Jack stood, his business obviously concluded. “The Order is not the architect of your suffering. This situation is wholly mage-made; they are all agents of chaos, including, God help me, my Kaye.”
The angels of the Order were killers, Jack here among the best of them. Just look at the carnage he’d wrought today.
Jack stalked to the front door, opened it, then paused on the threshold. “When next you receive a call from Kaye Brand, you will take it, and you will hear her out.”
Mason didn’t know what he’d do. Couldn’t even remember how to breathe. Give up his son?
“And if it comforts you at all, consider that Fletcher is one of the very few in this war who is protected by both Order and Shadow. I give you my word.”
A wheeze of disbelief escaped Mason. Order and Shadow were at war; his son now in the middle.
The only person who really acted on Fletcher’s behalf was him. And now he had an impossible decision to make.
Fletcher stepped back from the wall, wiping his face dry. Tears were for girls.
The Shadow that had let Fletcher extend his senses across the barrier faded away. His dad didn’t know he could do that—see through walls; Fletcher hadn’t said because his dad would be mad that he had been overlistening to stuff for a while. And his dad did some pretty cool shit. The wall became hard and real again. The poster of Batman glaring through his mask jumped back into sharp contrast.
Fletcher swallowed to get the choke out of his throat. He didn’t understand a lot of what he’d heard. Only that his dad wasn’t a real mage. Wasn’t like him. And that he’d have to go live with Mr. Webb.
Didn’t matter. His dad was still his dad.
I’d die for my son.
The echo made him toughen up. Of course his dad would put him in the safest place. He always put him in the safest place. Fletcher could still feel the tight hold that had saved him from getting sick and burning from the inside out like those other mages at the fair. Eyeballs going sloppy and gross.
And now his dad had to track the one who had killed all those people? The mage Council had chosen his dad out of everybody. And that was because his dad could do anything. The poster of Batman went blurry. His dad just had a secret identity is all—human.
Being human was bad to some, like being a stray, but Fletcher didn’t care. What it meant was that his dad might need a little help for once on his secret missions. Finally.
And Fletcher was just the man for the job.
Chapter Two
A knock at Cari’s bathroom door, and Stacia peeked in, a wing of her red and black hair falling around her face. “Mom had Erom wait in the office.”
Cari’s belly fluttered with nerves.
She’d been seeing Erom Vauclain for the past six months. Vauclain was a good House, strong family; their business interests aligned perfectly with Dolan’s. She no longer had the luxury of waiting; it was time to make this official. He had to have guessed why she’d finally allowed him to come after his repeated requests, when before she hadn’t wanted him to risk the plague. His agreement was therefore assured. All she had to do was . . . ask.
In times of upheaval, joining forces made sense. It was a good strategy, supported by her stepmother, who was a little self-satisfied because she’d gotten them together in the first place. And Cari could explain in person that she was working on behalf of the Council to find the source of the mage plague. These were smart steps.
“Thanks, sis.” Cari smoothed the skirt of her little gray dress, made sure the three-quarter sleeves covered the worst of the bandages from her plague welts, and centered the buckle of the slim belt on her waist. She checked herself in the mirror. No signs of sleeplessness, though she’d closed her eyes for less than six hours since it had happened. No signs of the hysteria she’d locked in her ribcage. She was, in fact, on the verge of screaming. She’d blown her hair into submission, working the round brush until her triceps burned. A person might think she was composed and ready for business.
Stacia gave her a long, silent look of appraisal. The disapproving kind.
“What?” Cari had been at this too long already this morning. He was waiting; she’d let him through the House wards over twenty minutes ago.
Stacia shrugged. “You look pale. Your dress washes you out.”
“Well, I’m not going to wear pink.”
“You never wear pink.”
“I was making a point.” The House was in mourning.
Stacia smiled. “I was making a point, too. You look like you’re going to a board meeting, not a romantic rendezvous.”
Cari made a face—she had worn this dress only to DolanCo functions. But she wasn’t going to change now. No time. Instead, she handed her stepsister the blush brush. A compromise.
Stacia sat up on the sink counter, blocking the mirror. She dug through the make-up drawer and found a compact. “FYI, oh mighty head of our household.”
Cari made a face at the exaggerated title. “What now, oh brat who steals my shoes?” She really didn’t want to be the one that her stepsisters had to come to for permission, but authority went with the territory. They’d overcome the “step” thing years ago and were now “sisters,” but her new status as the head of the household separated them again. Felt lonely.
“Since you and Zella are planning to get hitched, Mom wants me to start thinking about it, too.” She dabbed the compact for color, blew off the excess, and dusted Cari’s cheeks.
Stacia was twenty, old enough for an arrangement. And with everything going on, yes . . . Scarlet would think along those lines. Stability. Connections. Although technically, as head of the House, Cari was now the one who should take care of such matters. Scarlet might need reminding. Her meddling would look bad for them all, as if Cari couldn’t handle her own House business.
“Please don’t make me get married.”
Cari groaned. “I’ll talk to her.” Though it wasn’t going to be fun. In fact, she’d rather impale herself with a Martin House dagger.
Stacia held up a “wait” finger while she hunted for the eyeliner. “And I don’t want to go back to school either. I want to find a job when this is all over.”
“A job?” Cari scowled at the make-up. “Take it easy.”
Stacia ignored her, re-lined her eyes, and then flipped the eyeliner pencil to the smudge side. “And I already know Father would’ve told me to stay in school until I figure it out, so you don’t have to.”
Seemed like he’d been talking in Stacia’s head, too.
“Well, I’m not Father.” Cari felt hollow. “Don’t worry about this now. We’ll work it out. A lot of things are changing.” The admission brought a rise of fresh panic.
Stacia must have heard it in her voice and gave a quick squeeze of support. Then she made a flourish toward Cari’s face. “Voilà. You may now get engaged.”
Cari checked herself in the mirror and found she actually looked alive. Her stepsister had skills, but then Stacia had glamour in her Shadowed blood.
“Do we like him?” Cari’s knotted stomach was getting the best of her.
Erom Vauclain. Was he the one?
Stacia’s brows went up. “He’s hot.”
“He is that.” So their chemistry problem had to be her.
Never mind. House first. The other things would come with time.
“Love you.” Stacia looked relieved. Then she winced. “A good sister would make you change into that plunging red dress, but then I’d have to fetch it from my closet.”
Cari laughed—it felt rusty, surreal. “You do need a job, so you can buy your own stuff.”
“Exactly my point.” Stacia flashed her big grin again. “Go snag that fine specimen of a man. Put that desk to good use.” She made a rude gesture to illustrate.