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Excerpt from Fated
© Benedict Jacka, 2012
Excerpt from Clean
© Alex Hughes, 2012
Excerpt from Dark Currents
© Jacqueline Carey, 2012
Excerpt from Daughter of the Sword
© Steve Bein, 2012
Excerpt from Dark Light of Day
© Jill Archer, 2012
Excerpt from Alchemystic
© Anton Strout, 2012
First Printing, 2012
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ACE AND ROC BOOKS SAMPLER
FATED
by Benedict Jacka 3
CLEAN
by Alex Hughes 21
DARK CURRENTS
by Jacqueline Carey 55
DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD
by Steve Bein 71
DARK LIGHT OF DAY
by Jill Archer 87
ALCHEMYSTIC
by Anton Strout 115

FATED
An Alex Verus Novel
by Benedict Jacka
An Ace March 2012 Paperback
“Fated is an excellent novel, a gorgeously realized
world with a uniquely powerful, vulnerable
protagonist. Books this good remind me why I got
into the storytelling business in the first place.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Butcher
“Benedict Jacka writes a deft thrill-ride of an Urban
Fantasy—a stay-up-all-night read.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author
Patricia Briggs
Alex Verus is part of a world hidden in plain sight, running
a magic shop in London that caters to clientele who can
do much more than pull rabbits out of hats. And while
Alex’s own powers aren’t as showy as some mages,
he does have the advantage of foreseeing the possible
future—allowing him to pull off operations that have a
million to one chance of success.
But when Alex is approached by multiple factions seeking
his skills to crack open a relic from a long-ago mage war,
he knows that whatever’s inside must be beyond
powerful. And thanks to his abilities, Alex can predict that
by taking the job, his odds of survival are about to go
from slim to none . . .

1
It was a slow day, so I was reading a book at my desk and seeing
into the future.
There were only two customers in the shop. One was a stu‑
dent with scraggly hair and a nervous way of glancing over his
shoulder. He was standing by the herb and powder rack and had
decided what to buy ten minutes ago but was still working up the
nerve to ask me about it. The other customer was a kid wearing a
Linkin Park T‑shirt who’d picked out a crystal ball but wasn’t go‑
ing to bring it to the counter until the other guy had left.
The kid had come on a bicycle, and in fifteen minutes a traffic
warden was going to come by and ticket him for locking his bike to
the railings. After that I was going to get a call I didn’t want to be
disturbed for, so I set my paperback down on my desk and looked
at the student. “Anything I can help you with?”
He started and came over, glancing back at the kid and drop‑
ping his voice slightly. “Um, hey. Do you—?”
“No. I don’t sell spellbooks.”
“Not even—?”
“No.”
“Is there, um, any way I could check?”
“The spell you’re thinking of isn’t going to do any harm. Just try
it and then go talk to the girl and see what happens.”

4 Benedict Jacka
The student stared at me. “You knew that just from these?”
I hadn’t even been paying attention to the herbs in his hand,
but that was as good an explanation as any. “Want a bag?”
He put verbena, myrrh, and incense into the bag I gave him
and paid for it while still giving me an awestruck look, then left. As
soon as the door swung shut, the other kid came over and asked me
the price for the second‑biggest crystal ball, trying to sound casual.
I didn’t bother checking to see what he was going to use it for—
about the only way you can hurt yourself with a crystal ball is by
hitting yourself over the head with it, which is more than I can say
for some of the things I sell. Once the kid had let himself out, heft‑
ing his paper bag, I got up, walked over, and flipped the sign on the
door from OPEN to CLOSED. Through the window, I saw the kid
unlock his bike and ride off. About thirty seconds later a traffic
warden walked by.
My shop’s in a district in the north centre of London called
Camden Town. There’s a spot where the canal, three bridges, and
two railway lines all meet and tangle together in a kind of urban
reef knot, and my street is right in the middle. The bridges and the
canal do a good job of fencing the area in, making it into a kind of
oasis in the middle of the city. Apart from the trains, it’s surprisingly
quiet. I like to go up onto the roof sometimes and look around over
the canal and the funny‑shaped rooftops. Sometimes in the eve‑
nings and early mornings, when the traffic’s muted and the light’s
faded, it feels almost like a gateway to another world.
The sign above my door says Arcana Emporium. Underneath is
a smaller sign with some of the things I sell— implements, reagents,
focus items, that sort of thing. You’d think it would be easier to just
say magic shop, but I got sick of the endless stream of people asking
for breakaway hoops and marked cards. Finally I worked out a deal
with a stage magic store half a mile away, and now I keep a box of
their business cards on the counter to hand out to anyone who
comes in asking for the latest book by David Blaine. The kids go
away happy, and I get some peace and quiet.

FATED 5
My name’s Alex Verus. It’s not the name I was born with, but
that’s another story. I’m a mage; a diviner. Some people call mages
like me oracles, or seers, or probability mages if they want to be
really wordy, and that’s fine too, just as long as they don’t call me a
“fortune‑teller.” I’m not the only mage in the country, but as far as
I know I’m the only one who runs a shop.
Mages like me aren’t common, but we aren’t as rare as you
might think either. We look the same as anyone else, and if you
passed one of us on the street, odds are you’d never know it. Only
if you were very observant would you notice something a little off,
a little strange, and by the time you took another look, we’d be
gone. It’s another world, hidden within your own, and most of
those who live in it don’t like visitors.
Those of us who do like visitors have to advertise, and it’s
tricky to find a way of doing it that doesn’t make you sound crazy.
The majority rely on word of mouth, though younger mages use
the Internet. I’ve even heard of one guy in Chicago who adver‑
tises in the phone book under “Wizard,” though that’s probably
an urban legend. Me, I have my shop. Wiccans and pagans and
New Agers are common enough nowadays that people accept the
idea of a magic shop, or at least they understand that the weirdos
have to buy their stuff from somewhere. Of course, they take for
granted that it’s all a con and that the stuff in my shop is no more
magical than an old pair of socks, and for the most part they’re
right. But the stuff in my shop that isn’t magical is good camou‑
flage for the stuff that is, like the thing sitting upstairs in a little
blue lacquered cylinder that can grant any five wishes you ask. If
that ever got out, I’d have much worse problems than the occa‑
sional snigger.
The futures had settled and the phone was going to ring in
about thirty seconds. I settled down comfortably and, when the
phone rang, let it go twice before picking up. “Hey.”
“Hi, Alex,” Luna’s voice said into my ear. “Are you busy?”
“Not even a little. How’s it going?”

6 Benedict Jacka
“Can I ask a favour? I was going through a place in Clapham
and found something. Can I bring it over?”
“Right now?”
“That’s not a problem, is it?”
“Not really. Is there a rush?”
“No. Well . . .” Luna hesitated. “This thing makes me a bit ner‑
vous. I’d feel better if it was with you.”
I didn’t even have to think about it. Like I said, it was a slow day.
“You remember the way to the park?”
“The one near your shop?”
“I’ll meet you there. Where are you?”
“Still in Clapham. I’m just about to get on my bike.”
“So one and a half hours. You can make it before sunset if you
hurry.”
“I think I am going to hurry. I’m not sure . . .” Luna’s voice
trailed off, then firmed. “Okay. See you soon.”
She broke the connection. I held the phone in my hand, look‑
ing at the display. Luna works for me on a part‑time basis, finding
items for me to sell, though I don’t think she does it for the money.
Either way, I couldn’t remember her ever being this nervous about
one. It made me wonder exactly what she was carrying.
You can think of magical talent as a pyramid. Making up the
lowest and biggest layer are the normals. If magic is colours, these
are the people born colourblind: they don’t know anything about
magic and they don’t want to, thank you very much. They’ve got
plenty of things to deal with already, and if they do see anything
that might shake the way they look at things, they convince them‑
selves they didn’t see it double quick. This is maybe ninety percent
of the adult civilised world.
Next up on the pyramid are the sensitives, the ones who aren’t
colour‑blind. Sensitives are blessed (or cursed, depending how you
look at it) with a wider spectrum of vision than normals. They can
feel the presence of magic, the distant power in the sun and the
earth and the stars, the warmth and stability of an old family home,

FATED 7
the lingering wisps of death and horror at a Dark ritual site. Most
often they don’t have the words to describe what they feel, but two
sensitives can recognise each other by a kind of empathy, and it
makes a powerful bond. Have you ever felt a connection to some‑
one, as though you shared something even though you didn’t know
what it was? It’s like that.
Above the sensitives on the magical pecking order are the ad‑
epts. These guys are only one percent or so, but unlike sensitives
they can actually channel magic in a subtle way. Often it’s so subtle
they don’t even know they’re doing it; they might be “lucky” at
cards, or very good at “guessing” what’s on another person’s mind,
but it’s mild enough that they just think they’re born lucky or per‑
ceptive. But sometimes they figure out what they’re doing and start
developing it, and some of these guys can get pretty impressive
within their specific field.
And then there are the mages.
Luna’s somewhere between sensitive and adept. It’s hard even
for me to know which, as she has some . . . unique characteristics
that make her difficult to categorise, not to mention dangerous.
But she’s also one of my very few friends, and I was looking forward
to seeing her. Her tone of voice had left me concerned so I looked
into the future and was glad to see she was going to arrive in an
hour and a half, right on time.
In the process, though, I noticed something that annoyed me:
someone else was going to come through the door in a couple of
minutes, despite the fact I’d just flipped my sign to say CLOSED.
Camden gets a lot of tourists, and there’s always the one guy who
figures opening hours don’t apply to him. I didn’t want to walk all
the way over and lock the door, so I just sat watching the street
grumpily until a figure appeared outside the door and pushed it
open. It was a man wearing pressed trousers and a shirt with a tie.
The bell above the door rang musically as he stepped inside and
raised his eyebrows. “Hello, Alex.”
As soon as he spoke I recognised who it was. A rush of adrena‑

8 Benedict Jacka
line went through me as I spread my senses out to cover the shop
and the street outside. My right hand shifted down a few inches to
rest on the shelf under my desk. I couldn’t sense any attack, but
that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Lyle just stood there, looking at me. “Well?” he said. “Aren’t
you going to invite me in?”
It had been more than four years since I’d seen Lyle, but he
looked the same as I remembered. He was about as old as me, with
a slim build, short black hair, and a slight olive tint to his skin that
hinted at a Mediterranean ancestor somewhere in his family tree.
His clothes were expensive and he wore them with a sort of casual
elegance I knew I’d never be able to match. Lyle had always known
how to look good.
“Who else is here?” I said.
Lyle sighed. “No one. Good grief, Alex, have you really gotten
this paranoid?”
I checked and rechecked and confirmed what he was saying. As
far as I could tell, Lyle was the only other mage nearby. Besides, as
my heartbeat began to slow, I realised that if the Council was plan‑
ning an attack, Lyle was the last person they’d send. Suddenly I did
feel paranoid.
Of course, that didn’t mean I was happy to see him or anything.
Lyle began walking forward, and I spoke sharply. “Stay there.”
Lyle stopped and looked quizzically at me. “So?” he said, when
I didn’t react. He was standing in the middle of my shop, in be‑
tween the reagents and the shelves full of candles and bells. “Are
we going to stand and stare at each other?”
“How about you tell me why you’re here?”
“I was hoping for a more comfortable place to talk.” Lyle tilted
his head. “What about upstairs?”
“No.”
“Were you about to eat?”
I pushed my chair back and rose to my feet. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Once we were outside I breathed a little easier. There’s a

FATED 9
roped‑off section to one side of my shop that contains actual
magic items: focuses, residuals, and one‑shots. They’d been out
of sight from where Lyle had been standing, but a few more steps
and he couldn’t have missed them. None were powerful enough
to make him think twice, but it wouldn’t take him long to put two
and two together and figure out that if I had that many minor
items, then I ought to have some major ones too. And I’d just as
soon that particular bit of information didn’t get back to the
Council.
It was late spring and the London weather was mild enough to
make walking a pleasure rather than a chore. Camden’s always busy,
even when the market’s closed, but the buildings and bridges here
have a dampening effect on stray sounds. I led Lyle down an alley to
the canalside walk, and then stopped, leaning against the balustrade.
As I walked I scanned the area thoroughly, both present and future,
but came up empty. As far as I could tell, Lyle was on his own.
I’ve known Lyle for more than ten years. He was an apprentice
when we first met, awkward and eager, hurrying along in the foot‑
steps of his Council master. Even then there was never any ques‑
tion but that he’d try for the Council, but we were friends, if not
close. At least for a little while. Then I had my falling‑out with
Richard Drakh.
I don’t really like to think about what happened in the year after
that. There are some things so horrible you never really get over
them; they make a kind of burnt‑out wasteland in your memory,
and all you can do is try to move on. Lyle wasn’t directly responsi‑
ble for the things that happened to me and the others in Richard’s
mansion, but he’d had a pretty good idea of what was going on, just
like the rest of the Council. At least, they would have had a good
idea if they’d allowed themselves to think about it. Instead they
avoided the subject and waited for me to do the convenient thing
and vanish.
Lyle’s not my friend anymore.
Now he was standing next to me, brushing off the balustrade

10 Benedict Jacka
before leaning on it, making sure none of the dirt got on his jacket.
The walkway ran alongside the canal, following the curve of the
canal out of sight. The water was dark and broken by choppy waves.
It was an overcast day, the sunlight shining only dimly through the
grey cloud.
“Well,” Lyle said eventually, “if you don’t want to chat, shall we
get down to business?”
“I don’t think we’ve got much to chat about, do you?”
“The Council would like to employ your services.”
I blinked at that. “You’re here officially?”
“Not exactly. There was some . . . disagreement on how best to
proceed. The Council couldn’t come to a full agreement—”
“The Council can’t come to a full agreement on when to have
dinner.”
“—on the best course of action,” Lyle finished smoothly. “Con‑
sulting a diviner was considered as an interim measure.”
“Consulting a diviner?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. The
Council and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms. “Me specifically?”
“As you know, the Council rarely requests—”
“What about Alaundo? I thought he was their go‑to guy when
they wanted a seer.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss closed Council proceedings.”
“Once you start going door to door, it isn’t closed proceedings
anymore, is it? Come on, Lyle. I’m sure as hell not going to agree
to anything unless I know why you’re here.”
Lyle blew out an irritated breath. “Master Alaundo is currently
on extended research.”
“So he turned you down? What about Helikaon?”
“He’s otherwise occupied.”
“And that guy from the Netherlands? Dutch Jake or whatever
he was called. I’m pretty sure he did divination work for—”
“Alex,” Lyle said. “Don’t run through every diviner in the Brit‑
ish Isles. I know the list as well as you do.”
I grinned. “I’m the only one you can find, aren’t I? That’s why

FATED 11
you’re coming here.” My eyes narrowed. “And the Council doesn’t
even know. They wouldn’t have agreed to trust me with official
business.”
“I don’t appreciate threats,” Lyle said stiffly. “And I’d appreciate
it if you didn’t use your abilities for these matters.”
“You think I needed magic to figure that out?” Annoying Lyle
was satisfying, but I knew it was risky to push him too far. “Okay. So
what does the Council want so badly you’re willing to risk coming
to me?”
Lyle took a moment to straighten his tie. “I assume you’re aware
of the Arrancar ruling?”
I looked at him blankly.
“It’s been common knowledge for months.”
“Common knowledge to whom?”
Lyle let out an irritated breath. “As a consequence of the Ar‑
rancar conclave, mages are required to report all significant ar‑
chaeological discoveries of arcana to the Council. Recently, a new
discovery was reported—”
“Reported?”
“—and subjected to a preliminary investigation. The investiga‑
tion team have concluded quite definitely that it’s a Precursor relic.”
I looked up at that. “Functional?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“They weren’t able to determine.”
“It’s sealed? I’m surprised they didn’t just force it.”
Lyle hesitated.
“Oh,” I said, catching on. “They did try to force it. What hap‑
pened?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“A ward? Guardian?”
“In any case, a new investigation team is being formed. It
was . . . considered necessary for them to have access to the abilities
of a diviner.”

12 Benedict Jacka
“And you want me on the team?”
“Not exactly.” Lyle paused. “You’ll be an independent agent, re‑
porting to me. I’ll pass on your recommendations to the investigators.”
I frowned. “What?”
Lyle cleared his throat. “Unfortunately it wouldn’t be feasible
for you to join the team directly. The Council wouldn’t be able to
clear you. But if you accept, I can promise I’ll tell you everything
you need to know.”
I turned away from Lyle, looking out over the canal. The rumble
of an engine echoed around the brick walls from downstream, and a
barge came into view, chugging along. It was painted yellow and red.
The man at the tiller didn’t give us a glance as he passed. Lyle stayed
quiet as the barge went by and disappeared around the bend of the
canal. A breeze blew along the pathway, ruffling my hair.
I still didn’t speak. Lyle coughed. A pair of seagulls flew over‑
head, after the barge, calling with loud, discordant voices: arrrh,
arrrh. “Alex?” Lyle asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “Not interested.”
“If it’s a question of money . . .”
“No, I just don’t like the deal.”
“Why?”
“Because it stinks.”
“Look, you have to be realistic. There’s no way the Council
would give you clearance to—”
“If the Council doesn’t want to give me clearance, you shouldn’t
be coming to me in the first place.” I turned to look at Lyle. “What’s
your idea, they need the information badly enough that they won’t
care about where you’re getting it? I think sooner or later they’d
start asking questions, and you’d cut me loose to avoid the flak. I’m
not interested in being your fall guy.”
Lyle blew out a breath. “Why are you being so irrational about
this? I’m giving you a chance to get back in the Council’s favour.”
He glanced around at the concrete and grey skies. “Given the alter‑
native . . .”

FATED 13
“Well, since you bring it up, it just so happens that I’m not es‑
pecially interested in getting back in the Council’s favour.”
“That’s ridiculous. The Council represents all of the mages in
the country.”
“Yeah, all the mages. That’s the problem.”
“This is about that business with Drakh, isn’t it?” Lyle said. He
rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Alex, it was ten years ago. Get over it.”
“It doesn’t matter when it was,” I said tightly. “The Council
haven’t gotten better. They’ve gotten worse.”
“We’ve had ten years of peace. That’s your idea of ‘worse’?”
“The reason you’ve had peace is because you and the Council
let the Dark mages do whatever they want.” I glared at Lyle. “You
know what they do to the people in their power. Why don’t you ask
them how good a deal they think it is?”
“We’re not starting another war, Alex. The Council isn’t going
anywhere, and neither are the mages that are a part of it, Light or
Dark. You’re just going to have to accept that.”
I took a breath and looked out over the canal, listening to the
distant cries of the seagulls. When I spoke again my voice was
steady. “The answer’s no. Find someone else.”
Lyle made a disgusted noise. “I should have known.” He stepped
away and gave me a look. “You’re living in the past. Grow up.”
I watched Lyle walk off. He didn’t look back. Once he’d disap‑
peared around the corner, I turned back to the canal.
So long as magic has existed, there’s always been a split be‑
tween the two paths: the Light mages, and the Dark. Sometimes
they’ve existed in uneasy truce; sometimes there have been con‑
flicts. The last and greatest was called the Gate Rune War, and it
happened forty years before I was born. It was a faction of the Dark
mages against almost all of the Light, and the prize to the winner
was total dominion over the earth.
The Light side won— sort of. They stopped the Dark mages and
killed their leaders, but by the time it was over most of the Light
battle‑mages were dead as well. The Light survivors didn’t want to

14 Benedict Jacka
fight any more wars, and the surviving Dark mages were allowed to
regroup. Years passed. The old warriors were replaced by a new
generation of mages who thought that peace was the natural order
of things.
By the time I arrived on the scene, Council policy was live and
let live. Dark mages were tolerated so long as they didn’t go after
Light mages, and vice versa. There was a set of rules called the Con‑
cord that governed how mages could and couldn’t act towards each
other. The Concord didn’t draw any distinction between Light and
Dark, and there was a growing feeling that the division between
Light and Dark was out of date. At the time, I thought it made a lot
of sense. My own master, Richard Drakh, was a Dark mage, and I
didn’t see why Light and Dark mages couldn’t get along.
I changed my mind after I had my falling‑out with Richard, but
by then it was too late. That was when I discovered that while the
Concord had all sorts of rules for how mages were allowed to treat
each other, it didn’t have any rules at all for how they were allowed
to treat their apprentices. After I escaped, I went to Lyle and the
Council. They didn’t want to know. I was left alone, with an angry
Dark mage after me.
Even now if I close my eyes I can still remember that time, the
horrible paralysing fear. It’s impossible to understand unless you’ve
experienced it: the terror of being hunted by something crueller
and stronger than you. I was barely out of my teens, hardly able to
look after myself, much less go face to face with someone like Rich‑
ard. Now I look back on it I can see that the Council was really just
waiting for Richard to get rid of me and remove the whole embar‑
rassing mess. Instead I survived.
So you can see why I’m not the Council’s favourite person. And
why I’ve no desire to get in their good books, either.
I knew that Lyle was gone and wasn’t coming back, but I stayed
where I was for another twenty minutes, watching the reflections in
the dark water and waiting for the ugly memories to settle. When I
was calm again I put Lyle and everything he stood for out of my

FATED 15
mind and went home. I didn’t feel like doing any more work that
day, so I left for the park, locking the shop behind me.
London is an old city. Even visitors can feel it— the sense of his‑
tory, the weight of thousands of years. To a sensitive it’s even stron‑
ger, like a physical presence embedded into the earth and stone.
Over the centuries pockets have developed, little enclaves in the
jungle of buildings, and the place I was going to is one of them.
The park is about a ten‑minute walk from my shop, tucked
down a twisting backstreet that nobody ever uses. It’s overgrown to
the point of being nearly invisible behind the fence and trees.
There are construction vehicles parked outside— officially the
park’s supposed to be closed for redevelopment, but somehow the
work never seems to get done. There are buildings all around, but
leaves and branches shelter you from watching eyes.
I was sitting on a blanket with my back against a beech tree
when I heard the faint rattle of a bicycle on the road outside. A mo‑
ment later a girl appeared through the trees, ducking under the
branches. I waved and she changed direction, walking across the
grass towards me.
A glance at Luna would show you a girl in her early twenties,
with blue eyes, fair skin, and wavy light brown hair worn up in two
bunches. She moves very carefully, always looking where she
places her hands and feet, and often she seems as though her body’s
there while her mind’s somewhere far away. She hardly ever smiles
and I’ve never seen her laugh, but apart from that you could talk to
her without noticing anything strange . . . at least to begin with.
Luna’s one of those people who was born into the world of magic
without ever really getting a choice. Adepts and even mages can
choose to abandon their power if they want to, bury their talents in
the sand and walk away, but for Luna it’s different. A few hundred
years ago in Sicily, one of Luna’s ancestors made the mistake of up‑
setting a powerful strega. Backcountry witches have a reputation for
being vicious, but this one was mean even by witch standards. In‑

16 Benedict Jacka
stead of just killing the man, she put a curse on him that would
strike his youngest daughter, and his daughter’s daughter, and her
daughter after that, following his children down and down through
the generations until his descendants died out or the world ended,
whichever came first.
I don’t know how that long‑dead witch managed to bind the
curse so tightly to the family line, but she did a hell of a thorough
job. She’s been dust and bones for centuries but the curse is just as
strong as ever, and Luna’s the one in this generation who inherited
it. Part of the reason the curse is so nasty is that it’s almost impos‑
sible to tell it’s there. Even a mage wouldn’t notice it unless he
knew exactly what to look for. If I concentrate I can see it around
Luna as a kind of silvery‑grey mist, but I have only the vaguest idea
how it does what it does.
“Hey,” Luna said as she reached me, slinging her backpack off
her shoulder. Instead of sitting on the blanket she picked a spot on
the grass, a few yards away from me. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You look as if something’s bothering you.”
I shook my head in annoyance. I’d thought I’d concealed it bet‑
ter than that, but I always have trouble hiding things from Luna.
“Unwelcome visitor. How’s things?”
Luna hesitated. “Can you . . . ?”
“Let’s have a look at it.”
Luna had been only waiting for me to ask; she unzipped her
backpack and took out something wrapped in a cotton scarf. She
leant forward to place it onto the edge of the blanket and un‑
wrapped it, staying as far away as possible. The scarf fell away, Luna
scooted back, and I leant forward in interest. Sitting in the folds of
the scarf was what looked like a cube of red crystal.
The thing was about three inches square and deep crimson, the
colour of red stained glass. As I looked more closely, though, I saw
it wasn’t transparent enough to be glass; I should have been able to
see through it, but I couldn’t. Instead, if I looked closely, I could

