Chapter 25 #3
The voice sounded familiar. She turned, feeling as if she were underwater, the effort of moving and breathing and thinking far harder than it ought to be, and found Wizard Hillier, the doctor who’d helped Peter.
He was wearing scrubs this time and she recalled with a surge of hope that he’d described himself as an “itinerant”—on call with all the Washington hospitals.
“Please tell me you’re headed in to take over,” she managed.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll do everything I can.”
“Thank you,” she said, blinking back tears. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He hesitated, the picture of a man trying to find the nonexistent words to console a woman whose husband, by all appearances, attempted to murder her sister. She didn’t have time to convince him otherwise, so she just said, “Go—save her.”
He nodded and strode in. Joan dashed up a moment later, Dot and Marilyn at her heels.
“Beatrix, you can’t let a wizard in there,” Joan whispered. “We’re certain the omnimancer was set up—”
“I know him. We can trust him.”
“Well—OK,” Joan said, frowning. “If you’re sure.”
“How did you realize Peter didn’t do this?” she asked, hoping for incontrovertible evidence but knowing there would be none. The wizards had never been sloppy, and they would have planned this especially well.
“It’s just … obvious, isn’t it?” Dot said. “We know him. He wouldn’t.”
“And what better way to cover up the real source of the attack than to put him under a spell that controls his movements?” Marilyn said.
“My God, I’m sorry,” Joan added, hugging Beatrix. “Those bastards.”
Beatrix tried to answer, but her throat seemed to be closing up, what-might-have-beens running through her head. If she had seen Plan B through … If she and Peter had just stayed home today … If she’d taken Ella’s warning seriously …
That last memory on the platform before she blacked out came back to her in a rush. She pulled back, eyes wide. “Where’s Ella?”
They looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?” Joan said.
“She was there—on the platform after Lydia was attacked.”
Marilyn turned to Dot. “I didn’t see her. Did you?”
“No.” Dot stared at Beatrix. “Are you sure?”
Beatrix bit her lip. Was she? Could she have dreamt it? Before she could come up with an answer, she caught sight of Detective Tanner striding toward them.
“Detective,” she said, running to meet him, “Peter didn’t do it. I know it looks as if he did, but—”
“Mrs. Blackwell,” he interrupted, voice subdued. “I’m afraid we need to ask you some questions. Come with me, please.”
Her heart constricted. “Could we talk here? My sister—”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“Please don’t make me leave Lydia.” She could barely get the words out. “Please.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
Gray stepped between them. “I suggest you schedule a time with Mrs. Blackwell when she’s not waiting to discover if her sister will survive this surgery.”
Tanner shook his head. “It has to be now.”
“We’ll stay,” Joan said, putting an arm around her. Then, head to hers, she added in a whisper, “We’ve kept on practicing.”
Beatrix looked at her, eyes wide. Practicing … spells?
“Mrs. Blackwell,” Tanner said, voice firm, and it was clear she would not have time to take Joan aside and find out what, exactly, they’d been doing.
Gray cleared his throat. “I think I should come with you.”
She was on the brink of agreeing—he could give his statement to the police—but considered the advantage of leaving an attorney and state senator to keep watch over her sister.
“Stay,” she said. “Please. Make sure she’s OK.”
He hesitated. Then he nodded.
Tanner had interviewed her in Peter’s hospital room several times while Peter was trapped in the coma. Now he led them through hallways, passing unoccupied rooms, and straight out of the hospital to a waiting car.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The police station.”
Beatrix closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing, instead of how the police car was taking her farther from Lydia by the second.
Officers in the station stared as the two of them walked by.
She glanced down and, with a sickening lurch, realized that her sister’s blood was smeared across the front of her dress.
She tore off the sash—the gold “Fair Play” letters splotched a rust-red—as she followed Tanner into a small room with a table and three chairs.
Tanner sat. Another police officer joined him.
“Mrs. Blackwell,” Tanner said, “before we begin, let me point out that you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Her breath stuck in her throat. What?
The questions were so off the wall she couldn’t help but answer them. No, Peter wasn’t obsessed with her sister. No, she wasn’t jealous of her sister. For heaven’s sake, no, she hadn’t told Peter to kill her sister!
“Listen,” she said, “he didn’t attack her. He didn’t. Ask Mitchell Gray, the Maryland senator—he had a good view of what happened.”
Tanner’s partner cocked his head. “And what did happen, in your view?”
“A wizard put him under a spell.”
“What wizard?”
