A Burning in the Bones (Waxways #3)

Chapter 6 Ren Monroe

6 REN MONROE

Pure adrenaline.

Ren felt as if her entire body was vibrating as she exited the archive room. Gods, she’d forgotten this feeling. How breathless it was to shape magic in new ways. To alter her footwork slightly or adjust the final sweep of her wand hand as she released a spell. Ren’s deep love for spellmaking had first blossomed at Balmerick. That was a secret she’d never admit to anyone. When she’d first set out to avenge her father, magic had been a stepping stone. Get good grades. Perform solid magic. Work hard enough and she’d land a scholarship. It was the first step in a plan.

Balmerick complicated everything. It was there that she’d fallen in love with magical theory. Developing new spells could shape the actual world around her. The only true limits were the wizard’s imagination and ability. Magic felt like a path toward transforming life itself. During her time at school, she would occasionally forget about her father and his murder and the cruelty of the Broods. Normally that happened inside an archive room. She’d be so focused on working out the small, but necessary details of how to perform a spell that she’d lose sight of her true purpose at Balmerick. She’d always felt so guilty after. But not this time.

Ren stepped into the alleyway after roughly three hours of practice, completely reinvigorated. That familiar guilt never arrived. Of course not. Her father had been avenged. Landwin Brood was entombed in a vault not far from where she stood. The realization tingled down her spine. It was like coming up for air after holding her breath for a decade. The next steps of her journey could be anything. She could do anything . Chase after spells. Practice new magic. Study any subject she desired. There was no longer a secret creed guiding her steps. No dark cloud hovering above every action. She was bonded to Theo, of course. She was charged with helping run House Brood—but for the first time she realized she was free to do whatever she wanted with her life.

It felt like a beginning.

Theo came bustling around the corner. He was wearing a plaid jacket with a lovely charcoal tie and matching slacks. Everything tight and buttoned and sharp. He smiled at her as he came down the steps, deeper into the heart of the alley. No doubt he’d sensed her satisfaction across their bond. Even if he could not read her mind, Ren knew he could see it in her expression. Some door finally unlocked. A long-hidden room finally open. His smile stretched into a grin as he reached her.

“Was the room booked after me?” Ren asked.

Theo shook his head. “I don’t think so. If you want more time I could…”

Her hand found his collar before he could find the end of his sentence. She pulled him down into a kiss. Theo hesitated for a second, and then his hands slid to her waist. Ren drove him backward through the still-open door. In that unlit space, Theo kissed her hungrily, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. Ren answered. One hand running down his jaw. The other tugging his tie loose. He found the clasp of her cloak. The fabric whispered from her shoulders as she pushed back his jacket. A loud clattering sounded in the alleyway. The two of them briefly froze, then they fell to laughter—gods, how good it felt to laugh like that. Ren led Theo down the hallway and into the actual archive room. They found each other again in that thicker darkness. He lifted her off the ground. Pressed her pleasantly against the chilled walls.

“Why…” She kissed him. “… are there so many…” Again. “… buttons.”

He laughed before setting her down. There was a forming light in the room. No brighter than moonlight. This was one of the few places in the world where a person could see literal magic in the air. Those subtle tendrils were stirring all around them. Like lightning that briefly illuminated a distant shore. She saw Theo in that soft glow. His pale skin. The runner’s frame, tight with corded muscle. Even the wound he’d suffered in their battle with the wyvern. Her hands reached for that spot first. Fingertips tracing the tapered scar. She saw him shiver and it was hard not to enjoy the small noise that escaped from his lips. Ren’s hands trailed from the scar to his waist. Theo shivered again.

“Ren… are you sure…”

She answered his question with a kiss. Once, twice, a third. And then she guided his hands to where she wanted them. Theo needed little help, fingers digging lightly into her skin. Ren’s shirt slid away from her shoulders. They pressed together and more magic pulsed in the air. Bright and brief. Reacting to both of them. Weaving itself between touches. Ren realized it was displaying their bond. The magic that existed between them—made visible for a moment. For so long that connection had been a pleasure on the verge of pain. It overwhelmed. Something too sweet or too bright or too sharp. Not this time. No, this was pleasure on the verge of pleasure.

“More,” Ren whispered in Theo’s ear.

And he gave her more.