FATED 17
see what looked like tiny white sparks held in the cube’s depths.
“Huh,” I said, sitting up. “Where’d you find it?”
“It was in the attic of a house in Clapham West. But . . .” Luna
paused. “There’s something strange. I went to the same house
three weeks ago and didn’t find anything. But this time it was sit‑
ting on a shelf, right out in the open. And when I went to the
owner, he couldn’t remember owning it. He let me have it for
free.” Luna frowned. “I’ve been wondering if I just missed it, but I
don’t see how. You can feel it, can’t you?”
I nodded. The cube radiated the distinct sense of otherness that
all magic items do. This one wasn’t flashy, but it was strong; some‑
one sensitive like Luna couldn’t have walked by without noticing.
“Did you touch it?”
Luna nodded.
“What happened?”
“It glowed,” Luna said. “Just for a second, and—” She hesi‑
tated. “Well, I put it down, and it stopped. Then I wrapped it up
and brought it here.”
The cube wasn’t glowing now so I focused on it and concen‑
trated. All mages can see into the magical spectrum to some de‑
gree, but as a diviner I’m a lot better at it than most. A mage’s sight
isn’t really sight— it’s more like a sixth sense— but the easiest way
to interpret it is visually. It gives a sense of what the magic is, where
it came from, and what it can do. If you’re skilled enough you can
pick up the thoughts the magic was shaped out of and the kind of
personality that created it. On a good day I can read an item’s
whole history just from looking at it.
Today wasn’t one of those days. Not only could I not read the
item’s aura, I couldn’t read any aura on it at all. Which made no
sense, because there should have been at least one aura, namely
Luna’s. To my eyes Luna glowed a clear silver, wisps of mist con‑
stantly drifting away and being renewed. A residue of it clung to
everything she touched: her pack glowed silver, the scarf glowed
silver, even the grass she was sitting on glowed silver, but the

18 Benedict Jacka
cube itself radiated nothing at all. The thing was like a black
hole.
Left to their own devices magic items give off an aura, and the
more powerful the item, the more powerful that aura is. This was
why I’d had Luna bring the thing out here; if I’d tried to examine
the cube in my shop I’d have had a hundred other auras distracting
me. The park is a natural oasis, a kind of grounding circle which
keeps other energies out, allowing me to concentrate on just one
thing at a time. It’s possible to design an item so as to minimise its
signature, but no matter how carefully you design a one‑shot or a
focus, something’s going to be visible. The only way to mask a mag‑
ical aura completely is to do it actively, which left only one thing
this could be. I dropped my concentration and looked up at Luna.
“You’ve found something special, all right.”
“Do you know what it is?” Luna asked.
I shook my head and thought for a moment. “What happened
when you touched it?”
“The sparks inside lit up and it glowed. Just for a second. Then
it went dark again.” Luna seemed about to say something else, then
stopped.
“After that? Did it do anything else?”
“Well . . .” Luna hesitated. “It might be nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It felt like it was looking at me. Even after I put it away. I know
that sounds weird.”
I sat back against the tree, looking down at the cube. I didn’t
like this at all. “Alex?” Luna asked. “What’s wrong?”
“This is going to be trouble.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. I’d been teaching Luna about magic for a few
months, but so far I’d avoided telling her much about the people
who use it. I know Luna wants to be accepted into the magical
world, and I also know there’s not much chance of it happening.
Mage society is based on a hierarchy of power: the stronger your

FATED 19
magic, the more status you have. Sensitives like Luna are second‑class
citizens at best.
“Look, there’s a reason not many mages run shops,” I said at
last. “They’ve never bought in to the whole idea of yours and mine.
A mage sees a magic item, his first reaction is to take it. Now, a
minor item you can keep out of sight, but something really powerful
. . . that’s different. Any mage who finds out about this thing is
going to be willing to take time off his schedule and track you
down to take it, and he might not be gentle about how. Just owning
a major item is dangerous.”
Luna was quiet. “But you don’t do that,” she said at last.
I sighed. “No.”
Luna looked at me, then turned away. We sat for a little while
in silence.
Luna’s curse is a spell of chance magic. Chance magic affects
luck, bending probability so that something that might happen one
time in a thousand, or a million, happens at just the right time— or
the wrong one. The spell around Luna does both. It pulls bad luck
away from her, and brings it to everyone nearby.
The really twisted thing is that from what I’ve learnt, the spell
was originally invented by Dark mages as a protection, not a curse,
because it makes you as safe from accidents as a person can possi‑
bly be. You can run across a motorway in rush hour, climb a tree in
a lightning storm, walk through a battlefield with bombs going off
all around you, all without taking a scratch.
But the accidents don’t go away; they just get redirected to
every one nearby, and when the spell is laid permanently, the re‑
sults are horrible. The closer Luna gets to another person, the
more the curse affects them. She can’t live in the same house as
anyone else, because something terrible would happen within a
month. She can’t keep pets, or they die. Even having friends is
dangerous. The closer other people are to her, and the longer they
stay near, the worse the result. Whenever Luna comes to care
about any other human being, she knows that the more time she

20 Benedict Jacka
spends with them, the more they’re going to be hurt. She told me
once that the first boy she kissed ended up in a coma.
I’ve spent some time researching Luna’s curse, trying to find a
way to break it, but haven’t gotten anywhere. I might be able to get
somewhere if I studied her intensively, but Luna’s life is hard
enough without being treated like some kind of science project.
Still . . . “Luna?”
“Hm?”
“There’s something I was . . .” Something brushed against my
senses, and I stopped. I looked into the future and my stomach sud‑
denly went cold.
Luna was watching in puzzlement. She could tell from my ex‑
pression that something was going on, but she didn’t know what.
“Alex?”
I jumped to my feet. “Get away!”
Luna started to rise, confused. “What’s going on?”
“There’s no time!” I was desperate; we had only seconds. “Be‑
hind the tree, hide! Hurry!”
Luna hesitated an instant longer, then moved quickly behind
the beech. “Stay there,” I said, my voice low and urgent. “Don’t
make a sound.” I turned back just as a man stepped from the trees
in front of me.
He was powerfully built, with a thick neck and wide hands, and
muscles that bulged through the lines of his black coat. He might
have looked like a bouncer or a bodyguard, maybe even a friendly
one, if you didn’t look too closely at his eyes. “Verus, right?” the
Dark mage said, regarding me steadily. “Don’t think we’ve met.”

CLEAN
A Mindspace Investigations Novel
by Alex Hughes
A Roc September 2012 Paperback
A Ruthless Killer
Out of sight
Out of mind
I used to work for the Telepath’s Guild before they kicked
me out for a drug habit that wasn’t entirely my fault. Now
I work for the cops, helping Homicide Detective Isabella
Cherabino put killers behind bars.
My ability to get inside the twisted minds of suspects
makes me the best interrogator in the department.
But the normals keep me on a short leash. When the
Tech Wars ripped the world apart, the Guild stepped
up to save it. But they had to get scary to do it—
real scary.
Now the cops don’t trust the telepaths, the Guild doesn’t
trust me, a serial killer is stalking the city—and I’m
aching for a fix. But I need to solve this case. Fast.
I’ve just had a vision of the future: I’m the next to die.

1
M y first interview of the night was Esperanza Mensalez‑Már, a
thirty‑something woman dressed in a pink‑pressed suit I
suspected cost more than my last paycheck. Not that I’d seen the
paycheck, but that was the kind of impression she gave off, like she
had too much money to cope. She was here as a suspect in the
death of her husband.
A uniformed officer escorted me, today’s babysitter to make
sure I didn’t break any laws while interrogating. He took a menacing
position at the back of the room and glared at the woman like she
was his worst enemy—exactly what I wanted.
I entered, carrying my props: an old‑fashioned ream of paper
and two sharpened pencils. From the tape they’d given me, I’d
pegged Esperanza as a control freak. So I threw the paper down
crooked, spilling it everywhere, adding the pencils so they rolled
along the table, then slouched back in the chair. I grabbed one
of the pencils just before it hit the floor and started tapping it on
the table. Tap, tappity-tap. Tappity-tap, tap, tap. Just for fun, I
altered the pattern every now and then to keep it grating on her
nerves.
I stared at Esperanza for a long time while the pencil tapped
against the table. Since Lieutenant Paulsen had exiled me to the
interview rooms again, I’d be here three hours or more with

24 Alex Hughes
nowhere else to go; I thought about that hard, knowing some of it
would leak into my face.
After ten minutes, her hand shot out and flattened mine against
the table, stopping the pencil. “Stop,” she said. “Just stop.”
Once her hand touched mine, I had what I needed. “I’m required
by law in this situation to tell you I’m a Level Eight telepath.”
Her hand shot back immediately. She wiped it against her skirt
by reflex, as if she’d touched something slimy. The cold mask she’d
worn had transformed into a look of abject horror. “You—”
“I’m also required by law to tell you that skin‑to‑skin physical
contact increases my ability to read your mind. Under certain
conditions, it can be hazardous to your health and mental well‑
being, so for most people it’s considered wise to avoid all physical
contact with telepaths.” I quoted the standard write‑up the Guild
gave the public. In reality, touch was only dangerous when the
telepath wasn’t expecting it, and I’d figured her to do just what she
had. So I’d blocked as a precaution. Any normal could have told
you all she was thinking about was the tapping anyway.
She started to say something, but I cut her off. “I’m very
impressed, Esperanza.”
“It’s Mrs. Mensalez‑Már,” she said evenly, steel in her voice. I’d
hit a nerve.
I slouched back in the chair and started tapping the pencil
again, staring at her patiently. I’d noticed in the previous
interviewer’s tape that the more he attacked her on a point of her
story, the more she’d get cold and professional. So I’d back up, let
her own fears work on her a bit. See what would happen.
She couldn’t take the silence long. “You can’t possibly—”
“I can feel how much you hated him,” I stated calmly, in the
tone of voice you’d use to start a long story. “But the hyphen on
your name was worth what, four hundred thousand ROCs?”
“Eighteen million,” Esperanza corrected, her eyes narrowing.
“The house alone was worth, what? Maybe two?”
“Three point eight.” She preened.

CLEAN 25
“It was a masterful plan. You must have set it up two years in
advance. More maybe.” My tone was admiring, flattering.
“Four,” she sniffed. “The idiot never even saw it coming.”
I got in three more questions—with answers—before her brain
caught up.
Suddenly, her eyes widened as she realized what she’d said, and
the ugliness in her soul came out like a plague. “I want a lawyer,”
Mrs. Mensalez‑Már said. “Now.”
I pulled out a pack of blue cigarettes and lit up, breathing in the
nicotine a little desperately. I was on the smoking porch, an old
slab of cracked concrete with a little awning behind the main bulk
of DeKalb County Police Department Headquarters, where the
shadow of the four‑story building cooled down the air a few de‑
grees at this time of day. In August in Atlanta, when the heat flat‑
tened you like the arms of a heavyweight boxer, you’d take
whatever relief you could get.
As I stood, sweat already beginning to gather in a pool at the top
of my shoulder blades, I tried to retrieve my sanity from wherever
I’d left it last. I wanted Satin, a drug, a habit, a poison—the fantasy
I’d denied myself for three long years. It would have been six if I
hadn’t fallen off the wagon twice. If it had been six, would this be
easier? As my hands shook with a need for something I couldn’t
have, I thought it had to get easier. I couldn’t have that rush, that
stark perfection, not today. Not today.
My hands shook and my brain cramped while I took another
desperate drag of nicotine, looking out over the grimy courtyard
and the old steel building behind it, watching the drizzly rain
migrate more pollution into the soil. I struggled to focus, to
remember the cops behind me. There was a reason I worked for
them. On my better days, I knew they’d keep me on the wagon or
die trying. Never mind the hostility. Never mind that I had to keep
up a steady supply of rabbits to pull out of the hat just to earn my
place.

26 Alex Hughes
When the Telepaths’ Guild kicked me out, I had all the tests,
all the ratings, all the gold stars a man could get. Level Eight,
seventy‑eight‑P, I was a stronger telepath than most of the elite, and
could predict the future correctly better than three times out of
four. Still could, at least when the precog felt like working, but it
hadn’t in months. Lately I was starting to run out of rabbits, not
good for my relationship with the cops. Speaking of . . .
Behind me, the heavy door creaked open, and I greeted the
mind behind me. “Cherabino.”
Detective Isabella Cherabino was a thirty‑something brunette,
stacked, pretty, a workaholic, and perpetually in a bad mood. We
would have been partners if we had been equals, but we weren’t. I
was her pet cobra, maybe, or the monkey with the cymbals that
followed her around. If a monkey could solve crimes in Mindspace,
or pull rabbits out of hats and interview suspects, if the monkey was
a dumb guy who annoyed her at regular intervals, that’s maybe
what I was to her. Maybe. On a good day.
On the porch, her nose wrinkled at the smell of the cigarettes.
“I don’t understand why you like it out here. It’s miserable.”
I shrugged. “It’s scenic.” It was also deserted, at least ten feet
from anybody’s thoughts in Mindspace. Stressed‑out cops, suspects
freaking out about interrogations, hostile criminals . . . Let’s just say
the mental surroundings reeked. Even the heat was a break.
“I heard about the confession. Do too many of those and they
won’t ever let you out of the interview room again.” She looked at
me critically. “If you’re feeling twitchy again, I can wait while you
call Swartz.”
I snuffed out the cigarette under my shoe, ignoring the
comment. I didn’t want to talk about my craving to my sponsor
right now. I could feel Cherabino’s tension and a hint of purpose—
probably a new case—but she got testy when I jumped ahead.
“What can I do for you?” I asked her.
“You’ve heard about the murders?”
“The serial thing, right?”

CLEAN 27
Her jaw tightened. “Captain says we don’t say serial. Try to keep it
quiet. Hope the papers don’t put it together.” She was obviously not a
fan of this plan, but Cherabino could toe the line when she had to.
She was thinking loudly, and I didn’t bother shutting her out.
Six bodies? Really? “Six bodies in two months, it’s a serial. Doesn’t
matter what they call it.”
“If they can link them,” she returned. “We aren’t publicizing
cause of death, and the victims aren’t related any way I can see.
Might take them some time, and in the meantime we have a shot
at solving it.” Her “we” meant her, the team, and me . . . specifically.
“Why me?” I asked.
She frowned at me. Oops, jumping ahead again—have to
watch that.
“We’re stuck. As I suppose you already know. I was hoping you’d do
the Mindspace thing and get me a lead. Or two. Two would be nice.”
I thought about another cigarette and gave it up as a lost cause. She
was going to ask me to leave now. I didn’t think I had any other priority
interviews scheduled this afternoon. I rubbed my jaw, thinking, and
along the way realized I hadn’t shaved . . . since yesterday morning, felt
like. Maybe a little longer. Have to take care of that soon.
“You listening?” she spat.
I blinked. “Yeah, just let me get my stuff and check in with
Paulsen.”
It took her a minute to realize she hadn’t asked me to leave yet
and that I’d read it straight off her mind. She stared and seriously
considered slapping the hell out of me. “Stay out of my head,
damn it! I’ve told you before.”
I stepped back, and she stalked off. Great, now I’d made
Cherabino mad at me, and I knew better.
I sighed, wishing for another cigarette, and fought down guilt.
At least now I wasn’t craving my poison so bad. Distraction was a
great trick, one of the first ones they teach you in the program. If I
was going to see a crime scene, there would be plenty more
distraction—even if it was stuff I’d rather not see.

28 Alex Hughes
I patted down my pockets, made sure I had everything, the lighter
and pack where they were supposed to be, and rolled my sleeves
back down. I didn’t advertise the scars on my arms, not for any reason,
and if long sleeves in August were the price I had to pay, so be it.
I held on to the car door with a white‑knuckled grip, and took deep
breaths. Cherabino had hit the flyer antigrav in the middle of the
groundstreet—highly illegal. risen up two stories within the span
of a second with no warning, and was now flipping off the BMW
who’d had the temerity to get in her way. She merged into the cor‑
rect sky lane, narrowly missing the floating marker.
Below, a police‑sponsored sign on the old Decatur train station’s
roof reminded commuters: fly safe and in your lane. Not that
there was irony or anything.
Cherabino turned on the siren for no good reason and forced
herself into the air traffic over East College Avenue. She got too
close to the air stream from the bullet train on the railroad tracks
below and the flyer dipped alarmingly—I swallowed bile—but she
recovered, muttering obscenities.
I thought about reminding her about the new fuel/flight
restrictions for the department, but her mental cursing got louder.
I took a breath and blocked her out, giving her the privacy she’d
demanded. It was a lot harder than it should have been.
Her driving regained a measure of sanity as she leveled off and
set the altimeter to auto. I looked down as the shadow of the police
cruiser fell on the dirty redbrick buildings and the stream of
groundcars below. It was lunchtime congestion, the yuppies out for
quick carnivorous lunches fighting with the second‑shift blue
collars already late for work in the factories to the east.
I decided to risk talking. “You said there were six victims?”
“That’s right.” She adjusted a mirror, gave a suspicious look to
the driver minding his own business behind her, then glanced
back at me. “In order: thirty‑something male Hispanic, an old
white woman, a young black one, Indian scientist forty‑something,

CLEAN 29
and the two Asian teenagers from last week. I can’t see they have
anything in common other than the way they were dumped—and
trust me, we’ve looked.”
“You look worried,” I said.
She sighed. “He’s escalating, to have another this quickly. And
I need a break in the case. Badly.”
“You don’t know it’s a he,” I said. “Do you?”
“You kidding? It’s always a man with a group like this. Women
take murder a lot more personally.”
She had a point, but I replied, “Nobody says it can’t be a group.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” Cherabino said without malice. Garden
roofs and skyboard advertisements dotted the tops of the otherwise‑
grimy ancient buildings below as we crossed west into the East
Atlanta borough. “God knows we need a break in this case, yesterday.
Captain got a phone call from the mayor Tuesday. He wants this
solved, before the papers start splashing ‘serial’ across the front page.”
“Something like that could be bad for business. Not like a
normal murder or anything.”
“Yeah.” She blew out a long line of air. “These are anything but
normal.”
I could feel a line of worry coming from her, and I blocked harder.
A flash of an upcoming date next week came through—I frowned.
What were we talking about again? Oh yeah. “What’s so different
about these?” I asked. “Other than the hodgepodge of victims.”
Her lips pursed. “Everything. There’s no obvious cause of death.
No weapon marks, no fresh wounds, tox screens clean. If the bodies
hadn’t been dumped, we probably would have assumed stroke, maybe
even for the teenagers. There’s just no reason why they should—”
I suppressed a yell as Cherabino grounded too quickly on Hosea
Williams Street—not dangerous, not illegal, but scary as hell
without a warning.
She glanced back over at me disapprovingly as if her driving
was my fault. “The fact I can’t connect the victims is starting to piss
me off. No serial I’ve ever heard about picks random victims off the

30 Alex Hughes
street this different—they always have a type. They work the type.
Every briefing in the world says they work a type.”
“I thought we weren’t saying serial.”
“Multiple, then. Whatever.” Cherabino took a turn. Now the
buildings on either side were three stories tall with cracking facades
and battered brick, making the small street claustrophobic.
She pulled into a weed‑grown rocks‑and‑grass field labeled
parking and cut off the car. I let go of my grip on the handle.
Cherabino turned to look at me, tension in her brown eyes. “You
okay?” I knew she was referring to earlier, on the porch, the craving
that still sat in the back of my head like an unwelcome neighbor. She
could smell it when I got twitchy, after five years of working together
on and off, and she’d taken the last dive off the wagon very personally.
I looked at her, backlit by the sun like an angel, a grumpy
beautiful angel. A lock of hair had escaped from her bun and lay
across the soft curve of her cheek. I suppressed a sudden urge to
tuck it behind her ear. I was supposed to keep my hands and mind
to myself. Even if I wanted more sometimes.
“Okay?” Her voice cracked like a whip, bringing me back.
I coughed and sat back. “I’m fine.” Probably I’d say that if I was
lit on fire and covered in supercancer, but that was beside the
point. “Um, crime scene?”
“Yeah.” She opened the car door and let the heat in. “Time to
go to work.”
I got out of the car, the strength of the heat and the sun nearly
knocking me over. I put on a pair of cheap sunglasses and hurried after
Cherabino, who was moving toward a nearby alley. Judging by the
wind blowing a certain smell our way, our body was in that direction.
Something she’d said earlier was bothering me, and I fished it
out of memory. “Why a stroke?” I asked. “I thought you said they
had nothing in common.”
She glanced back, nose scrunched up against the smell. “They
don’t. Just the brain damage.”
“That’s what a stroke is, Cherabino.”

CLEAN 31
She shook her head, her face growing cold as she prepared
herself for the scene ahead. “Not if it’s specific. All the victims have
damage in exactly the same spot.”
I stopped walking. It took her a minute to realize I’d fallen
behind—a minute before she was yelling at me to hurry the hell up.
This was not good, I thought, as I complied. This was very not good.
The alley was long and skinny, two painfully hot brick walls be‑
hind the abandoned shell of a Thai restaurant. There was an
empty dumpster at one end, coated with the smell of old garbage,
a smell that mixed in bad ways with the reek of three‑day‑old de‑
caying body in the heat. I told myself I never had to eat Thai again
if I didn’t throw up. No vomiting in front of the cops. I was a con‑
sultant, not a cop, and they’d never let me live it down.
Three forensic techs filled the alley with careful thoughts while
they took samples of every conceivable surface and mark. Two
more detectives and a couple of beat cops were here, murmuring
among themselves, angry at their helplessness to catch this guy.
They deferred to Cherabino but gave me hostile looks.
Myself, I was standing maybe six feet away, near the mouth of
the alley, trying to take in the scene.
Cherabino came up behind me with an electronic notebook.
She was one of maybe six detectives in the department authorized
to carry them, since she helped out with Electronic Crimes. She
had to pass a background check to do it, and the notebook didn’t
even have a transmitter. Police data within spitting distance of a
transmitter was just asking for trouble—even those of us too young
to remember the Tech Wars could agree to that.
“You about ready?” Cherabino asked.
I noted the lab techs. “Any physical evidence to link the cases
to this point?”
She sighed. “Not yet. We’re waiting on the lab for a few generic
fibers, a couple of footprints, piddly stuff. I’m not holding my breath.”
“The lab’s backed up again, huh?”

32 Alex Hughes
“Yeah. Since the mayor called, maybe we’ll get bumped up in
the queue. But I don’t think there’s anything there to find.”
I took a moment to dip my toe into Mindspace, see what I was
facing. “We need to clear out the alley,” I told her.
“Why?” She looked up from her notes.
“Because.”
Cherabino sighed and tucked her notebook under her arm. She
moved away from the wall, took a deep breath—somehow, without
gagging—and yelled at the crime‑scene techs. “Everybody out!”
She dealt with the murmuring, the threats, and the complaining
without batting an eye. I stayed against the wall, out of the way,
until she gestured me forward. Impatiently.
I moved to the center of the scene, six inches from the dead body.
The smell was almost overwhelming; the only reason anyone had found
the body, after all, was the smell leaking into a shop three doors down.
I fought down bile at my first look; the face was swollen horribly
and covered in maggots. The thing had emptied its bowels, as dead
bodies tend to do, which only made the smell—and the insect
issue—worse. I made myself change my pronoun, after taking a
closer look at the clothes. He. He had been out three days in the
worst of the heat and pollution, at the height of the summer, I told
myself. He couldn’t help this.
His clothes had originally been clean, well kept; he’d been
wearing pricey workout gear, new shoes, with a short haircut.
Probably athletic, considering the attire, but hard to tell for sure.
His dark complexion was still obvious if you could get your brain
to focus past the flies. Black man, like one of the others, I thought.
Couldn’t tell the age, but not a kid and not old.
I wanted my poison, but my mind wasn’t kaleidoscoping, my hands
weren’t shaking, and I had control over my stomach—mostly. I had to
hold back a gag as the wind changed. I was okay. Time to work.
“May I?” I asked Cherabino. She allowed me—reluctantly—to
use her as an anchor when I went deep enough into Mindspace to
need one.

