“I need you to sign this contract.”
By the time the boat—even more leaky, if such a thing were possible—deposited him back on the shore of the reservoir, Miles were certain his feet were frozen inside his shoes. His toes burned with the cold. He risked the smallest of spells to unfreeze them, then hopped and stuffed his now-smoking feet into a snowdrift.
Back in Shadows, he was certain, Shara was laughing at him.
She could not be let out.
His shadow ached from the ridiculous ritual she had put him through, one more way to gloat, when a normal signature or even blood should certainly have sufficed. But it did have the side benefit of making him consider who else had signed contracts to Shadows, who else might have owed debts.
He knew what happened when a Shadow got out.
Sydney still owed a debt of magic to Shadows. It was possible—or at least believable—that the magic she was using to such success in the Turning should have belonged to the House of Shadows, and therefore to the Unseen World. The fact that she was walking free and using it, well, no wonder magic was failing if there was so much power missing. And if she were to die—since everyone knew that a death during a Turning canceled that House’s obligation—it made sense to think that her magic would return to Shadows, that magic would stop failing.
It sounded very logical, and really, he only needed one person to believe it. This was a Turning, and anyone could die.
? ? ?
A chill breeze blew through Ian’s apartment. His wards were still up, but his back door was cracked open. He walked through the room slowly, an almost-complete defensive spell held in his hand.
Sydney stood on the balcony, wrapped in coat and scarf.
“Do you not believe in knocking? Or waiting until someone is home to let you in?” he asked, releasing the stored magic.
“I like to be sure I can get out of a place if I need to,” she said. “If I can get in on my own, I can get out again.”
“That does have a certain odd logic. So what brings you to my balcony?”
“It’s a good view.” She turned from it, to look at him. “And Verenice said you were worried about me.”
“I was,” he said.
“I’m not used to being worried about.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know I was supposed to check in.”
“You’re not supposed to. It’s not like I have some sort of claim on you. But I’m glad you did.” He paused. “So, we never did have popcorn and a scary movie. I could probably come up with both.”
Tension slipped from her. “I promised to hold your hand, didn’t I?”
“We could skip that and go straight to the making out if you want. I’m easy.” He smiled, and held his door for her.
She walked into his apartment. Stopped. Turned. “Here’s the thing. I was supposed to die. I was given away to suffer, to be used up, and then at the end, I was supposed to die, so that everyone could forget about me and forget what Shadows is. What it does. How fucking little they get from it.”
“Sydney, I—”
“Let me finish. When you’re supposed to die, there is no one to check in on you. There’s no one who cares what happens. You are alone. And that’s fine, because I am good at being alone. I know who I am and I trust myself, and I do not need to trust anyone else. I actually prefer not having to.
“And you, you are the worst possible person to trust, to need to check in with, or whatever, because this is a Turning, and one of us could wind up killing the other.” The words simple, brutal truth.
“Sydney.” He set his hands, very gently, on her shoulders, looked straight at her. “I would never.”
“You can’t know that,” she said. “You can’t know where a challenge might come from.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I can’t. But that is not the problem for tonight. The problem for tonight is popcorn, and a scary movie, and, Sydney, if you let me, I’ll hold your hand the entire time. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
? ? ?
It was the last nonmortal duel. Held at the Dees’ again, the close a nod to the open. The crowd was as glittering as before, but thinner, and the sparkle had taken on a hard edge. This was no longer a room full of champagne bubbles and gossip, but a room full of strategy and teeth.
Eyes full of awareness followed Sydney this time as she made her way through the assembled magicians. Space cleared for her, voices dimmed.
“And I’m not even the evening’s entertainment.” She slid into place, next to Laurent, nodded at Grey on his other side. “How do you like being the next big thing, Laurent?”
He raised his glass, the light gilding his champagne. “I like it just fine. Thank you for getting me here.”
She tapped her glass to his, drank.
The candidate House Beauchamps was quite comfortably at the head of the standings. The one magician who seemed able to offer a challenge to that was casting tonight, House Prospero having challenged House Hermann. The choice of magic was openings. Both Miles and Lara Merlin were in attendance, Miles watching Ian and Lara watching her father. Miranda held court at the opposite end of the room.
Sydney hadn’t fought in a duel since she’d absorbed the blowback from the failure of magic. She had come to a balance with the new power—it no longer shaded her eyes to green or sent sparks flying from her hands, but the lurking awareness of its presence just beneath her skin, contained in her but not her, remained. Her hands were a constant ache, full of the desire for magic.
The duel began. Angelica Hermann cast first, a tiny, elegant piece of magic that unlayered a set of clocks, opening their workings, sending gears spinning into orbit like orreries. It was precision and control made grace and elegance. Sydney’s applause was genuine.
Ian stepped into the center of the room. A sharp flick of his left hand. A thud, like the sound of a thousand doors slamming shut. The noise, tremendous, and the House rocked on its foundation.
His hands moved, bent. He spoke a word, and Sydney felt it in her chest, like a window swinging out. Doors carved themselves out of light and shadows, the frames appearing all over the room, scattered among the watching magicians.
Another word, sharp and brass-scented.
The doors opened.
Each onto a different world—thick forests and luminescent icescapes, revolving stars and a concrete and steel sky. Scents and sounds came through, each place unique. The magicians walked through the room, peering through the doors. “Though I would caution you not to enter—I can’t guarantee that you would return,” Ian said.
After they had their chance to look upon storms and oceans, on lavender fields and jeweled museums, Ian brought his hands down.
The doors closed.
The first part of the Turning was finished.
CHAPTER ELEVEN