The Unseen World watched Sydney this time. The hall where the challenge was taking place was packed with people, most of them not even bothering to pretend that they weren’t staring at her or that it wasn’t her name that fell in whispers and speculation from their lips. Sydney kept her head up, her eyes bright and fierce, as she walked past them.
They had begun to whisper the word “Shadow” when they saw her. Just whispers, just on the edge of things. As if there were something shameful—as if she were the one who ought to be ashamed. She had nothing to lose over what gossip claimed about her, particularly when it was so unimaginative as to think the truth was the worst possible thing, and she didn’t care if people stared.
It was a nonmortal challenge, another magician from the fringes of Grey’s and Laurent’s crowd, Colin Blackwood, who had not been named heir of his House and who wanted the power that would have come with founding one on his own. Laurent recognized him from the Mages’ Club and leaned over to tell Sydney. “Plus, he was the youngest guy there, outside of me, by, like, a generation.”
Her eyes, already alert, sharpened. “That’s interesting. Did Merlin talk to him while you were there?”
“No, but he was only a couple of tables over. Easy enough to overhear. Do you think they’re allied somehow?” Laurent kept his voice low, close.
“Is Merlin here?” she asked.
Laurent, taller than Sydney, scanned the crowd. “Yes—in the corner on that side of the room, talking to Colin.”
“Then yes, I do.” Possibly nothing more than just the normal alliances of a Turning, but it was too coincidental to ignore.
The call for silence came, and the room was cleared. Sydney had chosen to cast second. She stood in the first row of the crowd so she could watch as Colin began his casting.
It had been listed as a duel of shadows spell—the casting magician would create a simulacrum of their own shadow, and then duel it. Magicians were allowed any choice of weapon, but swords were popular—fencing was dramatic to watch. The idea was that in a well-executed version of the spell the shadow would have its own agency, its own actions, and not simply act as a mirror to the magician, and it was easier to see that when the weapons required skill on both sides. So there was no reaction from the watching crowd when Colin conjured up a foil, or when he gave one to his shadow. No one showed concern when the action of the duel carried Colin and his shadow closer and closer.
Nothing appeared to be out of the expected until the shadow turned from Colin and stabbed his blade through Sydney’s shoulder.
She reacted quickly—casting spells to destroy the simulacrum, wards to shield herself and those standing around her from Colin, who seemed determined to finish what his shadow had started.
Through the pain in her shoulder, she heard a few voices calling out, declaring the challenge forfeit, due to the aggression of the other magician, calls for him to be disqualified from the rest of the Turning. She did not hear anyone casting spells to help her, to ward her, to bind Colin, who was still lunging at her, weapon in hand. Most of the people in the crowd stood silent, waiting. Watching.
She spoke a word that sounded like glass shattering, and his sword snapped into pieces. Blood running down her arm from the blade still stuck in it, Sydney twisted shadows into ropes and tied Colin’s hands and feet. Only then did she pull the blade from her shoulder. She held it in her hand, in the opening line of engagement, as if she, too, would duel.
Then Sydney cast her own version of the dueling shadows spell. The shadows of each of the magicians in the room separated from their originators and drew swords. “En garde!” she called. Then: “Prêt. Allez!”
Sydney saluted, and the fencing shadows ranged around the room—in between people, around chairs, blades flashing darkness, the sound of their engagement like slashing scissors. As they fell, the watching members of the Unseen World felt their shadows’ wounds pass through them like phantoms. An ache in a shoulder, a tear in their chest. Some even looked down, pressed hands to their bodies to check, to be sure they weren’t really hurt, weren’t bleeding for someone else’s magic.
The room grew quieter and quieter until Sydney stood at its center, alone and bloody. All of the dueling shadows but one had fallen. Her own. Then she raised the blade in her hand and stepped into a lunge, stabbing the remaining shadow through the heart, ending the spell. She snapped her blade, the one she had pulled from her shoulder, in two, dropped the pieces to the floor next to Colin, and left without looking back.
? ? ?
Sydney pressed the heel of her hand against the hole in her shoulder. She’d tried twice already to stop the bleeding, but her spells had proven only stopgaps. There was—she could feel it, grinding against bone—still a broken shred of shadow trapped inside. But she couldn’t get a grip on it, and the consequences of her own magic use were manifesting. Shudders racked her like fever spasms, and there was far more blood soaking her shirt than she felt comfortable with. Laurent had texted to see how she was, if she needed anything. She had lied and told him she was fine. It was only a small lie. Probably.
She watched the numbers tick up in the elevator and hoped she hadn’t misjudged.
Ian was waiting as the doors opened. He looked startled and then, carefully, blank.
“I triggered your wards on purpose,” she said.
“I never would have thought otherwise.” Ian slipped an arm around her, taking most of her weight as he helped her into his apartment. “You do know your blood should generally stay on the inside, yes?”
“Normally I keep it there, but there’s a broken bit of magic that has other ideas. How’s your healing?”
His hands tightened around her, then relaxed. “Good enough to help.”
She eased herself down onto his bathroom tiles, closing her eyes in relief at their coolness. Ian’s hands paused on the hem of her ruined shirt. “This will be easier if I can see the injury.”
“Can you cut it away?” she asked. “I don’t think I can move well enough to help you take it off.”
He used the scissors from his medicine cabinet. Hissed out a breath when he saw her shoulder. Black mixed with red and wept from the wound like ichor. The surrounding skin was puffy and inflamed, the edges of the wound ragged. “This is likely to hurt.”
“It hurts now.” She spoke through gritted teeth.
“It’s going to hurt worse.” Ian set his fingertips in a star pattern against her shoulder by placing one hand on her chest and the other on her back, the wound at the center. Heat traced in outlines between them, constellations of magic blooming on her skin.
He pressed hard. Spoke words sharp as knives, and the inside of her shoulder went white, pain in starbursts at the edges of her vision. She pulled in a breath, blew it out.
A hiss and fizz, and shadows poured out of the wound, an infection clearing. The heat changed to warmth, star patterns knitting together pierced veins, torn skin.
“You might have a scar,” Ian said, hands tender now, soothing.