CLEAN 33
“I guess,” she said, and braced herself, holding out the “hand” I
needed as the anchor. She blanked her mind so forcefully I knew
she was hiding something. It took a real effort not to find out what
it was, not to pull it from her mind. I didn’t need her cooperation.
I was strong enough—and well trained enough—that she probably
wouldn’t even know. But she was off‑limits, and doing me a favor.
I’d respect her and leave it alone.
She made some scathing comment I ignored as I eased all the
way down into Mindspace, until I felt the vibration of the minds of
the forensic techs who had just left. I should have had her clear
them out earlier; two of the men had been excited about a strip
club they’d seen last night, and ethereal images of the dancers
marred the surface of the space, mixed with the intense anger and
frustration coming from the cops.
The rest of my senses faded away, grayed out until Mindspace
was all I could perceive. My link with Cherabino trailed up into
reality behind me like a long, flat, yellow extension cord—yellow
where no yellow should ever be. I could not see in this space, but I
knew its depths and its shallows in the back of my head, a picture
made by vibrations like a bat echoing through the night, a world
complete without light.
The alley was full of emotion‑ghosts, layer upon layer of shifting
vapors left by excited minds on their way to something else. The
walls were porous here, and I could feel the very faint ghosts of
harried restaurant workers through the bricks, while outside insects
swarmed with flittery hive minds over the rotting food in the
dumpster. The dancers the techs had created leaped around
imaginary poles, fading already.
A few old junkie‑spikes dotted the walls, most from cigarettes or
heroin, the occasional street cocktail. None were very recent, and
none had the cloud‑cut feel of a high‑grade Satin boost.
In the center of the alley there was a cold void, both expected
and unusual. From the body itself I felt only absence, something I
expected since his mind would have gone on to . . . wherever minds

34 Alex Hughes
went when they died. But the void was still there. Three days after
the death, it was still there. Something was off.
“The victim died here, in the alley,” I said, and in the back of
my mind felt Cherabino making note of it.
Most of the other bodies were killed off-site, she said, as if from a
hundred miles away. Any idea how it was done?
I walked out carefully and tested the area around the void. Fear
permeated the space, and with it the stench of death so terrifying,
anyone with any trace of Ability would know something bad
happened here. I gulped down bile. This was probably why the
victim hadn’t been robbed; no one with any Ability or any sense at
all was going to get this close. The techs all had to be deaf as doornails.
I tried to put it into words: “He knew he was going to die, was
dying already, no details on how. He was terrified—it’s pretty bad.
Very bad. But . . .” I took a closer look. Something was wrong, the
ghost of his mind almost . . . patchy. Disappearing in places, strong
in others. “His ghost is wavering in and out like a bad radio station,
even now. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
I combed the area carefully, looking for the traces of the killer.
I found him, his mind separate from the victim’s. He was worried,
scared, disgusted . . . but not angry. He also felt familiar, like a song
just out of reach. I had no idea where I knew him from.
There was also another man, farther down the alley, this presence
so faint it could mean nothing at all. Both men were telepaths, I
thought, which was bad news. Anyone who could feel a man’s mind die
while he killed him went at least a little insane. To do it outside a war
or a threat to your family, to do it without any pressing reason at all . . .
A chill came over me. I didn’t think I’d like these guys. Not at all.
One last look at the void, running my not‑there fingers around
the cold edge, trying to see if I could get any more information
about cause of death, about the killer’s intentions or how he did it.
I tried to pick that vaguely familiar trace out of the middle of a
haystack of violence, sharp fear and urgent, dull pain, desperation—
Decade‑old instincts were all that saved me, and I pulled back

CLEAN 35
desperately. The world stopped. Then I was back in the alley, heart
pounding a million miles per hour. Cherabino looked at me
quizzically, as if she’d felt the edges of my panic.
“I’m okay,” I told her, trying to be convincing, working on
breathing deeply to slow down my heart. What had just happened?
The back of my head said . . . something bad.
I thought through it. That feeling, like I’d just escaped Falling
In. Which was impossible. Nobody Fell In three days after a death.
Telepaths died occasionally from that sort of thing; there’d been
cases where, if you knew a dying person well, if you were connected
to him at the time, you could be pulled in after him. Almost
happened to me once, when my then‑girlfriend’s mother had died
faster than anyone expected. We’d both almost been sucked in
to . . . wherever minds went when you died. We’d barely pulled
each other out. But even then, death was gone from the room a few
seconds later. I wouldn’t have been able to Fall In if I’d tried.
I needed another look—dumb as hell, but what I needed. I
opened myself back up to Mindspace, slowly, slowly, sinking back
in all the way, to the depths, too deep to see anything but vibrations.
I approached the edges of the void, slowly, slowly, so carefully it
hurt to move. There, overlapping the edge of the void was
something, like the tiny chip in a wineglass you noticed more with
your fingers than with your eyes—an aberration. Small, not
exciting. But it could crack our case.
If the killer or killers had really used Ability, there should have
been, well, a smear, where they’d walked away, taking the edges of
the death with them for a few steps before it dissipated. But the
smear wasn’t there.
Instead, the Mindspace puckered. Just a little pucker. And it
was good to have a certified Guild education, because I knew what
that meant.
Now I only had to explain it to Cherabino.

2
S ergeant Branen was the head of Homicide and Cherabino’s
boss, a short forty‑something man with overstyled hair and an
air of confidence that made you want to trust him immediately.
This made me dislike him on principle. He didn’t understand what
I did and didn’t feel he needed to—but he did believe in results,
and the conflict made for interesting meetings.
Branen was also one of only three people in the department
who could get me fired at any time. It was my goal in life—at least
in front of him—to be twice as useful as annoying.
“So,” he said after the second time I’d gone through what I’d
found in the scene. “There was a . . . pucker in . . . Mindspace.
What exactly does that mean?” He smiled his habitual smile, his
eyes tired. His tiny beige office was almost too neat, his battered
desk and guest chairs scrupulously clean.
“It’s very rare,” I said, carefully neutral. “Like I said, it’s a small
aberration in the fabric of Mindspace, a hiccup in the ghost, if you
want to put it that way.”
Branen looked pained. It wasn’t a good look on him. “You want
to fight the Guild for jurisdiction and data . . . because you found
a hiccup?”
“Not exactly.” Although let’s be honest; I’d fight the Guild for a

CLEAN 37
lot less. In this case, though, I just wanted some information from
them. Nothing for Branen to get so worked up over. Just information.
Cherabino noticed my attention flagging. “Does it work with
the fish‑tank analogy?”
“Um, maybe?” The downside to Cherabino’s sharp mind was
that she got insufferably grumpy until she understood what was
going on. Back in the beginning, she’d pumped me for weeks about
the telepathy before I’d given her a good‑enough analogy to get her
off my case. She just didn’t understand Mindspace—no matter how
eloquently I tried to explain it—so I’d had to get creative. Don’t ask
me why the fish tank made her happy; it just did, so I used it a lot.
“I’m waiting,” Branen said.
“Okay,” I began. “Imagine the world is a fish tank. One of those
huge, multigallon monstrous fish tanks they have in ritzy offices.
Better yet, picture the alley as a fish tank. You have sand on the
bottom, and a definite ceiling, maybe even a sand castle or two,
some coral. It’s a nice place. There’s all sorts of fish in it—you and
Cherabino and half the world are shiny orange goldfish, Guild
telepaths are those monster Japanese goldfish—what do you call
them?—and you have a couple rogue bottom‑feeders. So you’re
going along, doing your goldfish thing, until one of the goldfish
discovers an Ability.”
Branen sighed. “How is this helping me?”
“I’m getting to it. Now, what happens if one of the goldfish goes
quantum and pops over to the other side of the tank?” I stopped,
then explained, “He teleports.” Cherabino seemed to be following
okay; she wasn’t asking her usual slew of questions. “Two things
happen. The water’s going to shoot out in a little explosion where
he pops in, because now you have, say, an inch cubed of goldfish
mass where there didn’t used to be any, and the water has to move
out of the way very suddenly. It’s kinda messy, though, and it’s hard
to identify that’s what it was if you weren’t there at the time. But the
other thing that’s going to happen is on the other side, where he

38 Alex Hughes
started out. Suddenly, the water has the same‑sized hole where the
goldfish used to be, right? So it rushes in. But the water thing’s only
an analogy—the way it works in Mindspace, the water moves
weird, slow like honey, and what you’re left with is a little area
where the water is less dense, and comes to a weird little pucker to
show you where the fish used to be. At least for a few minutes.”
“A few minutes?” Branen echoed, struggling with the concept.
“So, what you’re saying is, our suspect teleported out of the area
slightly before the police arrived. He was visiting the body?”
“Not exactly,” I said, a little defensively. “It was a hot spot, and
he was pulling along more than his own metaphysical weight, so it
was like two of the monster Japanese pond‑rats popped out together.
The hole takes longer to fill in.”
Branen sighed. “So we’re talking teleporter. Which means Guild.”
He rubbed his head. “And the victims? They’re not Guild, correct?”
“Correct, sir. They’re not in the Registry.” Cherabino sat back
in her chair comfortably, but then again she and Branen got along
great. Me, on the other hand . . .
Well, I had to say it. “They could be low‑level, normal jobs,
normal lives.”
They both turned to me. “What?” Cherabino said.
“You know the Guild’s Registry is only a partial list of members,
right?” Their shocked looks told me obviously not. “It’s an industry
list. If you want to hang a shingle and make money off your
Ability—and you’re legit—you go through the Guild process, you
get trained and certified, pay the money, and you get registered.
They get dues every year; you get the resources of a large
organization and sometimes a job.” For the low‑level guys, it wasn’t
a bad deal. You kept your nose clean, you showed up at the mixers,
you went home every night, and you raked in the money.
“So it’s like the Bar Association?” Cherabino leaned forward.
I shrugged, stretched out in the chair. “I don’t know much
about them.”

CLEAN 39
“Organization for lawyers? Total control over your professional
future, takes money from you and you have to be a member?”
I blinked. “Actually, that’s not too far off. But the Guild’s only
like that if you’re powerful enough. On the low end of the scale, it’s
optional. If you don’t want to work for them, if you want to be an
accountant, or a lawyer, or a bricklayer, you can. Keep your nose
clean, you’ll never hear from them. But there’s a point—usually a
heavy five in telepathy—where it’s not a choice anymore. At that
point you work for the Guild directly, you do what they say, and
you’re registered in the lists the Guild provides the public.” Well,
most of them. The Guild held back a lot of information from the
cops. A lot. Which was why I got paid my consultant fee, to tell
them at least what they didn’t know.
“What happens if someone wants to quit?” Cherabino asked,
curious.
I suppose it was an obvious question, but the truth was . . .
“That’s not really something we talk about.”
Both cops stared at me. I looked at my shoes, set on worn
industrial carpet at least a decade old. When I looked up again, I
stared past Cherabino at the speckled walls. Even in my situation—
unusual to say the least—I had certain obligations, and I did not
want Guild Enforcement coming after me, not for something
stupid like this.
“The point is,” I changed the subject, “somebody at the scene—
I’d wager the killer—teleported out of there. Considering there
weren’t any drag marks on the ground on the way in, I’d wager he
teleported in as well, carrying the victim with him. Means he’s at
least a 3‑T, plus a telepath as well—maybe a six or so. We’re talking
double trouble here.”
I rubbed my neck. “There are maybe twelve guys in the whole
Solar System who can do both those things that strong, and they’ll
be on the Spook list. The Guild will know what they’re doing at
every moment of every day, and we wouldn’t be having this

40 Alex Hughes
conversation, because after one body, the Guild would have taken
lethal action.”
Branen rubbed his head and picked up the phone on his desk,
pushing a speed‑dial button. After the call went through, he
asked, “Have a minute? I need your expertise.”
In the silence after he hung up, I ventured, “Basically the—”
He raised a finger for me to wait.
I thought about attempting small talk, but I was bad at that sort
of thing.
A knock came on the partially open door.
“Come,” Branen called out.
Lieutenant Marla Paulsen entered the room and gave me a
nod. Great, he’d invited my boss.
She glanced at the chairs, and finding them occupied, leaned
against the door frame.
Branen inclined his head in my direction, eyes on her. “You
know he’s assisting with the multiples case, right?” She nodded.
“Well, we’ve got contradicting theories, and they all point to the
Guild. You still keep up with the Koshna Treaty law changes?”
“Not too many changes lately, but yes.”
Paulsen was a strong woman with a strong face, skin the color
of cinnamon sticks, and more than a few old‑fashioned wrinkles. At
a young sixty‑mumble, she was a stickler for Tech Separation (she
remembered the aftermath of the Tech Wars) and she wore her
uniform like she’d been born to it. Paulsen had high standards, and
as she’d told me more than once, she expected those standards to
be met.
Branen caught her up on the discussion and my Guild ramble
in about three sentences, then said, “So with a perp who shouldn’t
exist and victims who aren’t registered, can we ignore Koshna?”
Paulsen frowned. “Well, technically the treaty says we’re
supposed to call the Guild at first suspicion of anything, but the
courts have been siding with the cops lately. Koshna Accords are
there mostly to let the Guild police their own. Clearly they’re not

CLEAN 41
policing themselves in this case.” She looked at me. “You sure this
guy is a—what do you call it?”
“Double trouble,” Cherabino offered.
“Thank you. Double trouble. You sure he’s Guild?”
I straightened in my chair reflexively under her look. “I know a
teleport when I see one. I know a telepath. But there were two guys
there. I think it’s one guy who’s the telepath and teleporter, I’m
almost sure. We’re not guaranteed, though. They could be different
guys.”
Branen leaned back in his chair. “Worst‑case scenario,” he
addressed Paulsen. “We don’t report it. We track it down to its
conclusion, capture the perp, submit the findings in triplicate to
the political guys to fight out with the Guild directly. What are we
looking at?”
She shook her head. “Won’t get that far. Besides the legal red
tape, we can’t hold him without Guild support.”
I nodded reluctantly and confirmed. “He’ll Jump out of the
cell. Or convince the guard’s mind he wanted to let him out in the
first place. The strong guys are hell to hold if you don’t know what
you’re doing.”
Branen sighed. “Let’s say we put boy wonder here on guard.
What’s worst case?”
Hold on now. “I’m not nearly—”
Cherabino waved me down, and I seethed.
Paulsen frowned slightly. “It’s a high‑profile case, or could be
made one with a hint to the right reporter. They’d have to fight it
in the courts.”
Branen glanced at Cherabino, then back at her. “We still have
friends in the DA’s office who’d be glad to take something like that
on, for publicity if nothing else. Meanwhile the killer’s off the
streets, and the captain doesn’t have to field a phone call from the
mayor asking why we’re not doing anything about the East Atlanta
murders. I say we do it.”
“Do what?” I asked. I was shielding hard enough to give myself

42 Alex Hughes
a headache, and I was definitely not tracking as well as I could have
been.
“Work the case without the Guild,” Cherabino said. “You might
want to try to keep up.”
I admit that the Guild weren’t my favorite people since they’d
kicked me out, but . . . “Can you do that?” More important, could
I do that? As bad as things were for me right now, they’d be a lot
worse if I got the attention of their Enforcement unit. Still, it would
twist the Guild’s tail, to have one of their people held responsible
to the real world.
“We’re going to,” Branen said, then addressed Paulsen. “Unless
you have an objection?” They were technically equals, but
Paulsen’s department was much larger, handling anything the
other three didn’t. She was also more senior than he was, so while
he didn’t have to defer, it was a good idea.
She shook her head. “I’ll clear it with the captain, but it’s our
case. In our jurisdiction.”
After four hours of interviews, I was bone tired. The ancient eleva‑
tor seemed to crawl. I mashed the third button twice to get it to
engage, the buttons so old their imprinted numbers were worn
away by a hundred years of fingerprints.
Working for the Guild had given me a lot of numbers behind
my name. Other than the eight and the seventy‑eight percent, my
next big number was one‑ninety. That’s base valence; it means I
can flex to read maybe ninety‑five minds out of a hundred. A big
number for anybody; for a guy, it’s impressive. Or was.
Unfortunately, it meant I could read almost everyone in the
station, four floors of constant disturbance like ripples on a very
windy lake. When I was this tired, the ripples came through my
shields in waves, half‑heard and insistent.
I only got the hard interviews, the ones that had stumped some
detective, some beat cop to the point where he’d passed it up the
line. I got the guilty, the difficult, the ones who cried heartbreaking

CLEAN 43
manipulative tears, the angry men with something to hide and the
women who thought they could sleep their way out of anything
and didn’t realize a telepath couldn’t do casual sex even if he
wanted to. In those times I was glad for Bellury, or McDonnell, or
anyone else there.
If the interviewee made it through me, he got a round with
Paulsen, and she didn’t like to be disturbed for anything short of an
asteroid barreling toward the Earth. I’d gotten real good, real quick,
as a result—it helped that I could spot a lie at twenty paces. I also
said right off I was a telepath, which sometimes made a gullible
perp confess for no good reason. But no‑holds‑barred crazy people
gave me nausea or worse, and some really annoying perps actually
paid attention to the Guild’s service announcements.
A bit of advice: if you must throw a telepath off your trail, be
nice and recite multiplication tables or something. Concentrating
on an out‑of‑tune rock song like the last suspect had just makes me
want to hit you.
I still had the ear‑wrenching, repetitive song stuck in my head
from the last suspect. The low‑level cacophony of the station was
rubbing at me like sandpaper. I was exhausted. And I wanted a hit
with every fiber of my being. I thought about my tiny holdout stash
in my apartment, the two little vials I’d put in a hole in the wall. I
thought, tonight might be the night to take them out again.
The elevator attempted to ding when it hit the floor, instead
managing only a tiny metallic thud. I struggled to focus, bracing
myself before walking out into the cubicle farm that was the third
floor, detective alley. This was my least favorite part of the day.
Cherabino’s cubicle was all the way at the other end of the
building, past at least thirty cubicles full of thinking minds—row
after row of forgettable boxes and claustrophobically crowded de‑
tectives, none of which said hello.
I walked past their silent eyes, unable to completely block the
mixed‑bag observations on everything from my hairstyle to my his‑
tory, the tightness of my butt to my latest successful interview. Also

44 Alex Hughes
complete indifference and a lot of thinking on actual cases. They
did actually do work here, some of them.
The last two lines of cubicles were larger and had more space
between them, with real windows on this side of the building. Over
here it was quieter in Mindspace, the detectives here and bigwigs
upstairs all calmly efficient, the secretaries below happy with their
gossip. Some part of me calmed, knowing no one was paying any
attention. I managed to put the shields back up, slowly, with a lot
of effort.
I passed Cherabino’s cubicle neighbor, and I said hello to An‑
drew. I think he was an accountant; he thought about numbers a
lot, was always in the cubicle, and had gourmet coffee.— The real
stuff, from beans. He shared the coffee cheerfully, and never once
labeled me Felon in his head.
Andrew was on the phone, but he went ahead and waved me
toward the coffee set up in the back of his cubicle. He hit mute
briefly, and told me, “Get Cherabino some too—she’s been in
there since noon.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went to get the coffee. The first for me,
black with sugar. Cherabino liked hers with one liquid creamer,
half of one of the blue not‑sugar packets, and about three spoons of
water. Andrew was already back to his phone call when I left, car‑
rying two cups.
She was hunched over, her face in her hands as she shook her
head back and forth.
“Cherabino?”
She shot up, narrowly missed hitting her head on the desk lamp
in the process. “What?” After blinking a few times: “Oh, it’s you.”
“I have coffee,” I said, unnecessarily, and put her cup next to
her hand on the only free spot on the desk. The rest was covered in
paper and objects in a messy smorgasbord.
I moved a pile of printouts off the cubicle’s second chair, plac‑
ing the papers carefully on the floor separate from the other piles.

CLEAN 45
For all the apparent mess around here, Cherabino claimed there
was a pattern to the madness. That being said, the second chair and
the counter next to it were sort of mine.
I sat down. There was a scarf in a plain plastic bag on the desk,
which was weird since Cherabino didn’t wear scarves. I picked it
up and paused—the thing had a very clear effect on Mindspace. I
could feel the kindly old woman who’d worn the scarf almost every
day. Another presence, hanging over the thing like a faint perfume.
Was that the presence from the crime scene? It felt familiar some‑
how.
“Where is this from?” I asked Cherabino. I didn’t get impres‑
sions from objects often—they had to be in very close proximity to
a person for a long time to pick up Mindspace—but it looked like
I was just tired enough to notice. Maybe we could identify the guy
from this.
She turned around to face me, rubbing her eyes. They were
bloodshot, with deep circles, and the rest of her face didn’t look
much better. She looked . . . wilted, almost—but when I checked,
no migraine. She sighed. “It’s from the second crime scene. It’s a
reminder.”
I studied the scarf again, but there were no blood spots. “I
thought you weren’t supposed to take evidence from the file room.”
She grabbed the scarf. “I’ll give it back when the case is over.”
She pulled out a drawer, deposited the scarf, and shut it firmly. “Is
there a reason you’re here?”
I pointed to the cup I’d just given her. “Coffee, remember?”
She turned around as if just now remembering, and took a sip.
A pleasant warm feeling spread through her, the taste comforting.
I sighed and worked a little harder to shut her out. “How’s the
work coming?”
She sighed and took another long sip of coffee, frowning. “Who
battled the Hydra?”
“What’s a Hydra?”
She blinked. “I thought you were proud of your Guild educa‑

46 Alex Hughes
tion. Maybe it was Jason. This big, huge monster—you cut off one
head and two more grow up in its place. That’s what I’m doing, chas‑
ing illicit net porn. No matter how many perverts we shut down, you
turn your back and there’s six more just waiting for you to find them.”
“I thought you weren’t working Electronic Crimes anymore,” I
said.
“They’re understaffed,” she said. “Two more rounds of job in‑
terviews, a little training, and God willing I’m off for good. Two
weeks, three maybe. But I’m waiting for some tests on the multiples
case.” She took another sip of coffee, then looked at me again.
“How are you?”
“Other than feeling like someone has beat me with sticks, I’m
fine.” She looked at me strangely, and I clarified, “Too many inter‑
views, and the last guy was difficult. Really difficult. Any news on
the case?”
She sighed. “We’ve got several local cops going door to door tomor‑
row and Saturday, guys who’ve done patrol in the area and know what
they’re looking for. Paulsen’s handling details since they’re her guys, so
if there’s anybody good, you’ll probably get them in the interview
room. Just keep me in the loop, okay? I’d like to sit in if it’s possible.”
“Possible?”
She sighed, pointing to a loose stack of three files next to the
computer that had previously blended into the mess. “Three new
cases today, and only one’s Electronic Crimes. Branen’s going ape‑
shit because the county turned down his request for more person‑
nel. If Paulsen didn’t share, we’d all be underwater by now.”
“Any city funds?” I asked her. The City of Decatur usually pre‑
ferred to help fund the DeKalb County homicide and drug divi‑
sions rather than tackle it on their own. They did their own patrols,
but that was about it.
“Not so far.” She rubbed her head. Wasn’t a migraine, not yet.
“Though knowing them, they’ll slip them in right before elections.
Listen, I’m going down to the morgue tomorrow morning to see if
they’ve got anything on the latest multiples victim. You should come.”

CLEAN 47
“I’m allowed at the morgue?”
“You are if you behave yourself.” She frowned. “Why, weren’t
you going to?”
I ignored the sidebar and reiterated. “I’m not usually invited.”
“Well, you are if I say so. With the Guild connection, people
are going to talk. I want you there to debunk the myths before the
rumors turn into anything. The last thing we need is a mass panic
against the telepaths again.”
“Again?”
She shook her head. “Don’t be a moron. The last time, they
called them witch hunts, and honestly, I don’t have time for that
kind of foolishness.”
She wasn’t quite right about the history. Most of the witches at
Salem weren’t telepaths, just old women herbalists. Well, except
the one, and she was famous in Guild circles; she projected a lot of
the fear on the townsfolk. Perfect example of what not to do as a
telepath.
Still, what Cherabino meant by it was good. Kind, even. Fight‑
ing the prejudices against the telepaths; she didn’t have to do that.
I looked at the circles under her eyes again and asked the question
quickly, before I could think better of it. “You got anything I can do
to help with the caseload?”
She shook her head. “Not at the moment, unless you’ve got
new skills with the computer you’ve never told me about. I’m try‑
ing to finish up the Net porn case today, and it’s not minor‑level
coding. Advanced polygon cipher, at the very least, maybe worse.”
“Um . . . is that good?”
Cherabino laughed. It was a small laugh, more shocked than
anything, but it counted. “Probably. We’re maybe halfway done.”
“Congratulations,” I said, with as much cheer as I could muster
past my general exhaustion.
After just a little more small talk, we settled down to work in
companionable silence, her on her cases, me on paperwork.
In the quiet fifteen minutes later, I found the pencil she’d been

48 Alex Hughes
looking for and handed it to her. In Mindspace, Cherabino’s pres‑
ence was shocked, but I kept working, chewing on an antacid for my
stomach as I filled out paperwork I’d rather not do. Whatever she was
shocked at was probably something I didn’t want to see anyway.
That night, I went home and slept, unaided. The vials stayed in
the wall, and I stayed on the wagon. I was tired anyway.

3
I tapped my fingers against the wood grain of the table. Swartz
was late. And by late, I meant, not early. Swartz was one of those
spry sleepless old men who showed up to everything at least a half
hour early. So it was unthinkable, with me arriving a whole minute
and a half before the agreed time, that he wasn’t here yet.
Here being an out‑of‑the‑way corner of a faded old coffee shop,
what had once been a pub before the owner’s mother joined AA
more than thirty years ago. A long wooden bar still dominated the
space, beat up with coffee stains and long scratches. Pub tables
lined the walls with chairs and carefully repaired leather booths.
Behind the bar, the owner nodded at me and turned around to
brew a pot of dark licorice coffee.
That black licorice‑flavored liquid was a taste I’d never known
existed until I met Swartz. It was too strong a flavor for me to say I
liked it, exactly, but the pungent taste and Swartz’s abrupt truth
mixed together in my mind over and over until the tradition of
both became a stalwart against weakness, until the black licorice
clung and clung and made me want to be a better man. Or spit it
all back up again, all at once. I had days of both.
There was Swartz—the whole dark room flashed with the
outside sun as he entered, then the room dimmed again as the
door swung closed. He made his way toward me, his slate gray hair

50 Alex Hughes
slicked back in a style that had been old when his grandfather was
alive. The pronounced wrinkles on his thin face in no way took
away from his air of authority. He wore a pair of beat‑up khakis and
a textured golf shirt.
Swartz sat down, the leather on the seat creaking, and nodded
a greeting. Then he waved to the owner, who held up a finger to let
us know it would be another moment.
I nodded in return. He made me come up with a list of three
things I was grateful for every week—I had to tell him three brand‑
new things at our usual weekly meeting, or he’d give me this look,
all disappointed. And the feeling I got from his mind was worse,
like“ungrateful” was an insult of the worst order. So, I studied. I
thought. And for six years running now—not counting the two
weeks I’d missed the last time off the wagon—every week I had
three new things. This week I was having trouble.
“How are you?” I asked, hoping to delay the inevitable question
for another few minutes.
“I’m okay,” he said. “School starts in a couple of weeks and we
go back a week before the kids do. I’m putting together some lesson
plans, looking for some new stories to get their attention.” Swartz
taught history at a poor high school south of Decatur, and spent
the summers reading. I’d heard some of his stories—all based in
real history, apparently—and wished I’d had him as a teacher at
some point.
“Think I might quit smoking,” he added.
“That’s crazy talk,” I told him. “What will you do when you get
a craving?”
His bushy gray eyebrows went up a little. “Pray. Go to a meeting.
Call and talk to someone who understands—same thing we do
now. You are still doing those things.” He made it a statement,
looking directly at me.
I sighed. “Maybe not the praying so much.” I also hadn’t called
Swartz yesterday, which he wasn’t mentioning but I knew he’d noted.
I was supposed to call him every day. Twice a day, four times a day,

CLEAN 51
more, if needed. The only time I couldn’t get him was when he was at
school, and he’d call me back at the very next class break. It was a rule.
He sat back as the owner arrived with an ugly squat brown
coffeepot and two uglier cups. The man set both cups down then
filled them with the coffee. “Be careful; it’s hot,” he said, and went
back to the bar.
I was antsy today, ready to jump out of my skin, but I pulled the
coffee cup over to my side of the table. I’d get through this, and
then go to work. I would.
Swartz took a sip of his coffee. “You’re letting Step Seven go,
son. Asking God to remove your shortcomings is the only way this
is going to work long term. We’re coming up on three years now,
that’s good, that’s wonderful. But you let the humility go, you let it
all go. You can’t handle this by yourself. If we could, we wouldn’t
be sitting here.” His mind echoed a weak picture of me at that first
meeting, then the knowledge of his own struggle. “We need the
system, we need God, we need each other.”
“The Higher Power,” I corrected.
He pierced me with those sharp eyes. “Is calling him some
vague title going to change anything for you? He’s God either way.”
“Aren’t we going to talk about my three things for the week?” I
asked him, to change the subject.
“We can,” he said, but I knew he wasn’t done. I’d get an earful
of the God‑talk later.
“Air conditioning, good coffee, and . . .” I made something up
on the spot. “The fact that Cherabino called me out on a case
again. One I can actually help with.”
“You’ve used coffee before. Twice.”
“This is good Jamaican coffee, not the swill at the police station
but the good blue stuff Cherabino’s neighbor brings in.”
He let me get away with it. “Okay. Tell me about Cherabino,
then.”
“She’s okay. Overloaded. Deep in the case, worried, angry, not
happy at me, but—other than a migraine Tuesday—okay.”

