Chapter Twelve
I missed Emmett that night. He’d made his rounds and flashed his smile at all the potential supporters, thanked the hostesses for a pleasant party, and disappeared.
So had Rook. He vanished from the party and I had not heard a peep from him in a week.
He’d been silent, but I hadn’t stopped thinking about him.
Not about what happened between us because I shoved those thoughts deep down anytime they rose to torment me.
No, I was thinking about how to pay him back for destroying my suit.
Our truce covered death, bodily harm, business, and secrets.
He said nothing about minor inconveniences. I concocted a plan to go to Rook’s club tomorrow and make myself the same obnoxious menace he’d been to me.
I opened my laptop, logged into The Looking Glass, and saw that I had an unread reply to my message. My hand trembled ever so slightly as I clicked on it.
OriginOfMagic
That depends on how much you’re willing to pay for it.
I sent back a reply.
j-aust13
I can afford it.
It didn’t feel like much, not quite like a lead, but every potential small step forward deserved to be explored.
I realized then that a second message sat unopened in my forum inbox. I clicked on it, my brow furrowing as I scanned the words.
veilknight
What is your interest in death?
I frowned and tried to place the username, but I was sure I had never communicated with this person before. My fingers hovered over the keys, and then I typed:
j-aust13
What makes you think I have one?
I logged off and closed my laptop, setting it aside.
“Why won’t you tell me what to do about Death?” I asked the ghosts.
We told you this before. We didn’t meet her. We’re stuck here instead.
I had asked them that question many times, but none of them seemed to know who Death was or how they had gotten trapped on this plane instead of moving on to somewhere else, wherever that might be.
I wondered where my mother had ended up after her blood dried and they rolled her body away. Where had Death taken her when she gave me a consolation prize I wouldn’t understand until I was older?
I was twenty the first time I died, new to America, drawn to this city by its population of supernatural people and the opportunity to climb its ladder of darkness.
But one of the old players was faster than me, experienced in eliminating threats in a way I didn’t yet understand.
He killed me easily, thoughtlessly. His men left me bleeding out by the docks, wondering if my mother felt the same cold panic.
And then I died.
For maybe thirty minutes before I opened my eyes and the gash that had opened my throat had sealed itself. That was the first time I understood what Death had said to me when I was ten years old.
The laws are not mine to change. You must learn to live without her, perhaps love again. I will give you thirteen chances.
Thirteen lives to learn to let my mother go. Little did that cold, soul-reaping bitch know that I’d spend them hunting her instead.
I never claimed to be someone who didn’t hold a grudge. I’d burned through a few of those lives, but I’d use every one of them to stay in power and hunt down Death.
Whatever it took, whatever evil, depraved magic I had to use to accomplish my goal, I would kill her someday.
***
Rook was berating someone when I crept into his club the same way I had before. Magic crashed against the sides of the cage, rattling the metal links. I stepped close enough to see inside.
Rook stood in front of a man much larger than him with a scarred face and shaved head.
A few spectators stood nearby in the corner of the cage.
They were training, I realized. This must be the fighter set to replace the one I killed.
He dodged a spell Rook threw at him, but the second hit him in his gut and took him to the ground.
Offensive magic. A rarity. Elemental magic was at the core of all magicians’ training, but many of us specialized in other things.
Those who practiced dark magic—blood spells and curses—frequently succumbed to their addiction and destroyed themselves in their quest for power.
Some things were more instinctual, more primal.
Like a connection to death.
I had seldom seen magic like Rook’s. His execution was practiced and precise, nothing like the rough, haphazard magic I expected of his ilk.
“How the fuck are you supposed to win in the cage if you can’t stay on your fucking feet?
” he shouted at the man, who was still on the ground.
Rook’s shirt was soaked through with sweat and a vein throbbed in his temple.
I admired the line of his spine and his shifting shoulder muscles as he raged.
When his fighter failed to get to his feet, he hit him with another jolt of magic that knocked him out.
“I’m surrounded by fucking idiots!” he yelled before throwing something across the cage, where it clanged, metal on metal.
