Magic Triumphs (Kate Daniels 10)

“He is,” Christopher said.

Barabas came over and handed me a cup of steaming chamomile tea. “Drink.”

I took a sip. He landed in a leather chair, pulled a folder from a bag next to it, and began reading the contents, pen in hand.

I drank my tea. We sat in silence for a couple of long minutes. I exhaled. The world settled down.

“Fine,” I said finally, setting the cup on the side table. “Tell me about Hugh d’Ambray.”

Christopher smiled. It was a small smile, tinged with regret. “The first time I realized something was off, I had just been made Tribunus, second in command after Morgan, who was Legatus of the Golden Legion at the time. We were in Boston: your father, Morgan, Hugh, and I. Roland wanted to meet with a senator about matters of magical policy. The meeting went well. We were planning to leave in the morning. A hospital across the street from the hotel caught on fire. Hundreds of burn victims, mostly children. D’Ambray went down there. He healed for hours. By morning, he could barely stand. Morgan sent me down there to tell him Roland wanted to leave.”

Christopher looked into his cup again. “I found him covered in soot, going from child to child, sometimes healing two at a time. D’Ambray told me he wasn’t done. Morgan sent me down again, then went himself. We couldn’t drag Hugh away from those children. He was manic. By the time we came back, your father was awake, sitting in the hotel restaurant, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the rescue crews. He paid the bill, walked across the street, and told Hugh it was time to go. Hugh told him he wasn’t done. He had a boy, maybe twelve, and the child had inhaled hot smoke. It burned him from the inside out. Every time he breathed in, he made this whistling grinding sound. D’Ambray was trying to put him back together. Your father looked at Hugh for a moment and said, ‘It will be fine.’ Hugh dropped the boy to the ground and followed us out. On the way to the cars, he made a joke about a passing woman’s ass.”

I knew that Hugh. The one who made jokes and stepped over burning bodies. The healing Hugh . . . He did save Doolittle. He saved Ascanio too, but he blackmailed me to do it. He’d killed Mauro. Mauro was my friend.

“For the next two years, I was busy with Morgan,” Christopher said. “After I killed him and became Legatus, I looked further into Hugh. As Legatus, I answered only to Roland. I controlled the entirety of the People. I made a study of any potential rivals rising through the People’s ranks, and I studied Hugh. D’Ambray wasn’t an immediate threat. We were equal but separate, and he showed no signs of wanting to take my place. Still, one does due diligence.”

Christopher drank his tea.

“Other people’s pain brings Hugh discomfort.”

I almost laughed. “Hugh d’Ambray?”

Christopher met my gaze. “Do I strike you as a man likely to jump to conclusions?”

Barabas chortled in his chair.

“The nature of his magic is such that when he sees an injury, it creates distress. Not pain exactly, but a high degree of anxiety. This mechanism allows him to precisely identify the problem and correct it. He is compelled to heal.”

“You’re describing someone who is almost an empath, but instead of emotional pain, he feels physical pain. That kind of person wouldn’t willingly harm others. Hugh is a killer.”

“A paradox,” Christopher said. “So I asked myself, how do I reconcile the two? And then I watched your father. What I’m about to tell you is conjecture, but it’s conjecture based on careful observation and a lot of thought. I believe your father required a warlord. He wanted someone young and with a great deal of magic. He found Hugh and he tried to mold him into the tool of destruction he needed. However, the position called for a psychopath with a sadistic streak. Hugh was never that. He was perfect in every other way: he was physically and magically gifted, a superior fighter, a talented strategist, charismatic, loyal, happy to serve, but he wasn’t a sadist. So your father used the blood bond between them to blunt his emotions. On multiple occasions, I’ve observed Hugh agitated and arguing his point. Your father would speak to him and suddenly Hugh would come to his point of view and the source of the agitation would no longer matter.”

I should’ve seen it. Suddenly so many things made sense. Mishmar made sense. My father told him to do whatever was necessary to make me comply and numbed him enough to do it, so Hugh did it.

“You have a blood bond with Julie,” Christopher said. “Tell me, can it be done?”

I sighed. “Yes. I can impose my will over hers. I can make her not care. It comes with a heavy price tag.”

Christopher set down his cup and leaned back, braiding his fingers on his knee. “What are the consequences?”

“If you superimpose yourself on your blood bonded, eventually their mind will break. There will be nothing left except a reflection of you. They will be lobotomized. My aunt gives me a lecture on this at least once every three months, just in case I forget. She’s fond of Julie.”

“Question.” Barabas raised his finger. “Hugh was bound to Roland for decades, and now we know Roland blunted his emotions. Then Roland broke the blood bond.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Why isn’t Hugh dead?”

I raised my hands. “Because he is Hugh. He’s unkillable. Curran broke his back and threw him into a magic fire that melted an entire stone castle, and he’s still alive. He shouldn’t even be able to form coherent thoughts.”

The name Iron Dogs fit in more ways than one. A dog is hardwired to please a human. When you got a puppy and raised it to adulthood, you shaped the dog. Take a puppy and give him a loving home, and in most cases, he will be a sweet dog. Take the same puppy and chain him in the yard, and it will be a whole different story. My father had taken a stick to his dog and beaten him senseless every time he strayed out of line. Poor Hugh. But he never turned on his master. He never bit the hand that held the stick.

“Yes, my father imposed his will on him, but that doesn’t absolve him of responsibility for having done horrible shit.”

“My point precisely,” Barabas said. “There is no way to tell how much of what he did was Roland’s doing and how much was him. Maybe he is a violent psychopath. He could’ve rebelled. He didn’t.”

“Hugh wouldn’t rebel,” I told him. “He is loyal. The real question is, who are we dealing with now? My father is gone. It’s just Hugh. None of us know who Hugh is. He’s done so much fucked-up crap. I’m not sure I can deal with it. I don’t know if it’s in me. I mean, Christopher, he put you in a cage.”

“Your father put me in a cage,” he said.

“But Hugh kept you there,” Barabas said.

“Have you ever wondered how I survived two months in a cage with no food or water?” he asked. “Why I didn’t go into organ failure? Why I had no sores, despite sitting in my own filth?”

“Hugh fed you,” I guessed.

Christopher nodded. “At night. He talked to me.”

I threw my hands up. “He shouldn’t have kept you in the cage in the first place.”

“He kept me alive.”

Barabas sighed.

Christopher’s expression sharpened, growing somehow more fragile. “The two of you only remember the man in the cage. Before that I was the Legatus of the Golden Legion. I murdered my way to the top. I committed atrocities. And unlike Hugh, I have nobody to blame but myself. I own everything I’ve done. I did it because I wanted power. I must live with it. Hugh lives with his memories. It will be his choice to atone for what he has done, or not. But I’ve forgiven Hugh, because if I don’t forgive him, there is no hope for forgiveness for someone like me.”

He rose and went upstairs. Barabas went after him, and I let myself out.

* * *

• • •

I WALKED INTO our house and went down to the basement. Yu Fong was still comatose. Adora was nowhere to be found.

I climbed back up and walked into our kitchen. The light was on, warm and soft. The air smelled of cooked butter and fresh coffee. Curran stood by the stove, toasting bread. A plate of sliced smoked meat sat next to him.