The image shivers, distorts. It cuts to the girl in bed, her hands under the covers and her eyes open. For a moment, I hold my breath. Did I stumble into a private moment—
She frowns and gets to her feet, moves to the door, and checks the locks again. Ah. Not sleeping . . . or doing anything else. I ignore the curious stab of disappointment I feel, reminding myself that if I want to watch porn, there are dozens of available channels and I don’t need to resort to scrying. The girl fiddles with the locks, dressed in an oversized T-shirt from some local gym. Once she tests them again, she returns to bed but doesn’t lie down. She sits on the edge of the bed and picks up her phone, loads up a game, and then sets it aside again. Her expression is . . . lonely. Frustrated and lonely, like she knows that she has everything she wants and it’s not filling the hole inside her.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
Annoyed with myself, I reach out to turn the phone camera off, but then her gaze flicks around the room. She stiffens, her brows going down, and she stares at the shadows. “Is someone there?”
I hold my breath.
Then I let it out, feeling stupid. She can’t see me. I’m cities away, and she’s an untrained, uneducated apprentice on her first day on the job. She continues to scowl at the shadows for a moment longer, and I finally turn the phone off, a rueful smile tugging at my lips.
If nothing else, the girl has good instincts. At least my aunt chose well in that . . . not that I plan on telling her, of course.
* * *
MY ARMS CROSSED over my chest, I sit in the annual meetings and glare. The conference hotel is nice this year, but I couldn’t care less. I keep thinking about the girl, even as the annual meetings drag onward and warlock after warlock discusses society rule changes that don’t affect me. I pretend to listen, arms crossed, as Lucius Cassius Publius (who now goes by Luke Cassian and lives in Malibu) demands tighter spell-casting guidelines and limitations on spells taught to familiars. It’s the same shit every year and has been for the last five hundred, so I think instead about my aunt’s new familiar. How clueless she is. How infuriating it is that she thinks all of this is just a big joke. That my aunt lives in some sort of witch-infested dreamland and I’m just humoring her.
I want to see the look on her face when she figures out it’s all real. Will she turn so pale those freckles disappear? Or will she laugh with that big, infectious smile of hers?
Not that I think her smile is infectious. Or even nice. Maybe other people do. I just find her irksome. Annoying. I nudge my foot against the hotel carpet, not seeing the toe of my leather boot. Instead, I’m thinking about the girl, whose name I can’t quite remember, with that slightly lost look on her face last night . . .
A gavel bangs. “Meeting dismissed for lunch,” Lucius calls out. “We’ll readjourn at two and go over new membership petitions then.” Everyone in the meeting room rises to their feet, and I automatically do so as well, though I can’t think of a single thing that was brought up in the meeting. That’s not like me. I’m normally one of the first ones to make my opinion known about the rules that Luke and the others are constantly trying to shove down our throats. Today, though, I’m just distracted.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, either. A tall, lean red-haired man moves in next to me. Willem’s expression is pinched with displeasure as he eyes my clothing. The meetings are considered business, and most of the warlocks are in suits. Willem is wearing a tailored suit in a deep sapphire blue that looks trendy and makes his slicked-down red hair practically garish. He gives my simple black sweater and black pants a distasteful curl of his lip. “Really, Magnus. You look like a goth. The idea is to be low-key. This isn’t low-key. Why not put on a black cloak and scream you’re a dark mage and be done with it?”
“Shut up, Willem.” I head out into the main lobby of the hotel, filled with my peers as people make lunch plans. No one invites me, of course. Hell, no one likes me. Not that I care. They’re all fools.
“You didn’t protest when old Aulus proposed that the board of warlocks make backups on ‘the Googles’?” He flicks his fingers to make air quotes. “I thought you’d come screaming out of your chair, Magnus. Instead, you just stared at your shoes.”
“He said that?” I grimace. Getting a bunch of two-thousand-year-old warlocks to grasp the internet has been a challenge, to say the least. I’m a little surprised Aulus even knows what Google is. Then again, given that he called it “the Googles,” maybe I’m giving him too much credit. “I guess I need to have a word with him after all.”
Willem Sauer arches an eyebrow. He’s one of the younger warlocks, like me. His family is of Prussian descent, and he’s only a few centuries old. Like me, he grasps the need to stay with the changing times, and he’s a fan of newer technology as well. Even though I wouldn’t call us friends—I’m not sure I have any—we tend to band together at these sorts of occasions. He leans in and peers at me.
I give him a not-so-gentle nudge. “Get out of my face, Willem.”
“I’m just looking for hints that you’ve been cursed somehow. Your eyes seem clear.” He gives me another studying look. “Show me the backs of your hands so I can look for identifying marks.”
I stuff them into my pockets and push past him. “I’m me, you idiot. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Like what?” he scoffs. “You live for these meetings.”
Normally I do enjoy them. I like sparring with the other warlocks. I like putting them in their places when they become too arrogant. I like showing them that I know just as much—if not more—than they do, despite being centuries younger. I’m competitive, and it comes out when I’m surrounded by my peers. Willem’s no better, though. He feuded with Titus for two hundred years over a stolen apprentice. Didn’t care about the apprentice. Just wanted to pick a fight.
We’re warlocks. That’s what we do. When there’s no common enemy to fight, we get bored and attack one another. Sometimes there’s a power grab or two. Actually, it’s been a while since there’s been a power grab. I wonder if I’m out of the loop. Hmm.
Willem snaps his fingers in my face, trying to get my attention again.
I snatch his wrist, snarling. “You’re going to find a curse tablet with your name on it if you’re not careful.”
He shakes his head at me, incredulous. “What’s gotten into you? Why so distracted?” He leans in. “Is it that business with your client?”
My insides go cold. “You know nothing about my clients.”
“We’ve all heard about it, Magnus.” Willem gives me a cool look. “That you’ve lost your nerve after one of your biggest accounts went and killed himself. Did you orchestrate that, by the way? I was curious. I didn’t think it’d be the case, given that he was part of your bankroll, but you never know.”
I stare resentfully into the icy gaze of the only person I trust even halfway at this meeting. Willem is usually on the outs with warlock society as well, but nowhere near as badly as me. I should have known that gossip would be all over this meeting, and I suddenly want to turn and leave. Just walk out the door and never come back. Of course they think I engineered my client’s death. Why wouldn’t they?
I should remain quiet. Let them think what they want. But . . . Willem’s right. I have lost my edge. Because all I can think about is that my casting made someone so miserable that he killed himself.
I feel responsible, and I don’t like it.
So I focus on something else. The girl. After all, Willem is known to be difficult and has a hard time keeping an assistant himself. He might understand the gravity of the situation. “My aunt has a new apprentice,” I offer. “It’s a problem.”
His red brows go up. “And . . . you’re jealous?”
I scowl at him, my neck uncomfortably hot. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” I look around to make sure no one’s listening and pull Willem in closer, my voice a near whisper. “She hired her off the street.”