Untitled

and sang a brief snatch of pure melody. It wasn’t much, just a look-away spell to keep
anyone from seeing them disappear, but she had to get it just right to affect a street full
of people without accidentally striking anyone blind. When she felt the spell take
hold—it was a sensation of temporary but welcome stability, like finding a good
handhold while scaling up the side of a building—she grabbed B’s and Rondeau’s
hands and dragged them toward the door, into the shop, one of the many enemy
territories she’d developed over the course of the past two days.
The neat shop, with its blend of modern and traditional elements, looked like the victim
of a highly localized earthquake. Shelves were tumbled, glass shattered on the floor,
herbs strewn everywhere, puddles of rare oils congealed on the floor. The long counter
at the back of the shop was fire-blackened in places, part of its length bent and broken.
“I guess Mutex beat us here,” B said. “Unless it’s supposed to look like this?”
“No, it’s not supposed to look like this,” Marla said. “But I don’t think Mutex beat us
here, either, not after the pounding I gave him. This kind of destruction wasn’t his MO
at Dalton’s, either—he was in and out, quick.”
“A surgical strike,” Rondeau said. In the silence that followed, he sighed. “Surgical.
See? Because he cut out—”
“We get it, Rondeau,” Marla said. “I’d better check out the back room.” She jumped
over the counter and sidled up to the concealed door, sliding her hands along the wall to
find the catch. She pressed on a lightly discolored section of the wall, tsking in her
mind—that was sloppy of her nemesis, to let the frequent pressure of fingers lead to
visible wear on a hidden switch.
She heard the click of some mechanism engaging overhead, and tucked herself into a
forward roll just in time to avoid the arc of a slicing pendulum-blade that swooped
down out of a concealed slot overhead, then back up into its place in the ceiling. “Shit,”
she said, angry with herself. She’d assumed the Chinese sorcerer was being sloppy,
when he’d actually set a completely non-magical trap that depended on the victim’s
overconfidence. She wouldn’t underestimate him again, and she began to think that
maybe Rondeau was right about the Thing on the Doorstep trick. A sorcerer who liked
hidden traps like this might like the ultimate hidden trap of residing in an unexpected
body. She stood up and looked at Rondeau and B.
Rondeau was sniffing at a tin of what Marla could only hope was tea, while B was
staring at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open. He still didn’t quite have the hang of this
new world he’d found himself in.
“The door’s probably reinforced,” Marla said, “so kicking it’s unlikely to do much
good, and I’d hate to shake any more nasty surprises loose. We’ll have to figure
something—”
The door swung open with a click. The lights in the back room were turned off.
“Marla,” said a doleful voice from beyond the door. “My enemy.”
“Ch’ang Hao?” she said.