Magic on the Line

  Goon One and Goon Two were standing on either side of the door at the top of the stairs. This wasn’t the same room where I’d met Bartholomew. Looked like they were waiting for me, though.

  They didn’t say anything, but even with the dark glasses on, I knew they were watching me, my hands, checking to see if I was carrying any obvious weapons.

  Not obvious weapons, no.

  Goon Two, the shorter of the pair, opened the door for me. Still didn’t say anything, just stood aside as I walked past. I stepped into a high-ceilinged room with a wood floor that looked original to the building, and two walls of windows. The lights were heavy chandeliers dripping with crystal, and all lit.

  The room wasn’t empty. A long table had been set up on the stage that took the bulk of the windowless wall to my left. Bartholomew Wray sat behind that table. Behind him stood three more goons, each larger than the last, all wearing dark matchy suits and glasses.

  Chairs and tables created neat rows down the center of the room. At those tables and chairs sat at least fifty people. I recognized some of the faces, the twins, Carl and La. My dad’s accountant, Ethan Katz, was in the mix, and I was pretty sure some of the people who had been at Chase’s memorial last night. Who I did not see was Zayvion. Or Shame. But I finally spotted Terric sitting near the back. He glanced over at me and nodded. Since there were a couple empty seats beside him, I headed that way.

  It was strange not to see Victor or Maeve or Hayden or some of the Seattle crew in the crowd. I had a bad feeling about this.

  No one looked at me as I walked in. Bartholomew was reading through some papers, and the quiet murmur of voices covered my footsteps. I sat next to Terric.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  Terric shrugged. “I’ve been in questioning all day,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  I glanced at him. He looked like hell. He needed a shave, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing the same clothes I’d last seen him in, sans tie, which I think Grant still had. His eyes were glossy and red. And while some of that might be because of the hangover I could only imagine he was sporting, a lot more of it was from fatigue and the very real sense of pain that was radiating from him.

  “Questioning?”

  “In a room, alone. Being tediously grilled over whether Shame and I are Soul Complements. I got so tired of them trying to make me say we weren’t that I told them to get Shame and give us the fucking test. They left. I thought I’d see Shame walk in. But instead one of Bartholomew’s men came back and told me there was a meeting I needed to attend. I came in about ten minutes ago. Nothing’s happened.”

  “What do you think this is about?” I asked.

  Terric shook his head. “God only knows. I can’t think straight after last night.” He gave me a rueful smile. “I might have overindulged just a bit.”

  I smiled back at him. “Oh, you most certainly did.”

  He rubbed his face and tried to smooth his hair. “Was I a complete ass?”

  “Not complete, no. But you and Grant seemed to hit it off pretty well.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Have you seen him today?”

  “No. I’ve been busy.”

  “With what?”

  “Davy’s been hurt.” I thought about telling him more, but wasn’t sure how many people were listening in and decided to just leave it at that.

  “You take care of that?” he asked.

  I nodded. “A doctor’s looking in on him.”

  Not Dr. Fisher. No, she walked into the room from the door to one side of the stage.

  I liked Dr. Fisher. She had always been nice to me, and had some of the best treatments for magical injuries and wounds I’d experienced. She was practical and almost always in a fairly calm, pleasant mood, even when things were going to hell and blood was everywhere.

  Which was why it was such a shock to see her now. Her cheeks were red and her skin was too pale. She did not make eye contact as she walked to one of the chairs set to one side of the stage—not actually on the stage but at the head of the room and facing toward the audience.

  She sat, folded her hands in her lap, and looked straight ahead, chin tipped up.

  Bartholomew stacked his papers and looked out across the room. He adjusted his gaze to flick over each of us as if counting a tally. When he saw me, he scowled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Members of the Authority. Welcome here today. You have been invited to witness a historic day in Portland’s magic community. Today I will be announcing the new Voices who, along with myself, will help guide the city of Portland, and all within it, to easier, more prosperous times. This infighting will stop today, and from here forward, I will see to it that magic is handled correctly, and that peace will rule among the members of the Authority again.”

  You could have heard dust collide. Everyone was hanging on his every word.

  “I have gone over the allegations and weighed the information and testimonies of the people involved in the most recent crisis and conflicts.”

  I looked around the room. All the body language was tense. Dr. Fisher still wasn’t making eye contact, though her hands were clenched together instead of resting easily in her lap.

  Otherwise, you’d think she wasn’t really here, or was trying very hard not to be.

  “There will be, of course, consequences to bear for the situations that have been allowed to progress over the last few months. As has always been the way of justice in the Authority, those who lead will take the highest responsibility of blame for the current situation.”

  I didn’t know what he was getting at. Those who had led, those who had at least tried to keep magic safe and the city safe from people like Greyson and Frank Gordon, and Leander and Isabelle, weren’t even in the room.

  My stomach suddenly clenched. What if they weren’t here because he’d locked them up? The thought of Maeve or Victor or maybe even Zayvion locked away in one of those cells where only magical criminals were kept made me break out in a cold sweat. Oh, this was bad. Very bad.

