I said, because, honestly, the Tower didn’t pay by the hour. “Consider my efforts a precaution.”

There was a pause while Diana and I waited for Ella to speak again. Ella closed her mouth, tucked her feet under her, and began fretting with the hem of her blouse.

Diana took a seat next to Ella and weighed down Ella’s hand with her own. It did not strike me as a kind gesture. She said, “Lord Saint John—or is it Lord Sun? I’m sorry, I should know that.”

“I haven’t officially picked up my father’s mantle, so neither will offend me. Actually, please, call me Rune.”

“What sort of questions did you have?” she asked, dropping my name entirely.

“Just some general questions. Lady Ella, you mentioned Lord Addam is away a lot. What sort of places does he go?”

“Oh, where doesn’t he,” Ella said, exaggerating the doesn’t with an eye roll. “He has a man or woman in every port. Addam is very handsome. Very energetic. He always needs to be doing something. He likes to dance and listen to music. Does that help?”

“At this point, all information is useful. When he goes away, does he let you or the rest of your family know?”

Ella considered that, biting down on a chapped lower lip that hadn’t been prettied by her aunt’s glamor spell. “Not always, no. But if it’s more than a couple days, he’ll let his assistant know. Have you spoken with Lilly Rose?”

“I have, actually. Has Lord Addam been upset lately?”

“Addam doesn’t get upset,” Ella said with a dainty head shake.

“Do you get along with Addam?”

Ella smiled and looked toward Diana. Diana leaned into the conversation and said, “Is there reason for us to be concerned?”

“Not at all,” I lied.

There was a certain way people had of dropping their jaw to fake a smile. Ella had done that. She was evading my question. So I asked, again, “Lady Ella, do you get along well with Addam?”

“Everyone gets along with Addam,” she said.

“When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“I believe . . . a week? Yes, a week, to the day. We were taking photos in the Iron Hall with the other Moral Certainty scions. It was a public-relations event.”

“You must know Ashton Saint Gabriel, then. I’ve spoken with him and the Temperance brothers. Did you know they’re Addam’s business partners?”

“Of course I did.” Ella shifted her gaze to Diana. “Shouldn’t we offer refreshments?”

I scooted forward on my chair, startling her. “Can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt your brother?”

She faked another smile. “If I had to guess?”

“Sure.”

“A jealous husband. A jealous wife. The jealous boyfriend or girlfriend of one of Addam’s girlfriends or boyfriends. Addam is very amorous. I will admit, he tends to stay on remarkably good terms with his old flames . . . but their flames might feel otherwise. I really do think this is a silly line of questioning. Perhaps Addam’s made a new little love nest for himself somewhere? He’s due for another infatuation.”

Ella glanced at her aunt. Diana stood and said, “I’m sure my sister is expecting you.”

Lady Justice had turned one of her Enclave apartments into a sanctum. Diana left me at its door and beat a dignified retreat to the living room.

I went inside and had no time whatsoever to prepare for the sledgehammer impact of Justice’s Aspect.

It was like a furnace door had been opened in my face. Through teared-up eyes, I glimpsed a silken web crisscrossing the roof of the chamber. Something hallucinatingly arachnid descended from it. The image lasted a second, too quickly for my mind to sift meaning. I just had that brief impression of fluttering strands and multiple eyes, and of a nightmare dropping to my level.

Then Lady Justice hit the kill switch on her performance. Her Aspect vanished. She stood in the middle of billowing drapes, not a web. She wore a feathery, white cape. Her hair was drawn into a single elaborate braid. She resembled a woman in her fortieth year, maybe younger, but it was hard to tell on account of the stretched agelessness that came with multiple rejuvenation treatments.

Lady Justice’s eyes were not normal. I’d heard this before.

They shifted and changed, their shape and color stolen from nearby memories. Even more unnerving was my implausible recognition of all the variations. I saw first my father’s flame-colored eyes, and then the squint of the last person I’d embarrassed myself in front of, and finally the glare of a critical neighbor.