52 Alex Hughes
“You said she invited you to a case?” Swartz put his hand on the
back of the leather booth.
I told him the nonclassified parts, holding back the number of
victims and the cause of death, and finished with the probable
connection to the Guild. “That’s the thing though. I’m not sure I
can ethically not tell them. I mean, delay, yeah, everybody delays,
but if we get to the end of this thing and I haven’t told them, it’s
going to be bad for me.” I hated the Guild sometimes, for what
they’d done to me. But I couldn’t rip out their training so easily.
He took another swallow. “You’ve been blacklisted for years.
What else can they do?”
The Koshna Accords didn’t mean a thing to the normals, except
for the occasional political power play like the cops were planning.
A play I wasn’t entirely certain I should support.
“Well, they could rescind my employment papers, for one.
They can lock me up in Guild holding indefinitely. I’m still a
telepath, a Level Eight. All they have to do is declare me a danger
to myself or to society and that’s it.” My worst nightmare was waking
up in a Guild facility scheduled for a mindwipe. And the thing
was, it was all too possible. To someone like me, the treaty was a red
line in the sand that gave the Guild any power they wanted.
When the Tech Wars ripped the world apart, the Guild stepped
up to save it. But they had to get scary to do it—real scary. They’d
won the right to govern themselves, to have political independence,
sure. But they’d lost the casual trust of most of the normals along
the way. When your pit bull saves you from the robber about to kill
you, you’re grateful. But when the pit bull tears the guy apart in
little bloody ribbons, you never look at the thing the same way
again.
“I’m a telepath, Swartz. A Level Eight. For all intents and
purposes that means the Guild owns me, even now. No normal
court of law in the world is going to stand up to the Guild, to the
treaty. Not for me.”
“I just don’t believe that, kid.” Swartz said. “Think about it. You

CLEAN 53
really think Paulsen and Cherabino will let you disappear without
a fight? You’ve earned yourself friends in the system, kid.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “People are different under
pressure, especially around telepaths. Plus I cause them a lot of
headaches.”
“You’re selling yourself short. The department kept you on after
the last fall off the wagon. That means quite a bit.” Swartz shrugged.
“They’re not exactly helpless. I wouldn’t worry about the Guild too
much.”
“Sure,” I said, to stop the conversation. I didn’t really want to
have the cheer‑me‑up moment right now. But the Guild did mostly
keep to its own ethics. Mostly. If I kept to the same I might have a
chance. And that old lady’s scarf was bothering me.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
“Just thinking.” I shrugged. We sipped our too‑hot coffee,
enjoyed the air conditioning.
“How are you?” Swartz prompted.
I stared at my hands, decided what to say. Maybe the truth this
time. “A tough week, a very tough week.”
“Why is that?”
“The interview room has been hell. Two crazies yesterday, in a
bad way. I’ve wanted Satin pretty much every day. As great as
another case is, this one’s a lot of pressure—the case is weird, I
know too much, and there’s a lot of pressure. I’m ex‑Guild, not a
detective. That’s Cherabino’s job. . . .” After a pause, I looked up.
“But everybody’s looking at me for that rabbit, that sudden push
out of the hat, and the precog’s not cooperating. It’s a lot of pressure.
Screwing up. Coming up with the rabbit. A lot of pressure. Plus
whatever I end up having to do with the Guild.”
Swartz sipped his coffee. “How are you handling it?”
I sighed. He wasn’t going to take less than the truth. “Not great.
Want to fall off the world for a while. I’ve thought about the craving
way too much today, thinking, what if I gave in?” It would be the
easy way out.

54 Alex Hughes
Swartz gave me the most disapproving look I had ever received,
and that—considering he’d been my sponsor for six years—was
really saying something. “That’s dangerous. You can’t afford to
think like that, ever. And even if you do, not out loud. I’ll say it
again, kid. Satin is your enemy. Your poison. Your worst enemy.
Responsibility is something you need to be embracing, not running
from. I’ll tell you as many times as I need to.”
I set my jaw. “You want truth, you get it.”
Swartz let the statement hang, and I sipped the cooling coffee.
The taste of the licorice filled my whole mouth, my nose, my
throat. I wanted to spit it up, have done with it, but instead I choked
the taste down. I was going to do it today, I thought. Today I was
going to choke it up and stay on the wagon, let the vials stay where
they were. Today I was going to try.
“Now,” Swartz said, pulling out the Big Book. “Let’s take a look
at the steps again.”

DARK CURRENTS
Agent of Hel
by Jacqueline Carey
A Roc October 2012 Hardcover
An all-new world from the New York Times bestselling
author of the acclaimed Kushiel’s Legacy novels.
The Midwestern resort town of Pemkowet boasts a diverse
population: eccentric locals, wealthy summer people, and
tourists by the busload; not to mention fairies, sprites,
vampires, naiads, ogres and a whole host of eldritch folk,
presided over by Hel, a reclusive Norse goddess.
To Daisy Johanssen, fathered by an incubus and raised by
a single mother, it’s home. And as Hel’s enforcer and the
designated liaison to the Pemkowet Police Department, it’s
up to her to ensure relations between the mundane and
eldritch communities run smoothly.
But when a young man from a nearby college
drowns—and signs point to eldritch involvement—the
town’s booming paranormal tourism trade is at stake.
Teamed up with her childhood crush, Officer Cody Fairfax,
a sexy werewolf on the down-low, Daisy must solve the
crime—and keep a tight rein on the darker side of her
nature. For if she’s ever tempted to invoke her demonic
birthright, it could accidentally unleash nothing less than
Armageddon.
“Jacqueline Carey proves her versatility with this
compelling and delightful piece of urban fantasy.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris
“Carey’s storytelling is top-notch.”—Publishers Weekly
“Carey’s sensual, often erotically charged prose
is reminiscent of the best efforts of Tanith Lee and
Anne Rice.”—Library Journal

I t was an idyllic summer evening in Pemkowet the night the Van‑
derhei kid died. No one could have guessed that the town was
hovering on the brink of tragedy. Well, I suppose that’s not techni‑
cally true. The Sphinx might have known; and the Norns too,
come to think of it. But if they did, they kept it to themselves.
There’s some sort of Soothsayers Code that prevents soothsayers
from soothsaying on a day‑to‑day basis, when it might, you know,
avert this kind of ordinary, everyday tragedy. Something about the
laws of causality being broken and the order of creation overturned,
resulting in a world run amok, rivers running backward, the sun
rising in the west, cats and dogs getting married . . .
I don’t know, don’t ask me.
I don’t pretend to understand, especially since it wasn’t an ordi‑
nary, everyday tragedy after all. But I guess it didn’t rise to the stan‑
dard required to break the Soothsayers Code, since no sooth was
said.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself.
So it was an idyllic evening in Pemkowet, the little resort town
I call home. A mid‑July Michigan evening, soft and warm, not too
muggy, one of those evenings when the sunlight promises to linger
forever.
It was a Sunday, and I had plans to meet my best friend Jen

58 Jacqueline Carey
Cassopolis for Music in the Gazebo. Gatos del Sol, a Tex‑Mex
band, were playing. They say music hath charms to soothe the sav‑
age breast, and in my experience, it’s true. Also, I’d seen the promo
poster, and the guys in the band were pretty cute.
Hey, it doesn’t hurt.
Mogwai didn’t come when I called him, but he was a cat of inde‑
pendent means and he’d been pissed at me since I gave in to pleas
from my friends in animal rescue and had him neutered. I hated to
do it since he wasn’t really my cat so much as a streetwise buddy who
dropped by on a regular basis, but there were an awful lot of feral
Moglets running around town. I filled his bowl on the back porch
and made sure the torn screen that served as a cat door was ajar.
It wasn’t the most secure arrangement, but I didn’t worry too
much. For one thing, my apartment was on the second story above
Mrs. Browne’s Olde World Bakery. Mogwai’s route to the screen
porch involved a series of feline acrobatics, dumpster to fence to
porch, that I doubted many humans could duplicate.
As for non‑humans . . . well. Those who were my friends, I
trusted. As far as I knew, those who weren’t didn’t want much of
anything to do with me.
I slung my folding chair in the carrying case over my shoulder,
locked the apartment behind me and headed down the stairs into
the alley alongside the park. In the front of the bakery, there was a
line of tourists spilling out the door and down the sidewalk. There
always was this time of year. Most locals would avoid the place
until after Labor Day.
It was quiet in the rear of the bakery. That was where the magic
happened, but it happened in the wee hours of the night, after the
bars had closed and the last tourist had staggered home, before the
sun rose.
Cutting through the park, I headed for the river, dodging mean‑
dering families pushing strollers, small children clutching ice‑
cream cones that melted and dripped down their chubby hands.
It could be a pain if you’re in a hurry, but I wasn’t, so it made

DARK CURRENTS 59
me smile. I still remembered my first ice‑cream cone. It was Blue
Moon, a single scoop in a kiddy cone. If you’ve never had it, I can’t
even begin to describe it.
Truth is, for all its quirks and flaws, I love this town. I wasn’t
born here, but I was conceived here. And when my mom returned
here four years later, a desperate young single mother with a half‑
human child who couldn’t manage to fit into the mundane world
outside, Pemkowet took us in.
Twenty years later, I’m still glad to be here.
My feeling of benevolent well‑being persisted the entire two
blocks it took to reach the gazebo. The gazebo was perched in a
smaller park alongside the river. It was a fanciful structure of white
gingerbread wicker strung with white Christmas lights, dim in the
still‑bright daylight. The band was setting up and a good‑sized
crowd had already gathered, locals and tourists alike. The river
sparkled in the sunlight. It had its own unique smell, dank and
green and a little fishy, yet somehow appealing.
The hand‑cranked chain ferry, its curlicued canopy also painted
white, was making its way across the river, the big chain rattling as
a pair of small boys hauled furiously at the crank, their efforts en‑
couraged by the amused operator in the best Tom Sawyer tradition.
I’d begged for a chance to turn the crank when I was a kid, too.
Beside the ferry landing, a massive weeping willow trailed an abun‑
dance of graceful branches into the water. Beneath its green
shadow, tourists fed popcorn to the ducks, the adults hoping for a
glimpse of something more eldritch and exotic, the children de‑
lighted to settle for greedy mallards.
Life was good.
A vast affection filled me, making me feel warm and buoyant. I
held onto the feeling, willing it to last.
It didn’t.
The moment I caught sight of Jen, it fled, leaving me feeling as
shriveled as a pricked balloon. Envy rushed in to fill the empty
space it left behind.

60 Jacqueline Carey
I’m okay with being cute, honest. I shouldn’t complain. I recog‑
nize the fact that there’s a certain irony in it. On a good day, I can
aspire to pretty.
Jen’s pretty on an ordinary day, and on a good day, she can as‑
pire to gorgeous. She’s got that perfect Mediterranean coloring
with dark hair and olive skin, and she’s one of those girls who al‑
ways looks sort of glossy. When we were both teenagers, my mom
said she looked like Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont
High. I’d never heard of the movie, which shocked Mom, so she
rented it from the library and we watched it together. We watched
a lot of TV and videos together, Mom and I. Turns out it was a
pretty good movie, and she was right.
Anyway.
Jen was having a good day, in part because the light was hitting
her just so, and in part because she was flirting with a guy who
obviously found her attractive, mirroring it right back at him. A guy
I knew.
Oh, crap.
In a small town, practically everyone knows one another. When
you combine the entire population of Pemkowet, East Pemkowet
and the outlying township, it’s only about 3,000 people. Between
the tourists, the cottagers and the boat‑owners, that triples during
the summer, but they don’t count in the same way people you
went to high school with did.
I not only went to high school with Cody Fairfax, I worked with
him at the Pemkowet Police Department, where he was the young‑
est patrol officer on the force and I was a part‑time file clerk. Or at
least that’s what I’d started out as. I did a lot more behind the
scenes, but that was mostly between me and the chief.
Unfortunately for me, I had a whopper of an unrequited crush
on Cody Fairfax, currently lounging on a blanket at my best friend’s
feet, propped on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. Unfortu‑
nately for him, I also knew exactly what kind of closet case he was.
When it came to women, he had a reputation for being a player

DARK CURRENTS 61
that he’d earned fair and square, but there was a reason behind it,
and it wasn’t fear of commitment.
Cody was afraid of being found out.
Envy and anger, two of the Seven Deadlies. I could feel them
coiling deliciously in my gut, wanting to rise and consume me. I had
to be careful with that sort of thing, especially anger. When I lost
control of my temper, things . . . happened. With an effort, I made
myself envision the emotions as a glass filled with roiling liquid, and
imagined myself emptying it slowly on the ground.
Bit by bit, my mood eased.
While the band tuned their instruments, I picked my way through
the throng, unpacked my folding chair and plunked it beside Jen’s.
She glanced over at me. “Hey, Daise! It’s about time.”
I made myself smile in response. “Yeah, sorry. I was hoping
Mogwai had forgiven me.”
Jen laughed. “After you had him snipped? Not likely.”
Cody acknowledged me with a studied casualness. “Good eve‑
ning, Miss Daisy Jo.”
“Officer Fairfax.” I shot him a covert glare. He raised one eye‑
brow in response.
Members of the eldritch always recognize each other and we
can usually identify each other in time. Cody knew perfectly well
that I knew what he was. After all, in some circles in Pemkowet, it
was common knowledge. But the soothsayers aren’t the only ones
with a code. There’s a code of honor in the eldritch community,
too. You don’t out each other. Everyone in town knew about me
because the story had gotten around when I was conceived, even
before Mom and I moved back here. It was different with the Fair‑
faxes. And I wouldn’t out Cody for spite or any other petty reason.
I’d catch some serious flak if I did, and his reclusive clan was ru‑
mored to be pretty dangerous, too. But that didn’t mean I was about
to let him work his wiles on Jen. She’d had a hard enough life.
I just wished he wasn’t so damn good‑looking and that I didn’t
have a crush on him.

62 Jacqueline Carey
I couldn’t help it. For me, it went back to the fourth grade.
Cody was in the seventh grade, and we rode the school bus to‑
gether; me to the mobile home community alongside the river out
in the marshy sticks where Mom rented a double‑wide, him to his
clan’s place out in the county woods.
There were bullies on the bus, and if I wasn’t exactly afraid of
them, I was afraid of the reaction they might elicit from me. They
had heard the rumors. They made it a point to pick on me.
Cody made them quit.
It was as simple as that, and I’d been infatuated with him ever
since. Even through his transformation from a promising young JV
basketball star to a semi‑dropout loser and alleged stoner, through
his myriad high‑school‑and‑after conquests, none of which ever
lasted longer than a month or two, and through his surprising re‑
birth as an officer of the law.
Once, he had protected me.
It was enough.
“Ladies, I should be going.” Uncrossing his legs and hoisting
himself from propped elbows, Cody rose to his feet. He did it in
one effortless movement, the kind you might expect of someone
who had been a JV basketball star. Or, say, a feral someone who
occasionally howled at the moon and turned into something wild,
untamed and bloodthirsty; possibly quite furry. “I’m on duty to‑
night.”
I glanced surreptitiously at the sky, where a crescent moon
hung pale in the fading cerulean. The chief and I had never dis‑
cussed it, but I was pretty sure he scheduled Cody for patrol duty
very, very carefully.
“Call me?” Jen asked hopefully.
Cody’s gaze slide sideways toward me. He had light‑brown eyes
speckled with gold, a distinctive topaz color. There was a hint of phos‑
phorescent green behind them that only I could see. “We’ll see.”
He left, and the locals in attendance retreived various prohib‑
ited adult beverages they’d hidden from his view.

DARK CURRENTS 63
“Jeez!” Jen muttered under her breath. “Call or don’t call, but
you don’t have to be a jerk about it.” She paused. “Do you think
he’ll call?”
I shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”
The band was good.
And that was a good thing, since it helped distract me while Jen
went on and on and back and forth about Cody Fairfax, and
whether or not he really was a jerk, whether or not he might call,
whether she should go out with him if he did—
Well, that was an easy one.
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “So he is a jerk?”
I sighed. Lying isn’t one of the Seven Deadlies, but I tried to
avoid it. When you’re condemned to go through life worrying
about being the spawn of Satan, you learn to avoid anything that
leads you down a dark path. “Not exactly. It’s just . . . you know his
track record.”
“Yeah, but people change.” Jen scanned the crowd, looking for
her eleven‑year‑old brother. “Brandon! Stay where I can see you,
okay?” Lowering her voice, she turned back to me. “Is it true that
Cody only became a cop so he could make sure his family doesn’t
get busted for growing pot in the county woods?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”
“They’re a little like the Joads or something, aren’t they? Like
one of those inbred redneck families Mr. Leary made us read
about.” Jen nibbled on a manicured thumbnail, caught herself do‑
ing it and stopped. “But Cody’s different.” She shrugged. “Anyway,
who am I to talk about family?”
I didn’t say anything. Jen’s family was no prize. Her father
worked as a caretaker and handyman for a bunch of wealthy fami‑
lies with summer homes. He could fix almost anything, and when
he was sober, he had a reputation for being a reasonably decent
guy. But he wasn’t sober often, especially at home. He had a chip

64 Jacqueline Carey
on his shoulder that grew ten times bigger when he drank, and he
took his temper out on Jen’s mother.
Still, compared to my father, that was nothing.
“Sorry.” Jen made a self‑deprecating face. “You know what I
mean. Your mom’s great. You know I love her.”
“Yeah.” I smiled at her. “I know.”
It was true. Ever since Jen and I had become friends in high
school, when I helped her track down her older sister Bethany at
the House of Shadows and make sure she was okay, or as okay as
she could be under the circumstances, Mom had taken Jen under
her wing, doing her best to make sure Jen didn’t get into the same
kind of trouble. Which is sort of ironic if you think about it, since
dating a werewolf might fall under that category. On the other
hand, I knew plenty of girls who’d dated Cody Fairfax without suf‑
fering any side effects worse than common heartbreak, so I guess
it’s nowhere near as dangerous as becoming a blood‑slut out at Twi‑
light Manor.
By the way, if you’re ever conversing with an actual vampire, do
not refer to the House of Shadows as Twilight Manor. There’s a
reason vampires aren’t known for their senses of humor. If you ac‑
cidentally do so, I’d say run, but it’s probably already too late.
Los Gatos del Sol ended one song and went straight into an‑
other rollicking number. It’s hard to stay moody when you’re listen‑
ing to a good Tex‑Mex band, and they were cute, especially the
accordian player. Funny how accordian players are dorky in a polka
band, but kind of sexy playing Tex‑Mex or zydeco. This one was
working the whole smoldering Latino thing, tossing his head to
keep an errant lock of black hair out of his eyes. Catching my gaze,
he winked at me. There was a faint sheen of sweat on the brown
skin of his bare throat, and I imagined myself licking it.
A jolt of lust shivered the length of my spine, making my tail
twitch.
Yeah, I said tail.
No horns, no batwings, no cloven hooves, and Mom swears I don’t

DARK CURRENTS 65
have a birthmark that reads 666 on my scalp. Since I trust her, I haven’t
shaved my head to check. Mostly, I take after her. I have her pert nose,
her cheekbones, her chin. I inherited her fair skin and that white‑
blonde Scandinavian hair everyone thinks comes from a bottle.
But I have my father’s eyes, which are as black as the pits of . . .
well, you know. And a cute little tail, which I’ve learned to tuck as
carefully as a drag queen tucks his package, only back to front.
For the record, I’m not actually the spawn of Satan. My father’s
name is Belphegor, lesser demon and occasional incubus. Here’s
another piece of advice: If you’re vacationing in Pemkowet, or any‑
where on the planet with a functioning underworld, do not mess
around with a ouija board. The spirit you summon might just pay
a visit. Mom learned that the hard way, and I’m living proof of it.
Daisy Johanssen, reluctant hell‑spawn. That’s me.
At any rate, there’s a fine line between desire and lust, and
unfortunately, lust is one of the Seven Deadlies. With my emo‑
tions roiling under the surface, it wasn’t safe to skirt around the
edges of it; not to mention the fact that casual hook‑ups tended to
go south at some point. There are circumstances under which it
becomes very difficult to conceal a tail, even a small one. Believe
me, that’s an awkward conversation to have.
“Check it out.” Jen nudged my arm, jerking her chin at the ac‑
cordian player. “He’s checking you out.”
“Yeah.” Ruefully, I folded up the image of my licking his throat
and packed it away in a mental suitcase, zipping it closed. “But it’s
complicated.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jen was quiet a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I was grateful for her understanding.
In the west, the sun sank slowly behind the treeline. Los Gatos
del Sol took a break. The Pride of Pemkowet, a replica of an old‑
fashioned paddle‑wheel steamboat, churned down the river to
catch the sunset, laden with sightseers. There was a splash, and
then oohs and ahs from the tourists aboard the boat. They’d caught
a glimpse of something this time; a flash of a naiad’s pearl‑white

66 Jacqueline Carey
arm, maybe, or an undine’s hair trailing like translucent seaweed.
The locals stayed seated while the tourists in the park rushed to the
dock to see, returning in muttering disappointment. Whatever it
was, they’d missed it.
By the time the band began its last set, the dusk was luminous.
I watched the children at play.
It was a lovely sight, and only a little bittersweet. I missed the
careless unselfconsciousness of childhood, when a boy on the
bus could be a hero and nothing more complicated. The young‑
est kids flitted around the park like dragonflies. There were little
girls forming friendships on the spot, one in a flounced polka‑
dotted skirt, one decked out in tie‑dye by latter‑day hippy parents.
There was a young gymnast showing off, turning cartwheel after
perfect cartwheel. Jen’s brother Brandon was hanging out with a
couple of buddies, trying to look like they were too cool to play
with the little kids. He was a surprise baby, what they call a
change‑of‑life baby.
There was a dad letting his three daughters spin around him
like a Maypole, making themselves dizzy until they fell tumbling
onto the soft grass. Over there, a boy who couldn’t have been older
than five or six was swiveling his hips like a miniature Elvis. There
was a giggling blonde girl with a doll in the crook of one arm lead‑
ing another little girl in gingham by the hand toward the bushes—
Oh, crap.
My skin prickled. One of those kids wasn’t a kid. Reaching into
my purse, I eased out my police ID and stood slowly.
“What’s up?” Jen asked.
My tail twitched again, this time in a predatory reflex. “Hang
on. I’ll be right back.”
I followed the little girls behind the curve of the ornamental hedge,
catching them just as the one was handing her doll to the other.
“Don’t take that, sweetheart,” I said to the girl in gingham.
“That’s not a nice doll.”
She gave me a confused look.

