Griff paced the shelter common room’s worn, beige linoleum. He’d volunteered to give art lessons to keep his mind clear, but it wasn’t working. Good thing for him the two girls and three boys seated at the long, wooden table seemed absorbed in their pictures.
In the room’s far corner, several adults occupied chairs around a television. Entertainment Tonight blared from the set.
Griff walked back to the battered table and leaned over the seven-year-old girl’s shoulder. “Nice flowers, Josie. I like the red.”
She beamed at him from under curly blond bangs. “It’s my favorite. Thanks, Gray.”
He wandered around the table and absently returned little Molly’s smile. Will had called, told him Valeria had attacked the nest to rescue a kidnapped college student. That explained why she’d gone there, but where the hell had all those ghouls come from? Was his info outdated, or had someone reinforced the nest? He would ask Javier to check on that.
God, she’d hit that tree so damned hard, and so many of her troops had died. Those deaths would screw with her head more than anything she personally suffered.
Griff glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. He should’ve left hours ago, in case she blamed his info and sent mages after him, but he hadn’t been able to make himself go until he knew she would be okay.
Marc walked in from the hall doorway. “The softball crew’s back, so you have five minutes, kids. Then it’s lights out upstairs.”
A chorus of groans answered him.
In the doorway, Todd Claypool, the blond, lanky delivery boy, waited. His kid sister, sandy-haired, thirteen-year-old Robin, stood at his shoulder. They’d taken a couple of the shelter’s middle schoolers out for a round of softball with the town kids.
Robin grinned at Griff, her brown eyes dancing. “Are we in time for magic tricks?”
The kids set up a clamor for their favorite tricks. Smiling, Marc cocked an eyebrow at Griff. “We can push bedtime back a few minutes for magic.”
Marc might pretend he was doing it for the kids, but he seemed to enjoy seeing the tricks. Maybe that was because he knew they were real magic.
The coin trick was a favorite, and it wouldn’t take long. The usual, Mundane version worked by sleight of hand, but Griff used translocation. The coin vanished because he wrapped power around it, shifting it out of reality and through the space between life and death to reappear wherever he directed it.
“Well,” he started, and his pocket vibrated. He tensed. “Sorry, but I can’t tonight. I have to go, kids. I’ll make it up to you.” He shot an urgent look at Marc, who shepherded the disappointed children out of the room.
The kids went without too much muttering. They knew he’d make good on his promise.
Griff glanced at the caller ID. Stefan’s number. Praying for good news, he whipped the phone to his ear and stepped onto the deserted front stoop. The muggy air felt heavy, but he hardly noticed. “How is she?”
“So you heard about this morning’s little problem.” Stefan sounded bone tired, and no wonder. His medical team couldn’t magically heal large numbers of severe injuries at one time. They would’ve had to stabilize the worst, operate, and then do a partial healing, with more rounds of magic work to follow.
“We lost twenty-three,” he said.
Twenty-three dead? Griff’s breath froze in his lungs.
“But the patient you’re worried about,” Stefan added, carefully avoiding names, as usual, “will recover.”
Griff’s breath rushed out of him. He dropped down to sit on the concrete steps. “From…?”
A pause, as though Stefan debated with himself. “Multiple rib fractures. Impact damage to internal organs, though the vest diffused the force. Face and body contusions. Torn ligament, left ankle. Bad abrasions on the hands. She’s asleep, and I’m keeping her that way until morning.”
Griff stared across the street at the weekly Wayfarer Oracle’s plate-glass front window. All that, and she’d lived.
But twenty-three dead? Holy hell.
If only he could see her. Touch her and see for himself that she’d recover.
“The thing is,” Stefan was saying, “the Council didn’t know about that ghoul nest. Before she left, she refused to say how she’d heard of it, so they’re gunning for her.” His voice hardened. “They may replace her as reeve.”
“The hell they will. I’ll…Shit.” Griff could do nothing, as they both knew.