“Hello, Rune Sun,” Lady Justice said. Her accent was thicker than Ella’s, the Rs as slick and sharp as ice picks.

I dropped my chin and kept a civil tongue, even though her drama irked me. “Lady Justice. Thank you for the invitation. I apologize if it’s an imposition.”

“It’s not, if it involves Addam.” Unlike everyone else I’d met, she said Addam’s name with the ancient Atlantean pronunciation: Ahd-dahm. “If I understand correctly, you are in the employ of Lord Tower, and you suspect Addam is the victim of mischief. I must assure you: that is not the case.”

“You know he’s okay?” I asked, surprised.

“He’s my child. A long time ago, I took certain measures to know if he—if any of my children—were in true danger. I sense nothing of the sort from Addam.”

For a second, I was thrown. I’d convinced myself that Addam was in trouble.

Then I remembered the results of my psychometry spell. Even in memory, the wrongness of it, like unwashed skin, like necrotic tissue, made my stomach turn.

Lady Justice said, “I’m more curious as to why Lord Tower thinks my son is in danger.”

“I wouldn’t presume to speak on Lord Tower’s behalf, Lady Justice.”

“A prudent response,” she said softly. Her eyes shimmered from Brand’s crayon blue, to Ashton Saint Gabriel’s reflective silver, to Geoffrey’s rich autumn brown.

I decided to unbalance her. “I’ve heard that your oldest is sick. Christian.”

“Christian is indisposed,” she said after a pause.

“Isn’t that unusual, Lady Justice? You must have access to the best healers on the island. In the world.”

“And once they diagnose Christian’s illness, they’ll eliminate it. Until then, they are simply being cautious.”

“Are his symptoms serious?”

“Are you here about Christian, too, Rune Sun?” Her eyes shifted into the pale lilac of my first nanny; and then a bloodshot green—eyes I’d seen on a man wearing an animal mask, once upon a time.

I swallowed something too bitter to be just anger. “Do you know much about Addam’s business partners?”

“Some.”

“Is it a friendly relationship?”

“They seem amiable. They are successful.”

“They’ve made a lot of money?”

“I’ve never asked for the particulars. Addam is very clear that it is his project, separate from my interests.”

“But,” I said, “it’s a project that still depends on your influence. From what I understand.”

“To a degree. In a very real way, though, it’s his influence, too. No one, however powerful, is Justice. I lead the Crusader Throne. I am not the entirety of it.”

“Do your children get along?”

She went very still. “They do.”

“Do you know of anyone who would hurt Addam?”

“Your second question steps closely on your first. I would hope you’re not accusing my children—accusing anyone in my court—of something untoward.”

“I’m just asking questions, Lady Justice.”

“Yes. You seem very good at it. Asking questions.”

Her smile deepened into something less stable. She circled to my left, and her gaze deliberately slid down the front of my body. She said, “I’d thought rumor might have exaggerated your beauty. It didn’t, did it? I think perhaps you are the most beautiful man of your generation.”

Waves of heat rose under my skin. My fingers tightened into fists.

“I see why Lord Tower favors you.” Her eyes flicked up to my clenched jaw. “Ah, now. So serious. Is it horrible, to be called a beautiful man?”

I did what I always did when someone too powerful pushed too many buttons. I turned very, very formal. “Lady Justice, I’m embarrassed to have to remind you that with the death of my father, I became the voice and the will of the Sun Throne. I would ask that you afford me the semblance of respect, if you cannot manage the real thing.”

To my surprise, she blinked.

The color of her eyes faded to a plain burgundy. “Forgive me, brother,” she said, grimacing. “I overstep.”

One day, I’d have the power of my father. It was in my blood. It was my legacy. But that day wasn’t today, or next year, or probably even next century. There were many, many boxes of mac and cheese between me and a seat on the Arcanum. For her to call me brother was, as far as concessions went, one hell of an apology.

Lady Justice sighed. “I admit: I suspect Lord Tower is playing some unknown game. I would like to know why. Yet it is wrong to try to obtain that information in a manner I find so distastefully reminiscent of Lord Tower. I should have simply asked you, Lord Sun. Has Lord Tower sent you into my house for a reason?”

