“—extreme and counterproductive,” Markus said. “I did not sanction this, Berti.”
“She’s wasting our time,” the female witch—Berti—snapped.
“Torture doesn’t produce reliable information,” Markus countered. “And now you’ve ruined any rapport I had with her. Given more time?—”
A scornful laugh. “There is no rapport! Your approach has yielded what, exactly? Two weeks of childish sulking? It does not matter what she believes. What matters is the gods-damned sweven in her head! Morningstar is beyond our reach now. The other cypher escaped as well. Until we find the Machena girl, Cathrynne Lenormand is our last lead to find the source.”
“I’m not sure she knows anything,” Markus said in a more subdued tone. “Why would she?”
“She spent time in Pota Pras. She and Morningstar went into the hills. Who knows what they found?”
“Kal Machena is still the primary target. She found the stone, she knows exactly where to find more, and we know she’s in Arjevica.”
“She was in Arjevica,” Berti corrected, her frustration obvious. “But we’ve scoured the streets looking for her. Every damn hostel, alleyway, brothel, train station. The girl vanished into thin air?—”
Neither of them paid any attention to Cathrynne, who lay motionless on the floor, digesting this new information.
Kal Machena was still alive, still free.
Mercy was alive, too, thank Minerva.
She didn’t know what they meant by Morningstar being “beyond our reach.” He could still be in the Angel Tower. Or he could be . . .
No. If Gavriel were dead, she would know. She would feel it.
Cathrynne slowly turned her head. Markus stood with his back to her, his posture rigid. Berti faced him, chin lifted in defiance, straight black hair framing her high cheekbones.
Seeing them together unlocked a door that had been shut for twenty years, sealed with complex weavings of liminal ley. But the spell was unravelling now, and her eyes glazed as memory returned.
You are eleven years old and sitting on the floor of your sunny playroom. Spread out on the carpet before you is the deck of cards your mother uses for party games. It has thirty-six pictures and you like to look at them and arrange them into patterns.
You glimpse the future sometimes, flashes that make little sense, but you know enough not to tell anyone about it.
You have seen the kloster and understand what it is for.
Today, you have made a picture with The Man, The Woman, and The Snake. Below them is The House and The Scythe, which you intuitively grasp means a sudden ending. Looking at the picture makes you uneasy.
“No,” you say firmly, and cover it with the rest of the deck, then mix the cards up into a big messy pile.
You are alone on this fine spring day. Your sister Lara has gone to visit Lara’s father Aleksandr, whom she calls Sasha. Lara is fifteen and not very nice. You were close when you were younger, but Lara never has time for you anymore. Sometimes you think she secretly hates you.
You have no father. You were adopted by Hysto Lenormand after your birth parents died. They were witches, of course, just like your new family. You don’t remember them because you were just a baby when it happened. Sometimes you feel jealous of Lara. Alexsandr Arco is rich and handsome, and he dotes on Lara.
Your mother is upstairs entertaining her seraphim friend, Alluin Westwind, and the servants have the day off, so when someone knocks at the front door, you go to answer it. Your mother told you not to let anyone in, but you are a dreamy child and you have forgotten the instruction. Sometimes your mother includes you in the visits with Alluin, who is kind and gentle, but not today.
Today, they told you to go amuse yourself in the playroom. It isn’t fair.
You draw the bolt and open the door. Two witches in white coats are standing on the doorstep. The man is distinguished, with tanned skin and graying hair. His companion has tilted eyes of very light gray. Her gloves are red.
The man smiles. “Hello, little one. Is your mother home? We’re friends of hers.”
Your knees begin to shake. You grip the doorframe so you don’t fall down. Darkness swirls around the two witches. It screams of loss and anguish. You try to close the door, but everything happens very fast. The man pushes his way inside and charges up the stairs, the woman at his heels. You’re afraid, but you find the courage to chase after them.
You are old enough to know some lithomancy, and you draw projective ley from the emerald bracelet around your wrist, a present from grandmama. The spell is wild, inexperienced, but you have raw power and it knocks them down. The man spins back and hits you with a spell of his own. It feels like stepping under a cold waterfall. A strange sensation washes through you and you cannot feel the ley anymore.
Then you hear a scream, and you race to the top of the stairs, down the hall to the master bedroom, where your mother is naked and flushed with rage. It is a shock to see her undressed in front of strangers. She has full, pendulous breasts and a thatch of dark hair between her legs. She doesn’t bother to cover herself. Alluin Westwind is gone, but the window is wide open, a draft fluttering the long white curtains.
Your mother notices you, your eyes lock, and then the witch with the red gloves takes your arm in a punishing grip and drags you back down the stairs, outside to a waiting car. More witches in white coats hold you still while she pricks your thumb with a needle. When she sees a drop of your blood well up, she gives an angry, satisfied nod. You don’t know what it means, but you do know that your blood is purple, not red, which your mother said is because you have a rare condition but it’s nothing to worry about.