There was no shame to their walk home. It did not feel like it had at times during undergrad. Slipping back through the hallways at odd hours, hoping not to run into any of your fellow classmates. Instead, Ren and Theo crossed town together, barely capable of maintaining a sense of decorum. This was the sort of joy that Ren wished she could bottle and stopper. Not to be sold, but to be handed out for free, for all. Everyone deserved to feel like this at least once in their life.

It was not until they arrived back in the Heights that their feet seemed to set back on solid ground. An unwelcome shadow waited on their front stoop. Ren saw the figure long before they reached the stairs, but it took that entire approach to recognize who it was.

“Aunt Sloan?”

It had been quite some time. Ren realized she’d last seen the woman in line. Down in the Lower Quarter, the two of them had chatted before refilling their vessels with the monthly allotments. It had not been a pleasant conversation. Ren recalled a few cutting remarks. Normally, her memory of such moments was quite good. But the conversation had happened before . Before the portal room. Before her friends died because of her. Before everything that came after with Theo.

Another world entirely.

“Ren. I’ve been looking for you.”

Theo was a knot of anticipation at her side. Ren sensed the sudden tension in their bond—and she realized he didn’t know if this was a threatening situation or not. She dispelled the notion that Aunt Sloan might hurt them by shoving reassurance across their bond.

“Why have you been looking for me?” Ren asked. “Did something happen to my mother?”

“Not like that. It’s still urgent that we speak.”

There was something dreadful buried in her words. Not like that . Ren turned that particular phrase over again and again before realizing she hadn’t invited her old neighbor inside.

“Please. Follow me.”

Ren unlocked the door. Theo trailed them, still radiating uncertainty. She walked Sloan straight through the living room and opened the door that led to the balcony. As the woman stepped outside, Ren had a brief moment alone with Theo.

“That’s your aunt?”

“No,” Ren replied. “It’s a term of endearment. She’s someone who lived in our building. An old friend of my mother’s. I need to talk to her. Alone. She might shy away if you’re with us.”

“And you’ll be safe?”

She nodded. “Of course. Aunt Sloan is harmless.”

“Right. All right. I’ll wait inside.”

Ren stepped out, closing the door behind her. The entire property was warded—so they would not be overheard by neighbors or spies. Guilt was creeping into her thoughts. She took a moment to tamp it back down. She truly believed Sloan might talk more without Theo there. After all, he was a stranger to her. But the real motivation was that she didn’t want Theo to hear anything about her mother before she heard it first. That way she could edit the story as needed.

Will I ever be free of secrets?

She led Aunt Sloan to a pair of cushioned chairs. The seats offered the best view of Kathor below and of the sea beyond. The last two years had not been kind to the woman. Ren felt as if she’d aged rapidly in that time. Her gray hair looked frayed and the corners of her lips pinched. Even her eyes were notably baggy. It softened Ren to see her this way. A reminder that life in the Lower Quarter was far from easy.

“What word do you have of my mother?” Ren asked.

The woman bristled. “No tea? Nothing to eat? Your generation’s concept of hospitality…”

Well, so much for softness. Ren pivoted. “I did not invite you here, Aunt Sloan. You arrived at my door unannounced. I suspect this visit will bring unwelcome news. If, on the other hand, you have come to deliver good fortune, I will rush inside and put on the kettle.”

Ren waited patiently. When Aunt Sloan remained silent, she nodded.

“That’s what I thought. Go on then. Tell me what you know.”

At heart, Aunt Sloan was a gossip. Ren knew she would not come all this way to keep her mouth closed. Sure enough, the words began spilling out. Smooth as a stream of poured tea.

“My daughter-in-law vanished. Two weeks ago, she disappeared without a trace. My son spoke with Brightsword Legion. He talked to people she knew. Everyone dismissed it as a runaway case. I need your help, Ren. I know you have resources the rest of the Lower Quarter can’t access. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t serious. My son’s afraid that Lana might be dead.”

Ren leaned back in her chair. “Why does he think that?”

“What do you know about the Makers?”

“They’re a support group,” Ren answered. “A place that people go when they’ve been through trauma. Like my mother. She’s been attending those meetings ever since my father died.”

“A support group,” Aunt Sloan bit back. “That’s the public image. Just a few sad souls gathering to help each other out. But they’re more than that, Ren. The group has rituals. Rules that they demand their members follow. If you want to join, you have to forfeit your magic….”