Perfect. I had just the thing to cool him off.
I retreated toward the side door I’d entered through and held my hand toward the ceiling, producing a flame that licked the sprinkler system, sending water spraying throughout the building.
“What the fuck?” I heard Rook scream before I laughed to myself and slid away.
It took him two days to text me, which meant it had taken him that long to figure out it was me.
Rook: Thinking about you too, baby. If you wanted to know what I look like wet, you could have just asked.
Rook: My security feeds catch cloaking spells, btw.
We’re even now.
Rook: If you say so.
The next day, a bouquet of flowers was delivered to the penthouse.
I had just reached for the card attached to it when a small, undetectable spell exploded, spraying glitter into every inch of my lounge and halfway into the kitchen.
It took four hours of mundane and magical cleaning to get most of it up, and I still kept finding tiny, gilded shards of it stuck to everything.
The card said, Now you’ll think of me every time you find one of these shiny fuckers hiding somewhere in your house.
That was close to bodily harm. What if it had gotten in my eye?
Rook: I would never do anything to ruin your pretty eyes.
You’re insufferable.
The feud between us grew exponentially ridiculous.
A singing telegram with an ode to what a prick Rook was sent to his club at the height of the Friday night matches.
The tires of my usual vehicle flattened while I was at Avalon.
A barista bribed to put a harmless, but stimulating laxative in Rook’s morning coffee.
Petty volleys between us that had us looking over our shoulders and questioning everything.
The following Thursday, I walked into the lobby of my building to a full-grown llama standing in the middle of the room and a very confused looking Gray.
“Why is this animal in my lobby?” I asked, already seething that there was one more day left in this week from hell.
Gray shrugged. “It was delivered this morning with that note.” He gestured to a collar around the llama’s neck. The creature chewed cud and shat on my shining floor. “Do you want me to find out who sent it?”
I approached the docile hairball and it didn’t move as I grasped its collar and read the note.
Are you fucking done yet?
“Forget about it.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Just get it the fuck out of here.”
I pulled out my phone as Gray did the same. I almost felt as bad for the llama left standing there as I did for myself.
This is low, even for you.
Rook: We can keep playing this game or you can stop being a stubborn jackass. I kinda like it though. Are we flirting?
I am storing homicidal rage for when our truce is over.
Rook: Sorry, no expiration date for that.
If you think I’m going to put up with your shite forever…
Rook: You could try being nice to me instead.
I don’t do nice.
Rook: Did you know that the petting zoo will let you rent up to ten llamas at a time?
Do not send one more goddamn llama here.
Rook: Call off this little war and I’ll make sure you never see another llama again.
Bloody fucking unending hell! Fine.
Rook: Good boy, England.
I snapped my phone shut and pressed it to my forehead, reminding myself that we had agreed not to kill each other.
***
That was the end of our feud, and as days crept by, I missed it as much as I celebrated it. Rook was silent after that—no calls, no texts, no notes delivered to my building. His absence made me itchy in a way that was difficult to describe. Restless. More sleepless than usual.
My two mysterious contacts on Midnight Chat replied quickly this time.
OriginOfMagic
That information about Death comes from ‘Theories of Medieval Necromancy.’ You can cross-reference it against ‘Historical Deals With Death’ and ‘Silas’s Accounts of Death’s Whims.’
j-aust13
Why do you have it?
OriginOfMagic
I am a scholar. I study the roots of magic, how it functions, who has it, and who does not. I possess the largest collection on Death in the world.
j-aust13
Why haven’t I heard of you?
OriginOfMagic
Because people who have real information don’t flaunt it. I’d be willing to loan it, however, for the right price.
I contemplated that offer for two days, weighing the risks and benefits, and whether he might be serious or full of shit.
j-aust13
What price?
OriginOfMagic
If you provide me with an email, I’d be happy to send an inventory of objects and books I own, as well as some introductory material on Death, so you know I’m serious. The collection on loan would be two million dollars.
j-aust13
Where are you located?
OriginOfMagic
Prague.
