A box was forming in the middle of the Nilssons’ living room. It resembled a giant shimmering bubble but square instead of round. There was no time for words. Cathrynne took four quick strides to the center of the room, to the scorch marks left by previous forcings. She grabbed her partner and dragged them both backwards.
An instant later, a clap of silent thunder shook the house. Cathrynne felt it through the soles of her boots. Two figures appeared where Mercy had just been standing—a man and a woman, both with the silver eyes of witches.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze. Mercy was staring at her cudgel. It must have been at the edge of the forcing zone because the stout wood was severed in half, the end cauterized.
“Stay right where you are,” Cathrynne warned. “Do not move!”
The female witch was older and heavyset with a blotchy pink neck. Her gaze flicked to their hands. When she saw the raven tattoos, she looked relieved. “Just cyphers,” she muttered.
A new spell began to coalesce. It involved receptive magic that Cathrynne didn’t understand, but she felt sure it was nasty.
Mercy was faster, igniting a lump of topaz. Like all projective stones, topaz was ruled by fire and had quite a kick. The female witch was flung backwards, crashing into the stacked furniture. Mercy dove after her, leaving Cathrynne with the other witch. He had a long dour face and frosty eyes.
Mercy was now behind him. Cathrynne didn’t want to hit her with the backwash of a spell, so she went for her whip instead, flicking it at his neck. If he’d been human, it would have coiled around him like a noose, at which point she would have yanked his face into her knee, breaking his nose and maybe a few teeth. But he was a witch, so the lash bounced off an invisible shield.
“Too slow,” he said.
A wave of force rippled across the room. It lifted her up bodily and sent her sailing down the hallway. A hot ride. That’s what Mercy called going airborne. Cathrynne landed hard on her tailbone and skidded several cubits. The witch advanced, his lips curved in a mocking smile.
“Show me some of that infamous cypher blood! Is it really violet? I’ve always wondered.”
She scrambled back as the hall plunged into darkness. The kind of pitch black that feels like drowning. Her pulse rammed into overdrive. She couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t real. She knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the rising panic. She’d been claustrophobic since childhood, terrified of darkness and confined spaces. She threw her arms out and they banged into the walls. The narrow hallway felt like a coffin.
Cathrynne made a grab for her gem pouch as the witch threw another projective blast down the hall. It was like being caught in the bristles of a giant broom. She tumbled end over end until she hit something hard enough to see stars.
“They don’t teach you anything useful, do they?” the witch taunted, his voice drawing closer. “You can’t penetrate illusions. You can’t shield yourself. The High Council doesn’t trust you with fuck-all. You’re just muscle for hauling away human garbage.”
Laughter echoed through the darkness. That he was right didn’t make it any better. She shook off the dizziness, trying to orient herself. Off to the left, she heard furniture breaking. Mercy and her witch were going at it hammer and tongs.
Cathrynne had a sudden image of Josua Micarran standing on his front porch, smoking a Scholar and muttering about string nozzes.
“At least I have a job,” she rasped into the blackness. “I’m not a criminal. And when I arrest you, you won’t be coming back anytime soon. I hear the Iskatar prison camp is so hot, your piss evaporates before it hits the ground.”
The witch chuckled. He was dragging something along the wall, pausing now and then to tap it on the wainscoting. It sounded like the cudgel she’d lost when he threw her across the room.
“How’d you find us?” he asked. “I bet it was that nosy geezer across the street.” The scraping stopped for a moment. “He’s supposed to be dead. I’ll correct that oversight once I’m done with you.” He drew a meditative breath, like he was mulling his options. She could feel his eyes crawling over her.
“Where are the Nilssons?” she asked.
Another chuckle. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll show you.”
The footsteps stopped directly in front of her. She could smell him, sweat and a metallic tang.
“You’re wrong,” she said, “by the way.”
“About what?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“I do know some magic.”
“Well, go on, cypher,” the witch said, amused. “Make your move.”
Cathrynne bit her lip. Then she blindly groped for her gem pouch. It had gotten twisted up around her side. The cudgel came down, whistling as it cut the air. White-hot pain radiated up her left arm. She screamed, tears springing to her eyes.
“Oops,” he said. “Did that hurt?”
Every cypher had a raven tattooed on the back of her dominant hand. It identified her if she ran away (which seldom happened), and it exposed her weak point. Disable her dominant hand and she couldn’t cast a projective spell.