Ren nodded. “I know my mother doesn’t use magic. That’s a choice that she made a long time ago. I’ve no issue with it. Spellwork isn’t for everyone. Why should it matter to you or me what they choose?”

“Because it is one thing to stop using magic—and quite another thing to believe no one should use it at all. Did you know that’s what they preach at their meetings? That magic is the chain that binds the hands and feet of the lower class. These are not monks who’ve taken a vow of silence, Ren. They are zealots who would like to cut out everyone else’s tongues as well.”

She could hear the urgency in Sloan’s words, but there was a gap between the woman’s claims and her own experiences. “My mother’s been attending those meetings for a decade. She doesn’t use magic, but she’s never asked me to set my spells aside. Not once. And she’s had plenty of opportunities to say something. Trust me.”

Aunt Sloan brushed that aside. “Well, of course not. You are uniquely gifted. You had a scholarship to Balmerick. What Lower Quarter mother would deny her child an opportunity like that? She wouldn’t ask you to stop. But that’s not how it goes for most of us, and you know it. We toil down here. A few spells for back pain. A little magic to pass the time. How many of our folk go as far down that road as you? Where magic is what we live and breathe?”

The question didn’t require an answer. Ren knew there weren’t many. Guilt crept deeper into her thoughts. She also knew that just a few years ago, several of the exceptions to that rule had died in the wilderness. Timmons Devine. Cora Marrin. Avy Williams. All three of them gone because of one mistake. Ren had to mentally shake those thoughts away and focus on what Aunt Sloan was suggesting. “You’re making them sound like zealots,” Ren said. “But my mother never changed. She’s always been the way she is now. As far back as I can remember.”

“She’s older. More set in her ways. The Makers recruit the young and impressionable these days. Like our Lana. My son’s wife… she’s the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. A wonderful person. But she was fired from her job last year. She felt hopeless. She went to one of their meetings—and it was like she’d joined a cult. Swore off all magic. Talking about the city’s injustices all the time. My poor son, he was worried to death. He said they made promises to her. Tall talk of a future where she would have all the power. My boy said people would knock on their door late at night. Lana was assigned to tasks, ordered not to tell him any of the details. Not unless he’d join them too. One of those late-night visitors… was your mother.”

Ren’s insides twisted. Until now, the connection had felt innocent. Sloan’s missing daughter-in-law had attended the same meetings. So did hundreds of people. The odds of the two of them being connected had felt so slim. Now her mother was directly implicated.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Nothing,” Aunt Sloan answered quickly. “I know your mother isn’t that kind of person. At least, not the Agnes that I always knew. I can’t speak for the person they call ‘Old Agnes.’?”

It was the second time Ren had heard that name. Last year, she’d stolen away to Ravinia. Her mother had quietly arranged a “double” that would draw the attention of the Broods’ spies. The girl had rendezvoused with Ren in an apothecary shop. She’d referred to her mother as Old Agnes and it had sounded like an established nickname. As if everyone down by the docks called her that. In truth, Ren had been a bit stung. She’d felt like a neglectful daughter for not knowing that side of her mother’s life. But as she rifled back through the memories of that journey, she realized that moment was just one of many strange details.

For example, her mother had arranged a fairly complicated decoy. Why had Ren never questioned that? Agnes Monroe had spent her entire life working on the docks. She wasn’t trained in espionage. How had she known what to do? And what about the boat they’d secured passage on? Or the fact that she’d found an entire apartment for Nevelyn Tin’Vori to live in? Free of charge?

Ren could not help the creeping sense of paranoia. Maybe she was just looking back with a view colored by Aunt Sloan’s accusations. Or maybe there was something hiding in Ren’s blind spots. A truth she’d never seen. She felt certain of one thing.

“My mother has her faults, but she is not in the habit of making young women disappear.”

“Of course.” Aunt Sloan averted her eyes. “Of course she’s not. I didn’t come here to accuse her. I came here to beg you for help. My son said your mother visited them. We don’t know why. Please, ask her. If she knows anything that might offer my son peace of mind, I would be grateful. And if you don’t want to ask her—there is something else you could do.”

Aunt Sloan reached into her bag and set out a pair of threadbare shoes. The soles were nearly worn through and the sides had been scuffed.