Hmm, another collection that could take weeks or months to obtain, but this was like winning the lottery. I could barely fathom having all of that at my fingertips when I’d spent five years sifting through junk to find death objects and rare books one at a time.
j-aust13
One million upfront, one million when I return the collection.
OriginOfMagic
Those terms are acceptable.
I instructed him to send all further communications through my assistant and gave him Gray’s email address. The next day, a fifty-page document came through, which Gray printed and left in a small tower of paper on my desk. My fingertips tingled as I gave it a cursory flip through.
The second message I received on the forum was much more cryptic and unhelpful.
veilknight
The Looking Glass is a small corner of the world. Those with niche interests aren’t that difficult to track.
j-aust13
Are you saying you have been tracking me? Why?
veilknight
Because I know Death’s secret, and I think it might be of interest to you.
j-aust13
What secret is that?
veilknight
Death is not invincible.
j-aust13
Care to elaborate?
No message came through on their end, not for days, and in contrast to the excitement I felt reading OriginOfMagic’s documents, veilknight’s messages left me frustrated, even if what they were saying was probably a load of bollocks.
The one who sent the documents from Prague turned out to be a magician named Damek Bartos, a well-known and wealthy collector of art and magical objects, but based on the inventory he sent me, I didn’t think anyone knew quite how deep his collection or his research went.
The point was, he was a real person with a paper trail long enough for me to investigate him before I agreed to pay him a million dollars. His identity checked out.
The inventory was a museum’s worth of stuff.
Half-decoded death rituals. Mirrors and tarot cards said to have predicted deaths.
Carvings that predated the Egyptians depicting interactions with Death herself.
And more important than any of it: books.
Seven hundred volumes, all the titles typed in neat columns on papers spread across my desk.
With the inventory, he sent photos of some of the more interesting pieces, with explanations of their significance. He also sent the first twenty pages of his unpublished book—a lifetime of research on death and the afterlife. Those twenty pages alone were more than I had gathered in the last year.
It was more than would ever fit in my penthouse, and my warehouse was filled with pieces meant for my own transactions. I would need a secondary warehouse for all of this.
Gray walked in early one morning after I had been up all night sifting through everything. I must have looked like a madman—hair disheveled, clothes rumpled, stubble along my jaw, and bags under my eyes so heavy I could sense them without a mirror.
“What’s got you looking like shit at six in the morning?” he asked.
I could only give Gray half-truths in this matter. He might have been the person closest to me, and he assumed I had an interest in subjects related to death. I could never tell him the truth, not my work or my goal.
“I need you to scout out a second warehouse, then I want it altered to make it safe for museum quality pieces—better conditions than the first one, even—temperature controlled, no risk of faulty plumbing or weather damage. It has to be perfect. Do it quietly.”
He snorted. “I do everything quietly. Also, good morning to you too. Why don’t you take a day off?”
“Too busy,” I said. Between the usual work and this development with Project Mori, and thinking about…no, not thinking about. I had enough to deal with. I didn’t need to be entertaining thoughts of Rook. Whatever little spat we had going before, it was over now. I could relax.
But not sleep.
Not rest.
“You’re different lately,” Gray said, interrupting my thoughts.
I leaned back in my chair and tried to read him, but while my stoicism was an act, I thought Gray might have come out of his mother’s womb with no facial expression.
“How so?”
“More restless, and you barely eat. I know you never sleep, so I won’t give you shit about that, but you don’t seem like yourself.”
I paused, so many words on the tip of my tongue.
It wasn’t the first time I’d considered unburdening myself to Gray.
If there was anyone I could trust, it might be him, but five years of climbing to the top had taught me that no one was ever truly trustworthy, so I carried the weight of my goals on my own.
“Bartos,” I said, ignoring his observations entirely. “Wire him the money. I want to get this transaction started as quickly as possible.”
Gray studied me a moment longer, then turned to leave. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. “If you ever need to talk…”
I nodded, but I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was staring at the papers on my desk as if they were more interesting than imagining I had something close to a friend.