  Bartholomew lifted a sheet of paper and read: “For failing in his task of upholding the tenets of the Authority, and for inciting war, failing to protect magic and putting the innocent at magic’s mercy, and for treason against the Authority’s laws, Victor Forsythe has been Closed.”

  It was like a punch to the gut. Terric, next to me, hissed.

  “That can’t be right,” I whispered beneath notice with everyone else muttering in surprise.

  “Dr. Fisher,” Bartholomew continued, “can you verify for the record that Victor Forsythe has been Closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you verify at what level he has been Closed?”

  “Eight.”

  “What’s eight?” I asked Terric.

  “It means he still remembers the Authority, and how to do magic, but not his time spent being a Voice of the Authority.”

  “How many years has he been a Voice?” Terric didn’t answer me, so I tapped his leg. “How many years?” I whispered since the noise in the room was quieting.

  “At least fifteen.”

  Holy shit. They’d just taken fifteen years of his life away. My stomach rolled again and nightmarish dread spread through me. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right.

  Bartholomew waited until the room settled down. He leveled a disapproving stare at the few people still whispering. Once everyone was quiet, he began again.

  “For failure to protect the Blood magic well from attack, and acts of unsanctioned magic use, and obstruction of critical information regarding the Authority and Authority business, Maeve Flynn has been Closed.”

  I put my hand over my mouth and looked around the room for Shame. He was nowhere to be seen. Which was no surprise. I expected he was with his mom. Or maybe gagged and tied up somewhere so he didn’t kill anyone.

  I glanced at Terric. His face was very, very calm. It was like he hadn’t heard a thing Bartholomew said. It was like nothing could bother him.
But his hand nearest me was clenched so hard around the base of his chair seat, I could see the bones of his fingers.

  He was furious.

  And very Zen.

  One of the marks of having Victor as a teacher.

  “Dr. Fisher,” Bartholomew said, “can you confirm for the record that Maeve Flynn has been Closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you verify at what level she has been Closed?”

  “Five.”

  Okay, I was done being shocked. Now I was just mad as hell. They couldn’t do this. That man—Bartholomew Wray—couldn’t just swoop in here and hurt my friends.

  Yes, he can, Dad said from somewhere in the middle of my brain. He has done it before in the past, he has done much worse in the past, and he will continue to do such things today. Especially here.

  Why especially here? I asked.

  He has a long history with the Authority and the people of the Authority in Portland. A bad history.

  I was going to ask him to fill me in on that, but Bartholomew was talking again. I missed some of it, but heard him say that Mike Barham, who I didn’t like, and who had turned on us during the wild magic storm, had been Closed. Dr. Fisher said it was a level one.

  Fuck him. Mike Barham was a jerk who had sided with Jingo Jingo and Chase and Greyson and tried to kill us all. People had been hurt from what he did. People had died. And he was skating out on a level one Closing?

  Someone had to stop this. I made a move to stand. Terric’s hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist so hard it hurt. I looked over at him.

  “Not now,” he said without looking at me. And then he added, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear him, “Not yet.”

  It took everything I had to sit back down. I wasn’t the only one in the room upset by this turn of events. I couldn’t be the only one who was angry that Bartholomew was acting as judge and jury and taking away people’s memories, people’s lives.

  But no one else moved to stop him. No one spoke up. No one seemed willing to argue with him.

  Terric had said that the Authority wasn’t composed of people who only closed gates to death, and fought the magic-stealing Hungers, and tracked down Veiled who went around biting people. He’d told me at the party last night that the majority of magic users in the Authority were regular people, businesspeople putting in their forty-hour workweek to keep the big business of the Authority running.

  And Bartholomew was the vice president of that company. If they wanted to keep their jobs—hell, if they wanted to keep their memories—they had best stay quiet, nod at everything he said, and not cause trouble.

  Problem was, I had never made a good businessperson.

  Wait, Dad said. Wait until you have all the information.

  I don’t need all the information, I thought.

  I do.

  Okay, that bothered me too. I didn’t know what Dad thought he could get out of this situation and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

  I’m not trying to get anything, Allison, he said. Bartholomew and I go a long way back. He never does anything without hedging his bets.

  Sounds like someone you’d be friends with, I thought sourly.

  I didn’t say we were friends. No, quite the opposite. He and I were always at odds. On everything.

  Great. Was the guy who was screwing with my friends and maybe even permanently hurting them the opposite of my father? And since my father had been a heartless, unforgiving bastard with an angle on every deal, what did that make Bartholomew? A sweet, reasonable man?

  He Closed Victor.

  He Closed Maeve.

  And, as I tuned back in and listened to him finish reading the list, I learned he had also had Mike Barham Closed—though not enough for my tastes—and the nice family man Joshua Romero from Seattle, and the gorgeous Nik Pavloski. Of the people from Seattle who had stayed here in the Portland area to help us out when the shit hit the fan, all of them had been Closed. Except Terric and Hayden.

  It made no sense. It made me furious.

  He has a reason, Dad said. He always has a reason.

  Fuck him and his reason, I thought. There’s no reason good enough for me to stand aside and let my friends be hurt.

