Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

“Mage Royston. What are they going to do?”

He tried to tell me, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a gout of blood. It splattered my cheek; I could taste it on my lips.

“Get her away . . .” One of the boys started forward; I didn’t see who. But Marco held him off.

“Elias. What are they planning to do?”

“To bring him back. Don’t let them. . . .”

“To bring who back?” I asked, afraid I already knew. “Elias. Who are they—”

“The old ones. One of the old—”

He went limp in my arms.

“Gods,” I whispered.

Chapter Twelve

Someone had cleaned up the glass in my bathroom, leaving just a new, blank backboard ready for a mirror that hadn’t arrived yet. I was oddly grateful that I couldn’t see what I looked like, couldn’t see the expression on my face. Couldn’t see anything but the bottle the old man had given me, gripped so tightly in my hand.

It was thick, brown, pitted glass, with little ripples I could feel under my fingertips. I held it up to the light and something moved inside, something dense and syrupy, something that didn’t quite obey the laws of physics. It was a little too sluggish here, a little too quick over there, climbing the sides of the container in ways a liquid shouldn’t.

But it had plenty of room, because the bottle was almost empty.

Maybe an eighth of the contents remained, answering one of the questions I’d had: why had the acolytes wanted the potion so badly if they already had it?

Because they didn’t have enough of it.

They’d searched Agnes’ rooms, just as Rhea and I had, but unlike us, they’d found something. Something that had whetted their appetites for more, so they’d called in their dark mage associates to get it for them. And they hadn’t cared what methods they used to do it.

I put the potion down and ran some water in the sink, scrubbing at the drying blood on my hands and face.

“Did I tell you how I lost my daughter?”

I looked up to find Marco standing in the bathroom door, his bulk almost filling it. It took me a second to register what he’d said, because it was so unexpected. And because my brain didn’t seem to be working so well right now.

“No.”

“You remind me of her. Thought so first time I ever saw you. Not in looks; she was dark . . . but in something. Some stupid sense of optimism, maybe.”

It felt like a slap. My body was bruised, but my nerves were worse. I didn’t need this.

“Then I ought to be reminding you of her less every day,” I said, and reached for a towel.

And had my arm caught halfway.

“No. You’re exactly like her. That’s the way she was, too. Never believed it could happen to her; never believed what men can do—”

“I’m more worried about women right now.”

“You’re not worried about anybody! Not enough!” It was savage.

“So where do you want me, Marco?” I asked, pulling away. And grabbing the damned towel because I was dripping all over everything. “Cowering under the bed? Praying that the big bad god of war doesn’t find me? Because I don’t think that’ll work.”

“And this will? Running around exhausting yourself, barely making it back—how many times are you going to try this shit?”

“Until the job’s done.”