“A pair of old shoes?”

“Enchanted with a mimicry spell.”

Ren recoiled. Much like chain spells, mimicry magic was illegal. The government occasionally granted exceptions—often to the major houses—but that branch of spells was banned because it opened the door for all sorts of potential abuses. For example, a jealous husband might use a mimicry spell on his wife’s shoes. Such magic would allow him to track her steps. He could follow her anywhere—no matter how far she went. The concerns with such magic felt obvious to her.

“You do understand how that looks? Magic like that doesn’t reflect well on your son.”

Sloan nodded. “I know. Trust me, I know. He was desperate. Imagine the person you fell in love with just… changing overnight. Into someone else entirely. He thought the Makers were doing something to influence Lana. And so he cast that spell.”

Ren frowned. “Then why do you need me? Can’t he just follow the shoes and find her?”

“Jon’s a metalworker. He’s one of the best at Peckering’s workshop, but he has no skill with magic. He linked the shoes. We know the spell worked because the new shoes transformed. Looked just like hers.” Aunt Sloan tapped the dirty laces. “But he can’t get the second part of the spell to activate. We know how talented you are, Ren. One of the most skilled wizards to come from the Lower Quarter in a decade. And you’re a part of House Brood. The government… they grant exceptions to people in your position. You wouldn’t be arrested for this. Would you?”

It was a reasonable guess. Likely Sloan was right. Ren might receive a polite slap on the wrist, but truly, there wouldn’t be any real consequence for her. “Why should I risk my reputation for you? You’ve come here and all but accused my mother of kidnapping.”

“No, no, no,” Aunt Sloan said quickly. “I promise this isn’t about your mother. It’s about Lana. It’s about my son. I would do anything for him. I came to you because who else would I go to? We don’t know the Broods. No one in House Shiverian is going to meet with someone like me. Even the Brightsword commander assigned to protect our district told us to stop bothering him. He dismissed Lana’s case in less than two minutes. There’s no one else, Ren. If you can’t help us, who can?”

Ren didn’t know what to say. She had little love for Aunt Sloan, but she had quite a bit of love for what Aunt Sloan represented: the Lower Quarter. Her people. It was where her father had made his reputation. The very people he’d died helping. It was where she’d grown up and where her mother lived. Fire burned to life in her chest. A forgotten loyalty stretching its limbs and stirring back to life. She had not risen to this position just to ignore the people she’d grown up with. She could not simply walk away from the ghosts of Timmons and Cora and Avy, either. She owed it to every single one of them to make sure that the power she’d gained when they died would not continue to pile up in the vaults of the great houses. That would be like leaving unpicked fruit to rot on overfull vines. She had vowed to change Kathor—and perhaps it started in moments like this.

Quietly she reached out and accepted the shoes. She slid them inside her own bag before locking eyes with Aunt Sloan. “I will investigate. I can’t make promises beyond that.”

Her old neighbor burst into tears. Ren could hardly bear the sight. She stood and led the woman back inside. Out the front door. Each whispered “thank you” shivered uncomfortably down her spine. Ren had never been good with emotions. Certainly not the emotions of others. The second the door closed, her mind began racing through everything she’d just learned.

Theo was trotting down the stairs. She had no doubt that he’d have a million questions for her. Not that Ren had any answers. Looking back, it was staggering to think through all the help her mother had given her while she attempted to take her revenge on Landwin Brood. As soon as Ren had invited her into the plan, a fountain of resources had been made available.

As if she’d already been plotting something…

Ren had assumed each action was a representation of her mother’s resourcefulness. Agnes Monroe had looked after herself for nearly a decade. She was self-sufficient, street-smart. A survivor—like Ren was. Not once had she considered a deeper explanation. This felt like a startling weakness in her own defenses. Was it really possible her mother was living some other life?

Theo reached the landing. “Everything all right?”

“We need to go back to the archive room.”

That drew out a smile. “That’s… well… I don’t know if it’s been long enough….”

Ren snorted. She brushed his cheek with a kiss.

“For work this time. Not pleasure.”

“Right,” Theo said. “Of course. Wait. What work?”

Ren walked past him, holding up the shoes so he could see them.

“We’re looking for the owner of these shoes.”

And we’re hoping that she’s still alive.