“Exactly.” Stefan paused. “Once I’m out of the way, they’ll hammer her.”
While Griff sat here, feeling helpless. He had to do something.
“She may have to give you up to save herself,” Stefan said. “Go to ground and stay there.”
As if he could do that with her in trouble because of him. She might blame him, understandably. “Admitting she talked to me and didn’t kill me outright would only make her problems worse. She’ll hold.”
What would that cost her, though? The Council wouldn’t accept silence from her, not with so many dead.
“Maybe she’ll stand firm.” Stefan yawned. “Either way, don’t get it into your head you can help her, Sir Galahad. If they have any idea you’re involved, that you give a damn, she’ll go from victim to bait in a heartbeat.”
Stefan was right.
“I know. Thanks, Stefan. Get some rest.”
“Eventually.”
They said good night. Griff leaned back against the warm brick wall. His brain churned like the Chattahoochee in flood season. Valeria was in the Council’s crosshairs because of him. If she continued to protect him, would they put her under ritual questioning? Would she resist?
If she did, and they forced her, that would leave her worse than dead.
His jaw tightened against a curse. He couldn’t help remembering how bravely she’d confronted him at his loft. How she’d rushed into a battle armed with only a kitchen knife and saved his life. Little Molly’s, too. How she’d embraced him after the fight, as though no cloud lingered over his name.
He’d gotten her into this mess. Somehow, he had to help her out of it. Even if that meant taking her place in the crosshairs.
It hurt to breathe.
Trying to keep her breaths shallow, Val opened her eyes. Pale blue ceiling. Pale blue curtains walling off a narrow space. Beeps and clicks. Monitors. Soothing violins playing softly. Antiseptic smells. The Collegium clinic.
But how?
The explosion. A tree coming at her, and before that—
A sob welled in her throat, scalding her chest. She gulped it back but couldn’t stop the tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. Her deputy reeves, so many blown to bits. She’d led them into a fucking trap.
Dare had marked that side of the compound as vulnerable, hadn’t given any warning of those defenses. Magically screened defenses, magic that must’ve caused the tingle she and Harry— Oh, God! Harry. His poor face blown off.
The sob this time escaped. Shaking, she bit her lip against the pain. Must be broken ribs. Maybe other damage.
She wiped away tears with her IV-free hand. A hint of something lemony, familiar, brushed her nose, but she’d figure that out later. Whatever damage she’d suffered could be no less than she deserved. This was her fault.
Was Dare’s intel outdated? Or had he held something back? He was slow to trust, or he’d have died long ago. Regardless, the choice had been hers. So was the burden of the result.
Even if Dare had deliberately baited her.
But why would he? Her breath caught at the memory of his grave blue eyes looking down at her. I need you safe, he’d said. He’d seemed sincere about wanting her help, had felt that way to her magical senses.
He had no reason to set a trap that would kill her. She’d warned him she would check out his information. He had to know she would do that herself, just as he would’ve in her place.
“No,” Dr. Stefan Harper said outside the curtains. “Absolutely not. She’ll require at least one more round of healing, probably two, and she needs rest before we proceed.”
“This is urgent, Doctor. Surely she can interrupt her little nap to answer a question or two.”
Crap. That harsh, scathing bass belonged to Councilor Otto Larkin. He not only looked like an English bulldog but had the tenacity of one.
“The explosive force,” Harper said with strained patience vibrating in his words, “disrupted their bodies’ energy centers. With those centers out of alignment, magic doesn’t flow properly. Healing takes longer. Realigning is a slow, delicate business, and you’re delaying us.”
“This comes first,” Larkin bit out. “We’ve lost more than twenty mages because of her incompetence, and by God—”
“Shut up,” Harper snapped.
He said something else she didn’t catch. More than twenty dead. Over half her task force, nearly a fifth of the total cadre. Incompetence didn’t begin to describe her folly.
“If that must wait, it can,” Gene’s voice said. “I’d like to see her, see for myself how she’s doing.”