“Lady Justice, Lord Tower doesn’t use me as a pawn in the affairs of other Arcana.” Not without a much larger paycheck. “He knows how I feel about politics. I really do believe he’s just concerned about Addam.”

“Lord Tower is . . . fond of Addam. Addam is his godson.”

“He mentioned it. Lady Justice, if I may ask—and please don’t take offense—are your spells or wards really that good? Are you sure Addam is okay?”

“I am sure he hasn’t been hurt. It would take a great deal of ability to hide that from me. I do not know where he is, though. I have not—I do not—interfere. Understand: I am loathe to involve myself in my children’s affairs, even in matters of harm or peril. They must be strong if they are to survive outside my walls. New Atlantis would pull my children down. It is the nature of ruling.” She paused. “I would also have you understand this: if you discover someone did hurt my son, you are to tell me. While I am sparing in my protection, I am very generous in my reckoning. Such is the nature of Justice.”

Behind her, her shadow twisted into something with multiple legs that thinned into sharp points.

An Atlantean Aspect is a difficult thing to describe.

A particularly powerful magic-user can look different—distorted—when strong emotion is upon them. My eyes, for instance, glow orange. But Arcana—real, ruling Arcana—are the closest things to gods on this planet. They must have fearsome Aspects—it’s a survival mechanism, like a predator’s coloring or the ruff of a wolf. There are stories of Arcana becoming burning bushes, scorpions, and F5 funnel clouds. I saw Lady Lovers turn into a faerie with hornet wings and overactive pheromones. I’ve heard that the Hanged Man’s aspect has made brave men piss blood.

I saw the Aspect of my father only once, and even then just out of the corner of my eye. The only thing I remember was a pillar of light so bright that it left an afterimage for hours.

Many scions of the newest generation don’t have Aspects. A lot of academics cite this as evidence that the Atlantean race is in decline. I disagree. Just because most scions don’t turn into jabberwockies or lightning bolts when they’re pissed doesn’t make them weaker, it just makes them children of a different world.

Younger Atlanteans can’t afford to have one foot in Atlantis’s past. We are no longer separate from the human world. Blending in has become our survival mechanism.

The attack came as I returned to my rooms.

It was a clever, twisted bit of spellwork. The magic wound its way past all my adrenaline responses and sent me into an immediate, drowsy trance. I changed course in a daze and wandered in a direction not of my choosing.

The soles of my shoes scuffed the tiles as I passed through well-appointed, heavily guarded hallways. None of the guards stopped me or acknowledged my fugue. I climbed a set of red-stone stairs, which ended in an arched hallway flanked by empty suits of armor. The armor, scored with blade marks and mace dents, lacked the spit and polish of pampered antiques.

At the end of a hallway, a man called to me.

I went toward him and smiled when he reached his hands toward my neck.

“It shouldn’t be this easy to influence you,” Lord Tower said. “You need to practice your resistance techniques.”

Then his face froze and he looked down.

I poked my sabre, transmuted into dagger shape, into his belly.

“At least you didn’t banter before the killing blow this time,” he said lightly.

I transmuted my sabre blade to wrist-guard form and shook it over my fist before it firmed. “For the record, I even knew it was you doing the influencing. You’re too proud. You need to muddy up your magical signature with mistakes and flaws.”

“Indeed. I have sangria upstairs. Will you join me?”

I followed him through a set of rooms that were twice the size of mine. The Enclave owners famously parceled out Arcana apartments equally, but the Tower’s old job as the monarchy’s chief spy and torturer gave him unspoken privileges. The things he did in private produced unsettling acoustics, which were best kept to their own wing.

A cool, dark stairway opened onto an unshaded rooftop terrace. The Tower had summoned—literally summoned, ripped right from the ocean in big, messy chunks—seven water elementals that served as his security. They prowled the rooftop, glistening and rippling under the strong summer sun. White sand, plant life, and shell fragments swirled under their skinless surfaces.

