17
“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
Dressed in his Black Hat best, the director lounged in a wingback chair in his office. He appeared healthy, but he was a master of illusion. Had I not called ahead to request a private meeting, a courtesy from one predator to another, this conversation might have occurred in his room, with him in bed as he recovered from the grievous wounds I could smell on him from here.
The idea had been to arrive sporting bruises from the Boo Brothers’ last stand as proof I had been in a fight for my life, but the swelling and discoloration had vanished before I could put them to good use.
“I came to deliver the news about Parish in person.” I stood at parade rest behind the visitor’s chair across from him. “He’s dead.” A slight tilt of the director’s head was the only reaction he gave to this announcement, though he must know by now. “You and I don’t see eye to eye on much, but we—”
“You recruited two young black witches. Siblings, I believe.”
“I did.” I knew it would convince him as few things would, that I was ready. “I thought it was time.”
That snagged his interest, and he leaned forward, wincing before he could smooth his features. “Oh?”
“I want Parish’s job.” I did my best to appear earnest. “I want to fix what’s wrong with the Bureau.”
“You want to dismantle my legacy.” He leaned back to ease the strain on what I suspected were abdominal wounds. “No.” He flicked a dismissive hand. “I have another candidate in mind.”
“Your candidate didn’t kill Parish.”
Silence flooded the room until our hearts, mine steady, his labored, were the only sounds.
“That’s not possible.” He looked me up and down. “I know who killed him.”
“Oh?” I strove for innocence. “Who?”
Even now, when he knew Dad was responsible, he didn’t risk speaking him into existence.
“Witnesses report a great black bird who smelled of carrion attacked the dragon.”
“And?”
“Only one man has ever summoned such wings, and he died long ago without sharing his secrets.”
For a second, I thought an understanding pulsed between us. The old he knew that I knew that he knew that I knew Dad was alive deal. But he wasn’t willing to step up to that line, and I wasn’t willing to cross it either.
“Or perhaps—” I tasted bile admitting this much, “—he wrote it all down.”
“A grimoire?” The director’s attention swung back to me. “His grimoire?”
Again, I waited for him to use his son’s name or allude to my father, but he didn’t.
“Do you want your proof, or don’t you?” I acted bored. “Appoint me deputy director, and I’ll show you my new trick.”
“Done.” His eagerness made me squirm. “The job is yours, if you can produce those wings.”
The words I spent the hour beforehand practicing spilled from my lips as I raised my arms to either side. I smelled the magic before I saw it, ripping through my spine and anchoring itself in my flesh. I flexed the new appendages, blowing the director’s hair back from the might of the gale they produced in such close quarters. Black tendrils curled over my shoulders, but soon the color leached to a silvery gray.
As fast as I had summoned them, I cut off the spell, hoping the director hadn’t noticed the odd color.
“Marvelous.”
That one word was the only bit of praise he had ever given me, and I could tell by the war of hatred and love across his face that he meant the word for his son, who had created this spell. Not for me, who had merely executed it.
Either Dad had known, after he fought with Parish, that I would end up here, or he sought to fulfill his promise to share the secret of flight if I wrote to him. Before he disappeared. With Mom. For good?
This, at least, gave me the grounds to prove I had killed Parish. Had I not known the director better, I might have suspected he made his bargain in haste to cling to the only person of his blood left. The truth was more likely that he needed me as his shield until Dad was in a grave. For real this time.