A beat of silence, and then Harper said, “If she’s awake. Try anything else, though, and you’re out of here so fast your eyes’ll cross.”
He slipped through the curtains. When his gaze met hers, he asked softly, “Do you feel up to seeing Councilor Blake?”
Val nodded. “I don’t want him to worry.”
Harper looked at her a long moment, his doubtful expression urging her to change her mind, but she didn’t waver. At last, frowning, he walked to the curtain and opened it an inch. “Chief Councilor Blake. You have two minutes, no more.”
He stepped back to let Gene enter and closed the curtain behind the short, stocky man. Harper followed him in to stand at her shoulder like a rottweiler on guard.
Below Gene’s shock of graying brown hair, his blue eyes regarded her with concern. He took her IV-free hand in a gentle grip. “Valeria, my dear. I’m so glad you survived.”
“I’m sorry,” she choked. “So sorry.”
He opened his mouth as though to say something, glanced at Harper’s stern face, and cleared his throat instead. “We’ll discuss that later. Is there anything you need, my dear?”
A do-over, but no one could give her that. “No. Thanks for coming, Gene.”
“I had to see that you were all right. Zara sends her love, too. Get well, Valeria. That’s your job for now.” He patted her hand and walked out.
She’d let him down, and the knowledge burned in her throat. He’d supported her for the reeve job. Now he probably regretted that.
Quietly, Stefan Harper said, “He’s right. Your only job now is recovery. We’re going to move you to a room in a few minutes, then do another round of healing on those ribs. Then you need to sleep. Figuring out what went wrong can wait.”
For him, maybe. Not for her. She had to get out of there to find answers.
A gentle hand stroked Val’s hair back from her brow. The touch carried such concern, such tenderness, that she turned her face into it. A hand was holding hers, too, in a warm, comforting grip.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes and looked straight into Griffin Dare’s worried blue ones.
He’d come. He would help, she thought foggily, lifting a hand toward his cheek. Then she came fully awake and froze. Would he help, or was she wrong about him? Had he set her up after all? Come to finish the job? Was he even real, or a dream born of her need for answers?
His face hardened. He lifted both hands and stepped back. “If you want to push the call button, I won’t stop you.”
She glanced at the buzzer beside the pillow, confirming he hadn’t moved it. If she pressed it, he had no chance of fighting his way free again. He couldn’t translocate out, either. Collegium buildings were warded against all forms of translocation except short, line-of-sight shifts within the buildings.
Maybe she should be afraid, but seeing him so concerned, remembering that feeling of comfort from his touch, kept her hand away from the button. Besides, he could’ve killed her while she slept if he’d wanted to. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you. Had to know you were going to be okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his voice flat. “I never intended anything like this. You have to believe me.”
“How did you know something had happened?”
“I was curious about what you meant to do. I scried for you. Saw the whole thing.”
“That’s impossible. We were screened.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “I figured you thought you were, but you weren’t, and that means you walked into a trap. When you hit that tree…” His lips tightened, and he shook his head.
“I checked. Harry checked— Oh, God, Harry.” The grief welled up in her chest, into her throat, filled her tearing eyes. She glared at Dare’s blurry image and fought the mind fuzz of pain medication.
“A trap? Whose?”
“That’s the question of the hour.” He leaned over, close enough for her to see his stony expression through the tears. He took her hand and let her sense his honesty. “Not mine, I swear to you. I didn’t know there were that many ghouls there.”
Maybe she was as gullible as a fish rising to a lure, but she believed him. Should she have sensed the danger? Saved her team? A sob broke from her throat. Shuddering, she grabbed fistfuls of the covers, fingers digging in, and squeezed her eyes shut.
“It wasn’t your fault.” He wiped her tears away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “You didn’t do this. Remember that.”
Gripping his sturdy wrists seemed like the only natural response. How had he known she felt responsible?
