24
Winter
The plan was trickier than Alex had anticipated. The mirror would fool the guards they encountered but not the cameras in the jail.
Dawes came to the rescue with an actual tempest in a teapot. Alex hadn’t thought Darlington was being literal when they’d walked through the bizarre basement of Rosenfeld Hall, but apparently back in their heyday, St. Elmo’s had managed all kinds of interesting magic.
“It’s not just the vessel,” Dawes explained to Alex and Turner the next day, standing at the counter in the kitchen at Il Bastone, a golden teapot and jeweled strainer before her. “It’s the tea itself.” She carefully measured out dried leaves from a tin stamped with the St. Elmo’s crest, a sinister little design referred to as “the goat and boat.”
“Darlington said they’re campaigning for a new tomb,” Alex said.
Dawes nodded. “Losing Rosenfeld Hall broke them. They’ve been petitioning for years, claiming all sorts of new applications for their magic. But without a nexus to build over, there’s no point to a new tomb.” She poured the water over the leaves and set the timer on her phone. The lights flickered. “Make the brew too strong and you could short the grid for the entire Eastern Seaboard.”
“Why are the tombs so important?” Turner asked. “This is just a house and you’re standing there… working magic.” He ran his tongue over his teeth as if he didn’t like the taste of the word.
“Lethe House magic is spell-and object-based, borrowed enchantments, very stable. We don’t rely on rites. It’s why we can keep the wards up. The other societies are trafficking with far more powerful forces—telling the future, communicating with the dead, altering matter.”
“Big magic,” said Alex.
Turner leaned back against the counter. “So they have machine guns and you’re working with a bow and arrow?”
Dawes looked up, startled. She rubbed her nose. “Well, more like a crossbow, but yes.”
The timer sounded. Dawes swiftly removed the strainer and poured the tea into a thermos. She handed it to Alex. “You should have about two hours of real disruption. After that…” She shrugged.
“But you’re not going to knock the power out, right?” Turner asked. “I don’t want to be at a jail when all the lights go down.”
“Aw, look how far you’ve come!” Alex said. “Now you’re worried about magic being too powerful.”
Dawes tugged at her sweatshirt sleeves, the surety she’d displayed while caught up in brewing the tea evaporating. “Not if I got it right.”
Alex took the thermos and stowed it in her satchel, then yanked her hair into a tight bun. She’d told Mercy she had a job interview as an excuse to borrow her fancy black pantsuit.
“I hope you get the job,” Mercy had said, and hugged Alex so tight it felt like her bones were bending.
“I hope I get it too,” Alex had replied. She’d been happy to play dress-up, happy to have this adventure to fill the hours, regardless of the danger. The new-moon rite had felt distant, impossibly far off, but tonight it would happen. She was having trouble thinking about anything else.
She checked her phone. “No signal.”
Turner did the same. “Me neither.”
Alex turned on the little television that sat above the breakfast nook. Nothing but static. “A perfect brew, Dawes.”
Dawes looked pleased. “Good luck.”
“I’m about to commit career suicide,” said Turner. “Let’s hope we’ve got more on our side than luck.”
The drive to the jail was short. No one there knew Alex, so she didn’t have to worry about being recognized. She made a perfectly reasonable assistant in her borrowed corporate drag. Turner was another matter. He’d had to pop by the courthouse that morning to bump into Lance Gressang’s attorney and secure his visage in the compact.
They passed through security without incident.
“Stop looking at the cameras,” Alex whispered as she and Turner were escorted down a dingy hallway lit by buzzing fluorescents.
“They look like they’re working.”
“The power is on, but they’re just recording static,” Alex said with more confidence than she felt. The thermos was tucked into her bag, its weight resting reassuringly against her hip.
Once they were inside the meeting room, they’d be safe at least. There was no video or audio recording allowed in a conference between an attorney and his client.
Lance was seated at the table when they entered. “What do you want?” he said when he caught sight of Turner, who had pocketed the compact after flashing it at the scowling guard.
“You’ve got one hour,” the guard said. “Don’t push it.” Gressang shoved back from the table, looking from Turner to Alex. “What the fuck is this? Are you two working together?”
“One hour,” the guard repeated, and locked the door behind him.
“I know my rights,” Gressang said, standing. He looked even bigger than he had at the apartment, and his bandaged hand didn’t do much to put Alex at ease. She had made it her business not to get trapped in small spaces with men like Lance Gressang. You didn’t want to be the only thing in sight when their moods went sour.
“Sit down,” said Turner. “We need to have a conversation.”
“You can’t talk to me without my lawyer.”
“You walked through a wall yesterday,” said Turner. “That in the penal code?”
Lance looked almost sheepish at the accusation. He knows he’s not supposed to be using portal magic, Alex thought. And he most definitely wasn’t supposed to be seen doing it by a cop. Lance had no way of knowing that Turner was associated with the Houses of the Veil.
“Sit down, Gressang,” Turner repeated. “You might be glad you did.”
Alex wondered if Lance would just pop a mushroom in his mouth and vanish through the floor. But slowly, sullenly, he dropped back into his seat.
Turner and Alex took chairs opposite him at the table. Lance’s jaw set and he jutted his chin toward Alex. “Why were you at my place?”
My place. Not our place. She said nothing.
“I’m trying to find out who killed Tara,” said Turner.
Lance threw up his hands. “If you know I’m innocent, why don’t you get me out of this shithole?”
“ ‘Innocent’ is a big word for what you are,” Turner said in that same pleasant, condescending tone he’d used on Alex just a few days ago. “Maybe you’re innocent of this particular bit of brutality, and if that’s the case it will be my great pleasure to make sure the murder charge against you is vacated. But right now what I want to convey to you is that no one knows we’re here. The guards all think you’re chatting with your lawyer, and what you need to absorb is that we can do whatever we want.”
“Am I supposed to be afraid?”
“Yes,” said Turner. “You are. But not of us.”
“Hey, he can be afraid of us,” said Alex.
“He can, but he has bigger problems to worry about. If you didn’t kill Tara, then someone did. And that someone is just waiting to lay hands on you too. Right now you’re a useful scapegoat. But for how long? Tara knew things she wasn’t supposed to, and maybe you do too.”
“I don’t know shit.”
“I’m not the one you need to convince. You’ve seen what these people can do. Do you think that they care about wiping away a little shitstain like you? Do you think they will hesitate to eradicate you or your friends or that entire neighborhood if it will help them sleep a little better at night?”
“People like you and me don’t matter,” said Alex. “Not when we stop being useful.”