35. Piano Sonata No. 14 in C sharp Minor #2
My eyes narrow as I translate the threat.
While most would think it’s about the warrior living and dying by the sword, that’s not the word-for-word interpretation.
No, this was added to their buildings after the Treaty, and it’s a warning for any stray magicals, especially my kind.
The evil within that organization runs deep enough that they inscribed their buildings with sayings meant to spook the strongest of the magic users—the Fae.
Let them believe that will save them; I’m not afraid.
Moving away from the gutter barely holding me, I leap and land like a spider.
Below me, a maintenance ledge runs the length of the building designed for a generation of caretakers who were suicidal or desperate for work.
In the downspout's shadow, I step laterally three paces and press my right hand to the stained glass, a narrow lancet set between the regular windows of the admin building.
The glass is unlatched and cracked at the hinge, so I slip two fingers into the seam and ease it open.
There is a moment of silent resistance as it protests; and then gives. Within moments, I am inside.
This section of the building is designed with secret places that are no longer on the maps.
In 1887, a fire in l’Academie’s records room erased those nooks and crannies from institutional memory; what survived were whispered rumors, and that is how I prefer it.
The corridor is low-ceilinged and smells of wet limestone and old ink.
The only light is a dim green haze leaking from the moss patches I have cultivated for years, each one a tiny lamp nurtured to illuminate just enough for the work.
Did I mention that I set the fire in that room?
If not, then I should relate that it was not the only one over the years.
Having secret areas for our eventual rebellion in every school, government building, and institution in the major buildings of the shifter world was always part of the scheme.
This has been a long time coming, and securing our bases of operation was planned in intricate detail.
On the left, stacked along a shelf made of scavenged wood and reinforced with copper bands, is the haul from the summer.
Most of it was lifted from forgotten vaults, snatched in midnight raids, or intercepted in transit by idiots who thought wards and iron cages could slow us down.
A few things I won in card games, which is funny because a simple glamour tricked those who should have been wary of anyone new in their sphere.
But they weren’t, and it amused me greatly.
I run my hand along the line of prizes, smiling as I verify everything is here.
Three codexes, all water-stained and bound in rusted iron.
Each is sealed with a different clasp that is preventing me from accessing its spoils.
One has the sigil of the Laveaux family; one is blank but for a string of Old Fae runes burned along the spine; and the last has a lock that is rumored to bite the fingers off any who attempt to open it without invitation.
I will figure out how to get them open; it’s necessary for our cause.
But at the moment, they elude me, and I need to find the right people to assist.
After that, there’s a leather satchel, dark with age, and tied with a thong that smells faintly of myrrh.
It contains a bundle of vellum scrolls, the oldest of which dates to a time before the Treaty.
I have not read all of them, but the one I opened bled a little when I nicked the seal.
The script is red, but I do not think it is ink.
That is something I have a small group of very skilled mages working on.
The glass reliquary shines in the low light.
It’s sealed at the edges with something that looks like silver but feels like quicksilver if you touch it too long.
Inside it is a brooch shaped like a sylvan crest. It is chipped at one edge, as if someone once tried to snap it in two and failed.
The rumors say it belonged to a queen, but no royals save me were caught on this side of the Veil when it closed.
It is not of my family’s court, and I am working on researching its powers.
I have not found the information, but I have a very good idea of where it may be hiding.
Walking to the table, I unwrap the book of magical enchantments and knowledge I’ve gathered over my patient wait.
It is the largest book in the room, stamped with iron so black it eats the light.
After I put on the gloves needed to handle it safely, I break the bespelled wax seal on the side and flip to the page I marked last night.
The script is angular and thick, designed to be read in moonlight or not at all.
It’s why I keep my little room so dark, and in order to see it better, I mutter the plea to our goddess that will help me read it.
My invocation is not showy. It requires no blood and no dramatic gestures.
Just a finger pressed to the ink, a breath out, and a single word whispered on the inhale.
The magic feels like a drop of cold water running down the inside of my spine.
A small amount of magically manufactured moonlight fills the room, and I can see as clearly as I do at night.
Perfect.
There is a ripple at the far end of the corridor.
For a second, the green moss light flickers, and then two slivers of shadow detach from the wall and compress themselves into the air.
They stand at attention—if you can call what they do standing—and wait for my command.
I close the codex with the deliberate motion you would use to put a loaded gun back in its holster.
The runes along the spine warm briefly under my touch, and then go cold again.
I wrap it, tie the cord twice, and return it to the pile.
Looking at the intruders, I wait for a report.
“Dupree stairwell, east side. Candle-smoke. Watch the observer—tall, left-handed, leather and studs. Return if he signals. Otherwise, remain.”
Apparently, the spies I’ve turned to our cause have found something interesting. I nod at the shadowkin, accepting their report. “I will be there. Continue with your reconnaissance.”
They fade into nothingness without a word, and I turn back to the shelf.
My hands are shaking, but it is not fear.
It is adrenaline and anticipation. I force a slow breath to calm my excitement and look around my lair.
Everything is moving according to plan, and even the small unplanned occurrences have not thrown us off track.
If it continues this way, within the next year, the Society will taste defeat, and the Veil will open once more.
I tuck the iron token inside my shirt and close my eyes for a second, bracing myself for the climb out and the long trek through the crawlspace to the next blind. I need to be in place before the second period ends, or the window for the next move will close.
This is how wars are won—not with brute force, but with a hundred careful, invisible actions no one thinks to notice until it is too late.
I exhale, open my eyes, and step back into the dark.
It is our time, and they will not see us coming until it is too late.
* In iron life, in iron death.