Raven took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. He never
understood Cassandra’s love of the vile substance. It was, however, more effective than tea.
The coffee in Raven’s hand should have been enough to
warn anyone familiar with his habits that he was not in a mood to be crossed.
Rafe Ramirez knew him well enough to know better, but apparently he liked to
live dangerously.
His wife’s partner in Guardian International
Investigations shook his head in mock-disapproval of Raven’s state. “It’s
nearly noon. You still keeping a dark mage’s hours, my friend?”
“No. A new parent’s. At least William had the decency
to let me sleep in after keeping me up all hours.”
Ramirez chuckled. “When he’s old enough to understand,
Uncle Rafe will make sure little Ransley Zachary Ravenscroft knows that his
father compared him unfavorably to the most notorious dark mage of our
generation.”
“I’m sure you will,” Raven said into his coffee. Actually, he was fairly sure Ramirez wouldn’t. “Do you have any idea why
we’re here?”
Ramirez shook his head. “Just that Sherlock said it
was urgent. And that she sounded pretty
shaken up.”
Raven took another sip of the gods-awful coffee. He’d
received an identical message on his message crystal at home, and he agreed
with Ramirez’ assessment. Anything bad
enough to shake Sherlock had to be bad indeed. Cassandra’s boss was usually as
unflappable as the literary figure from whom she’d derived her nickname.
They were in the office Cassandra shared with Ramirez.
Except Cassandra was home on maternity leave.
Raven, a GII consultant, had no official hours and therefore no official
leave. It felt strange to be sitting
here at Cassandra’s desk while Cassandra was home with a baby. Their
son.
Sherlock walked in through the open door wearing her
impeccable tweeds. Her hair was pulled up in an smooth, efficient up-do. He
could almost believe that he’d imagined the fear in her voice over the message
crystal—until he looked into her eyes.
“Raven, thank you for coming in. How’s Cass and the baby?” Sherlock’s tone was
light, conversational, and entirely false, although he doubted that anyone who
didn’t know her well could tell the difference.
“Good. Cassandra is a bit tired, and I think our son
may have a place in opera when he gets older.
He certainly has the projection, but only time will tell about the pitch
and the range.”
Sherlock smiled, but it was clearly reflexive.
“What’s going on?” he asked her.
She took a deep breath. “There was a break in, and vandalism. Someone
wrote the past is not forgotten across
the third-floor landing of the back stairwell. In blood.”
A chill ran down Raven’s spine. There were very few mages he knew of that
could, with sufficient preparation and a whole lot of effort, conceivably
breach the wards of the GII building. One he shared a bed with. Two he trusted
with his life. One he’d killed and seen
buried. An unknown talent with that level of ability presented an incalculable
danger.
That particular stairwell led to the hall that ran
past two of the smaller conference rooms, Sherlock’s office, and the one that
Cassandra shared with Ramirez, the office he, too, frequented when he was
consulting. It didn’t have to be one of
his own enemies. It could be a cohort or
relative of someone Cassandra had put away, or one of Sherlock’s old cases that
had done his time and was out and looking for revenge. Even Ramirez, who had
been with GII for a relatively short time, could have racked up his share of
enemies in his work with the local Guardians.
“They tested the blood,” Sherlock said. “It was pig’s blood, not human, thank the
gods. Treated with some sort of chemical to keep it liquid, so it might not
have been a recent kill. I’m having Holly check around with the local
slaughterhouses, even so.”
Strange. Most of his former comrades wouldn’t have
scrupled. In fact, many of them would
consider animal blood to be gauche. “The
wards,” he said. “Did they smash though them, dismantle them, or—”
“The slipped through them and left them intact.”
Sherlock said.
Ramirez gave a low whistle.
Their mystery mage had skill, training, and a level of
patient determination that bordered on obsession. They might not, however, be facing someone
with a lot of raw power, Although it would be a mistake to take that as given.
He himself preferred to finesse wards where he could.
“I was wondering if you
could check the wards, see if there’s any traces of the intruder’s magical
signature,” she asked. “There’s probably
too much time passed, but maybe with the—maybe you can find something anyway.”
Even with just the three of them in the room, none of
them would mention the Ravensblood aloud in GII headquarters. Raven had,
perforce, brought her into the little conspiracy of those who knew he had the
artefact in his possession once more. He appreciated the trust, and the risk,
it took for her to conceal that fact after the crisis had passed.
He nodded. “I
can do that now, if I’m not going to startle anyone.”
The wards would be keyed to a few select mages whose
job it was to monitor them for interference.