She tried to stop the tears, but the flow was too strong. Yet he didn’t try to pull away. He lowered his forehead to hers and gathered her as close as the bed rail allowed.
Again, his hold brought comfort. He smelled of bay leaves and some kind of spicy soap. She slid her arms around his neck.
He made a wordless sound. Something clanked, and the bed rail went down. Then his weight sank onto the bed by her hip. Carefully, he drew her up to hold her closer. She nestled against him, clinging. He brushed a kiss over her hair and then rested his cheek against it. For the first time since the world exploded, she felt safe.
Long minutes later, the tide of grief finally ebbed, leaving her weary and desolate. “Thank you,” she said into his warm, solid shoulder.
“It’s little enough to do for you.” He kissed her temple and stood. Raising the bed rail, he said, “Get well, Valeria, and we’ll nail the bastards together.”
Saying this next felt scuzzy. Ungrateful. And yet, she had to be honest with him. “Dare…I haven’t made up my mind yet. About your claims. I have questions for you, but I can’t think right now.”
“Understood.” If he was disappointed, it didn’t show in his face or his calm voice. “When you’re ready, leave the Collegium, and I’ll find you. I’ll be keeping an eye out.”
Val nodded. “How did you get in here, anyway?”
“Slipped through the boundary wards, which I have to say wasn’t easy, screened myself, and sneaked into the building as a visitor left. Since I was inside the wards, I could scry to find your room. A bathroom sink isn’t the best bowl, but it’ll do.” A wry smile quirked his lips. “Then I caused a tiny, harmless equipment malfunction to get in here.”
“Just to be sure I was okay?”
“I had to know.”
His sincerity vibrated in the magic between them. Warm, soft pleasure brushed her heart, but she lowered her eyes. She couldn’t afford to trust him completely, not yet.
He waited until she looked back at him. “The Council will want explanations, along with the chance to do some posturing. Be very careful what you say, Valeria. Don’t mention a trap. Don’t accuse anyone of anything, and if blaming me will make things easier for you, do it. Just please don’t set them on the people in Wayfarer.”
“I wouldn’t. But if I name you, they’ll hunt you down.”
“I’m used to that.” He cupped her cheek, his eyes solemn. “The last thing I wanted was to make trouble for you.”
She squeezed his hand. “I believe you.” Even if that made her the fool of the year, everything in her said he’d told her the truth. “You should go. Be careful.”
“Always.” A half smile crooked his lips, and his eyes warmed. Her heart kicked. He tipped her chin up and kissed her.
His mouth was firm, warm, and gentle. Heat bubbled low in her belly, and she lifted a hand to his face. A long moment later, he raised his head. His fingers brushed her cheek.
“Watch your back.” He turned toward the door and vanished in midstride, screened.
“You, too,” she murmured. The door opened just enough for him to slip through and then closed silently.
Val lay back on her pillow. Her fingers tingled with the memory of beard stubble under them, and his bay scent lingered in the air. Kissing him back probably hadn’t been smart, but she didn’t regret it.
Now, though, he’d given her a lot to think about. Who could have laid a trap for her, and why?
Four days later, Val walked into the boxy, paneled Council chamber in the tan shirt, brown trousers, and brown boots that were her regular uniform. A day in ICU and three more in a bed had left her impatient and antsy, too aware of all the work she had to do.
The first order of business should be condolence notes. Then she would roust intel and recon and burn their butts about not doing their jobs. Next, if most of the survivors were out of the infirmary, she would call an after-action meeting, a roundtable on why so many things seemed to go wrong.
Before seeing to those important tasks, however, she had to meet with the Council and somehow explain herself.
Gene gave her a slight nod that eased some of the tension in her neck. He, at least, still believed in her.
On the front wall, behind the Council, portraits of past councilors gazed dourly at the room. Maybe that was why this chamber always felt oppressive.
The Council members sat in a horseshoe, the five elected high councilors in the middle and the ten department heads who made up the regular Council at the sides. Gene occupied the chief’s center chair.
