“I’m not sure that bit of me would break their spell—Rui said it was a ‘grace note,’ not a ‘key.’”
“A pity. If you were able to send the bone back to Rui, the effect could be . . . interesting.”
“Is that one of those ‘Oh God, oh God, we’re all going to die’ kinds of interesting?” Quinton asked.
“Yes. And no. The spell-transfer effect would occur only if the bone were moved after the spell was fully active—which has never been done, if, in fact, it can be done.”
“Never?”
Carlos gave Quinton a curious look. “How often do you imagine anyone has tried to raise O Dragão do Inferno?”
“I’m sure someone’s tried it once or twice,” Quinton replied.
“Fewer than a dozen times in human history—and most attempts have not been effective.”
I frowned. “What’s the spell-transfer effect?” I asked.
“As it sounds. With the bones out of place once the spell is in action, the full animation of the drache fails, but the other effects would continue for a time.”
“So . . . with this drache . . .” I started, unable to finish describing the grotesque image that my mind was conjuring.
“He would burn with the fire of the spell until the bone was consumed,” Carlos replied. “But as fitting as such an end might be, the danger in it is too great. A small miscalculation of location or timing would kill you in the same manner. It would be better to stop the spell before it’s cast. The timing would still be delicate—if the bones are moved or the spell disrupted too soon, Rui will simply destroy us and begin again—but I know the moment where the casting is irretrievable. The song of the spell rises to a sustained chord that ignites the flesh of the drache, and the breath of the fire then sings the song of the bones and sustains it. For our sake, the spell must break as it weaves the bones together—making them unsalvageable—but before the chord resolves.”
“It’s a good thing that’s going to be your job,” Quinton said, “because Harper can’t sing.”
Carlos scowled. “A dancer who can’t sing?”
“It’s not that unusual,” I said. “Have you ever heard Fred Astaire sing? Flat, off-key, imprecise, but right on the beat. I’m tone-deaf. I can dance. I can count time. I can tell you a touch from a shuffle and a heel tap from a toe by sound. I can syncopate with the best of them, but I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I might feel where the chord is resolving, but I couldn’t anticipate it without knowing the song well enough to dance to it first.”
“Then it is as well that you won’t have to.”
“It’s too bad there isn’t more dancing magic around—I’d probably be brilliant at that.”
“You are brilliant now.”
I felt myself blush, taken off guard by Carlos’s flattery, but he could also just have been alluding to my aura.
Quinton smiled at me, his eyes alight with love, but sparkling with amusement as well. I smiled back. I was lucky to be in love with a man who had a sense of humor.
“Hey,” Quinton said, “couldn’t we just arrive early and steal their bones or something? Dad and his corps of creeps are going to have to do some setup first, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but there are many of them and only two of you. I will be nearly useless to you except as manual labor until the sun is fully set.”
“Damn. And here I was thinking I was having another genius idea to keep up with my brilliant girlfriend.”
I smiled a little in spite of the situation ahead. Then I picked up a glass of wine, enjoying the feel of the condensation as it touched the skin of my hand. “So, it’s tricky, but we have a plan?”
“We do.”
“How do we manage the clan of bone-waggers and spies?” Quinton asked.
“I will kill Rui as soon as the casting breaks. The disarray and destruction caused by the unresolved spell and his death will affect the other mages involved. They may or may not survive, but they will be too damaged to be any danger to us. Bystanders who are not mages may die, but they will certainly be confused and frightened even if they are otherwise unscathed. Given the state of health Blaine reports for your father, he may not survive any effects reflected by the bone he gave up.”
Carlos paused to watch Quinton’s reaction, but Quinton only tightened his mouth into a grim line around whatever he might have said. “It will be his own hubris and folly that bring him down, not one of us,” Carlos said, “but he is still your father, in spite of what he’s done and would have done. This won’t be easy.”
“I didn’t expect it to be.” Quinton stood up and folded the laptop closed to tuck it under his arm. “I need to go upstairs for a few minutes. I’ll come back down for dinner.”
I put my glass down, stood, and started to go with him.
He put his free hand out to stop me. “Please don’t. I need to . . . put my thoughts in order. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but it didn’t feel quite real until now.”
I glanced at Carlos, but he was blank. “I’m sure something could—”
“No,” Quinton said. “His survival is not an option. You know all the reasons why. But I need to resolve it in my mind, myself. By myself.” His breath was growing ragged and his face was paler than it had been the night before in Campo Maior. His expression implored me to understand and say nothing.
I took half a step back from him, offering a nod, without speaking.
He kissed my cheek and I turned my head to brush my lips against his. As he broke away, he gave me a thin, stumbling smile, then turned and left the courtyard.
Carlos was still watching me, his arms crossed over his chest and his head cocked down so he looked up from under his brows. “He is a remarkable man. You two are well matched.”
I sighed as the moment broke. “I know. And I know I haven’t answered his question yet. I tried yesterday, but it doesn’t seem right to talk about the Happily Ever After when we’re in the midst of plotting the deaths of others.”
“Death is incidental. Putting an end to madness that would kill millions is what we are after. If it could be done without bloodshed, then it should be, but I see no way to accomplish that.”
I didn’t, either, but I let the words I might have said dissolve into the air. Instead, I turned back to look out at the river valley again, the light across the stubbled fields and dusty trees turning golden as the sun moved to the west. I thought how appropriate it was that Sunday evening, as the demands of the harvest waned and the fieldworkers began to trudge back up the hill to dine and rest, was the moment for contemplation that Quinton had chosen to take for himself. A day of rest in which there had been no rest for us, a day of peace in which we plotted destruction. I hoped he would resolve his emotions as easily as Amen, but I doubted it.
I saw the long communal tables under the trees being laid once again for dinner, the food brought out as the workers drew near. Nelia ran up and down, smiling and laughing as if this were any other Sunday dinner. Days turned like a wheel, each seeming like the last, yet each different and as inevitable as time itself.
The gate from the driveway creaked, the sound startling me from my melancholy thoughts. I turned a little and raised my head to look toward the gate that lay beyond Carlos’s back as he stood near me.
I recognized the sound of the dragging limp before the light fell on Eladio’s face. He emerged into the waning sun on the terrace with his hands fisted at his sides, his face set in lines of cold resolve and his aura bloody red. He walked toward Carlos as if there were no one else.
We both turned toward Eladio. I took a step and Carlos stopped me with a barely raised hand.
“It’s the ghost. It rides him. Banish it while he’s distracted with me. The rest will resolve itself.”