DARK CURRENTS 67
“We were only playing!” the blonde said in a sweet, piping voice.
She had pink, rosy cheeks and blue eyes set in a heart‑shaped face.
It takes an effort of will to see through a glamour, and not every‑
one can do it, but I can. The angelic‑looking child before me
turned into a milkweed fairy, all sharp‑angled features and tip‑tilted
eyes, a halo of silvery fluff floating around its head, tattered, trans‑
lucent wings springing from its shoulder blades. The baby doll it
clutched had become a ripe milkweed pod oozing sticky white sap.
I held up my ID. “Play somewhere else.”
The fairy hissed at me, baring a mouthful of needle‑sharp teeth.
“Thou hast no authority over me! I do not yield to a piece of plastic!”
“No?” I held up my other hand, my left hand, palm outward,
displaying the rune written there, invisible to mundane eyes but
plain as day to a fairy’s. “How about this?”
The fairy recoiled, but held its ground. “Hel should never have
granted an ill‑gotten half‑breed such license!”
For the record, that’s Hel the Norse goddess of the dead, unre‑
lated to the hell from whence my father came. Ironic, I know. An
eldritch community needs a functioning underworld to exist,
which makes Hel the number one supernatural authority in town.
And I just happen to be her agent.
“But she did.” Anger stirred in me, and this time I let it rise,
molten hot and delicious. I could feel the pressure building against
my eardrums. On the other side of the hedge, someone let out a
startled yelp as a bottle of soda popped its lid. The scent of ozone
hung in the air, and electricity lifted my hair. I bared my own teeth
in a smile, my tail twitching violently beneath the skirt of my sun‑
dress. And since you’re probably wondering, no, I don’t wear pant‑
ies. “Do you yield?”
With another hiss, the milkweed fairy vanished.
The little mortal girl in the gingham dress burst into tears.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Reaching down, I took her hand and let
my anger drain away. “What’s your name?”
She sniffled. “Shawna.”

68 Jacqueline Carey
“That’s very pretty.” I smiled at her. “Okay, Shawna. Let’s go
find your mom and dad, shall we?”
Within a minute, I had her restored to her parents. Mom and
Dad were a nice young couple visiting from Ohio. Caught up in
the idyllic mood, listening to the band and watching the antics of
the many children, they hadn’t even noticed their daughter’s fleet‑
ing absence. It had been so brief, I couldn’t blame them. It was
easy to let your guard down on a beautiful evening in Pemkowet.
“Listen.” Lowering my voice, I nodded toward the public rest‑
room, a squat cinderblock building rendered charming by virtue of
a colorful Seurat painting replicated on its walls. While tourists
emptied their bladders inside, 19 th century Parisians strolled and
lounged on the island of La Grande Jatte. “This may sound strange,
but I strongly recommend you take Shawna to the bathroom and
turn her dress inside‑out.”
Ohio Mom blinked at me. “I beg your pardon?”
I laid one hand on Shawna’s head, stroking the wispy brown
hair escaping from her ponytail. “It’s just a precaution. But your
daughter caught a fairy’s attention. Better to be safe than sorry.”
Ohio Mom turned pale. Ohio Dad laughed. “Relax, hon. It’s
just a publicity stunt.” He winked at me. “Fairies, huh?”
Tourists, gah!
“It’s not a publicity stunt.” I couldn’t keep a hint of irritation from
my voice. “Trust me, you don’t want to wake up in the morning and
find nothing but a milkweed pod lying on Shawna’s pillow.”
Which could very well have happened if little Shawna had
taken the doll. That’s all the fairy would have needed to make a
changeling. Oh, we would have tracked her down eventually— I
would have known what had happened as soon as I saw the missing
persons report, which is how I came by my special role in the de‑
partment in the first place— but it would have resulted in some
seriously bad publicity.
Plus, there’s no telling how it might have affected the kid. Peo‑
ple who get abducted by fairies come back . . . changed.

DARK CURRENTS 69
It took a bit of convincing, but Ohio Mom decided to humor
me. I went back to rejoin Jen.
“Errant fairy,” I explained briefly.
She nodded. “Did you get them to turn the kid’s dress inside‑
out?”
“Eventually.”
Jen made a face. “Tourists.”
“Yep.”
It wasn’t entirely their fault. The Pemkowet Visitors Bureau ac‑
tively cultivates paranormal tourism. They don’t offer any
guarantees— most visitors never catch more than a fleeting glimpse
of a member of the eldritch community, or they fail to recognize
those of us who pass for human— but the PVB isn’t exactly candid
about the potential dangers, either.
What with being a goddess and all, albeit a much diminished
one, Hel keeps most of the eldritch folk in line. The rune inscribed
on my left palm is a symbol that I’m licensed to enforce her rules
and act as her liaison between the underworld and the mundane
authorities. It works pretty well most of the time, at least with the
eldritch who respect order. Unfortunately, there are plenty who
prefer chaos.
Especially fairies, of which we have many.
Los Gatos del Sol wrapped their last set. The crowd began to
disperse into the warm night. Jen retrieved her brother Brandon,
and we discussed plans to schedule a good old‑fashioned movie
night with my mom, or maybe a Gilmore Girls marathon.
I was relieved that she didn’t mention Cody again. Generally
speaking, Jen and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. My crush
on Cody was a glaring exception. It was tied up with keeping his
secret, which I was honor‑bound to do.
By the time I made my way back to my place, the young couple
in the front apartment were making loud and vigorous love, which
I could hear on the landing; but on the plus side, Mogwai had de‑
cided to make an appearance. I turned on the stereo and poured

70 Jacqueline Carey
myself a couple inches of good scotch, my one grown‑up indul‑
gence, then lit a few candles and curled up in the love‑seat on my
screen porch to mull over the evening.
Mogwai settled his considerable tricolored bulk in my lap,
kneading and purring his deep, raspy purr.
“Not too bad, Mog.” I stroked him absentmindedly. “One
changeling scenario, averted. Hel would be pleased.”
He twitched one notched ear in a cat‑quick flick.
I sighed. “And yeah, one hopeless crush flirting with my BFF.
But it’s not really any of my business, is it?”
He purred louder in agreement.
On the stereo, Billie Holiday sang good morning to heartache,
her voice fragile and almost tremulous; and yet there was a fine
steel thread of strength running through it, a strength born of suf‑
fering and resolve. Of all the music in the world, nothing soothes
my own savage breast like women singing the blues. The year I
discovered it, I was twelve, and my mom was dating a bassist in a
local jazz band, the only serious boyfriend I’d ever known her to
have. He introduced us to a lot of music. His name was Trey Sum‑
mers, and he was killed in a car accident that winter. I still missed
him, and I know Mom did, too.
I petted.
Mogwai purred.
Outside, the night was filled with the sounds of a resort town in
full revelry; partying tourists frequenting the bars, bass beats thump‑
ing. Inside, with profoundly poignant resignation, Billie Holiday
invited heartache to sit down.
I blew out the candles and went to bed.

DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD
A Novel of the Fated Blades
by STEVE BEIN
A Roc October 2012 Paperback
Not every blade can be mastered . . .
Mariko Oshiro is not your average Tokyo cop. As the only
female detective in the city’s most elite police unit, she has
to fight for every ounce of respect, especially from her new
boss. While she wants to track down a rumored cocaine
shipment, he gives her the least promising case possible.
But the case—the attempted theft of an old samurai
sword—proves more dangerous than anyone on the force
could have imagined.
The owner of the sword, Professor Yasuo Yamada, says
it was crafted by the legendary Master Inazuma, a sword
smith whose blades are rumored to have magical qualities.
The man trying to steal it already owns another
Inazuma—one whose deadly power eventually comes to
control all who wield it. Or so says Yamada, and though
he has studied swords and swordsmanship all his life,
Mariko isn’t convinced.
But Mariko’s skepticism hardly matters. Her investigation
has put her on a collision course with a curse centuries old
and as bloodthirsty as ever. She is only the latest in a long
line of warriors and soldiers to confront this power, and
even the sword she learns to wield could turn against her.

1.
T he sword in Fuchida Shūzō’s bed was the oldest known of her
kind, and he loved listening to her song.
A tachi in the shinogi-zukuri style, she was forged by the great
master Inazuma. She lay now on Fuchida’s bed, nestled in his
black silk sheets and framed in a rectangle of sunlight. The arch of
her back was as graceful as any woman’s. Small waves ran the
length of her blade, no bigger than clover petals, never wavering
more than a centimeter from her razor edge. When he lay this
close to her, Fuchida could see the grain of her forging, faint silver
lines like wood grain in her shinogi-ji, the flat surface between her
edge and curving spine. A train rattled by on the Marunouchi
Line, distant enough that he could barely hear it, close enough
that it drowned out the subtle ring his thumbnail made when he
traced it along her ridge. The early evening rush of Tokyo traffic
murmured through the open bedroom window, spoiling any
chance of hearing her song.
He rose, careful not to disturb her, and walked naked to the
window to close it. Beyond the glass stretched the crazed labyrinth
of Shinjuku, a werewolf in urban form, biding its time until
nightfall to unleash its full madness. Businesses stacked three and
four high wallpapered their steel‑and‑glass faces with signs of neon
and animated LEDs: pachinko parlors and noodle shops, nightclubs

74 Steve Bein
and strip clubs, Nova language schools and Sumitomo cash
machines, shot bars and smartphone dealers. And somewhere
beyond all that, there was a second Inazuma. Fuchida had spent
fifteen years searching for it, and at last it was within reach. He
could go and claim it at any moment. A voice deep within him
cried out for it. He needed to get it now.
He silenced the voice through sheer force of will. This was no
time to start indulging impatience. He knew where that road would
lead. Better to close the window and close off his longing for the
second sword.
The air blowing in was cool at this height, twenty‑two stories
above the street, and the heavy scent of moisture promised evening
rain. Fuchida slid the window shut, watching his reflection shift in
the glass. In this light he could see only his darkest parts: long black
hair, eyes like black coffee, shadows under his pectoral muscles.
The blues and blacks and purples of his tattoos traced a random
spiderwebbing pattern down to the black triangle of pubic hair.
There were darker parts to him, features not visible to those outside
the window. Throats sliced open, women beaten, enemies buried
in the concrete foundations of high‑rises and public schools. Dark
desires and darker deeds did not reflect in glass.
He looked down at his tattoos. Dragons and spiders crawled up
his arms. A fiery buddha dominated his chest, sword and vajra in
hand. The dragons and buddhas shed tears, every teardrop marking
a kill. There were so many now that he’d lost count. He insisted on
the traditional method for every tattoo, grateful for the discipline
the hooks and hammers had drilled into him. With the second
Inazuma so close, he needed every bit of that discipline not to rush
out and grab it. It was said that the Inazuma blades changed the
course of history. There was no telling what Fuchida could do with
two of them.
For all the years he’d spent hunting the second sword, even
Fuchida himself hadn’t known exactly how he would use it. Gut
instinct had long assured him that with two Inazumas he could

DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD 75
carve out his place in history, but it was only a few weeks ago that
he finally understood how. It could only be fate: after fifteen years
of searching, nothing; then, as soon as he discovered how to make
his mark on the world, the second blade suddenly revealed itself to
him. He and the swords were meant to be together. It could be no
other way. He slipped back into bed with his beloved. She was
beautiful beyond description. If not for that second sword, he felt
he could lose hours just trying to put a name to her colors. The
gleaming gray of her shinogi-ji might be called gunmetal today, but
she was already a hundred and fifty years old by the time the
Mongols first brought guns to Japanese shores. The pale silver of
her tempering had no name at all; it was to be found only in the
lining of clouds, and only then when the sun struck at just the right
angle. She seemed to glow with her own light. No sonnet had ever
described colors so pure; no love song had ever been sung of a
woman more beautiful. The thought of lying with two such
beauties was enough to make his heart race.
He’d taken to sleeping with her years ago, but couldn’t
remember how long it had been since they’d started sleeping naked
together. He did remember that he’d first done it as another way to
test himself. Her blade was so sharp that if he dropped a tissue over
her, its own weight would be enough to cut it in two. A bad roll in
his sleep would push her deep into his flesh. Even if she did not kill
him, there was hardly anywhere she could cut that would not spoil
his tattoos. And he had no doubt that she would kill him if he gave
her the opportunity. She’d killed men before, dozens of them.
Ancient samurai had slain hundreds on her edge, but that was true
of any number of swords. The beauty in Fuchida’s bed had a will
of her own, and a murderous will at that. It was said that she’d
killed any who professed to own her. It was said no man could
master her. Fuchida Shūzō was the first to prove the legend wrong.
And soon he would forge a legend of his own. Two Inazumas.
No one had ever owned two before. Even Master Inazuma himself
had never been in the presence of two of his own blades; it was said

76 Steve Bein
that he forged but one at a time, devoting himself to it as a priest
devoted himself to his god. All Fuchida had to do to claim his
place in immortality was to claim the second sword.
And now that sword was so close that it was all Fuchida could
do to stay in bed listening to his beautiful singer. With two fingers
he caressed the whole length of her, his fingertips drawing a
keening note from her as they ran along her tempering. His desire
for her was no less for wanting the other sword. It was so close. The
woman who owned it was only across town. She was a policewoman,
an unlikely owner for such a treasure, and tracking the sword to her
had been considerably harder than Fuchida could have imagined.
Fifteen years, and now the sword was within his grasp. His breath
quickened at the thought.
But he would not indulge that crying voice in his mind. It pleaded
with him: he needed to get out of bed, get dressed, get the sword
now. Fuchida silenced it. He would be disciplined about this. He
would spend a final night alone with his blade, one last night with
his exquisite beauty before he brought another into their home.
Killing the policewoman could wait until tomorrow.

2.
I t was exactly the opposite of a well‑designed sting. Detective
Sergeant Oshiro Mariko cursed herself for taking it, cursed
Lieutenant Hashimoto for retiring, and cursed the new LT for
taking a perfectly good plan and blowing it right to hell.
Mariko would have preferred to stake out the suspect’s
apartment. There were only so many exits to cover in an apartment
building, only so many places a perp could run. That was especially
true in the kind of building a low‑rent Tokyo pusher could afford to
live in, and this Bumps Ryota was definitely low‑rent. Mariko could
see him now, reflected in the window of the okonomiyaki restaurant
right in front of her nose. Even from this distance, she thought he
walked as if his feet did not touch the ground. He held his arms
close to his chest, one palm flat against his cheek as if trying to
restrain a nervous tic or muscular spasm.
She should have said no. Hell, she’d tried to say no. She’d
wanted to walk away as soon as the good plan hit the toilet. But
something had drawn her back to this one, and it wasn’t just some
vague sense of loyalty to Lieutenant Hashimoto. Her mother would
have said that when a person feels compelled, that meant something
was meant to be, but Mariko didn’t believe in all that destiny crap.
She was a detective: she believed what the evidence supported

78 Steve Bein
believing. So with all the evidence pointing to a first‑class fiasco,
why hadn’t she said no? What made this case special?
Bumps paced to and fro around a low flower planter centered
in one of the main intersections of the open‑air mall. Nothing
special about him. Nothing special about this place either. A
framework of I‑beams instead of walls, the beams painted the same
pale blue as the bottom of a swimming pool. Mounted above them
was a roof of translucent Plexiglas domes, giant versions of those
eggs that pantyhose used to come in. Suspended below the huge
half eggs were ranks upon ranks of glowing fluorescent tubes,
giving everything below not one shadow but a host of thin
overlapping ones. Bumps couldn’t have chosen a better place to be
staked out by the police if he’d tried. No one on Mariko’s team
would give even a moment’s thought to drawing down on him in a
public mall. But Bumps’s position was better still, smack in the
middle of a four‑way intersection peppered with shoppers and a
million little alleyways between all the shops. Even with a battalion
Mariko couldn’t have put a man on every possible escape route,
and with only two other officers for her sting, she couldn’t even
cover the four cardinal directions. It was almost as if Bumps Ryota
and this new Lieutenant Ko were on the same side.
Mariko’s okonomiyaki shop was on the southeast corner of the
intersection. She smelled hoisin sauce and frying shrimp from
within, and saw Bumps’s skinny little reflection pacing back and
forth in the foreground of her own. Short spikes crowned her image
in the plate glass—her hair was still wet from the rain outside—and
her eyes looked strained and tired. As well they might, she told
herself, given the worst sting operation of all time, but she nipped
that thought right in the bud. She already got too little respect from
the men on her team; there was no point in undermining her
authority further by undermining herself.
She had a patrolman named Mishima about ten meters down
the west corridor, sitting on a bench with a couple of shopping
bags and looking for all the world like a tired, fat man waiting for

DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD 79
his wife. In the north corridor she’d placed Toyoda in a sunglasses
shop—a natural fit, since she’d never seen him without a pair of
sunglasses propped in his close‑cropped hair. Twenty meters past
Toyoda the mall opened onto a dark street, traffic hissing by on the
wet asphalt. Mariko had to trust Toyoda’s background as a soccer
fullback would help him defend that corridor, because if Bumps
got to the open street, catching him would become a whole new
kind of nightmare. Every neon sign in this mall would linger as
sunspots in her officers’ eyes, and a half‑blind chase in traffic wasn’t
Mariko’s idea of a winning strategy.
Again she cursed Hashimoto for retiring. Why couldn’t he have
left one week later? She cursed herself too for not sticking with the
original plan, even if that meant taking whatever crap Lieutenant
Ko might have for her afterward. Better to turn her back on the
whole operation than to try to do it half‑assed.
Why hadn’t she just turned and walked? Her usual answer
wouldn’t cut it this time. Yes, she had to prove herself to her
commander, but she knew that would be true for the rest of her
career. Yes, first impressions were important, but that was all the
more reason not to take this assignment; it was as if Lieutenant Ko
was setting her up for failure. And she’d gone along with it anyway.
Why? For the umpteenth time she looked to her reflection for an
answer: why did she feel compelled to take this sting?
“Sergeant, this is Two,” said Toyoda’s deep voice in Mariko’s
Bluetooth. “I have a possible approaching the suspect now.”
Yet another flaw in the operation, Mariko thought. At ten
minutes to ten, there were so few shoppers left that you could
take a good guess at which ones were looking to score a hit.
Bumps, in turn, could guess that the three people who never
wandered more than a few paces from their positions might have
been, oh, say, cops. And if a buyer didn’t come within the next
ten minutes, the only people left in the mall would be Bumps and
Mariko’s team.
But Mariko managed to keep a lid on all such lamentations.

80 Steve Bein
Instead she said, “Come on, Two. A description might be helpful,
don’t you think?”
“Tight little number. Orange hair. Fuck‑me pumps.”
“Oh, I got her,” said Mishima. “Yeah, that’s real nice.”
“I don’t suppose I could bother you two to be professional,
could I?” Mariko winced as soon as she said it. These guys had
been salivating over the air all night, but pissing them off now
wouldn’t do any good. She needed them sharp.
“Possible has reached the suspect,” said Toyoda.
Mariko reached into the purse slung across her torso and
withdrew a compact—one she never used except in circumstances
like these. Flicking it open with a stubby thumbnail, she used it to
look over her shoulder. There was the perp, talking to. . . . Oh no.
Saori.
Just like that, everything fell into a lower and hotter level of
hell. Bumps would be done with his transaction in thirty seconds
or less. Pull the trigger on the sting too early and he wouldn’t be
guilty of anything. Pull it too late and she’d have no choice but to
arrest him and Saori. Within her thirty‑second window, she had
another window of one, maybe two seconds where she could nail
Bumps Ryota and still let Saori walk.
There was the other option too. She could choose not to pull
the trigger at all. Let them go. Tell Ko his plan was a pooch screw
from the get‑go, then set up a new sting on Bumps and another
buyer. Or just let Saori walk and then hit Bumps, hoping he was
carrying enough to nail him on intent to distribute.
“On your toes, boys,” she said into the Bluetooth. “We go on my
signal.”
Saori and Bumps were still talking. Saori’s hair was longer than
Mariko remembered, dyed peroxide orange. Bumps had long hair
too, shoulder length, straight pressed, and tawny like a lion’s. Both
were bone skinny, their clothes hanging off them like sails from a
mast in dead air. Their image in Mariko’s hand mirror trembled. It
was hard to tell if either had passed anything to the other.

DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD 81
“What are we waiting for, Sergeant?”
“Zip it, Three. We don’t have a bust if he doesn’t sell her
anything.”
There. Had their hands touched? In the trembling mirror it was
hard to tell. Mariko turned around to get a better look. Bumps was
definitely putting something into his jacket pocket. What about
Saori? Mariko could only see her back. Saori’s hands were in front
of her belly, her skeletally skinny elbows winging out on either
side.
“Hell with it,” Mariko muttered. Then full volume, “Move,
move, move!”
Bumps Ryota locked eyes with her. They were jumpy, his eyes,
but despite the fact that he was amped, he froze in place for one
full second before he bolted.
One second was enough time for Mariko to clear the heavy
Taser from her belt line, not enough time to close within firing
range. Bumps took off like a rabbit on speed.
Toyoda was on an intercept course with him. Mishima bore
down on Saori, just on the fringe of Mariko’s peripheral vision.
Bumps juked right and put a bench between himself and Toyoda.
Instead of vaulting it, Toyoda went around. That was all the
breakaway Bumps needed.
Mariko bounded over the bench, dashing past Toyoda and not
sparing the breath to call him a jackass. She wasn’t going to catch
Bumps. Five more strides and he’d be out of the dry neon mouth
of the mall and into the slick, busy darkness of the streets.
Whether out of inspiration or desperation, Mariko couldn’t say,
but she chucked the Taser. It wheeled end over end, almost in slow
motion, and Mariko was sure she hadn’t put enough into the throw.
The thing was heavy; it wasn’t going to make it. But then it hit
Bumps in the base of the neck. He stutter‑stepped, stumbled,
regained his footing. It was enough.
Like so many others in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police
Department, Mariko had taken the department’s aikido course. In

82 Steve Bein
the heat of the moment, she couldn’t remember a single technique.
She grabbed a fistful of Bumps’s stiff, tawny hair. Bumps kept
running. She stopped.
In the next instant Bumps was on his ass. “Stay down,” Mariko
said, panting, fumbling for her cuffs with her shaky, sweaty left hand.
One of those newer‑model Toyotas hissed by, the kind that
looked like a pregnant roller skate. A raindrop thwacked heavily on
Mariko’s scalp. She felt it roll through the forest of her choppy hair,
tracing a cold line down the back of her head toward the collar of
her blouse. Overhead, the low‑hanging clouds glowed white, the
way they could only do in a city the size of Tokyo. Every building
in sight was the same height, nine or ten stories before disappearing
into the haze. The sole exception was the mall, with its roof like
rows and rows of mannequin tits, the drumming of fat, heavy
raindrops beating against them, loud as a low‑flying 747 that
wouldn’t leave Mariko’s airspace.
Bumps was still wheezing, his eyes pinched shut and all his
yellow teeth visible, when Mishima and Toyoda approached with a
handcuffed Saori. The sunglasses in Toyoda’s black hair were off‑
kilter, and Mishima had his tie undone, his jacket slung over one
shoulder. A crowd of bystanders formed a wide semicircle, centered
on Mariko as if choreographed that way, their formation stopping
at the border between wet and dry pavement.
“Is it true?” said Toyoda. “Is she your sister?”
Mariko looked up at the glowing sky and the domes of Plexiglas.
Rain pounded the mall’s roof, not half as loud as Mariko’s
thundering heart. “Give her to me,” Mariko said.
“Wait!” Bumps said as Mariko passed him off. “I’m useful to
you! I got information!”
“Sure you do,” said Mariko, then nodded for Mishima and
Toyoda to leave. Both men stood their ground, their gazes flicking
between Mariko and Saori. “That guy you’re holding is a suspect,”
Mariko said. “Customarily we take them down to post and book
them.”

DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD 83
Mishima’s chubby face sank, and Toyoda gave Mariko the evil
eye, but at last they did as they were told. Mariko shook her head.
She didn’t know what it would take to earn these boys’ respect, but
apparently running down a fleeing perp single‑handedly wasn’t
sufficient.
“Miko,” Saori said, “you have to get me out of this.” Her teeth
were like her pusher’s, gray where they were not yellow. She’d lost
weight since Mariko had seen her last; her cheeks seemed hollow,
her lips thin like an old woman’s. Her face was flushed, but not
with shame; Mariko could only see indignance there.
“I don’t know how to help you anymore, Saori.”
The sallow face hardened. “Are you kidding? What are you
doing, staking me out now? Those guys came out of nowhere.”
“Well, that makes one thing that’s gone right tonight.” Mariko’s
laugh sounded forced even to her. “Shit, Saori, if you had any idea
how bad this thing went down, you’d know how bad you’re
tweaking.”
“I’m not tweaking.”
“Uh‑huh.”
Mariko took Saori by the joint between the cuffs and gave her a
gentle shove in the direction the other two had taken Bumps Ryota,
toward the pair of squads they had waiting in the mall’s shipping
dock. She hated being put in this position. Ever since Saori had
started using, all Mariko had ever wanted to do was help. Saori was
the reason she’d put in for Narcotics in the first place: to bust the
shitheads who would sell to her sister, yes, but also to try to get an
understanding of addiction itself. The only understanding she’d
gleaned so far was that an addict had to hit rock bottom before
recovery. Was getting arrested by her own sister rock bottom
enough? Was Mariko helping at all? She couldn’t be sure.
As she ushered Saori along, she found the mall had become a
breeding ground for shoppers, mostly high school girls still in
uniform; their numbers seemed to have tripled in the last minute or
so. Text messages had summoned them like a wizard’s incantation,

84 Steve Bein
exorcising them from every corner of the mall and drawing them all
to this one place. Gawking faces passed judgment from every
direction, and at least a dozen cell phones had their tiny black bug
eyes trained on the fabulous Oshiro sisters. Within the hour every
teenager in Tokyo would have received the image from a friend.
Saori fussed at her cuffs, twisting her bone‑thin arms. “You
know what, Miko? This is bullshit. You want to stake me out, fine.
Just don’t lie about it. Be the overprotective bitch you’ve always
been; just come right out and say it.”
“We were staking your pusher. It’s not my fault you came to buy
tonight.”
“Whatever. I’m not even carrying.”
Mariko stopped. “Is that true?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Saori, did the other officers find anything on you?”
“No.”
Mariko rolled her eyes. She didn’t know why she bothered
asking questions anymore; when she was using, Saori would lie to
anyone about anything. The only question now was, would she pat
Saori down in front of the high schoolers and their phones, or
could she find a quieter place?
The quieter place was on the opposite side of a tan steel service
door, in a long yellow hallway whose fluorescent tube lights
hummed and droned and flickered. As Mariko patted down Saori’s
ribs and back and belly, the question she really wanted to ask was,
Why are you making me do this? Tomorrow’s conversation with
their mother was sure to be a hoot. Now that conversation would
have to include Big Sister Miko picking on Poor Little Saori by
searching her for contraband. No matter how bad things got, Saori
always found a way to make them worse.
But this time, thankfully, she was clean. Mariko had to run her
fingers over Saori’s underwear to make sure, and she wanted to
smack Saori for putting her in a position to have to grope her own

DAUGHTER OF THE SWORD 85
sister, but Mariko had pulled the trigger just right. They had Bumps
and, owing as much to sheer luck as good judgment, they didn’t
have anything on Saori.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” Mariko said,
pushing a brown service door open and ushering Saori through it.
A vicious diatribe from Saori echoed throughout the long, narrow
hallway, mostly in Japanese but with the choicest words in English.
It had always been Saori’s favorite language for cursing. Mariko
didn’t listen to a word of it. She was still thinking about fate. She’d
had no way of knowing Saori was buying from Bumps, and yet
she’d felt drawn to this case—and now, lo and behold, she was
perfectly placed to save her family a lot of shame and grief. Mom
would have said it was meant to be. Mariko still didn’t buy it, but
neither could she deny the compulsion she’d felt.
She walked to the end of the hall, pushing Saori along in front
of her. When she reached the door at the far end, she opened it
and took Saori into the mall’s shipping and receiving room. It was
a cavernous space, with undressed lightbulbs dangling from a
ceiling high enough to admit a tractor‑trailer. Two squads were
parked in the loading dock just outside the huge open door. Bumps
was already inside the nearest one. Mishima and Toyoda leaned
against the driver’s‑side doors, smoking, the lightbulbs gleaming
like a string of stars in the sunglasses atop Toyoda’s head.
“Which one of you searched this suspect?” Mariko said.
Mishima and Toyoda looked at each other.
“Damn it, guys, you have to have a reason to put handcuffs on
somebody.” She fished for her key, and with a few clicks Saori was
rubbing her red, unshackled wrists together.
“Mishima,” Mariko said, pointing at Bumps in the backseat,
“take him back to post and process him. Toyoda, go with him. By
the time I get there, I want to see a report on my desk explaining
why you weren’t in position to take down our suspect and why you
left me without backup in running him down.”

86 Steve Bein
Toyoda scowled at her as if she’d called his mother a whore.
“Come on, Oshiro, there were only three of us. I had to leave
somebody without backup.”
“That’s Detective Oshiro, and yes, you could have left Mishima
without backup. Instead, you chose to help him cuff a woman who
wasn’t fleeing, a woman who ultimately can’t even be charged with
anything—”
“A woman who’s your sister.”
“That’s beside the point. You showed bad judgment tonight—
all night long, as far as I’m concerned—and I’m giving you a
chance to write down your side of it before I talk to Lieutenant Ko
about your suspension. So give me a heartfelt ‘thank you’ and get
the hell out of here.”
Toyoda’s scowl deepened. “What about her?” he said.
Mariko turned to look Saori in the eye. Quietly, somberly, she
said, “I’m taking her to detox. Again. Unless she wants to face
charges of conspiracy to traffic narcotics.”
The charge would never stick, but Saori didn’t have to know
that. She looked at Mariko, then at the floor. “Fine,” Saori said,
“let’s go.”
Tomorrow’s conversation with their mother was looking better
and better all the time.

DARK LIGHT OF DAY
by Jill Archer
An Ace October 2012 Paperback
Armageddon is over. The demons won. And yet
somehow . . . the world has continued. Survivors worship
patron demons under a draconian system of tributes and
rules. These laws keep the demons from warring among
themselves, and the world from slipping back into chaos.
Noon Onyx grew up on the banks of th river Lethe,
daughter of a prominent politician, and a descendant of
Lucifer’s warlords. Noon has a secret—she was born with
waning magic, the dark, destructive, fiery power that is
used to control demons and maintain the delicate peace
among them. But a woman with waning magic is unheard
of and some will consider her an abomination.
Noon is summoned to attend St. Lucifer’s, a school of
demon law. She must decide whether to declare her
powers there . . . or attempt to continue hiding them,
knowing the price for doing so may be death. And once
she meets the forbiddingly powerful Ari Carmine—who
suspects Noon is harboring magic as deadly as his
own—Noon realizes there may be more at stake than
just her life.

1
WINTER GARDEN
T he wind whipping across my face made it feel as if I’d just
scrubbed with camphor and bits of glass. My eyes watered and
my nose ran. I sniffled and kept walking, my boots crunching over
the ice and snow. Stars winked high above me like baby’s breath
thrown into an inky sea, but the main light came from small um‑
ber street lights tucked into the stone wall beside me. The Aster’s
front gate was just thirty yards ahead. I tried not to think about how
cold the walk home would be if they refused to let me in. Inside my
pocket, I squeezed my letter, forever wrinkling it. I knew some
people framed theirs. I didn’t care. I planned to burn mine.
The wall I’d been walking along ended and a massive iron gate
rose up in its place. To its side was a call box. Giving the letter one
final vicious squeeze, I withdrew my hand, opened the box, and
turned the crank. It stuck at first and I had to wrench it free from a
brittle crust of snow and ice. Finally I heard a pop and some clicking.
But no one answered. I stood for another half‑minute or so, blowing
breath into my cupped hands to warm my now frigid mouth and
nose. I turned the crank again. It was too late for dinner and too early
for bed. Someone would answer. After a while, Mrs. Aster did.

90 Jill Archer
“Hello?” squawked the box.
“Evening, Mrs. Aster,” I said, trying to keep my voice pleasant.
“It’s Nouiomo Onyx.”
A moment of silence passed as I tucked a strand of hair back
into my hood. The frost on my mitten brushed my cheek. The spot
burned as if someone had just nicked me with a metal rake.
“Good evening, Noon.”
“Is Peter home?”
“I haven’t seen him since dinner.” This may or may not have
been true. The Aster’s house was as big as a castle and I knew Peter
spent most of his time studying either in his room or in the family
library.
“I need to talk to him about something,” I said, still managing
to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Would you let him know
I’m here?”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“No. I’m leaving tomorrow. That’s what I want to talk to him
about.”
There was a long pause before she answered again.
“Noon, I have two hundred poinsettias, five holly trees, and a
dozen live mistletoe sprigs in the house. You can’t come in. I’m
sorry.”
I fought for calm and swallowed the lump in my throat. What
had I expected? It was Yuletide and the Asters were Angels, for
Luck’s sake.
“Can you tell him to come out?”
Another long pause and then, “He’s studying.”
I sighed. The lump was gone, replaced with resignation. I had
lived next to Peter for twenty‑one years, my whole life. And I could
count on one hand the number of times this gate had opened for me.
I cleared my throat, wanting my voice to sound stronger than I felt.
“Tell him I stopped by then, would you?”
“Of course. Goodnight, Noon.” The squawking stopped and
then the static and the box went completely silent.

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 91
I turned and started crunching my way back, stepping carefully,
and clutching my hood beneath my chin to keep the wind from
my ears. I was so focused on how cold and miserable I was that it
took me awhile to notice the warmth spreading from the pocket of
my cape. Just as I started to smell burning wool— disgusting!—
warm turned to seriously hot and I glanced down to see that I had
set my cape on fire. Brilliant. I hadn’t inadvertently set anything on
fire since puberty. I waved a flat hand over the flames and quickly
smothered the fire. I looked around to see if anyone was watching.
Someone was.
Luckily, it was Peter.
He was leaning against the stone wall I had just walked along.
The same stone wall that ran for miles along the Lemiscus, a lane
as old as the Apocalypse. The Lemiscus separated our families’ two
estates. The Asters had a wall running along their side. On ours?
Nothing. My father, Karanos Onyx, was one of the most powerful
Maegesters in the country. We didn’t need walls to keep our pri‑
vacy.
Peter’s hood was down, his cloak unbuttoned, and his hands
bare— obviously he’d rushed to meet me. In the deep twilight, his
white blonde hair was the color of snow and ash, nearly the oppo‑
site of my midnight‑colored tresses. He pushed off the wall with his
shoulder, his lanky frame ambling over to my shivering one, and
put his arm around me. His smile was friendly but his frost blue
eyes were disapproving. He’d seen the fire.
“Shall we?” he said, motioning toward a small wooden door
that was half‑hidden in the wall.
“Is it safe?”
“As safe as it always is. I cast the spell just before opening the
door.”
Huddled together we stepped through the doorway. Peter
closed the door behind us and I stared ahead, remembering the
first time I had stepped through that door. I’d been five and it was
the first time I’d ever stepped foot in a garden. I’d been so in awe,

92 Jill Archer
so overwhelmed, by the life growing within these walls. The dark,
destructive waning magic I tried so desperately to keep hidden
deep inside of me had pulsed in response to the rich magentas,
bright clarets, and cheerful fuchsias of the blooms and buds.
Within seconds of my entry, I had killed three hydrangeas, two
hostas, and a mulberry tree. Instantly, they’d become black silhou‑
ettes against the garden’s remaining ruddy colors.
It was the single most horrifying day of my life. And the most hope‑
ful. Because a moment later Peter had cast a protective spell over the
surviving plants so that I could walk among them— green, growing,
living plants. I dared not touch anything now, but at least I could look.
The place would have been magical even without a spell. Yew
topiaries shaped as Mephistopheles, Beelzebub and Alecto warred
alongside Gabriel, Michael and Mary. They were all dormant now,
the yews buried under an inch of fresh snow, but I could feel their
presence. Alive and well, they waited for spring to resume their
fight. Behind the wall, shielded by hedgerows and distant cypress
trees, the snowflakes felt less like bits of glass and more like cold
confetti. Peter and I sat down on a small cement bench, which was
nestled back nicely in a cut‑out niche of the hedgerow. He spread
one side of his cloak around me and cast a spell of warmth over us.
My shivering subsided.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
He’d seen the fire so I couldn’t very well say, “nothing.” But I’d
burned the letter so I couldn’t just shove it at him in way of expla‑
nation either.
“I’ve been accepted to St. Lucifer’s Law School.”
Peter’s face went still. It could have been surprise. It could have
been anger. With Peter, you could never tell.
“Luck, Noon, did you apply there?”
I rolled my eyes. “My mom sent in the application for me. She
swears she didn’t tell them about my magic. She thinks I should
tell them. Her exact words were, ‘It’s your power, you have to de‑
cide to use it.’” I snorted, remembering.

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 93
My power. As if it was something positive. People like me, who
possessed waning magic, were a menace. Not only could I kill
something just by touching it, my presence alone had the potential
to harm growing things. Plants, pregnant women, gardens,
greenery— all could suffer disastrous consequences if I came too
near. Worse than that though, was what we were expected to be‑
come: Maegesters, or demon peacekeepers. Because waning magic
was the only type of magic that could be used to control demons.
Becoming a Maegester meant learning all of the Byzantine laws
that Halja’s ruling demons idolized and then training to become
their consiglieres, their judges, and even their executioners.
Worse than that though, was that I was the only female with
waning magic that I knew of.
Unfortunately, I had to live with it, which was why I’d spent my
whole life wishing I possessed the waxing magic of a Mederi healer,
rather than the waning magic of a future Maegester.
“So are you going to go?”
I shrugged and made a helpless gesture. Ever since I was five,
after that first disastrous entry into the Aster garden, Peter and I had
been plotting a way to reverse my magic. Peter thought the answer
was to find a rumored long lost Reversal Spell. But, so far, we
hadn’t found it and my time was running out. Law and scripture
required us to use our talents for the greater good. The demons
who ruled Halja had no patience for rule breakers, and so under
Haljan law, anyone with magic had to declare it by Bryde’s Day of
their twenty‑first year. That day, the day I’d been dreading my en‑
tire life, was now just weeks away.
“I don’t know, Peter. It’s a big gamble, not declaring by the dead‑
line. I’ll be killed if they find out I have magic and didn’t declare it.”
Peter scoffed and I bristled.
“Peter!” I said, suddenly angry. The snow on the branches
above us instantly melted and dribbled down on us, a chilling re‑
minder of the combustible magic I was trying to hide. “You act as
if the demons, the Council, and the law are of no concern.”

94 Jill Archer
Slowly, he rubbed the back of his bare neck, swiping at the cold
drops that had fallen there. He stared out into the snow covered
garden, his lustrous blue eyes never meeting the soft smokey
bronze of mine.
“Noon, I’m so close,” he said finally, turning to me. “You’ve got
to trust me. I know I’ll be able to find the Reversal Spell before
Bryde’s Day. Can’t you convince your mother to let you stay home
for a few more weeks?”
I shook my head. “She kicked me out, Peter. My own mother.”
Peter grimaced. “Is there anyone else you can stay with? Just
until I find the spell?”
I stared at him and then smirked. “I’d move in with you but
your mother hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you . . . Wait, you’d move in with me?”
“I . . .”
I didn’t know. Peter was my best (and only) friend, but I’d given
up my adolescent dreams of anything happening romantically be‑
tween us years ago. I’m not even sure Peter had known I’d felt that
way about him.
“Peter, I need my own place. And I need a job. I need to figure
out what to do with my life.”
“Well, I guess you could go to St. Lucifer’s temporarily, just
until I find the spell. If your mother didn’t declare for you, your
secret’s still safe. Some people might suspect, but I think they’re
too afraid of your father to speak openly of it or to declare for you.
Just enroll in the Barrister classes, not the Maegester ones. Instead
of learning how to police demons like a future Maegester, learn
how to help Hyrkes follow the Demon Council rules like a future
Barrister.”
“There will be others with waning magic who are there to train
as Maegesters. They’ll be in the Barrister classes too. There won’t
be any way to avoid them.” Members of the Host who had waning
magic could often sense one another. It was a magical remnant of
the days when our ancestors had been Lucifer’s warlords.

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 95
“I can cast a cloaking spell over you that should last for a few
weeks,” Peter said. “I’ll reinforce it when I get there.”
Peter was twenty‑four. For the last three years he’d been attend‑
ing the Joshua School, a prestigious Angel academy that shared a
campus with St. Lucifer’s. Angels, whose power came from their
beliefs rather than their birth, were different than waning and wax‑
ing magic users. They cast spells, instead of using innate power.
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You can cast a powerful enough
cloaking spell to hide me from any Maegester at St. Lucifer’s?”
For the first time that night, Peter grinned. “Have a little faith,
Noon. Have you ever sensed your dad’s magic before?”
I frowned. Not that I could remember. Peter nodded and smiled.
“That’s because he’s always had himself cloaked. I can do the
same for you.”
“Do you really think you can find the Reversal Spell in less
than a month?” I said, still worried. “Most people think it’s a myth.”
“It’s not a myth!” Peter grabbed my arm as if I hadn’t heard his
next words quoted from him a thousand times already.
“‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall
be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain,
for the former things have passed away. And He who was seated on
the throne said, I make all things new. Write this down, for these
words are trustworthy and true.’
“Noon, somewhere out there is an ultimate spell of reversal, a
spell that makes things the way they were meant to be. The old
Book of Revelation doesn’t give us the spell, but we know from it
that the spell once existed. Someone wrote it down at His com‑
mand and I’m going to find it.”
I stayed silent, not knowing what to say. Did the Reversal Spell
really exist?
“What does Night think?” Peter said, cutting into my thoughts.
Night was short for Nocturo, the Maegester’s name my parents
had given to my twin brother. Of course, within a day of our birth,
it became clear that our names were completely inconsistent with

96 Jill Archer
our magic. Because magic and gender were so closely related in
Halja, our birth mix‑up was something we Onyxes almost never
discussed. The fact that I had been born with the waning magic of
a Maegester and Night had been born with the waxing magic of a
Mederi embarrassed my father, shamed my mother, and caused
Night and me no end of grief.
“Night left two weeks ago to join one of the Mederi tribes,” I
said.
Peter stared at the Alecto topiary, frowning. I brushed snow
from my knees.
“That’s going to make it hard.”
“Tell me about it. My mom and dad weren’t speaking before.
Now they can’t even stand to be in the same room with each other.”
“I meant your brother’s choice to openly train as a Mederi healer
might make it harder to cast the Reversal Spell once we find it.”
Peter stood up, taking his cloak with him and breaking the spell
of warmth he’d cast over us. The wind whistled in my ears again
and I shrugged. Night hadn’t consulted me. He’d just left. Now,
our mother obviously thought it was my turn.
“I think Night just looked at the calendar and decided a few
more weeks weren’t going to matter. He got tired of waiting.”
“Don’t declare, Noon. Once you declare, it’ll be that much
harder for us. Even if I found the Reversal Spell, the Council might
not let me use it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, laughing bitterly. “Declaring my magic
and training to become a Maegester is the last thing I want to do.”
I pulled my hand from my pocket. The ashes from my burned
acceptance letter spilled out into the wind and then settled on the
garden’s snowy white coating. By the time Peter finished casting
my cloaking spell, the little black bits were gone.

2
PETITS FLEURS
I f Halja, my country, was the lone man left standing in a battlefield
after a long and brutal war, then its future would be the spilled
blood under his feet— expected, yet somehow still startling, slippery
and shifting, a sacrifice for peace in a world full of demons. Real
ones. Because it was here in Halja that Lucifer’s army, the Host, beat
the Savior’s army in the last great battle of the Apocalypse.
And yet . . .
Life goes on pretty much the way it did before. People still get mar‑
ried, have babies, and pay their taxes. Many things were destroyed, but
many things have been rebuilt. We have mechanized cabriolets,
electro‑harmonic machines, winder lifts, pots of lip gloss, and nail lac‑
quer. We have time to do our hair. Because the Apocalypse happened
over two thousand years ago. Armageddon is old news and in the days,
years, centuries, and millennia since, we’ve mourned our dead, buried
them, and even forgotten where their graves were.
Lucifer’s Host, which consisted of his warlords, their wives and
sisters, and the demons they controlled, evolved. Not physically,
but culturally. The warlords became Maegesters, or peacekeepers.
The wives and sisters became Mederies, or healers. And the de‑

98 Jill Archer
mons broke into two groups: those that value Halja’s future and
those that don’t.
Well, like it or not, expected or startling, my future began at five
a.m. the next morning when the tinny ring of my alarm bell woke
me. In the cold blackness of pre‑dawn I dressed hurriedly in slim
wool pants, a linen undershirt, and a heavy gray sweater with a
large cowl collar that could double as an extra hood if needed. I
grabbed my leather back pack and crept downstairs to see if I could
find something to eat before I had to leave to catch the ferry that
would take me to St. Lucifer’s.
Our house was as big as Peter’s (maybe even bigger) so it took
me a few minutes to reach the kitchen. My fingertips brushed the
walls as I went, each turn illuminating memories of events that oc‑
curred in these darkened rooms long ago. There was where, at
eight, I’d tripped on one of the carpets and smashed my head into
the side of that table, nearly slicing my ear off. Night had tried to
heal me, but my father had stumbled upon us before he could and
had bellowed for my mother. She’d patched me up, with catgut
stitches instead of magic, and Night had never tried again. At least
not in this house. There was where I’d thrown my first fire ball. At
my mother. I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t even known I could. Thank
Luck, I’d missed and hit the wall instead. She’d grabbed me by the
ear (the one she’d sewn with catgut four years earlier) and marched
me upstairs to look out the window at her blackened garden.
“Do you want the whole house to look like that?” she’d asked,
shaking me by the ear.
She’d made me paint the wall white again, but I swore I could
still see the black spot, even in the dark.
There was a light on in the kitchen. I hoped it was Estelle, our
housekeeper. But when I rounded the corner and entered, I saw
my mother at the end of the long wooden table, scraping the tops
of several white iced petits fours into a trash can.
“I’ve told Estelle,” she said, almost to herself, although she had

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 99
to know I was there, “no flowers. I’ve told her bells, stars, arrows,
hearts . . . whatever she fancies, but no flowers.” With each word,
my mother’s scraping became more violent. The last petit four
crumbled into the trash can, icing, cake, and all. She stood for a
moment looking down at it, unable to meet my silent gaze.
Why was she upset? She was getting what she wanted. Me out of
her house. I sighed. It was probably a good thing. For both of us.
I grabbed one of the last unviolated petits fours. In the red light
of the kitchen’s brick oven fire and the overhead iron chandelier
candles, the white icing looked orange. The little flower flickered
on top, almost like a tiny flame.
“She doesn’t make them for you,” I said, popping the little cake
into my mouth. “She makes them for me.”
My mother looked up at me frowning. Had she been crying? In
this light, it was hard to tell. And why didn’t she have the electric
lights on anyway? My mother had always been far too fond of fire.
Two score and five years or so ago, my mother, Aurelia Onyx ne
Ferrum of the Hawthorn Tribe, had been the most beautiful and
powerful Mederi the south bank had seen in at least three genera‑
tions. She’d cured countless diseases, scoured scores of unnamed
pestilence, helped crippled children walk again, and the blind to
see. She’d birthed hundreds of babies, healed new mothers, and
brought blue babies back to life. No one miscarried with the young
Aurelia Onyx attending. She’d been a superb midwife. Not only
beyond reproach, but a shining example of what all young, dutiful
Mederies aspire to be.
Her garden had been legendary. Bluebells, bog lilies, and cat‑
tails had bloomed next to sand verbena and prickly pear. Wisteria
blossomed next to bougainvillea, passion flowers sprouted amongst
sea holly, four o’clocks opened at dawn, and the night‑blooming
cereus flowered not just on midsummer’s night, but every night of
the year. People never spoke directly to me about it, of course, but
I’d gathered that, in its heyday, my mother’s garden had been some‑
thing of a fertility shrine. Hyrkes —humans with no magic—came

100 Jill Archer
from as far as the New Babylon suburbs just to spend the day in it.
Losing a day’s work and traveling for hours was nothing in trade for
the chance to soak up all that life and to possibly see her. Or even
to have her touch you. Because Aurelia Onyx had had the gift of
life.
But as her marital years wore on and she created no new life of
her own, folks began to wonder. Fewer and fewer people traveled
from New Babylon to the garden. Fewer Hyrkes hired her as a mid‑
wife. It was impossible for a Mederi of her strength to be barren.
Wasn’t it?
I have no idea what happened then or how it did. I only know
that my brother and I were born twenty‑one years ago and the day
after our birth my mother burned her garden to the ground. With
a can of gasoline and a match, because Mederies didn’t have de‑
structive power. But every day of my life that I’d woken to my view
of the charred garden that never grew back, I knew different. You
didn’t need magic to destroy.
My mother had certainly proven that again with Estelle’s poor
petits fours.
“I think your brother has joined the Demeter Tribe,” she said,
setting her knife on the table top.
“Demeter sounds like a good choice,” I said, scrambling to re‑
member what I knew about that tribe. My mother pressed her lips
together, showing me what Hawthorne likely thought of Demeter.
Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. As a male Mederi, Night
wouldn’t exactly have his pick of tribes to choose from.
I walked over to the table and surveyed the decapitated petits
fours. I selected two more and walked over to the ice box to find
some juice. I didn’t think I had the patience to boil water for tea
this morning.
“How do you know he joined Demeter?” I asked, peering into
dark, ice cold box. Several glass bottles in varying shades of red,
pink, orange, and yellow were neatly lined up on the top shelf. I
grabbed the pink one—pomegranate juice—and went to fetch a

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 101
glass. Even though there was only enough left for one person, I
knew better than to drink straight from the bottle in front of Aure‑
lia.
“They had an opening. One of their Mederies disappeared re‑
cently.”
“Disappeared?” Disappearances in Halja usually didn’t have
happy endings.
“Linnaea Saphir, Demeter’s Monarch, sent her best midwife
up to New Babylon last week. She’d received an unsigned note
from a messenger requesting immediate assistance with a difficult
birth in a neighborhood to the east of the city. Amaryllis Apatite,
the Mederi midwife she sent, climbed on board the North‑South
Express at 2:00 p.m. last Tuesday and hasn’t been seen since.”
No need to ask how she knew all this. My mother might not
practice medicine anymore, but she still kept in touch with Haw‑
thorne’s Monarch. And news of a missing Mederi would be some‑
thing for every tribe to be concerned about.
“They’re not afraid it’s another Ionys situation are they?”
Ionys was the Patron Demon of Wine, Winemaking, and
Vineyards. Last year, the demon’s favored drink had turned one
of the local vintners mad. Over the course of five weeks last
spring, he’d abducted and murdered six Mederies. He’d sprinkled
their blood across his vineyard in the hopes that Ionys (despite
the demon’s prohibition against such practices) would reward
him with an excellent vintage. Needless to say, the follower was
caught, tried, condemned to death, and his vineyards confiscated
and burned.
I shoved the uneaten petits fours back onto the table, feeling
suddenly ill. My mother’s silence was answer enough.
“Are you worried?” I said. “About Night? Because we haven’t
heard from him?”
Aurelia stared at me with her dark, red‑rimmed eyes.
“Yes,” she said simply, picking up the knife again. “Of course
I’m worried about him. Him. The Apatite girl. You.” And with that

102 Jill Archer
last word she took her knife and swept every bit of Estelle’s ruined
petits fours into the trash.
I wanted to tell her we’d be alright. Night. Me. The missing
Mederi. But this was Halja. The land of demons. A place where
our footing, and our future, was always slippery, shifting, treacher‑
ous, and unsure.