“Someone working for the Abbott administration.”
“For what purpose?”
“To kill Lydia and frame someone else for it.”
Tanner’s partner rolled his eyes. “It’s always the wizards’ fault with you people, isn’t it?”
“No, but in this case—”
“Do you have any proof for such a wild accusation? Besides whatever some state senator thinks he saw, and keep in mind that there were newsreel crews there—we’ve seen the footage.”
What could she say? That the vice president’s estranged daughter insisted Lydia was in danger? (No, detectives, I don’t know where she is. Also, she might be insane. Just warning you.)
That Lydia already had experienced a brush with death, albeit on Garrett’s say-so? (Well, detectives, the only ones who saw that besides Peter and me are a few other League leaders. You know, the people you think blame wizards for everything.)
That the magiocracy tapped their telephones and bugged her former house?
(No, detectives, I can’t offer any hard evidence it was them, but Peter, Ella and I did see the vice president’s wizard installing the recording devices.
Yes, the same Ella whose whereabouts I don’t know and whose sanity I cannot vouch for.)
That Peter was no longer able to cast spells? (Yes, detectives, I realize he’s employed as an omnimancer. Who’s handling those spells? Well, I am.)
How she wished she’d brought Gray.
“If you talk to legislators who sponsored typic-rights bills, they’ll tell you how desperate the magiocracy is to stop this campaign,” she said, knowing as she formed the words how inadequate they were. “We’ve been worried about Lydia’s safety for months—”
“Play it,” Tanner’s partner said to Tanner.
The detective leaned over, lifted something bulky onto the table—a projector—and hit a button. On the wall behind them played a scene that never happened, one that stole the breath from her lungs.
“Beatrix Blackwell,” Tanner said, ice in his stare, “you’re under arrest.”
Morse didn’t do anything to him. Not a thing. Wouldn’t give him something to eat. Wouldn’t provide him with water. Wouldn’t let him up to use the bathroom. Wouldn’t let him out of the chair at all.
Hours passed. When the inevitable happened, he breathed in the stench of Morse’s attempt to humiliate him and thought of Garrett, leaving him stuck to the cellar wall under the assumption that Beatrix would eventually find him in this state.
Part of the dirty-tricks squad’s basic training, no doubt.
What did it matter? Nothing could make the day appreciably worse than it already was.
He thought he wouldn’t fall asleep, but eventually he did, only to wake in confusion at a noise—the hum of lowered voices.
“ … want to do about it?” Morse.
“It’s unfortunate.” A different voice. Clipped. Annoyed. “But it doesn’t matter at this point, does it? Let’s get this over with.”
Unmistakably the vice president.
Morse flipped on the light. Peter squinted, blindness giving way to the sight of James Draden, frowning at him.
“Could you please …?” Draden waved a hand in Peter’s direction, nose wrinkling.
Morse cast a spell—quickly, silently. The smell faded. Peter’s thirst and hunger remained.
“Get him up,” Draden said.
Whatever spell had held his muscles in check had long worn off, but the magical bindings tying him to the chair were still in place. Morse removed those and hauled him up by a shoulder, at which point Peter—lightheaded, legs rubbery—tumbled to the floor.
Draden—to his surprise—held out a hand. The momentary consideration that this was Marbella induced him to take it, just to see, but no—the vice president, a good four inches taller than he was, had no trouble helping him up. Draden’s skin had the metallic feel of a powerful protection spell.
“Blackwell,” Draden said coolly.
“Water,” Peter croaked back.
Draden cocked his head at Morse. Morse produced a canteen with another one of his silent spells and handed it over, his dark look suggesting he might have added poison to it if the recipient’s skills weren’t in demand. Peter gulped it down, not caring what was in it.
“Now, then,” Draden said, crossing his arms. “I will take a Vow, but only if you take one to Morse.”
Peter, gripping the back of his chair for support, stared at the man in consternation. “I—I can’t.”
“You will. Otherwise I won’t. Fair’s fair.”
Fair’s fair. Peter almost laughed. Nothing in the past twenty-four hours could be categorized as even a distant cousin of fair. And now his Hail Mary to protect Beatrix was going to fail because he couldn’t cast.
Draden handed something to him and he took it automatically. Two pieces of paper. The would-be Vows.
He sat on the chair and looked them over, feeling the futility of it. On one page: I, James Richard Draden, vow to take no actions intended to harm Beatrix Jane Blackwell. I further vow not to order anyone else to take actions intended to harm her.