Cold Fire (Spiritwalker 2)

“Cat!” Drake strode over and pressed his lips to mine. I jerked away, ramming up against the back of the chair. He smiled. “No need to be so formal with me, darling. Why did you take so long to come to the Speckled Iguana? And then run away?”

I glared. “Can it be possible you think you have a grievance?”

Drake chuckled. “Must I tender my heartfelt apologies? Were you so hurt by my leaving you on the jetty? Weren’t you worried I would be arrested?”

“What makes you think I thought of you at all?”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, with a conspiratorial glance shared with Jasmeen, “I suppose there were other men to embrace.”

I leaped up and punched him, my fist slamming solidly into his jaw. He reeled back, caught himself. A hot spicy scent sparked in the air as his eyes lit and his mouth thinned.

The general said, “James, calm down. You clearly did not tell me everything. I strongly suspect your conduct in this matter deserves rebuke.”

“I want that cursed cold mage,” said Drake, his pale skin gone a blotchy red as he pressed fingers along his jaw. “You told me that if I fetched her and dumped her on the jetty, we would flush him out of hiding and catch him. Instead he escaped.”

I made a sound, like choking on the suppurating taste of my own naïveté. Bee dropped the teapot, which shattered on the tile floor, fragments skittering everywhere on a sheen of fragrant liquid. She looked as if someone had stabbed her.

The elegant woman spoke in a plangent tone, as if sorry to be witnessing such unpleasantness. “I shall let yee sort this out, Leon. Send for me.”

“Of course, Jasmeen.” He took her hand, pressed lips to her knuckles, and released her.

She swept out, gracious enough to close the door behind her to spare the rest of the household my histrionics.

“How could you??” I shrieked.

Bee burst into wrenching sobs. “You didn’t tell me this was all part of a plot to trap him!”

“Sit down,” said the general with no change of expression or tone.

I saw as down a narrowing tunnel a brick wall rushing to meet me. “You used me to get to him!?”

Drake studied me. With a twisted frown that was almost more of a grimace, he looked at the broadsheet. “For information leading to the capture of the rogue fire bane, a significant reward. That’s all very well, but how are we meant to arrest him now he knows we know of him? He had to have been living somewhere, and yet no one turned him in. I find it difficult to believe a cold mage of so much power could have hidden his craft. The wardens followed those weather disturbances two nights ago, but they lost his trail, and now…nothing. No word. No whisper. No ice. No one will talk. We’ve lost him.” The corner of the broadsheet began to singe and crumple to ash.

“James!” said the general sharply.

Drake exhaled. Shaking flakes of gray from his hand, he stepped away from the table.

Cheeks wet with tears, Bee got down on hands and knees to sweep up the fractured pot with her hands. My flaring exploding rage collapsed as into a dagger of anger, honed and glittering.

“You,” I said to the general. “What did you do?”

The door opened and three women came in. Two cleaned up the shattered pot and spilled tea, while the third brought a fresh pot and poured four cups for the table. The general thanked them politely. They left without remarking on Bee, now slumped on the floor in the spread of her skirt, like a crushed flower.

The general went to the sideboard and uncovered a rasher of bacon and a plate of poached eggs surrounded by fried potatoes. He began to load up a plate as he talked.

“Beatrice assured me you were eager to be rid of the marriage. Now it seems you aren’t.”

He looked at me as with a question. I stared sullenly back, lips pinched shut.

“Jasmeen says he’s quite handsome and clearly madly in love with you. Youth, looks, and admiration are an intoxicating combination that is difficult to resist.” He returned to the table and set down a heavily-laden plate between a knife and a spoon. Then he steered me to the chair in front of the plate. “Sit.”

I did not sit. “I’ll never let you kill him.”

The general sat opposite me, touched the rim of a teacup to his mouth, then lowered it. “Ah! Still too hot.”

Drake put a hand on the back of my chair, as if to pull it out for me. I grabbed a knife. He retreated.

“Where you are under a misapprehension, Cat,” the general went on, “is in your belief that I want to kill the cold mage. What is his name again?” he asked Drake.