3
FIRST LIGHT
W e lived in a small village called Etincelle on the south bank
of the Lethe. The river flowed between Etincelle and New
Babylon, Halja’s biggest and only city. The Lethe’s south bank had
been settled sometime after the Apocalypse by the Host, some An‑
gels, and their Hyrke servants. How the Host and the Angels man‑
aged to occupy the same ground without continuing Armageddon
is no small mystery. Perhaps the Angels were too bereaved by the
death of their Savior to continue their holy war. Certainly the Host
was disorganized. Killing the Savior had weakened Lucifer to the
point of near annihilation. It was said he collapsed on the field in
his armor, no longer able to bear its weight. Lilith rushed to him,
but it was too late. He transformed before her eyes, first into a ser‑
pent, then a dragon, and then finally a star in the firmament of
Halja.
His star, the Morning Star, winked down at me now as I trudged
to the edge of the Lethe in the slowly lightening dark.
The wind and snow from the night before were gone, replaced
with a still crispness. The air smelled almost sterilely clean, at least
until I came within a few yards of the dock when the stench of

104 Jill Archer
dead fish, wood rot, and engine fuel became too concentrated to
ignore. I told myself it was the foul smell that slowed my steps but
I knew it was fear. Last night’s determination to attend St. Lucifer’s
masquerading as a human Hyrke with no magical powers disap‑
peared with the clean smelling air. The brief burst of raw grit that
had seen me through the tearless farewell with my mother was
gone. I clung to the thought of Peter’s cloaking spell and mentally
pulled it around myself for warmth and courage. No one knew that
I’d been born with waning magic. There was no reason, yet, to de‑
clare my status and start training as a Maegester. Maybe I really
would be able to hide until Peter found a way to reverse my magic.
I looked across the wide gray expanse of the Lethe. Today, I
knew it for what it was: the choppy, white capped boundary be‑
tween my childhood home and my uncertain future. It was dotted
with all the tiny, muted‑colored ferries that ran between Etincelle
and New Babylon. The only people who worked in Etincelle were
the Hyrke servants of the Host and Angels. Everyone else worked in
New Babylon, which was a bustling hub of cosmopolitan urbanity,
similar in many ways to the old world cities that existed before the
Apocalypse. New Babylon offered myriad opportunities that Etin‑
celle did not— shopping, entertainment, the diversity that comes
from a large population, as well as employment. So travel between
the two areas was brisk.
My mother had booked me on the 6:06 a.m. ferry. She hadn’t
told me its name. We’d said little to each other after our discussion
about Night’s possible whereabouts and the missing Mederi. The
bulk of our remaining conversation had been taken up with logis‑
tics. She’d arranged to have most of my things sent ahead to St.
Lucifer’s. There was an orientation for new students tomorrow
morning at nine a.m., and she’d purchased a one way ferry ticket
for me. I wasn’t to be late.
It was 5:42 a.m. I wasn’t late.
The ferry wasn’t even there so I dropped my leather backpack
beside a wooden bench and slumped down into it. I huddled un‑

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 105
der my bulky layers of clothing, the gray collared sweater, my dark
winter cloak, and my heavy snow boots. I pulled the sweater’s cowl
collar up over my mouth and nose for warmth and looked out
across the water, searching for my ferry.
The other ferries hustled about. They all had names like Absence,
Veracity, or Courage. Like a little augury, I thought. Would
my ferry bear a name of inspiration, enlightenment— or dread?
The water lapped at the pier beneath me and boats’ horns and bells
sounded in the distance. Hyrke captains yelled things to mates,
dock boys shouted at each other, and then, as more and more fer‑
ries approached from the north, the dock got busier. Ropes
thumped as they were thrown to the dock, rubber bumpers
squeaked as boats lined up and were tied off. Feet thudded down
the pier as commuters and shoppers prepared to board.
I recognized most of them. Marius Steele, a Maegester whose
clients were almost exclusively winged imps who barely had the
power to light a match, boarded the Absence. He glanced in my
direction, recognized me, and gave a startled little wave before
scurrying onto the boat. Mark Grayson, a Hyrke mechanic who
lived on the Petrificus estate, boarded the ferry Honor. The Petrifi‑
cae, despite their ominous surname, were more relaxed than most
Host families. They allowed Grayson to accept work from other
sources— both in Etincelle and New Babylon. Though a Hyrke,
Grayson was well respected on the south bank. He had no magic,
of course, but magic wasn’t necessary to work with machines.
Grayson gave me a polite nod, which I returned, before he nimbly
jumped on board Honor. Soon it would be my turn. It should be
easy. Just step on board. After all, I’d crossed the Lethe countless
times already.
But this time was different. For one thing, I’d always had a re‑
turn ticket. And for another, I’d never been trying to pull off the
near impossible. Hiding my magic at St. Lucifer’s would be infi‑
nitely more difficult than it had been at the Ajaccio Academy, my
Hyrke high school, or Gaillard University, my Hyrke undergradu‑

106 Jill Archer
ate college. But declaring I was a woman with waning magic would
not only brand me as the freak I didn’t want to be, it would also set
me on a career path I most emphatically did not want.
Just before six, a tiny beat up boat chugged across the water to‑
ward the dock. Its paint was faded and its engine sputtered, but it
was as fast as it needed to be and soon a scrawny boy of about
twelve was jumping to the pier and tying it off. I sat on my bench
and stared. The boat was about fifty feet in length. A cabin occu‑
pied almost half of the deck. The rest of the deck was covered with
benches. The boy gave a wave to the captain and the engine shut
down. The captain, a short, stocky, gray haired old man, came out
and they exchanged a few words I couldn’t make out. Likely about
something insignificant like fuel or fees. I heard more thumping
on the dock. I guessed I wouldn’t be the only one taking the 6:06
this morning. Someone with a determined step approached. But
when I looked up to see who it was, I wasn’t prepared for my reac‑
tion.
Instead of cold, I felt suddenly hot. Like my body was the letter
I’d inadvertently burned last night. I could feel Peter’s spell kick in.
It acted as a counter force and I realized my magic had flared up
unbidden. It would have been only horrifyingly frightening had it
stopped there. But the magic tug‑of‑war continued in my body un‑
abated. My waning magic wrestled with Peter’s spell. The battle
raced across my skin, over my scalp, into my fingertips, skittering
into the pit of my stomach where it roiled, threatening to boil over.
I clenched the arm of the bench and gritted my teeth. The man
with the determined steps slowed, then stopped and turned, look‑
ing straight at me. I didn’t recognize him, but he stared anyway,
making no movement except, perhaps, a slight widening of his
eyes.
Whether it was Peter’s spell or my own sense of self‑preservation
that prevailed, I don’t know, but the electric revolt of my stomach
stopped, moving out as a feeling of pins and needles in my legs and
arms. The feeling finally settled into a numbing coldness that I

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 107
might have mistaken for simply sitting too long if I weren’t still
looking at the man who had been the mysterious catalyst of the
whole incident.
He was young, around my age, and good looking in a dark,
imposing way. This was a man who would feel at ease threatening,
or possibly even torturing. But I got the impression he’d turn the
screws with a smile, which made him seem even more sinister. His
hair was short, very short, as if he’d just come from the barber. Was
he a Hyrke? I didn’t think he was an Angel or a member of the
Host. I’d memorized every face in the Etincelle Register (it was
easier to avoid other waning magic users if I knew what they looked
like). His face hadn’t been in there. I would have remembered.
But his eyes were more piercing than any Hyrke’s I’d ever seen.
They were so brown they were almost black and they bored into
me with an intensity that made me feel as if I were a butterfly
pinned to a box frame. Then the moment was broken and he
walked over to me.
“Are you crossing on the 6:06?” he asked. His voice was deeper
than I’d expected.
I cleared my throat and pulled my hand free of the arm rest. I
opened my mouth but no words came out. I’m sure I looked like
an idiot. Like I was fourteen again and someone had just asked me
to the school dance. Part of me actually wanted to get on the boat
if he was going to be on it.
“No,” I said, surprising myself. What else was I going to do? Of
course I was getting on the boat, which would make me look dou‑
bly stupid after this response.
He nodded but kept staring down at me, frowning.
“What?” I snapped. He was undeniably attractive but right now
I just wanted him to go away. I had to figure out what I was going
to do.
He shrugged, turned around and walked toward the ferry. I
watched him the whole way. He was tall and solidly built. He
moved gracefully for his size and too soon, he bounded over the

108 Jill Archer
rail of the ferry, into the cabin, and out of my sight. A few other
passengers boarded. None were strangers but there was no one I
knew really well either. At 6:05 a whistle sounded and I knew it was
the last call for boarding. I stood up and grabbed my leather back
pack, lacing one of the straps over my right shoulder. But I did
nothing else. I just stood there.
The stranger emerged from the cabin just as the scrawny boy
was untying the ferry’s ropes from the dock. The boy threw each
rope to the stranger, who caught them easily and stowed them un‑
der the benches. The boy jumped aboard and entered the cabin. I
knew the boat was seconds from leaving.
If I was going to go, it had to be now. What other choice did I
have? My mother had made it clear I wasn’t welcome back home.
Night couldn’t take me in. My waning magic would stunt or kill
everything his tribe would try to grow. At least Peter’s cloaking spell
gave me a chance to hide at St. Lucifer’s, passing as a Hyrke, while
Peter continued to look for the Reversal Spell that might turn my
destructive waning magic into the nurturing waxing magic I was
supposed to have been born with.
I started walking across the pier just as the ferry was leaving. I
hurried my pace. The boat’s bumpers squealed as it began to ma‑
neuver out of its spot. The engine rumbled and the ferry slowly
started to pull away.
I wasn’t going to make it. I started running and covered the last
few yards in seconds, but in those seconds the ferry had moved al‑
most as far. It was now at least five feet from the pier. I stood para‑
lyzed with all manner of emotions— anger (at myself), disbelief (at
the situation), and fear (my constant companion).
Someone yelled.
“Throw your pack!” It was the stranger. He was motioning im‑
patiently with his hands to underscore his advice.
Without thinking I unshouldered my pack and tossed it into the
air. It sailed over the water in a great big arc and landed in the
stranger’s arms. I should be so lucky, I thought. Now I was commit‑

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 109
ted. I stepped to the edge of the pier and jumped out over the water
as far as I could.
It wasn’t far enough.
I slammed into the side of the ferry and almost fell into the
water. I would have, too, if the stranger hadn’t caught both of my
hands with his own. The jump hurt a lot more than I thought it
would. I’d naively thought that I’d either land on the boat with both
my feet under me, or fall in the water unharmed. Landing only
halfway, smashing my head into the side of the railing, and then
being dragged by the ferry, now gaining speed at an alarming rate,
with my legs half‑submerged in the water, just hadn’t occurred to
me.
“Are you okay?” The stranger yelled to me. “Try to drag yourself
up.”
My head was still pounding and I think I was partially in shock
at what I’d just done. I vaguely registered that my hands hurt too.
The stranger was squeezing them so hard I thought he’d crack the
bones. Fear replaced dazed confusion as I realized I might actually
drown if he let go of me. We were now hundreds of yards from the
dock. With my water soaked snow boots, a heavy cloak, and a
banged up head, my chances of surviving the ice cold water were
maybe fifty‑fifty. What in Luck’s name had I done?
I took the stranger’s advice and tried to drag myself aboard. But
my arms were weakened by pain and shock and the drag of the
water on my boots was greater than my resolve. After a few seconds
effort, I fell back and let myself go limp again. I felt my hands slip‑
ping from his.
“Come on! You can do it,” the stranger shouted. “Don’t give up
now!”
I looked up and met his gaze. He was so determined. His rug‑
gedly handsome face was grimly set with the effort of holding my
weight against the side of the boat. He wasn’t going to let me fall
into the water. I was no one to him, but I could tell that he would
to do anything and everything to make sure I made it into the boat.

110 Jill Archer
And from what I’d seen, anything and everything included more
than most Hyrkes had to give.
He let go of my left hand. I screamed . But then he leaned over
the rail, putting himself at substantial risk of falling in too, and
shoved his hand under my armpit. It was awkward because of my
cloak, but somehow he managed to get his arm almost all the way
around me. He started pulling and I finally started helping. It sud‑
denly mattered what this man thought of me. I’d lied to him on the
dock and now here he was trying to save me from a drastically
stupid, ill‑timed jump to the boat I’d sworn I wasn’t boarding.
After a full minute of further struggling— obviously everyone
inside the cabin was oblivious to my plight— we managed to get
me over the railing and onto the boat. We collapsed together on
deck, entangled in each other’s arms, my cloak billowing out and
settling over us like a blanket. For a few seconds neither of us said
anything. We just lay there, panting from our efforts. I had no idea
what he was thinking but my thoughts were positively racing.
What, in all of Luck’s scorched Hell, was I going to say to this man?
I disentangled first and hauled myself up from the deck. I
thought I saw a flash of disappointment in his face but I couldn’t be
sure. Then he rose too and stood in front of me. His frank assess‑
ment of me was unnerving. His gaze swept over me as if he already
knew every one of my secrets. That would be dangerous, I thought,
and doubled my resolve to play the part of a credible Hyrke.
“Thank you,” I gushed. At least my gratefulness wasn’t fake. I
stuck out my hand. “I’m Noon.”
“Ari Carmine,” he said, shaking my hand. His grip was gentle
and he turned my hand palm‑side down and rubbed his thumb
across my bruised knuckles. “I’m sorry I hurt your hands,” he said,
and for a moment I thought he might raise my hand to his lips in
some antiquated chivalrous gesture. But he switched his gaze from
my hand to my face and something he saw there must have made
him change his mind. He released my hand and let it drop.
“Do you have a last name, Noon?”

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 111
I hated that question. My last name produced reactions in people
that I’d rather avoid. I paused and thought about making something
up, but I’d lied to him once already. Now that he’d save me from
possibly drowning, I didn’t want to lie to him anymore than I had to.
“Onyx.”
He nodded. Like he’d expected it. Which wasn’t what I’d ex‑
pected. Hyrkes who didn’t know me usually looked wary when they
first heard my last name.
“I know your father,” he said.
Doesn’t everyone? I thought, but just nodded. The Demon
Council, that body politic that ran Halja and everyone in it, had an
executive head. The Executive position was always held by a Mae‑
gester. For the past twenty‑one years, that Maegester had been
Karanos Onyx, my father.
“So you’re the Executive’s daughter. One of the Hyrke twins
born to Host parents.”
I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like he might have put a little
too much emphasis on the word Hyrke. On the other hand, it
seemed more likely that deciding to attend St. Lucifer’s was in‑
creasing my normal paranoia.
“That’s right. My brother’s Nocturo,” I said, careful to use the
Maegester’s name Night had been given at birth instead of the
nickname he’d adopted later.
“So, what brings you to cross the Lethe, Noon?”
I could have just told him. Hyrkes attended St. Lucifer’s too
(otherwise my plan to masquerade as one wouldn’t work). But this
guy seemed a little too well informed of my background and I
didn’t want to get into any discussion about demon law or anything
to do with Maegesters, Executives, demons, or otherwise.
Still, I was trying not to lie.
“You,” I blurted out. He looked surprised for a moment and
then grinned. What a sight. I couldn’t help thinking of that pre‑
Apocalyptic nursery tale, something about a wolf and the line, “the
better to eat you with.” He looked positively carnivorous.

112 Jill Archer
“I wondered why you changed your mind,” he said, chuckling.
The rumbling sound of it made me swallow. I shook my head. This
whole introduction had gone horribly wrong.
“No. I just meant if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be crossing at
all,” I said with as much dignity and sincerity as I had left. “Thank
you, again.” I turned to go.
There was something about him that made me nervous. I
couldn’t say whether it was a bad nervous or a good nervous. But I
had too many other things to worry about to stick around figuring
out which one. I walked over to the cabin door and reached for the
door handle. His hand closed around mine in a way that was be‑
coming too familiar too fast.
“Mind if I sit with you?”
I stared down at his hand over mine wondering what to do. I
would look seriously horrible if I couldn’t just sit with someone
who had recently rescued me from falling into the Lethe.
“On one condition,” I said.
“Anything,” he said. I raised my eyebrows. He grinned again. I
fought a tickly feeling in my stomach— fear or excitement?
“No more questions.”
He looked disappointed but then brightened. “Fine,” he said.
“We can talk about me instead,” and he locked his arm in mine
and led me over to a seat near a heater.
True to his word, he told me about himself. He’d been raised in
Bradbury, a working class Hyrke neighborhood in the southwest
section of New Babylon. He had a younger brother, Matt, who was
seventeen and trying to decide where to go to college. The top
contenders were my alma mater, Gaillard, and the Engineering
Institute. Apparently Matt was some kind of mechanical genius. I
told Ari that I’d gone to Gaillard.
“You’re kidding?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. Was
he surprised at finding a connection between us, no matter how
tenuous? New Babylonians tended to do that when they found they
shared something in common with a stranger. That’s what hap‑

DARK LIGHT OF DAY 113
pened when you lived in a city populated with a million people. Or
was he surprised that someone who’d willingly jumped off a pier to
a moving boat would be accepted at Gaillard? Gaillard wasn’t for
academic slackers. You had to have excellent grades just to get in,
let alone stand out against your peers. My parents had sent Night
and me there before the ink was dry on our Ajaccio Academy diplo‑
mas. It was the perfect solution for them. The urban campus had
no plants for me to kill and the Hyrke curriculum offered no occult
training to confuse (or educate) us.
Ari told me he’d gone to Etincelle last night to stay with his
aunt. She was his mother’s sister and I gathered they were close.
He’d brought her a birthday present— a garnet pendant on a silver
chain— because the sisters’ favorite color was red.
“What’s your favorite color?” he said suddenly.
I opened my mouth to answer but then realized I’d be opening
the door again to further questions about myself so I said instead,
“What’s yours?”
“Black,” he said slowly, looking at my hair and then bringing
his gaze back to my eyes. My heart skipped a beat. I hoped he’d
think my rosy cheeks were due to the cold.
“Who’s your aunt?” I asked, thinking I would probably know her.
“Judy Pinkerton.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “She lives on the Decemai Estate.” He nod‑
ded. The Decemai family lived off the Lemiscus too but miles
from us.
I felt myself opening up a little as we talked. Ari wasn’t the type
to burst into spontaneous laughter. But I had fun. It had been a
long time since I’d chatted it up with a Hyrke. Their conversations
always seemed so normal. Maybe pretending to be a Hyrke at St.
Lucifer’s wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Too soon the crossing ended and our little ferry started docking
on the north bank. I grabbed my pack from underneath my seat
and prepared to go. Ari grabbed my hand— a not unpleasant habit
he had adopted over the last hour or so.

114 Jill Archer
“Let’s get together again,” he said.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why? This crossing was one of the best I’ve ever had.”
Wow. Really? Surprisingly, I felt the same, but I knew he
wouldn’t have said that if he’d known he’d been sitting next to
someone who could instantly turn him to ashes.
“Come on, I want to hear more about you, Noon. You made
me talk about myself almost the whole time. Next time, it’s your
turn.”
I just stared at him, speechless and nearly numb with the power
of my wanting things to be different.
“Come on, you can’t hide forever.” Was that my plan? I hope I
didn’t look as pained as I felt.
I shook my head. “I’ll see you around.”
I resisted the impulse to hug him. Sure, he’d maybe saved my
life and we’d spent a pleasant hour crossing the Lethe, but I didn’t
even really know this guy.
“I’m sure you will,” he said and smiled. Then he turned around
and walked in the opposite direction of where I was headed.
I watched him for awhile, wondering if I’d made a mistake. I’d
had Hyrke flings before. He might be a welcome distraction from
all the stress St. Lucifer’s was sure to heap on me. On the other
hand, it was more likely the guy would become an unwanted com‑
plication and I turned away. I walked for awhile and then couldn’t
help myself. I glanced over my shoulder. Ari was gone. I could see
our ferry though, tied up and loading passengers bound for Etince‑
lle. Its name was as faded as the rest of it, but I could just make out
the lettering: FIRST LIGHT.
So much for the augury idea. A boat named after its arrival time
told me nothing about my future. I turned my back on it and kept
walking.

ALCHEMYSTIC
Book One of the
Spellmason Chronicles
by Anton Strout
An Ace October 2012 Paperback
First in a brand-new series from the author of
Simon Canderous Novels.
Alexandra Belarus is a struggling artist living in New York
City, even though her family is rich in real estate,
including a towering, gothic Gramercy Park building built
by her great-great grandfather. But the truth of her
bloodline is revealed when she is attacked in the streets
and saved by an inhumanly powerful winged figure.
A figure that knows the Belarus name . . .
Lexi’s great-great grandfather was a spellmason—an artisan
who could work magic on stone. But in his day, dark forces
worked against him and his, so he left a
spell of protection on his family. Now that Lexi is in danger,
the spell has awoken her ancestor’s most trusted and
fearsome creation: a gargoyle named Stanis.
Lexi and Stanis are equally surprised to find themselves
bound. But as they learn to work together, they realize
that they need each other to save the city they
both love . . .
Praise for the Simon Canderous novels:
“Following Simon’s adventures is like being the pinball
in an especially antic game, but it’s well worth the
wear and tear.”
—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author

As a means of contrast with the sublime, the grotesque is,
in our view, the richest source that nature can offer.
‑Victor Hugo
1. Stanis
W aking was easy. Something primal in the night sky called out
to me like a banshee at the witching hour. When was the
last time I had even encountered one of them, I wondered? I could
not recall that . . . or much of anything. But that was always the way
of waking, I remembered. The lingering disorientation of dream‑
ing held its sway for a moment longer before slipping from my
grasp like leaves on the wind. The haunting, faintly familiar face
that had been the focus of them once again faded. Stanis, the fig‑
ure said, and nothing more. I fought to hold the image—that of a
pale gentleman with wild, black tangles of hair and kind blue eyes.
Had the hair always been black? I was not sure. A haunted im‑
age from frozen fragments of my broken memories swore it re‑
called this exact same figure with a full head of gray as well, but
already I could feel something in my mind pushing those thoughts
aside as the routine of waking took over.
I stretched, every muscle in my form crying out with pure joy.
As I relaxed my body, an intense itch flared down two long sections
of my back. My wings, I remembered. Of course. I looked back over
my shoulder to find the giant stone wings like those of a bat curled

118 Anton Strout
close to my back. I worked the muscles along my shoulder blades,
my heavy wings extending, flexing out for a moment to relieve the
itch they had called up upon my waking, both pleasure and pain in
the gesture.
A hunger awoke in my chest, but I forced myself to ignore it for
the moment. It would win—as it always did—but for now I fought
it off as my hearing focused in on the sounds of the city rising up
all around me. The occasional bleat of traffic down below sounded
out, much like the sheep I remembered that used to roam the vast
fields that once occupied this island.
Manhattan, I recalled. Long ago, the whole island had looked
more like the tiny park in front of the building where I had awoken,
the one the humans called Gramercy.
A cool wind blew through the green leaves of the trees in it—
had they not just been bare?
Had the word Manhattan been right, either? I was not sure and
forced myself to concentrate through my lingering confusion. I
looked around the towers of glass and light rising all around me,
hoping for familiarity and glad when I discerned a few things that
still seemed unchanged in this modern world.
There was still the tallest tower that stood to the north of my roof‑
top, its lone spire illuminated in bright lights, this time in the colors
red, blue and white. Some time soon the skies would light up in color‑
ful explosive bursts, the humans celebrating, cheering, but surely it
was not that time of year again already. I did not understand the ritual,
but it was something I used to mark the passing of the years.
I turned from the building and its light, looking south now.
Things had changed a great deal there in recent times. Two other
towers had stood there, once the highest and greatest points on that
horizon, but now there was nothing where I thought those struc‑
tures should be, adding to my sense of disorientation.
Before I could wonder too long if I was mistaken in my thoughts,
I felt that gnawing hunger rising up again in my chest, a burning
need to do. What, though, I still was not quite sure. It picked away

ALCHEMYSTIC 119
at me like a hammer at stone until I could ignore it no longer. The
itching sensation between my shoulders rejoined it cries and I gave
into the pull of it all. Looking back over my shoulder, I watched
my stone wings unfurl from against my body once more, stretching
them twice as wide as I stood tall. The itch died as I worked them,
retracting the wings close to my body and then extending them to
their fullest over and over.
All the sensations rose to the center of my thoughts, a strong
and unrecalled memory forcing itself forward—one of the rules.
Protect.
With wings extended, I leapt off my perch along the edge of the
roof I called home, my body dropping into the night sky. As my
form tumbled toward the park called Gramercy, my wings recalled
memories of flight, lifting me before I struck the street full of traffic
below. I set off, heading north, the red, blue and white lights of the
tallest tower a flaming beacon that oriented me, all other thoughts
leaving me as that one word once again consumed all other
thoughts and burned them away.
Protect.
But just what I was meant to protect, I was unsure.
2. Alexandra
Punching clay felt a lot more satisfying than any sexy time Ghost
pottery wheel spinning nonsense ever could, I thought to myself.
Each strike released my anger as my balled up fists sank reward‑
ingly into it, the unfinished statue form still too soft to actually do
any damage to my wrists. I had never spent my time punching
much of anything, but rage held its sway over me and I couldn’t
stop myself.
I pulled my hands free, flecks of the clay flying into my long
black hair. Normally I’d have already tied it up while working in