She smiled. “I’ve let them know to expect it. In fact, the head of security asked if you’d
have a look at the wards themselves while you’re at it. See if you can spot any
weaknesses.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “I’m no wardmaster.”
“Says the man whose wards kept the Guardians out of
his house on the hill for the years that he was in hiding,” Ramirez said.
“Much of that protection was put in place by my
ancestors,” Raven said. “I merely
touched it up a bit.”
“Right,” Ramirez’s tone spoke eloquently of his disbelief.
No point in trying to convince him. Most of the time, Raven appreciated how much
faith the Guardians and the GII put in
his abilities, even though the time had long past when he felt he needed them
to be cautious of him for his own safety. But every now and then, he wished
they had a little less confidence. One day, he might reach his limits and fail
them spectacularly.
“Do we know where he came in?” Raven asked.
“Not for certain, but the back entrance is most
likely,” Sherlock answered.
“I’ll start with the wards there, then.”
On his way to the stairs, he passed the blood-scrawled
wall. He paused a moment to stare at it,
even though the scent of blood brought a torrent of unwanted memories. The
past is not forgotten. No, but sometimes it was forgiven, and among those
who had taught him that were the men and women who worked in this building. All
adept at protecting themselves, and still he felt not only rage at the profaning
of this place but a deep sense of protectiveness toward the people who worked
here.
“Raven? Are you
all right?” Sherlock asked from behind him.
He took a deep breath. “Yes, Fine.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and closed his
eyes, reaching out his awareness to feel the invisible wards. Smooth and still, as though they had never
been disturbed. It took a rare talent for
a mage to cross wards not keyed to him without leaving a sign. He followed each
intricate, twining thread of the ward, looking for any loose ends, slackness,
inconsistencies.
Nothing. Could their
suspect be someone who worked here, someone the wards recognized and let past?
It had happened once before, and the surety with which both he and the GII discounted the possibility had nearly cost both his life and the life of the
opera singer Madeline Love. The strength
of his desire that it not be a GII agent again surprised him. Since when had
his faith in the institution become so important to him? Since when had he
possessed any faith in the institution to begin with?
Still, it was with a ridiculous amount of relief that
he found a single knot that had been retied in a slightly different style than
the rest of the ward. He felt for a signature—on something like a ward, meant
to be a permanent working, the signature could linger for days. There it was,
and it was no one he recognized. Nor did it carry the subtle shadow of William
carried in the signatures of all of William’s students. Lingered in his own signature, a dark
reminder of who and what he had once been.
Still it carried a familiar feel. His mind flew back to the Love case, but this
seemed different. Not like he had encountered it briefly before, but like it
reminded him of another signature, the way another Anglan he met might remind
him of Sherlock by the similarity in their accents.
He opened his eyes and took a deep breath to bring
himself back to normal consciousness. Then he told Sherlock and Ramirez what he
had discovered.
“Are you sure?”
Sherlock asked. “Much as I hate to think
that one of our people could have done this. . .”
It would be better than knowing that there was an
unidentified mage out there with the skill to break in to GII headquarters.
Raven shook his head. “The place that the ward was
breached and re-closed was so small and subtle that I almost doubted what I
saw, and the signature was barely there.”
Another problem with an enemy that relied on skill
over power. The more power behind a
work, the stronger the magical signature. Like the fingerprints that Mundane
law enforcement obsessed over, the magical signature was only useful for
positive identification if one had a match for comparison. But unlike fingerprints, the signature could
tell an expert a little about the mage who had left it. Where they had studied
and, if their teacher had been particularly distinctive, who they had studied
under.
“The guy is good, no doubt about it,” Ramirez said.
“But not all that ambitious, if that,” he nodded toward the stairs, “is all he
can think to do with it. Maybe he won’t
go any farther.”
“And maybe he’s just toying with us before he gets
down to business.” Raven said.
From Sherlock’s frown, he could tell which she thought
more likely.
Best Selling Science Fiction & Paranormal Romance author and “SciFi Encounters” columnist for the USA Today Happily Ever After blog, Veronica Scott grew up in a house with a library as its heart. Dad loved science fiction, Mom loved ancient history and Veronica thought there needed to be more romance in everything.
Frantically trying to juggle real life and still find time to write, so that the voices in my head will be quiet!
Angela writes the Free Court of Seattle urban fantasy series as Angela Korra'ti, and the Rebels of Adalonia high fantasy series as Angela Highland. You can find her books under both her names at angelahighland.com!