Dare had warned her to be careful. He suspected one of these people was a traitor. If someone had set a trap for her team, was it one of them?
At least no replacement yet sat in her regular seat on the right end, next to Teresa DiMaggio, the weaponsmistress. Her salt-and-pepper curls were jumbled, as though she’d been sparring earlier. Stefan Harper’s chair also stood empty, probably because he couldn’t leave his patients yet.
Gerry Armitage, the loremaster, sat in his usual spot on the left. With his flowing white hair, kind face, and wire-framed glasses, he looked like he’d come from central casting to play a distinguished scholar. He had the keen mind for such a role, too. He gave Val a cool nod of greeting.
She sat at a small table facing the Council’s long, curved one and took a deep breath to steady herself. They would give her a hard time, especially since she wouldn’t say how she’d known about the nest, but shire reeves had presided over worse disasters than this and kept their jobs.
“You understand,” thin, unctuous Albert Dutton said, “that this hearing is convened to determine your fitness to retain the office you hold and, more specifically, whether you were derelict in your duty four days ago?”
“I do.” If they charged her with dereliction, removed her from office, she couldn’t argue that she didn’t deserve it. She could only hope to sway enough of them to her side. She owed her dead reeves vengeance, and she could get it more easily as shire reeve.
“Well, then.” Dutton smiled. “Walk us through the events following your return from vacation, please.”
She obliged, keeping her voice calm.
Blond, thirtyish Pansy Wilson said coldly, “You claim a mage helped you rescue a couple of Mundanes and tipped you off to the Milledgeville nest.”
“That’s correct. I’d intended to check it out, but Daniel Goodwin’s kidnapping—”
“We’ve scried your vacation.” Otto Larkin’s bulldog face twisted into a smirk. “There’s no indication of anyone contacting you, or even approaching you, until you returned here last week.”
Val kept her eyes level on his. “As I was about to say, Councilor, the kidnapping made quick action necessary. As for your not seeing the mage who helped me, you know ghouls screen their kidnappings to avoid detection.”
“Yet this rescuer didn’t give you his name,” Gene said slowly. He hadn’t spoken before. His gaze probed into hers, and Val didn’t dare look away as he added, “Even though he gave you his clothes and bandaged your wounds.”
“Some mages, as you know, prefer to live quietly. Some even forego credit for good deeds.” At least her voice sounded composed, despite the anxiety tightening the back of her neck. “He’d helped me against the ghouls. I was willing to accept his anonymity in exchange for information.”
Frowning, Otto said, “But it wasn’t reliable, was it?”
“In many respects, yes, it was. I can’t blame my informant if his information was outdated.”
“Outdated in fatal ways.” Elayne Smith’s alto grated, and loathing burned in her eyes.
Well, she couldn’t loathe Val any more than Val despised herself. Those mages’ deaths weren’t on Smith’s conscience.
The short, graying arborist, Lew Ardmore, leaned forward. “We also scried the raid. Why were you not screened?”
“We were.” Val tried to look surprised, as though she hadn’t already heard about the screen from Dare. “Or we thought we were. I checked, had Harry check, too. Harry Parker.”
Who was dead. Around a fresh stab of grief, she ground out, “There was this odd tingle, we both noticed it, but the screen felt fine.”
Judging by the councilors’ grim expressions, that wasn’t good enough. Had she missed something? Should she have placed more significance on that tingle? Sensed the nest’s hidden defenses? She would probably wonder for the rest of her life.
Gene leaned out from his seat in the middle to look along the table. “Deputy Arbaugh, the scout, confirms that he, too, believed the strike force to be screened. Odd magics sometimes occur near ghoul nests. He, like Sheriff Banning and Deputy Parker, didn’t consider the odd tingle he sensed important.”
“We have only her word on Parker’s opinion,” Larkin said. “If you think she’s told us the truth about this so-called tip, you’re getting senile. We can jail her for lying to us, and I say we should.”