120 Anton Strout
our old unused Belarus family art studio up here on the seventh
floor. But then again normally, someone, namely my brother,
wouldn’t have dressed my latest attempt at a Gothic inspired statue
in a basketball jersey, mirrored sunglasses, and wrapped its now
deformed hand around a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. As a final com‑
ment of my artistry, a half smoked cigarette hung from its mouth,
and the top of its head was adorned in a Statue of Liberty‑type
crown made of discarded butts.
A sound from somewhere up above the art studio, on the roof of
the building itself, snapped me out of my red rage, making me step
back from my now even worse looking statue mock up‑in‑progress.
Whatever potential I had seen in it was now lost, its form pummeled
and twisted like something Salvador Dali would have envisioned, but
not in a good way. I let out a long sigh and wiped my now gray hands
down the front of the overalls I preferred to wear in the art space. They
weren’t exactly flattering, but function won out over fashion in my
book, right down to the paint and clay all over them. I didn’t bother to
keep them clear of the black tank top I wore, either. It was already
coated in enough clay it was most likely trash bound anyway.
I walked across the large open floor of my family’s building, out
of my great‑great grandfather’s art space with its dozens of historic
pieces and hundreds of puzzle boxes he had created, and out
through the library, sidestepping around one of the many mid‑
Nineteenth century sofas.
Having heard the sounds on the roof, which I was sure meant
my brother, Devon, was up there, I threw open the door leading
out to the small terrace just below it, walked out, and turned to
stare up at it.
“Hey, asshole!” I shouted. “Get the hell down here, right now!”
No response. Typical Devon. I stormed back in, leaving the
July air to pour into the building, which was musty enough to need
a good airing out every once in awhile. I went back into the studio,
headed for the table I had left my shoulder bag on. I tore it open
with such a fury I shocked myself, worried for a moment that I had

ALCHEMYSTIC 121
ruined it. The thought riled me more, to the point that by the time
I found my phone my hands were shaking.
I clicked on “Devon,” then waited for it to dial through. My
eyes panned the room as I stood there. Part of me was already se‑
cretly glad I had destroyed my work. Compared to everything else
around the art studio—here thanks to the long ago talents and
skills of Alexander Belarus—mine was a pale imitation.
“Yeah?” my brother’s voice barked into the phone, causing me
to jump. Short. Curt. So very Devon.
“Get down from the roof,” I said. “Now!”
His usual heavy sigh came through the phone. “Lexi, what are
you rambling on about now? I’m waiting on a meeting.”
I pulled my phone away from me face and checked the time.
“At this time of night? It’s nearly eleven!”
“Listen,” he said. “Sometimes you’re dealing with contractors,
unions, architects, zoning, permits . . . and that shit waits for no
man, got it? You take the meetings when they come. C’mon, I real‑
ize you have no grasp of the family business . . .”
“Nor do I have to,” I said. “That’s what they have you for. I have
zero interest in real estate development.”
“Aww,” my brother mocked. “I thought you were all about the
Belarus legacy.”
“Moving property and writing contracts aren’t the Belarus leg‑
acy,” I said. “It’s the actual art and architecture that our great‑great
grandfather crafted for this city. You’d know that if you actually
opened a book in our family library or looked at one of his pieces
of art here. Speaking of which . . .”
Devon chuckled. “Hey, you did just say you wanted me to
spend more time in the art studio, right?”
“Not defacing my art,” I said. “I would appreciate it if you’d
keep your hands off of my work.”
“That’s not work,” he said. “Dressing up, learning the family
business . . . that’s work ”
“First born son gets all those perks,” I said. “Not me.” I had never

122 Anton Strout
even been on our father’s radar for that type of stuff. I got to be all
girly girl, all pretty and petite, apparently. Truthfully, I didn’t give a
shit about all the construction and landlording . . . and Devon knew
it, this not being the first time our differences on honoring the fam‑
ily’s name had put us at odds. Our true legacy, I had always and still
believed, lay in the beauty of the buildings my grandfather had de‑
signed. My work as a sculptor was the best way I knew to pay homage
to that. For my brother, however, the expansion of our already vast
Manhattan landholdings was the only way to honor the Belarus
name. He didn’t care about design or craftsmanship as my great
grandfather had. He cared about cold hard cash.
“You should take an interest in the family business,” he said, his
voice dark now, his business tone.
“Are we the mob now, Devon?”
“Carving pretty things isn’t where the money is,” he said. “That’s
why I did what I did to your precious statue, to prove my point.
That stuff’s not important for the Belarus name. It’s land. It’s prop‑
erty. Jesus, Lexi, do you have any idea how this company runs?
This is about land in Manhattan, about who controls it, and who
can earn off it.”
“Half this city owes Alexander Belarus a debt of gratitude!”
“Fine, Lex, I’ll build him a museum. We’ll put all his stuff be‑
hind glass, charge admission. Then we might make some money.
You’d be happy. I’d be happy. Everybody wins. Will that suffice?”
“Not really,” I said, unable to let go of my anger, my short nails
digging into the palm of my free hand. “You’d probably just fuck
up everything in the museum like you did here in the studio.”
“Give me a break, will you?” he fired back, his voice chance,
grew darker, more serious. “There are bigger things out there than
all that playing around you do.”
“If history and art are playing around,” I said, “then so be it.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to learn the family business,” he said,
short. “I have to go. Meeting time.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to be a better brother,” I said. “Stay

ALCHEMYSTIC 123
away from my stuff, Devon. We’re not kids anymore. I feel stupid
even having to say it.” Tears of frustration began to pour and before
he could get in the last word as he always had to, I ended the call,
slamming my phone down onto the soft leather of my bag. I moved
into the library, opting for one of the more shadowy sofas as far
from the lights of the art studio as possible. The quiet darkness
calmed me a little, but thinking about the ruined model for my
eventual sculpture kept nagging at me.
I didn’t know how long I had been sitting there—minutes, a half
hour—when another sound caught my attention, this time coming
from out on the terrace that stood outside the set of double doors off
across the far end of the floor. Footsteps. I snapped out of my funk and
wiped my tears away as best I could. A small ray of happiness welled
up in me at the sight of my favorite short blonde, now sporting fresh
bangs that sat just above her black horn rimmed glasses. Her dancer’s
bag was thrown across her body from one shoulder to the opposite hip,
and she twirled around in perfect form once inside the doors.
“You going to air condition all of Manhattan now?” Aurora Tor‑
res asked, pulling the doors shut.
“Maybe, Rory,” I said. “I thought your apartment down in the
Village could use it, what with your Thermostat issues.”
Rory started across the room toward me. “Appreciate it. Our
central air still isn’t working. If it doesn’t get fixed by the Fourth, I’ll
leave it to Marshall to deal with the landlord. He’s used to conflict
after all, what with running Roll For Initiative.”
“Marshall’s game shop is still open?”
She nodded. “It’s amazing how spending all your savings for
college on your hobby‑turned‑business can you keep you going,”
Rory said. “But conflict seems to be part of his day to day. They do
a lot of ‘war gaming’, or so he tells me. I don’t get any of it.”
“Let your roommate fight the battles,” I said. “Nice.”
She stopped in front of my sofa, pulling her evidently heavy bag
off her shoulder and shaking it at me. “Like I’ve got time between
my course load and dance rehearsals.”

124 Anton Strout
“I thought summers were for lightening all that,” I said.
“Not when you take a summer intensive,” she said. “And it is
intensive, overachiever that I am. Then there’s the workout of
climbing up the fire escape to avoid the rest of the Belarus clan.
My body hurts.” She put the bag down, bending with it, and that’s
when she noticed my face. “What’s wrong?”
I wiped at my eyes with the back of my forearm, avoiding the
flecks of clay there. “Three guesses,” I said.
“Douglas Belarus,” she said, then tapped the side of her head
like she was thinking. “He’s worried that his daughter doesn’t spend
enough time getting holy and taking to the knee at our Sister of
Perpetual Bowing and Scraping.”
I laughed despite my tears at the truth of it, snorting through
my now running nose. “Wrong, although I’m sure he’d love it if I
did join him more often. Love the dad, but not really looking to get
my church on that many times a week.”
“Okay then,” she said. “Juliana Belarus, caring mother but a
quiet mouse when it comes to who wears the pants in the family.”
I shook my head. “Strike two.”
“Ahh,” Rory said, dropping onto the sofa next to me. She threw
her arm around my shoulder and squeezed, her deceptively thin
frame still well muscled enough to make it hurt a little. “Big brother
strikes again. What did he do this time, as we continue on into the
third decade of the Sibling Cold War?”
I pointed over to the art studio side of the floor. Rory’s eyes
caught site of it and she let out a low, slow whistle.
“Wow,” she said. “Made your art his own personal punching
bag, I see.”
My face went flush with embarrassment, but I couldn’t help but
let a small laugh escape my lips. “Actually . . . that part was me.”
“Really now?” Rory stood and walked over to the area, circling
the table the tall slab of half molded clay sat on. “I’m impressed,
Lexi. You been working out? Maybe I can make a dancer out of
you yet. You did some serious damage here.”

ALCHEMYSTIC 125
“The punches are mine, all the rest is Devon, though.”
“It’s good you got out some of your aggression there, Lexi,” she
said, and I gave her a wary sidelong look. “I mean it! Look, I know he’s
family and all, but some people are just born mean‑spirited. He’s a
natural born asshole, my dear. Your reaction to his bullshit is normal.”
I stood up, walking back toward the art studio. “I knew I picked
cubby partners well back in third grade,” I said. “Thanks.”
Rory gave an elaborate flourish and a bow, each motion fluid
and graceful.
My phone vibrated on my bag at the table next to her. Rory
snatched it up and waved it for me to see. “Speak of the devil,” she
said. “It’s Devon.”
“Give it,” I said, but Rory held it away from me while it kept on
ringing.
“No,” she said. “I know you, Lexi. You’re just going to be the
one to be all apologetic and try to make nice, as usual. And it’s not
okay. The way he treats you borders on abuse. You have every right
to be pissed. Say it.”
“This is stupid,” I said. “Just give me the phone.”
“Say it,” she repeated, unwavering. There was almost a pixie‑ish
glee in her eyes.
“Fine,” I said, just wanting the phone at this point. “I have every
right to be pissed.”
Rory rolled her eyes. “Mean it.”
Whether I was exasperated with her game or the fact that I just
wanted my damn phone, I wasn’t sure. I only know that it triggered
something deep inside me that snapped. “I have every write to be
pissed!” I shouted.
Rory jumped at that in surprise, then handed the phone over to
me. “Excellent,” she said. “Now have at him!”
I swiped my finger across the screen, lifted the phone to my head
and screamed into it. “Go fuck yourself, Devon,” I said. “Next time
you see me, you’d better walk off in the opposite direction. For real.”
A pronounced silence filled the line.

126 Anton Strout
“Hey, ass!” Rory shouted with a bit of a suppressed giggle to it,
apparently loving the fury I was throwing at him.
A man’s voice came on the line but it was not my brother. “Is
this Lexi? Lexi Belarus?”
“Only my friends call me Lexi,” I snapped, ignoring the strang‑
er’s butchering of my last name. It came out Bell La Roose, remind‑
ing me of the childhood jibes of Bella Moose, not at all sounding
like Bell Air Us. That didn’t bother me so much. I was more upset
at him using the familiar version of my first name. “Which one of
Devon’s friends is this? You can go screw yourself too!”
“Sorry,” the man said. “That’s the only name that the phone
shows.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“This is officer Michael Lawrence of the NYPD. May I ask how
you are related to Devon?”
“I’m his sister,” I said, my anger mixing with growing curiosity.
“We found this phone lying on the street, and you’re the last
number dialed. I think you should know that there’s a distinct pos‑
sibility your brother may be in trouble.”
“Trouble how exactly?”
“Do you have any association with a building on St. Mark’s
Place?”
I had to stop and think for a moment. “I think so,” I said, my
blood running cold. “That’s one of my family’s properties. We’re in
real estate.”
“I regret to inform you that there’s been an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” I went to lean back against one of the
drafting tables in the studio, but missed it completely. Rory caught
me and didn’t let go, especially after I had said the word accident.
“A building collapse, miss,” the officer said. “Your family’s build‑
ing.”
“That can’t be,” I said, feeling all the emotions of the past few
minutes drain away, a little more every second. “I just spoke to
him . . . maybe half an hour ago . . .? You’re mistaken.”

ALCHEMYSTIC 127
“I wish I were, miss,” the man said. “But it is unlikely.”
“Maybe he wasn’t there,” I said, panic filling my chest, the beat
of my heart rising up into my throat. “Maybe he got out. That’s why
you were able to find his phone.”
“Was he wearing a ring with a dark green stone in it on his left
hand?”
“Yes,” I said, clutching at the similar one hanging around my
own neck from an old silver chain. “It’s a family thing. There
should be a family crest of sorts carved in it. Kind of looks like a bat
wings surrounded by an octagon, stylized ‘B’ on it.”
“Yes, miss, I see it,” he said. “Since you were the last person he
talked to, we’re going to need you to come down to the Ninth Pre‑
cinct and identify his hand.”
“Just his hand?” I asked, a nervous laugh overtaking me.
Holy hell,” Rory whispered, then clamped her hands over her
mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” a man in the background said. “Give me that
goddamn thing. Hello?”
An older voice this time.
“Yes? What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry about that, miss. My partner shouldn’t have said that.”
“Just tell me what is going on!” I said, shaking now. “Why was
he asking me about my brother’s hand?”
“Because,” the older man said. “It’s all we found. It was still
holding the phone.”
3. Alexandra
W hen you have your own catacombs—in the basement of
your family’s building no less—having a funeral is a rela‑
tively quick and painless affair. Painless, I suppose, except for the
tons of bricks that had crushed my brother, that is. Still, as I stood

128 Anton Strout
down there on the upper of the two levels among family and friends
to bury Devon, I found just being in the space comforting despite
the circumstances under which I was down there. Ornately carved
Gothic pillars rose up high above, the aisles full of stone tombs and
markers where our ancestors lay buried for well over a century, all
of it dimly lit by the addition of subtle modern lighting that set a
somber subterranean tone for the catacombs, keeping the solemn
nature of the space intact.
The space was packed, mostly with men who smelled a bit too
much like cigars and cologne. Despite the fact that everyone
around me was dressed up, I still felt like I had stepped out of a
Tim Burton movie in my long black dress covered in antique lace,
courtesy of a short lived period Rory and I spent in a Goth phase.
Couple that with my inability to get rid of anything, I was surprised
I had actually found something somewhat suitable to wear, some‑
thing other than overalls covered in clay and paint.
“You okay?” Rory asked in a whisper from where she stood right
at my shoulder.
My best friend stood at my right shoulder, her roommate, Mar‑
shall Blackmoore at my left. Both of them were dressed to the
nines. Rory’s hair was mostly hidden by the hat and short black veil
she wore over her face and I was surprised to see Marshall in a suit
and tie. I was surprised to see he owned more than shirts with
clever sayings, superheroes or gaming references I always had to
have explained out to me. He put a hand awkwardly around my
shoulder, but it was a welcome gesture. His kind brown eyes peeked
out from under a mess of unkempt black hair, full of sincerity, so
much so I wanted to cry, although at the moment I surprised my‑
self by realizing I was slowly filling up with a building anger.
“Look at all these people,” I said, keeping my voice low. We
were standing far enough away from my mother and father who
were right up by the tomb itself that they wouldn’t here, but I didn’t
want to draw any attention from the gathered crowd either. “Did
any of them even know my brother?”

ALCHEMYSTIC 129
“Maybe,” Rory said. “Your family has its fingers in a lot of pies.
Delicious, real estate pies. And let’s face it . . . you don’t really
know the business side of things all that well, Lexi, so of course
they’re all strangers to you.”
“Why do I feel like that’s all about to change?” I said, pushing
down a suddenly realized panic that rose in my throat just pictur‑
ing myself faking my way through the family business. “God, I look
horrible in pantsuits.”
“Alexandra, I hardly think your clothing is what you should be
fixating on,” Rory said.
I didn’t like my emotions running the show and concentrated
on my breathing. It was hard to have a panic attack if you could
control your breathing. “Fine then,” I said as my heart began to
calm. “I’ll fixate instead on being angry at all these strangers being
here. Happy?”
“That’s healthy,” Marshall added in a whisper, giving her a
thumbs up. “Good work, Rory.”
“It’s not her fault,” I said. “It’s all me. Hell, I don’t even have the
right to be angry at them for their lack of sincerity. Who am I to
judge them? I’m the person who wanted to kill him myself the
night he passed away. I was so furious at him for messing up my
stupid art project . . . which just sounds petty now.”
“Hold on,” Rory said. “Never forget. Your brother was an ass‑
hole, Lexi. Not to piss on the dead.”
My heart hurt, but Rory was right. Still . . . “He was my asshole,”
I said, as if claiming some sort of ownership of him somehow could
fix the conflicting feelings I was having about his passing.
“Don’t beat yourself up too much about it,” Rory said. “Just
because someone died doesn’t excuse their behavior in life.”
The services closer to the tomb itself ended and the crowd be‑
gan to break up. Men and women in pricy clothing who I didn’t
know started offering me their condolences and all I could do was
shake their hands and nod politely with a solemn thank you. Even‑
tually, my mother, father and the spiritual leader of his church who

130 Anton Strout
conducted the ceremony would make their way over to me and my
friends, but I didn’t plan on being around for that. I wasn’t sure I
could take the churchier side of things I was sure an occasion like
this would bring out of my father.
“Let’s go lower,” I said to my friends after shaking a mothbally
smelling woman’s hand. I spun and headed back off into the rest of
the crypt through an ocean of businessmen and women. “If I have
to shake another hand, I’m going to start crying again.”
I led Rory and Marshall back through the catacombs, the sound
of the funeral fading off into the distance until it was no more than
a far away echo. Toward the rear of the upper floor of the cata‑
combs a long sloping staircase came into view and I led us down
them into an older section.
“I’ve never been to a funeral like this,” Marshall said, looking
around the space. “Like ever. Then again, most of my friend’s don’t
have their own family crypt.”
Rory laughed, but there was a hesitancy in it. “How come the
older we get the creepier this place gets? We used to tear through
here playing. Then we got all teen and moody and started listening
to The Cure down here. Now, I just wish it were a regular base‑
ment.”
“I miss my basement,” Marshall added. “You don’t really get
them here in the city much.”
I gave him a weak smile. “You miss it? Why? What was in your
basement?”
“Most of my old gaming stuff,” he said. “Rule books, minia‑
tures, maps . . .”
“Wow,” Rory said, slapping a hand over his mouth as we contin‑
ued walking. “Just . . . wow.”
“Yep,” Marshall said with a mix of pride and shame once he
pried her hand away. “I’m a poster child for alpha geeks every‑
where.”
“Alpha?” Rory asked. “Really? You’re ranking yourself that high?”
“I have to,” he said, nodding. “Otherwise, I was just an only

ALCHEMYSTIC 131
child playing Dungeons & Dragons pretty much alone down there,
and that’s just sad.”
Rory’s mouth went to speak, but then she stopped herself and
the crypt went quiet. I really wish she had continued on, though.
Their lightness made my heart less heavy.
“Not to be morose,” Marshall said, turning to me, “but doesn’t
this place creep you out a little?”
“Why?” I said. “Sometimes I come down here for a little inspi‑
ration in my art.”
“What’s so inspirational?” Marshall asked, looking around with
nervous eyes. “All it inspires in me is a healthy fear of zombies and
bloodsuckers. No offense to Clan Belarus.”
I waved it off. “None taken.”
“Strange as it may sound, I said, “this place is comforting to me.
This crypt is original to the building. Which means my great‑great
grandfather planned this place out at the same time. It makes me
feel very connected to it. With all his artistry and architecture
sprinkled throughout Manhattan, it’s just amazing to have some
that’s, I don’t know, just ours.”
“He’s buried here too?” he asked.
Rory gave him a look of disapproval through her veil.
“What?” he asked. “I’ve never been down here. We always hang
out up in the art studio and library.”
“His library,” Rory said. “Everything about this place is his, so
yeah, he’s buried here.”
“Generations of us are,” I said moving off into the dim lights
further back among the older tombs. I came upon the marker fur‑
thest back on this lower level, that of Alexander Belarus. My name‑
sake. The carving of the figure on top of the sarcophagus was
exquisite, a likeness I could only imagine was as close to the way he
actually looked in life, covered in carved stonework and adorn‑
ments all over it. Seeing the gemstone sigil set into the stone at the
center of the figure had my fingers going for the one similar to it
around my neck.

132 Anton Strout
“Uncanny,” Marshall said, looking from the figure carved on
the tomb to me. “I see the resemblance. Although, truth be told, I
like your hair better. The black, wavy shoulder length looks better
on you.”
“Less stony too,” Rory added.
I laughed out loud, finding the sound refreshing in the empty
echoes down here in the family crypt.
“Thanks, guys,” I said, leaning against one of the pillars, wrap‑
ping my arms around myself. “You somehow made this all a bit
more bearable.”
“Absolutely,” Rory said, coming over and hugging me close.
“It’s the least a best friend could do.”
Marshall came over and hugged me as awkwardly as only he
could. “I know I’m relatively new to your guys’ life and all, but I’m
glad to be here.”
As the hug lingered, Rory put a hand on both our shoulders,
pushing him back. “No hitting on the grieving,” she said. “Got it?”
Marshall’s face went beet red. “I‑ I wasn’t. I mean . . . I’d
never—“
“There you are,” my father’s voice called out from somewhere
further forward in the crypt, the hint of his Slavic accent in his
words, even though he was third generation and born here. “I
thought I might find you down here.” He approached us, his bald‑
ing head sweating. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief in one of
his meaty hands, giving a nod to Marshall and a firm smile to Rory.
“Aurora, thank you for coming. God bless and keep you.”
Despite the solemn occasion, Marshall couldn’t help but
snicker at the use of her proper name.
“Marsh!” Rory snipped. “What are the rules?”
He fought back his smile by coughing into his hand. “No laugh‑
ing at your full name,” he said. “Aurora. Sorry. Rory.” Composed
once again, he turned to my father. “Sorry, Mr. Belarus. I don’t
mean any disrespect. I just get nervous laughter when it’s most in
appropriate.”

ALCHEMYSTIC 133
There was a sadness in my father’s eyes, but he managed a kind
smile. “Dark times could use a little lightness,” he said, then turned
to Rory. “Aurora is a fine name.” He clapped her on both shoul‑
ders. “Your boyfriend should call you that more often.”
Rory’s face went pale. “Marshall’s so not my boyfriend.”
My father turned to me, his eyes narrowing at me, shooting dag‑
gers at me. “Hey! He’s not my boyfriend either,” I said, quick as I
could. “I’ve only know him as long as Rory’s been going to college!”
“No, no,” Marshall said, feigning disinterest with his voice.
“Please don’t all jump at a chance to date me at once, ladies. My
dance card is pretty full.”
This seemed good enough to satisfy my father that Marshall was
no threat and he turned back to Rory. “Again, thank you so very
much for coming,” he said, softer once again, “but I must steal my
daughter away from you.”
I stiffened. “You need me now?” I asked. “Don’t you have like a
million people up there who want to talk to you?”
“Yes,” he said, all pleasantries falling from his voice as he turned
to me, somber. “That is why I need you, Alexandra. There are peo‑
ple you must come meet.”
My stomach clenched up. “Dad, I’m really not feeling it. You
know I’d do anything for you. But are you sure it’s the best time for
meet and greet right now?”
“Alexandra,” he snapped, his voice raised. Marshall jumped.
My name echoed over and over through the silence of the lower
catacombs. “It is not a request. Come.”
His words struck my soul. I looked to my friends, but they were
too stunned. My father turned and walked off without another
word, not bothering to excuse himself from Rory and Marshall’s
presence.
A chill ran down my spine. I thought it must have been my fa‑
ther’s words and his tone, but it felt like more than just that. The
catacombs seemed alive despite the heavy air of death that perme‑
ated it. The carved faces on the tombs seemed to follow me with

134 Anton Strout
their stares, as well as those of the blank‑eyed gargoyles lining the
tops of the support columns. The occasion itself and my father’s
sudden harshness put such a creeped out mood over me that I
found myself startled, swearing I saw a movement among the gar‑
goyle statues. Not wanting to come of crazy to my friends, I told
myself it was all an illusion caused by the stress of the day.
Despite rationalizing it to myself, I stopped looking up or
around and fell in behind my father, trading my creepy‑crawly sen‑
sation for hating the idea of what was coming instead. He wanted
me to meet his business people. I had thought burying my brother
would be the worst of it today, but between being dragged before
my father’s colleagues and my guilt over the last words Devon and
I had exchanged, I didn’t think there was much of a chance of my
day improving. At least my father hadn’t brought his spiritual ad‑
viser down here with him. That was a small comfort in an other‑
wise uncomfortable day.

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