Chapter 1 #4
He’d come back later that afternoon and asked if we could use the conference room. Mason and Ward were working with a client at their house in Petersburg. Beck was here, but although she’d had an expression on her face that I recognized as curiosity, she hadn’t asked too many questions.
I liked Beck, but she wasn’t Ward or Mason. She didn’t feel any particular impulse to try to protect me from things the way they did, although I was pretty sure she’d have come into the conference room with me if I’d asked. I hadn’t.
This felt like something I had to do myself.
I was grateful for Ward and Mason’s protection, and for the fact that they’d brought me to Beyond the Veil to work for them. And, of course, for getting me out of Tranquil Brook.
But, sometimes, I wondered whether or not I still wanted that protection.
Whether or not it was one of those things that the therapist I was required to talk to once a month referred to as something that was keeping me from reaching what she called my ‘full potential.’ I’d asked her once what my full potential was for, and she’d told me that it was up to me to figure that out.
I’d dismissed it as one of those things that people say sometimes—a platitude that was supposed to be inspiring, but that ultimately didn’t really mean much of anything at all. I’m not a fan of platitudes. I’d much rather people just say what they mean.
But now I was starting to wonder if maybe I should have been thinking more about my potential, because I didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t able to help Agent Parikh with this case as much as he clearly thought I should be able to.
Maybe if I’d been trying to reach my full potential, I’d have been able to be more helpful. To answer the questions he kept asking and to which I had no answers beyond I don’t know.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.” It was something Ward said sometimes when he was out of answers or, sometimes, when the questions became inane or invasive. Parikh’s questions weren’t inane or invasive.
Parikh sighed. “No names for me?”
I shook my head. “Most people don’t think about their own names. Other people, sometimes. Like the woman, who thought about Simon.”
He ran a hand through his hair again. “We know who the victim is,” he replied, his voice tight and clipped. “It’s the other two we need to find.” He let out a short breath through his nose. “Can you get more if you try again?”
“I—I don’t know.”
I didn’t want to. I didn’t like the way reading objects made me feel—clammy, a little nauseous, my heart racing. And I didn’t like being in someone else’s head. It was disorienting and uncomfortable.
But if trying again might get me more…
Swallowing back the disgust at the back of my throat, I reached out and grasped the necklace again.
Gasping for air…
The syllables felt strange on his tongue, like he’d not quite gotten used to them yet. Like they weren’t meant for his mouth. But he would make them belong. Make himself stronger, more powerful. He would use the magic to make himself better.
He would have to give the necklace back—he knew that. It was too valuable, too precious, both in terms of the stones that made it up and in its capacity to aid their cause. But what it could do with his casting…
He could slowly bleed her dry, and she wouldn’t know until it was too late.
He gently laid the necklace back in its small, red velvet box.
And that was all there was. Because then he’d stopped handling the necklace and hadn’t—I was fairly certain—picked it up again.
Parikh was looking at me expectantly.
I cleared my throat, trying to make space for words. “He meant to drain her magic so that he could get more powerful.”
“But you still can’t tell me who he is.” It wasn’t really a question.
“No,” I confirmed.
“Or who he was working for.”
“Not specifically.”
Those amber-gold eyes narrowed. “Not… specifically?”
I blinked. “No?”
He tilted his head slightly to one side. “Why say it that way?”
I thought about this. “Because he was working for someone, but I don’t know who that someone is.”
Parikh leaned forward. “But he was working for someone?” There was a bit of an edge to the question.
“Yes.”
He started at me, then huffed slightly. “And how do you know that?” he asked, his voice taking on the same kind of tone that Ward’s sometimes did when I’d missed something.
I frowned. “Because he thought about having to return the necklace.”
“But he would have to be returning it to the person who made it, correct?”
“It could be,” I said slowly, but it didn’t feel right.
“But?”
“The last thing he did was put it in a box. Like a gift box.” Obviously the necklace could have been exchanged without anyone making physical contact with it.
What I’d learned from Mason was that magical objects needed to be handled carefully—you didn’t want to touch one with your fingers unless you were going to do something with it.
“So?” Parikh seemed confused.
“A practitioner wouldn’t handle a magical object unless they were going to use it,” I explained.
“So you’re telling me that this thing”—He gestured at the necklace.—“could have gone through another dozen pairs of hands and you wouldn’t know?”
“Not literally,” I replied. “If it had touched their hands, I would know.”
He gave me a look that I didn’t quite understand, as though I’d said something confusing. But I didn’t know what was confusing about what I’d said, so I just didn’t say anything.
He let out a heavy sigh, then stood, collecting the necklace and returning it to the evidence bag, although he didn’t bother re-sealing it.
“Thank you for your time.”