One of them handed me a glass of sangria, and I saw a tiny fish dart up its forearm. It left behind fingerprints made of wave foam.

“I’ll have your report now,” the Tower said. He sat down on a reclining patio chair—the word perched also came to mind. He was barefoot again, but he had traded in pajamas for a bathing robe made of Atlantean grass silk.

“I guess this means you’re aware I saw Lady Justice?” I asked.

“I am,” he said. “Was it productive?”

“Instructive, at least.” I took a minute to bring the Tower up to speed. He was a master poker player with very few tells. Except for a stillness when I mentioned the psychometric impression in Addam’s office, I didn’t know if any of my investigation was news to him.

“What will you do next?” he asked.

“Talk with Christian Saint Nicholas. I want to learn more about his illness. Him being sick, and now Addam missing?”

He peered at me. “You suspect Ella Saint Nicholas.”

“She raised some flags.”

“You’re aware it is very unlikely that she’d be able to dispose of both her older brothers without being discovered.”

“At this point,” I said, “I’m more aware that whoever took Addam is someone who has the resources to send a gargoyle after me. Back when you made me bait. Without telling me.”

“In my defense, I had no prior knowledge of the gargoyle.”

“You said you were trying to flush someone out. And then you said I should focus on family and business associates. Why?”

The Tower stared at a lump of fruit in his drink, then eyed me over the rim. “I suggested your involvement in a social setting. Addam’s partners were present.”

“You mentioned that I was looking for Addam?” I asked.

“Not quite. At one point, I mentioned that you did odd jobs for me. And at another point, I mentioned that it was strange that Addam hadn’t returned my call, and I was concerned. It occurred to me that someone with a guilty conscience might put those pieces together.”

I tried to think if any of the scions had seemed surprised to see me, or had been unsurprised that I was looking for Addam. I blew a raspberry through my lips, unsure. “Is this political, do you think? Some sort of break in the Moral Certainties? Is Addam splash damage?”

“I’ll certainly be paying attention to that possibility,” he said. “I’ll leave it to you to decide if there are more personal reasons at play.”

“Ella Saint Nicholas was in the social setting, wasn’t she?”

“She was,” Lord Tower said. “Be careful, Rune. The Moral Certainty courts are known as devout, which is a short step from fanatical. They dislike scrutiny. Be very careful.”

He opened his mouth to say more, stopped, and frowned. That was as much warning as I had.

A wave crashed over me. Foaming water tunneled up my nose and past my lips. It caught me on an exhale, which is all that kept me conscious. I was too confused to understand anything except the boldest of sensations—salt; the clear, sharp bite of cold water; Brand’s distant, sudden alarm; the painful squeeze of deep-sea pressure.

The pressure got worse and worse, a building cramp that turned my belly concave. Air bubbles seethed out of my mouth in a gasp. I flailed upward for air, but the water followed, an unbreakable, melting curtain between me and sunlight.

Just as quickly as it began, it ended. I collapsed into a choking kneel, surrounded in hissing mist. There were patio flagstones under my hands.

Hindsight came at a limp. I was still on the roof. I’d been attacked by a water elemental.

“The hell?” I coughed, shaking my head and staring up.

The Tower stood with both arms extended. Writhing streams of liquid gloved his hands. He turned to his remaining creations—which were not attacking—and preemptively turned them into explosive clouds of vapor.

I did not like that I hadn’t been able to protect myself. I did not like being saved.

“It was as if it was drawn to you,” Lord Tower said, staring at the rapidly drying puddles.

“Or,” I said, “we were just attacked.”

“Through the Enclave’s defenses? Through my own control? Impossible.”

“I see. So we’re blaming wild magic? Twice? In twenty-four hours?”

It didn’t get a rise out of him, but he did stare back at the destroyed elementals with sharper contemplation.

I crawled to the patio edge, grabbed the railing, and hoisted myself upright. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest to see Brand climbing the terraced walls between the beach and the roof, largely ignoring walkways and stairways while keeping me in his panicked line of sight.

Behind me, the Tower said, “Rune.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Lord Tower said, “Find Addam.”