  I couldn’t agree with you more, Dad said with something suspiciously like admiration. But if you wait, we will know which reason he is publicly claiming. Once we know that, we can begin to guess the true motives he won’t admit to.

  “With that attended to,” Bartholomew said, shuffling papers to one side, “I will now reassign the positions that have been recently vacated.”

  Terric’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. I didn’t know if he was dealing with Shame’s anger or pain or something like that, or if he was furious, or if he was going to throw up from the hangover.

  But when I looked at him, his gaze was riveted on Bartholomew like he was watching a nightmare unfold.

  “We have the unprecedented opportunity before us to assign the Voice positions for the disciplines of the following magics: Faith, Blood, Death, Flux.”

  It was like listening to a death row roll call. Each of those disciplines had been held by people close to me: Victor, Maeve, Liddy, Dad.

  “I will of course take the position of Life magic, and Head of Portland’s Authority until the region shows the appropriate improvement,” Bartholomew said.

  Terric stopped breathing for a second. I looked over. His Zen mask was shattered by something that looked a lot more like fear.

  “The position of the Voice of Faith magic, I grant to Terric Conley.”

  What?

  He was giving it to Terric? Terric didn’t even live in Portland. Couldn’t he find someone else skilled in the discipline who was a part of this Authority and ask him to hold it?

  People clapped politely like Terric had just won a church raffle for a leaf-sweeping service instead of one of the highest-ranking positions for a magic user to attain.

  I could tell Terric was shocked because he’d just broken out in a sweat. But I only knew the fear and anger running through him because I was sitting so close to him. To anyone else, Terric seemed to take it well, managing a tight smile and nodding once to acknowledge the applause.

  But he was furious. Even angrier than he had been. I wondered if he could turn the position down.

  No, Dad said. It is an “honor” you cannot refuse.

  “The position of Blood magic, I give to Melissa Whit.”

  That masochistic bitch? Bartholomew’s little Truth spell pet stood, and looked surprised, even managing a blush.

  She’s one of his people, Dad said. She’s been his underling since before he climbed to the Watch position.

  Okay, so I could assume she’d march in lockstep with his rules and regs. It made sense that he’d put her in that position.

  “For the other two positions of Death magic and Flux magic, I have weighed every possibility and all the candidates. You will all keep in mind that who I choose for these positions are the people I believe are the best to help restore this branch of the Authority to stability and strength. I have very carefully considered every outcome of my choices and am certain that my decisions are sound.

  “The position of Death magic will be granted to Jingo Jingo.”

  The entire room went dead silent. Except me.

  “Oh, hells no.”

  And then Jingo Jingo walked into the room.

  Chapter Nine

  Jingo Jingo should have been unconscious in a hospital, or at the very least, in a wheelchair. He’d barely survived Sedra’s attack when she’d broken out of the cage he’d stuffed her in. I didn’t know how he was even walking. He shuffled in slowly, the cane he gripped in one hand looking like a toothpick beneath his huge bulk.

  Half his face was bruised and so swollen he couldn’t open one eye. He had a bandage across the bridge of his nose, a line of stitches tracking across his shaved skull, and a brace on his neck. His hands were wrapped in bandages, and he wore loose pants and a lon
g coat with only one arm through the sleeve. The other arm was in a sling.

  And each of the things holding him together—bandages, stitches, brace, and sling—had the very subtle signature of Dr. Fisher’s handiwork.

  No wonder she didn’t have any time for Davy. She’d been trying to stitch this monster back together.

  I glanced over at her. She was staring straight ahead, making no eye contact.

  Jingo Jingo was followed by two goons who helped him ease down into a chair set to the side at the back of the stage in shadows.

  Screw this.

  Terric tugged on my wrist again, but I pulled my hand away from him and stood. “Jingo Jingo betrayed the Authority, was part of the mechanism that kidnapped Sedra, and made treasonous deals with Mikhail and my father.”

  “Sit down,” Bartholomew commanded. “This is not open for discussion.”

  “I don’t care.” I walked down the empty line of chairs and started toward him. “Jingo Jingo is a child molester and should be locked up.”

  “Can you prove that accusation?”

  No, I couldn’t. All I had was my dad’s word on it and the ghosts of dead children I always saw around him when he cast magic.

  “Yes,” I bluffed.

  Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. “In times of great need, a person’s past cannot be seen as more important than his present. You have no proof of a crime being committed. Jingo Jingo is the best Death magic user in Portland.”

  “You’re wrong. Shamus Flynn is the best Death magic user in Portland.”

  He blinked once slowly, then sat back in the chair, a look of complete dismissal on his face. “I disagree. Shamus Flynn had uneven talent and a poor attitude.”

  “Did you Close him?” I was below the stage, looking up at him, but close enough I could smell his cologne. Something with heavy spice overtones. It mixed with his sweat and turned sour.

  “That hasn’t been necessary. Yet. If you continue to disrupt this proceeding, Allison Beckstrom, we will, however, consider Closing you.”

  “Allie.” Terric stepped up behind me and took my arm. “Sit down. You’re embarrassing yourself.”